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good things will happen đ§ż
things that are meant to be will fall into place đ§ż
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admit it -
pairing: sam winchester x reader
summary: samâs sleep schedule finally catches up to him
remiâs notes: i had sassy, early seasons sam in mind while writing this so you should too even though the plot doesnât match <3 anyways enjoy loves ! (-2 degrees celcius is close to 28 degrees in freedom units)
You had advised him to wear a jacket. It was raining, and -2 degrees outside as you trekked through the forest in an attempt to retrace your steps and find where the Impala was parked. You had gotten lost after the hunt for the burial site of an angry ghost. Usually Dean was pretty good at remembering where he parked his beloved car, but it was dark when you arrived and this forest was much bigger than anticipated. At the sound of sniffing behind you, barely audible over the twice-echoed sound of leaves crunching in your path and rain thudding on the forest floor, you stop and turn to Sam. He shoots you a glare.
âDonât look at me like that. Iâm fine. And rain canât even make you sick,â he says in response to your stare before continuing to walk past you.
âSure, rain canât make you sick. But being cold and wet for prolonged periods of time can. Weâve been out here for an hour. And you donât get a healthy amount of sleep, which can put you at risk for illnesses,â you reply, paraphrasing the article you had memorized just for this occasion as you catch up with him.
âI get plenty of sleep. Trust me, Iâm not sick.â
Dean then looks back to you both, shaking his head in annoyance.
âYou two are being a real help here.â
Sam rolls his eyes.
âDo you even know where weâre going?â He asks, narrowing his eyes at Dean.
The older Winchester stops and turns back, looking offended.
âOf course I know where weâre going!â
You both stop as you reach where Dean stood, eyes peering through the curtain of rain over the river that stood before you, to the trees that stretched for acres. The sun was rising over the tops of the woods.
âHere,â Sam says, sniffing between the actions of reaching into his pocket and then handing Dean a crumpled map. Dean groans, throwing his hands up before snatching the map from him.
âYou had that this whole time?â He asks rhetorically before unfolding the map and turning to face the forest. Sam leans over his shoulder, before turning sharply into a forceful sneeze. Both you and Dean turn to stare at him. Sam wipes his nose as heâs met with both your looks, Deanâs grimace and your amusement. He frowns irritatedly before waving it off.
âIâm fine. Figure out where we are, Dean.â
Dean shakes his head, gazing back over the map.
âI think that weâre here,â he accentuates with a jab to the river on the sodden map, âso that means that we need to go that way.â
He gestures up a soft hill and begins walking again, you trailing behind and Sam bringing up the rear. You fall into step beside him, lumbering along in Deanâs wake. Up close you could see the dark circles under his eyes, the undeniable consequence of his sleeping habits. Hell, none of you had gotten good sleep in a long while. But you knew Sam had it the worst. Occasionally youâd hear his low-voiced discussions with Dean, spoken in low voices when they thought you were out of earshot. It wasnât that he didnât trust you, not at all, despite the teasing and the way he seemed consistently annoyed with you. He hated talking about his dreams, feeling like he was burdening someone with his own issues. Even with Dean he struggled. Youâre interrupted of your psycho-analysis of Sam as he realizes youâre staring. Again, but this time he could see the subtle concern in your gaze. It bothered him.
âWhat?â
âNothing,â you say, shaking your head as you turn back to look ahead. You recognize the pullout a few feet ahead, where Dean was already brushing leaves off the Impala. Youâd never been happier to see that car, and Sam seems to have a similar sentiment as he sighs in relief.Â
The ride back to the bunker was quiet. Dean was too tired to put any music in, and the rain had quieted to a gentle tapping on the hood of the car. Cas was waiting when you got back, offering a quick congratulations on your success with the ghost before baiting Dean into another hunt. Sam had relentlessly tried to convince all of you that he was functioning as usual, that he could go with Dean and Cas. He was soon after proven wrong by the violent sneeze that followed. So now it was just the two of you, and Sam had locked himself in his room with a box of tissues. All the better for you. It wasnât like you wanted to listen to or take care of an irritated, fever-ridden Sam. Youâd offered him some tea to help with his throat before he left to sulk in his room, which heâd accepted begrudgingly. He still refused to accept the fact that he was ill. You had attempted to research for long enough, disrupted in your focus each time Sam came in or out of the kitchen. You finally decided to check on him, whether he liked it or not.
âSam? I have soup,â you say through his door, bowl in one hand and the other on the knob.
âI donât like soup,â he grumbled hoarsely from the other side.
âToo bad.â
You push the door open, receiving a huff from him. He was laying back, four blankets over his lap and a fan pushing cold air towards him from a few feet away. Empty mugs littered his bedside table, along with a bottle of aspirin and a half empty pack of cold medicine capsules. A few tissues had been balled up and tossed around the trash can. You held in a snicker.
âOh, how the mighty fall,â you quote. Sam sighs again, exasperatedly. You set the soup (mushroom) on his bedside table before turning to the TV.
âLove Island? Seriously?â
He furrows his brows at your judgement.
âItâs really not that bad. I mean, obviously itâs fake, but itâs somewhat entertaining. Better than a Gilmore Girls marathon, I guess.â
You shrug, picking up tissues and tossing them into the garbage before gathering the mugs, Sam watching your tidying carefully.
âYou really donât have to do that,â he says, turning the volume down on the TV.Â
âItâs fine,â you reply, carrying the stack of mugs out of the room, when Samâs voice stops you.
âCan I⌠have more of that tea that you made earlier? Please,â He asks. He much preferred coffee over tea, but ever since you had made him earl grey, (with a bit of milk and honey) it had become a quick favorite.Â
You turn and smirk.
âYou like it?â
âItâs not bad,â he said, shrugging.
Your smirk remains as you walk to the kitchen and set the empty mugs near the sink, setting the kettle back over the stove. For some reason, you were happy he liked your tea. And that he wasnât being as stubborn as usual. You had been slightly caught off guard with his change in demeanor, from constant irritation to a⌠softness. After a few minutes of breathing in steam, the kettle whistles, announcing that it was finished boiling. You pour the water into one of the only remaining clean mugs and follow the routine of what youâd made before, when a shadow moving in the corner of your eye almost causes you to knock the still-hot mug over. The thing coughs roughly and you realize who it is.
âJesus!â You say, steadying the mug.
Samâs eyes meet yours, expression shifting from hard-set to attentive, brows furrowed slightly in concern.
âDâyou need help?â He asks, taking the mug and holding it in his hands, looking down into the swirls of milk in the dark like he was searching for an untold prophecy. You watch in amusement as he sips the tea, making a face as it burns his tongue.
âItâs hot,â you add, smiling as he scoffs and sets the mug aside.
âYou need to get back to bed.â
He rolls his eyes.
âWhat, so I have a curfew now?â
There goes soft, polite Sam. You sigh. This was going to be a long night. You usher him back to his room and somehow convince him to even take more medicine. He lays back on his bed, observing you as you lean in the doorway.
âYou just going to stand there?â Sam asks, raising an eyebrow.
You shrug.
âI can leave. You need to sleep anyways.â
âIâm not tired.â
You roll your eyes, when a grin starts to spread across your face.
âYâknow, I donât think that Iâve ever seen you get sick. Between the awful crap you come into contact with and your sleeping tendencies, youâd think there wouldâve been at least one instance. But no. Somehow you avoid any illness. Howâd you do it? Bribe a god? Is it something in those so-called âhealth shakesâ of yours? Honestly, itâs a medical mystery. You should be studied.â
Sam listens to your slight ramble, face growing more and more skeptical.
âThose shakes are actually good for you,â he replies.
âOut of everything I just said, thatâs what you choose to defend?â You say, resisting the urge to scoff.
Sam rolled his eyes.
You look him over for a moment, before walking toward the desk cot pick up the few newer balled-up tissues.
âSeriously though, you should at least try to get some sleep now. Even if you donât want to. And, youâre probably too fatigued to dream-â
As soon as it slipped out you knew you shouldnâtve said anything. Sam looks to you as soon as it comes out, narrowing his eyes.
âLemme guess: Dean?â He asks, irritation flooding his tone.
âNo, no. Iâve heard you talk about them. With Dean. I wasnât trying to eavesdrop, I swear,â you add, âbut Iâve heard enough.â
Youâre both quiet for a moment.
âYou could talk to me about them, Sam. If you wanted to. My opinion of you wonât change,â you say, voice much lower than it was before.
âYeah, I know. Itâs just not your problem,â he says, sucking in a breath.Â
You sit down in the chair, facing him but avoiding his gaze.
âIt can be our problem. All of us. This is really corny, but youâre not alone, Sam. Really.â
He sniffs.
âThat was corny,â he agrees, laughing and then smiling slightly, âbut⌠thanks.â
The lamp light cast shadows over his face, and you could see the dimples of his genuine smile. You suddenly wanted to kiss them, a thought that you tampered down.
âHowâre you feeling?â You ask, leaning forward to press the back of your hand to his forehead. He looks surprised, eyes flicking up to yours. They stay there, his lips parted like he was going to say something but never does. You smile, having the notion to just go for it.
So you do. You kiss him. And it isnât rushed, or passionate or lustful or anything of the sort. Itâs just a kiss, but it means so much. Finally feeling comfortable. Safe. Needed. He goes rigid for a moment, before finally catching up and kissing back. His lips are slightly chapped, but also soft. A vague comparison skitters across your mind, something about him being rough around the edges, but itâs lost as you kiss the sides of his lips, his dimples as he grins into you. Then he grabs your shoulders and pulls back slightly, breathlessly, still smiling.
âFantastic⌠thatâs how I feel. But also- sick. And I donât want you to-â
You laugh, âOh, so now you admit it?â
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âËâšâĄ in a week | sam winchester x reader
based on the song in a week by hozier
a/n - iâve been wanting to write this fic for SO long and i know itâs kinda short but iâm happy with how it turned out!! in a week is my favourite hozier song and honestly one of my favourite songs of all time and aaagh i just had to write something for it, i hope you like it!!
cws - fem!reader, 1.4k, character death, fatal injuries, blood, process of dying, hurt/comfort, mentions of heaven
other fics can be found on my masterlist
ËËË â
ËËË
Sam knew as soon as he hit the floor that he wouldnât be getting up again.
It was strange, how the cold of the air made his blood seem almost hot against his skin, staining his rapidly paling flesh with a deep red heâd seen far too many times it was a wonder it hadnât become his favourite colour. His favourite colour was actually green, natural and calming, far from the monsters and grime of his day to day life, closer to the comfort of his brotherâs eyes and his own whenever he looked in the mirror and knew that he was okay. The damp grass beneath him was green, and though he wasnât okay, having her at his side somehow made it all alright.
There was blood on her too, not too dissimilar to his own injuries. Theyâd both been in the clutches of death far too many times for the feeling of the tiredness that had started to cling to their bones not to be similar, but it was the first time Sam had ever felt comfortable over the whole thing.
With her laid at his side, it felt almost peaceful.
âCome here, sweetheart,â his arm lifted to tuck around her and that was enough for him to wince at the movement through he just grit his teeth through it until her body was pressed up against his, slotted together amongst the damp grass and the flowers of the early spring nature. âThatâs it, there we go.â
It had been a while since theyâd both gotten to the floor. There had been a silent understanding in the fact that neither of them would return to their feet, that they would spend their final moments by each others side with the bugs and the dirt. Sam could list numerous times that he had been fearful of her life, had done everything he could to save her, because he simply couldnât live without her, couldnât let her die alone.
Bodies held against each other, blood mixed and soaked into the earth, they werenât alone.
âStars are out,â her voice trembled, far too breathy, but she still sounded so pretty. The same voice that whispered in his ear to wake him up and the last thing he heard before he fell asleep. Sam had always admired foreshadowing and the beauty behind it. âLook, itâsââ her breath stuttered on her next inhale and his hand easily found hers, cold skin pressed to cold skin, clinging with what little strength they both had, a silent comfort, encouragement. ââitâs Orionâs Belt.â She finished, and though Sam couldnât quite make out the individual constellations through his blurred vision, he was happy to enlighten her regardless.
âItâs pretty,â he murmured, blinking up at the beads of light that blurred and warped in his vision, before his head tilted to look at her instead. Even as his vision broke down slightly, he could picture her features. The shape of her nose, her lips, the colour of her eyes, eyelashes that tickled her cheeks as she blinked or laughed or smiled at him. It was enough to bring a smile to his face and he leaned in to kiss her temple. âYouâre so beautiful.â
Her breathing hitched, a wet catch in her chest, and he didnât need to see the tears in her eyes to know that sheâd started crying. Sam had known her for so long that she had become a part of him, her soul intertwined with his in golden string, so he knew all of her mannerisms and sounds. The tears werenât for panic or pain, something closer along the lines of contempt, tears that settled with acceptance.
âI love you,â the words practically heaved out of her chest and her fingers trembled in his as she struggled to tighten her grip much. He had felt in real time as the strength in her body bled out along with the crimson that stained her clothed and skin. It would have been frightening if not for the way his own strength had left him, evaporating with every heavy exhale. âSam, Iââ another struggled breath, another significantly weakened squeeze to her hand. ââyouâre my home.â
Sam didnât realise that his fingers had started going numb until he lifted his free hand up to cup the side of her face, a cheek usually flushed with colour now just paled hidden beneath his palm as he held her. And despite the way his vision blurred, with tears that time, he smiled at her. It took a lot more effort than he liked though he leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers, lips soft and shaky breaths as he kissed her, pouring all of his affection and feelings into her mouth along with their last kiss. âI love you.â
When Sam laid back against the grass again, he knew he wouldnât sit up again.
There was so much he could have said, so many words and kisses he could have given her in that moment, but as he glanced down at her once more, felt the heaving of her chest with each breath, it all felt unspoken. He was comfortable to lay at her side, he felt loved. Sam had often wondered over the years how he would finally be taken out, but in the arms of his lover in a field of grass under a pretty sky was better than anything he could have imagined. He couldnât have pictured a calmer or more secure way than sealing his last breaths in the touch of his lover.
Their flesh was colder, paler, and if he had the energy in him he supposed he would have started shivering. The night was cold, a remainder of the biting winter freeze that was slowly being melted by the spring. Whenever the sun came up everything would warm, though Sam wasnât sure if heâd see the next sunrise. His heartbeat was slowing, he knew hers was too.
âIâll find you,â he promised softly, words more breath than voice, blinking through tears that felt hot on his cold cheeks as he struggled to squeeze her fingers. âIf we donât get there together Iâll find you, honey.â
A soft sniffle at his side. âYouâd better, Winchester.â
Sam smiled, wet and shaking, tears fell when he couldnât squeeze her hand anymore.
He supposed that it would take some time for them to be found, in a week or so. The field wasnât really near anywhere populated. Theyâd be accustomed to the local wildlife and the bugs in the ground before their bodies were discovered, but there was a comfort in knowing sheâd be at his side through it all.
Hours, they must have laid there in each others arms for, or years, Sam couldnât really tell. Her hand was still tucked away in his by the time the sky started to glow orange and it made him smile softly, a final sunrise. Theyâd spent countless mornings on the road or on cases together, stole small moments away to appreciate the sight.
âLook, sweetheart,â he breathed, a struggle in itself to tilt his head towards hers. âLook at that.â
Only once heâd blinked through the film of tears the sight of her eyelids instead of her irises was unmistakable. Curled into his side, her hand tucked into his, she looked like she had done every morning at his side for the better part of his life. Only she was cold and pale, and her chest wasnât moving anymore.
âHoney?â
She stayed still, a perfect imitation of beauty at his side, tucked amongst flowers and green grass, she looked so pretty.
The sound that left him was wet and shuddery, though somewhere in his mind he was thankful that she had left first, she could hold the door open for him.
With what little strength he had left Sam curled on his side, her body completely pressed up against his as his head dropped, forehead pressed to hers, hand still and discreet in hers. A deep breath left his lungs, and they didnât expand again.
Their bodies were found in a week, at home with each other amongst the flowers.
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Way back when I had a multi chapter fic on Wattpad, I had the idea to do a SPN/House m.d. crossover
That was absolutely unhinged of me and I wish I followed through
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Brain: *cracks knuckles* alright I have some free time this summer to do some re-writing and editing to revive this blog! Time for a MASS EDIT *re-writes two fics*
Body, July 2024: actually Iâm broken rn and I donât feel like it
Brain: maybe next year đ¤
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once i beat the depression and the burnout and the anxiety and the loneliness and the exhaustion and the guilt and the awkwardness and the apathy and the low income and the chronic illness and the impatience and the vulnerability and the creative block and the capitalism and the cruelty THEN you'll see
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DUDE
my boy only breaks his favorite toys â sam winchester
cw : gn!reader, angst, canon typical violence, injuries, knives, non-sexual partial nudity, guilty sam, rejection, talk of death/dying, sort of a case fic at first, mentions of stitches, lots of feelings, poorly edited & my first(?) attempt at a full angst fic lol (no happy ending!), set in season 5, so some spoilers, 10.6K words. listen to my boy only breaks his favorite toys by taylor swift. requested !
summary : you get injured and sam realizes heâs more scared of getting you hurt than he is of anything else, even losing you and your love.
to be in love is the strangest experience. to be in love for a long time, for years on end with little to no reciprocation is even stranger.
somehow, you can watch him fall in love with someone else, kiss somebody new, romance another girl, and be blindsided by a fourth. jess you could never be mad at. she seemed too sweet and good for sam, for you to dislike. madison never did anything wrong either, but you did hate how much she unintentionally hurt him. sarah, too, was sweet and brave and helpful and she made him smile. that, of course, didnât stop you from wanting to be that person instead, but you didnât feel like you could complain.
ruby, you still feel rightfully angry with sometimes. for samâs sake, you wanted her help to be real and true, but it felt clear to you from the beginning that not everything was right. now youâre dealing with the apocalypse and samâs guilt that you alternate between wanting him to let go of and wanting him to feel it just a little bit longer.
besides, jess and madison are dead, so itâs unkind to be too jealous of them, and youâre sure that sam hasnât spoken to sarah in years. and rubyâs dead too, so she doesnât pose a threat any longer.
itâs all been so strange, because youâve seen sam go through it all, kiss them all, love them all in some way or another, and youâre pretty sure all itâs done is make you love him more. at this point, youâre sure that youâll never love anyone the way that you love sam. unceasingly, ardently, passionately, and for now, quietly.
but after the knowledge of the looming apocalypse has come the strangest part of it all. having loved sam since he was seventeen and secretly doing everything in his power to get away from this all, you know him and each of his mircroexpressions and tones of voice all too well. and these days, sam looks at you in ways that youâve never noticed before. these days, sam looks at you like heâs trying to figure out if heâs in love with you.
itâs not as if youâd given up hope completely, because no one whoâs as in love as you are ever will, but youâve learned how to live with unrequited love. the pain can be stabbing and all-consuming sometimes, but itâs survivable so long as he doesnât stop smiling at you or letting you rest in his lap or being the only one to call you a special nickname. even if youâre not the love of his life like he is yours, youâll always mean something to him as his closest friend.
so now, it catches you off guard when sam looks at you as if heâs considering the possibility that youâre the one who hung the stars up in the sky or talks to you with this gentle joy thatâs just somehow different from before. those moments are rare, but incredible to have when you consider the looming apocalypse that sam is blaming himself for. heâs battling the fact that heâs supposed to be the vessel to the devil himself, but he still finds the time to hold your pinky finger for a fleeting moment and not say a word about it. and now, sam does that thing where you say something and it makes him smile, and instead of casually holding your gaze like he used you, his gaze will falter and heâll tilt his chin down and lick his lips as if heâs suddenly shy around you.
last night, dean was out and you and sam were researching for the case youâre working on. you ended up sitting side by side on your shared bed, trying to get comfy as the hours dragged on and the moon moved higher through the sky. completely unprompted, sam had lifted his arm up and around your shoulders, using his gentle hand to cup the side of your head and bring it to rest on his wide shoulder.
your heart soared and you did your best to keep researching, but the lull of his breathing and the clacking of the keyboard as he typed one handed sang you to sleep right then and there, tucked all cozy into his side.
you waking up in his arms certainly set the tone for today. this case is ugly and there was another victim last night, but sam has this sweet, touchy air about him. as you walk to the crime scene his hand lingers unprofessionally close to the small of your back, and from the tightness to his lips, youâre guessing that heâs holding back from saying something he knows will make you laugh.
you resist the urge to give him a secret smile, soft and loving because youâre selfish enough to try and get him to see that you want him like this. you want him to see that you already love him back, and all he has to do is let himself fall. but you donât want to overwhelm him, so you go about assessing the crime scene and interviewing the witness like heâs your fbi partner and not the person you love most in this world.
the witnessâs statement along with the security camera footage that dean saw at the police station confirms that youâre up against a shapeshifter. much like the first one the three of you hunted together in â05 it seems to be disguising itself as a loved one before killing its victims.
âthis thing can shapeshift to look like literally anybody, but it canât come up with something original?â dean jokes.
sam shrugs in his usual sam way. âwell, it is an effective method,â sam reasons, despite knowing that deanâs just making fun. samâs not even looking at dean; his eyes alternate from checking his computer screen where he scouts out city plumbing maps to find the best places in the sewer to look for the shifter, to letting his eyes roam over your features. you wonder if youâll have to get used to sam staring at you as much as you do him. though, you canât say that thatâs a bad thing by any stretch. maybe heâll finally notice the way that you look at him and maybe heâll finally realize that it might be you who heâs been loving this whole time.
sam stands from his spot across from you, grabbing a map of the city from the bedside table. instead of returning to his original spot, he slots himself right next to you to lay the map out on the table. he runs a hand along the length of it, crossing your chest and brushing your nose with the fabric of his flannel before moving his hand back to rest right beside yours on the table top. he leans over the map and you tilt youu head to look up at him as he points out the most likely spots that the shifter could be hiding out at. you only pay half attention as he speaks, more able to take in the sight of his lips moving than the actual words that theyâre forming. youâre not uncareful, you just know that sam will make sure you and dean remember the most important things when you get in the car.
â
âare you sure splitting up is a good idea?â sam stresses from the passenger seat of the impala.
âwe know how to test for the shifter and we all can take care of ourselves,â dean says, repeating just about the same thing that he said before.
you lean forward in your seat. âweâll be fine, sam. i agree, itâs not ideal, but thereâs a lot of ground to cover and we canât let the shifter get to anyone else,â you reason.
âi know,â he huffs, still unconvinced due to the possible dangers. but, thereâs always danger, and if youâre siding with dean, he knows he doesnât stand much of a chance of winning the argument anyway.
â
the sewers are dark, damp, and smell like shit. they grow even darker as the sun begins to set above ground and youâre grateful for the bright flashlight that you have on hand. youâve been tramping through the dark and sewer waste for over an hour and heard nothing helpful from the boys.
you keep your silver knife at the ready, in case you run into anything or anyone. you all agreed that if you see each other, the very first order of business is to test yourself with your own knife to be sure. when you hear footsteps, you immediately press yourself against the wall, doing your best to stay hidden until you can see whatâs heading your way. the second you see a personâs frame, you immediately recognize it as sam. he told you that youâd probably run into each other at some point, so you relax a touch. even so, you keep your knife in front of you as you step into the pathway.
âsam?â you call out, stopping a good length away from him.
âhey. yeah, itâs me,â he says, holding out his hand and knife to show you as he slices a thin line across his forearm. you sigh in relief, then quickly repeat the action to confirm to him that youâre you as well.
âyou heard from dean?â you ask, closing the space between the two of you. sam meets you halfway, shaking his head.
ânothing,â he sighs, turning back where he came from.
âdamn. an hour in the sewers and weâve got jack,â you frown. âexactly how i like to spend my friday nights.â
âcourse it is, itâs the perfect date spot,â he jokes back, leading you left, down a new path you assume he skipped on his way over to you.
âmmm, does that mean weâre on a date, winchester?â you flirt. he takes the quip with composure as you step back into a main hallway, wide enough to walk side by side. he waits for you to be next to him before he continues. he didnât even laugh a little awkwardly at your comment like he normally might. he must be in a flirty mood.
âif thatâs what you want,â he flirts back, flashing you his gorgeous grin. the passage is still sort of tight, so his knuckles continually brush against the back of your hand, and the fabric of his jacket rustles against yours.
âbeing a flirt today, are we?â you tease, maybe pushing the limits a little.
âjust for you,â he fires back, and that just about stuns you into silence. heâs in an awfully good mood for someone stuck hunting a killer in the sewers under an unfamiliar city. you nudge him playfully with your elbow, not even sure how to respond with words. so with that, you fall into a comfortable, familiar silence, the only sounds being the echo of your sloshing footsteps through the sewer.
out of boredom, sam teases you with his pinky finger, sticking it out and poking your hand with it. you push back gently, playing along. he escalates the game by poking your side. you giggle a little, swatting at his big hand.Â
��stop that!â you whisper-shout. âwhat if the shapeshifter comes along and weâre too distracted because youâre tickling me?â his proximity, his flirting, and his goddamn smile are already distracting enough.Â
âi wasnât tickling you, just poking,â he teases, but doesnât do it again since youâre right enough.
âyeah, you said that last week after you did that. it tickles, which means youâre tickling me,â you retort before letting the silence fall over you again.
you head down a narrow path, forcing sam to walk behind you. even then, you can feel his closeness. a minute later, you step out into a wider area where a grate lets in a stream of moonlight. sam comes out after you, stopping by your side. the moonlight casts a glow on his face and, like you always do, you canât help but think about how pretty he looks, even after a long hour and counting of traipsing around in a sewer. continually, even in the more open space, he stays right by your side, close enough for your elbows to brush.
âthink we should call dean?â he suggests, âregroup, maybe call it a night?â
you tilt your head to the side in acknowledgment. âtempting,â you respond, âiâm getting hungry. letâs at least call him, then go from there.â you step further into the space in fron of you, trying to escape the chilly draft coming from the narrow pathway you came in from. but the floor in here is slicker than you realize, and you slip embarrassingly hard, completely losing your footing and letting out a short gasp as you fall.
samâs instincts are impeccable as always, and a strong arm wraps around your waist before you can fall too far. once youâre steady, sam doesnât move to pull you all the way up and onto your own feet. he just keeps you dependant on his hold to stay off the slippery floor and brings his other hand to meet the one wrapped around your side. he looks down at you, half of his face illuminated by moonlight, the other half fallen into shadow. you stare right back up at him, flustered but too happy for any sort of such purposeful physical contact with him to care about that.
it feels like a movie with you in his arms like this, willingly stuck there by the both of you. then he leans down closer to you and your eyes widen. in the partial darkness, he looks at you like heâs no longer just wondering if he loves you, more like he knows it for sure. he looks at you with such unabashed love, so overwhelming in a way that you hadnât expected from him for a long while, if ever. you think that for sure heâs going to kiss you, and you know even better that youâd let him without a second thought.
this certainly isnât how you imagined itâd be at all. not this soon and not in the middle of a sewer system, surrounded by awful smells and an unpleasant humidity. you suppose that the moonlight filtering down is nice enough, and that youâd never expected anything grandiose or overly romantic with him anyway.
then you hear footsteps, and a split second later, your name being called in samâs voice. only it wasnât the sam holding you who said it, it was someone behind you. it only takes a millisecond for everything to click. this sam, the one holding you close, cut himself with a knife you recognized. thatâs why you didnât bat an eye, but you failed to remember that that particular knife of samâs isnât made of silver, just a weaker and ineffective metal alloy.
before you can process it, that exact knife is being plunged into your gut. you let out a strangled cry of pain.
sam, the real sam, shouts your name again and you think you hear his running footsteps until he stops dead in his tracks when the shifter yanks the knife from your stomach and puts it to your throat. you cry out again, choking a little on your own breath as you stretch your neck, trying to see your sam.Â
but the shifter presses the knife down, drawing a line of blood on your neck and growls, âlook at me. youâre going to watch your precious little sammy as he slices your throat.â
you can imagine sam putting his hands in the air, mouth open and ready to talk the shifter out of it when you hear two loud gunshots, and youâre dropped to the floor, too shaken up to break your own fall. your head hits the ground hard, and the next thing you can register is sam again. you get his voice and his hands, one sliding under your neck to cup the back of your head and the other pressing hard against your wound. he winces when you grunt in pain at that, but keeps his hand in place.
âhey, hey. stay with me. look at me, câmon.â his words are followed by your name, said in a sweet and desperate sort of way. youâre still dazed, but your head begins to clear up a bit. above you, samâs face is pinched in worry, so much more worry than youâd expect him to express because of something as easily fixed as a measly stab wound.
itâs not completely inconsequential and itâs bleeding a whole lot more than youâd like, but youâve dealt with this sort of thing and worse before. sam will stitch you up and youâll be as good as new in a few days. even better, cas might come around soon and heâll fix it right up for you.
ââm fine, sam,â you grumble as dean drops down by your other side.
âshifterâs dead. we should go,â he says, more to sam than you since heâs clearly the most worried out of you all. dean places his hands on your arm, ready to help you up, but sam just pulls you into his arms and up against his chest. he stands and you wince from the pain of the movement, but relax a little seconds later. you expected to limp out of this nasty place, one arm slung around each of the boys as they do the heavy lifting but keep you on your feet. it seems sam wonât risk even that; he needs you closer, more protected, and in less pain.
dean leads the way to an exit, climbing up the ladder first and opening the heavy grate. only when you urge him to does sam let you down. he knows that he canât carry you up, but he sure would have liked to. instead, he has to settle for lifting you as best as he can, his strong hands never straying from you until theyâre on your ankles and deanâs got you, pulling you up the rest of the way and letting you lean on him until sam reappears.
the fresh air is amazing to breathe in and to feel on your skin, but what youâd most like is to be laying in bed after a long, hot shower. and to not be in quite as much pain. you sigh into deanâs jacket, and just a second later heâs shifting you back into samâs waiting arms. he doesnât sweep you up this time, but he keeps you steady while dean jogs off to get the impala and bring it to you. with strong hands, sam eases you to the curb on the side of the road and wraps his arms around you, keeping a wide palm pressed against your wound to staunch the bleeding.
as you wait, sam is silent, and not in the soft and comfortable way he often is around you. youâre sure that heâs got a million things to say, not all of them 100% fair to you and all of them completely worried.
and thereâs just so much to say that he canât choose, and he thinks that, for your sake, he should hold back. sam knows he can get a little too angry sometimes, and youâre bleeding badly with your face smushed unattractively against his shoulder and he knows that this isnât the time. he shouldnât yet interrogate you about what happened or tell you aloud that heâs overly worried about you because suddenly heâs feeling things for you that he didnât realize he was feeling before.
you let him brood in silence, and though this is just about the closest physically that youâve been with him today, he feels sort of distant and unreachable. it pains you.
when dean arrives, sam loads you into the car, piling into the back seat after you to give you a shoulder to lean on. you can feel deanâs eyes on you as he glances back through the rearview mirror, and youâre sure that he too wants to ask what happened, how the shifter managed to trick you despite the rules youâd set.
âdean, we should head to the hospital,â sam says, his voice cutting into the tense silence of the car. you shake your head weakly.
âno, sam. iâm fine, seriously.â
âno,â he counters, âyouâre bleeding a lot. weâre going to the hospital to get you some real stitches.
âyour stitches work just fine,â you argue, your words half lost in the fabric of his coat.
âand what if you need more than just stitches? we canât risk that,â he presses, and you know heâs not going to give up.
âsammyâs right,â dean piles on, and you sigh, then wince in pain. you donât even grumble out an annoyed, âfine,â and instead just like the silence take over again as a begrudging relentment.
When all the doctors do is give you a few stitches and an iv and let you out just an hour later, you resist the urge to say âi told you so.â but really, youâre glad for the professional help, knowing that, though you still feel like shit, youâre far better off than you wouldâve been if youâd gone straight back to the motel. the car ride is quiet, but you know that youâre due for a bit of an interrogation when you get back.
tonight, dean starts it, because sam is practically brooding in the corner.
âso, you gonna let us in on what the hell you were thinking back there?â he asks, sounding ready to just about throw his hands up in the air. âdid you really not follow the single rule we set? it almost got you killed.â
âi know, and i did,â you sigh, âbut it tricked me. it had one of samâs knives and it cut itself and i wasnât paying enough attention to realize it wasnât one of samâs silver knives. it was a damn good actor too,â you explain. dean clenches his jaw, probably looking for some other point to make. these winchesters never know when to stop arguing. âweâve all been tricked by shifters before. it happens, i messed up, you saved my ass. thatâs all.â
you guess deanâs not in as much of a fighting mood as you thought, because he just shrugs. âyouâre damn right about the ass saving part.â
you crack a wry smile, âguess itâs my turn to save your ass then.â
âonly thing i need saving from now is that sewer stench. so i will call first dibs on the shower.â he leaves no room for argument on that front as he disappears into the bathroom. only then do you glance at sam, wondering if heâll say something. his expression has got so many emotions swirling around that itâs almost unreadable. but youâre you, and you know him and love him in a way that nobody else does, so you can decipher it all pretty well. thereâs anger, like always, probably targeted at the shifter and a bit misplaced in you for getting yourself hurt. then thereâs guilt, because, in classic sam fashion, he likely thinks that itâs his fault.
youâd put the pieces together a bit ago in the hospital. the red marks above samâs eyebrow and around his wrists and the shifter having samâs knife and appearance tells you that the shifter got the jump on sam. it probably hit him over the head, tied him up, and stole his knife after stealing his appearance and accessing his memories. and though you can know that itâs clearly not samâs fault the shifter got to you, heâll still think so.
heâs thinking that because the shifter got the drop on him, you got hurt. heâs thinking about how trusting you were because it looked like him, about the position he found you in, and though he couldnât see it, he knows the look you were giving his lookalike. heâs sure that it was that syrup-sweet, honey-dripping-from-your-eyes look that heâs been all too aware of and all too fond of these days. and because of that, it must be his fault.
on top of that, he feels like he was the one to do it. you got hurt by something with his face. you were almost killed and the last thing you would have seen would have been a cold, dark smirk on his face as he killed you. that thought pained him more than anything he could express.
you, of course, donât yet understand the full depth of his guilt, but it bothers you anyways. you wish that sam could stop blaming himself for everything bad thatâs ever happened when all heâs ever done is try to be good. while in the midst of wondering if you should speak first, interrupt his self-destructive thoughts and tell him itâs not his fault, he beats you to it.
âyou shouldâve been more careful.â his voice is unexpectedly hard and cold, devoid of his usual guilt and gentleness. tonight, heâs more focused on his anger. and of course, you know itâs because of that guilt that he lashes out, but it hurts nonetheless. even so, you want to soften him and get him to open up, so you apply the opposite tactic as him.
when you speak, you let your voice be full of emotion, of sincerity and gentleness and understanding. âi know, sam. iâll pay more attention next time, i promise. but iâm okay.â
this catches him off guard a bit. normally, when he targets misplaced anger at you, you fire back and tell him how stupid it is that heâs trying to blame you. he already knows itâs stupid, and your soft eyes make him even more guilty. itâs not as if heâs being just as silly this time, but your approach works, a little.
sam does soften a bit; you can see the slight change in the way that he holds his shoulders, but itâs not enough to get him to admit that heâs just worried and blaming himself. all you get is pursed lips and a tight brow. he just canât get over the image of himself plunging a knife into you, canât get over your cry of pain or the feel of your hot and sticky blood seeping through the cracks of his fingers.
samâs realizing that, for all the countless times youâve come close to death, this is the first time since heâs started to think that heâs most likely in love with you. and that, more than anything else in the world, not the literal devil or the apocalypse or whatever, is the scariest thing that samâs had to realize and endure in a long time.
now, sam canât run from being luciferâs vessel. even if he never gives in, he has to confront it and fix it somehow. he certainly canât run from the apocalypse, or the world will end. he canât have that, not when the world is you. itâs his responsibility. sam canât run from those things, but he sure as hell can run from the way he feels about you. and heâd do that because he canât afford to be in love with you. you canât afford for him to be in love with you or for you to be in love with him because it seems like thatâs already gotten you stabbed by a hand that looks just like his own. and all thatâs happened between the two of you is playful flirting, sidelong glances, and shared smiles, so he canât imagine what might happen if things go an inch further than they already have.
he got jess killed, he hurt you bad with ruby, and though sarahâs still alive as far as he knows, he attributes that to the fact that sheâs far, far away from him. not to mention the people he loved like family who are dead because of him too. thatâs another horrifying thought because even if sam didnât love you the way that he does, heâd surely still love you some other way.
so, samâs going to run, samâs not going to let you any closer, sam is going to keep you at an armâs length. heâll stop looking at you like he wants you, heâll stop hovering so near, heâll quit his goal of making you smile or laugh at least three times a day, and heâll do everything he can to make sure you donât love him too much. he canât let you tell him you love him, he canât let you confess because heâll be too far gone if he hears that come out of your mouth. heâs gonna run because heâs decided with horror and glory all at once that yes, he does love you, and thatâs the worst thing he could do to you other than slit your throat with his own two shaking hands.
from where you sit, just feet apart, you can see sam grow more and more distant by the second. you canât figure out whatâs going through his head, but youâre sure you wouldnât like it if you heard him say it aloud. you open your mouth to say something to him, get him to say something back, but you canât find the words. anything you come up with gets stuck in the back of your throat before you can even make a sound.
sam looks at you, just for a fleeting moment thatâs too fast and slippery for you to grab hold of it. his eyes hold regret, like heâs done something that he canât take back, and he doesnât like what heâll have to do next in order to keep the consequences at bay.
then his eyes are gone from yours, along with that strange look, and youâre suddenly at a loss of how to reach out to him. it hurts because you know that what it will really take is time and patience, maybe more than he deserves.
you barely notice the time passing, but you watch sam take deanâs place in the bathroom and you can feel deanâs eyes on your back. youâre sure he can feel the shift in the air. when sam returns from the shower, you realize just how badly you want to get clean. you walk to the bathroom and feel a little lucky when you find a small plastic tub to fill with soapy water. you canât take a real shower for the sake of keeping your stitches dry, but youâll be damned if you canât get that sewer stench off of yourself. when you bend to place the tub at the bottom of the bathtub, you grunt audibly in pain due to the movement. you sort of expect sam to come running to help like he always does, already surprised that he didnât offer from the start when you told the boys you were going to wash up.
apparently, dean had expected the same; while heâs more than happy to be the one to help you, sam almost always beats him to that sort of thing before he can even try. you glance through the open door and see dean looking from you to sam, back to you before he stands from his bed in a rush.
âhey, hey, whatcha doinâ all that by yourself for? canât have you busting any stitches, we paid for those,â he jokes, already in the bathroom with you by the time heâs finishes talking.
âpfft, yeah with stolen credit cards,â you retort, without actually resisting his aid. he takes your place by the faucet, nudging the bucket under it and turning on the hot water. youâre lucky that the shower doubles as a small bath, meaning you can easily sit in it alongside the bucket and just wipe yourself down without getting the floor wet.
you sit on the closed toilet seat as dean fills up the bucket, adds some soap, and mixes it around a little.
âwant me to help you in?â he offers.
âmm, are you trying to see me naked?â you poke fun.
âand if i said yes?â he jokes back.
âthen youâd never see the light of day again,â you threaten, already moving to slide off your jeans, with a bit of a struggle. deanâs strong hand immediately finds your elbow, holding you steady. youâre not worried about either brother seeing you in just your underwear. with the life you live, stuck in motels, or getting hurt in less than ideal spots, theyâve seen you that way plenty. and while dean canât hold back from a lewd comment or two, he completely respects you and views you like another sibling. he helps you with your shirt too, as lifting your arms up proves even more painful than youâd thought.
dean kindly sets a folded towel down on the bottom of the shower bed for you to sit more comfortably, then helps you ease in. then heâs grabbing two clean wash rags, dunking one in the water and handing the other to you.
âtry and keep those stitches as dry as you can,â he instructs, and you oblige by placing the dry rag over your covered wound. âweâll change the bandages when youâre done.â
âmhmm,â you nod, âthank you, dean.â
ââcourse, kid. you want me to get your back? or i can send sammy in to help instead,â he offers, saying that last part loud enough for sam to hear. you glance out the open bathroom door only to catch sight of samâs back as he heads for the outside door. he moves out of your line of sight, but you can hear the door being open and shut behind him. you sigh in disappointment and a bit of hurt. dean curses lightly under his breath and you suddenly feel awkward and ashamed for no practical reason. but dean knows that sam isnât being as good to you as he should, so heâs being extra nice instead.
âif youâ if you could do it that would be nice. thanks,â you frown, then try to fix it with a strained smile. when dean is done, he hands the damp cloth to you, and you thank him again quietly.
âjust holler if you need anything else,â he reminds you before walking out, leaving the door open by just a sliver.
you carefully wipe down the rest of your body, relishing in the heat of the water and the feeling of being just a little cleaner. youâre slow about it, letting yourself savor the alone time and telling yourself that you wonât worry about the events of the day until tomorrow. during the time that you clean yourself, you hear the outside door open and close twice more, and you assume samâs come back and left again. by the time youâre done with the soapy water, itâs gone lukewarm, but youâre successfully feeling much more relaxed.
âdean!â you call out, hoping heâll come and change the water for you so that you can get rid of any extra soap suds still lingering on your skin. thereâs no reply for a long moment. âdean?â you call again. âcan you help me again?â
without a word in response, you hear footsteps, then the creak of the bathroom door. instead of dean, you find sam poking his head into the room.
he clears his throat awkwardly. âdean left to get some more food. i can, uhâ i can help.â
âoh, okay,â you smile at him a little, then feel sort of pathetic because of the hope that rises in your chest. you force your voice into nuetrality. âthanks, sam. i, uh, i just need to dump this out and get some new water. itâs just sort of heavy.â
âright, yeah. of course.â sam enters the room fully, filling up the small space with his tall, broad frame. when he gets close, you extend a hand, silently asking him to help you stand first, despite the fact that you could do it yourself with the help of the wall. but sam canât very well deny you, so he obliges by grabbing your hand and placing the other around your bicep to hoist you up. his strong hands and arms pull you up easily, and help you back onto the tile floor. you feel the tickle of a rivulet of water run down your right leg, then a few more on your left. sam dutifully pulls the towel you were sitting on out and hands it to you before he dumps out the soapy water and turns on the faucet, checking the temperature before letting it splash into the bucket
you stand there in silence, watching him work, watching him keep his eyes averted from your almost naked form, watching him struggle with being so close to you.
âthere,â he says simply when heâs done, grabbing the towel from you and placing it back on the bottom of the tub. once heâs eased you back down to sitting in the shower, he straightens and takes a step backwards towards the door. but he canât just leave, not like that. âis there anything else you need?â
you think youâre allowed to be a little selfish sometimes, so you say yes. âuh, yeah. could you, uhm, could you just wipe down my back? i canât tell if thereâs still soap on it.â sam almost tells you that there isnât and just walks away, but he caves to you and the look in your eyes.
he looks like heâs not sure if he wants to stiffen and close himself off and do it in silence, or soften and open himself up to being gentle with you. it seems heâs unable to treat you too coldly, no matter what sort of fear or silent commitments to staying clear of you heâs made.
ââf course,â he agrees after a moment, getting down on his knees, pressed right up against the wall of the bathtub as he takes the wet rag from you and dips into the newly hot water. he keeps his eyes trained on the skin of your back, and you keep yours to the plain white surface of the tile wall in front of you. his hand is as gentle, warm, and encompassing as you know it to be. of course, heâs trying not to touch you directly, keeping most of his hand covered by up the cloth. but the motel rag isnât a generous size, and his hands are, so the base of his palm or the pads of his fingertips keep brushing against your cool skin. heâs hot in comparison to you, as per usual.
the task doesnât have to take long at all, but sam must be having trouble parting from you now that heâs back and so, so close. so, he takes the rag across the whole expanse of your back more than once, applying a gentle pressure that soothes and relaxes your still tense muscles. only once heâs heard a sigh of satisfaction leave your lips does he bring his hand away from you.
thereâs a few more moments of quiet, only punctuated by the sounds of lightly sloshing water as he dips the rag back into the water, then squeezes it out so that itâs not too soaked for your next use. he hands it to you and asks, âanything else?â without getting up or even glancing at the door like he wants to escape. he lets himself look at your face for a moment, before tearing his gaze away once more.
you shake your head lightly. âthatâs all. thanks.â
âmhmm,â he nods, âtell me if you need me.â thatâs not how he meant to say things, but itâs how it came out anyways. and oh how you wish to tell him, i need you. he wants to hear you say it too, until he remembers himself and the fact that heâd cave if he did. and he canât cave, not ever, not even if you told him that you need him. these days he feels like he needs you.
âokay.â you wait for him to leave before you put your attention back on yourself. when he closes the door behind himself, you heave out a deep sigh, then yawn, suddenly hit with a wave of bone-deep exhaustion. you make quick work of wiping off the rest of your body and brace yourself on the wall to stand. youâre not sure you can bear being stuck with sam in such close proximity again tonight, so you dress yourself with just a bit of trouble and leave the tub of water alone for one of the boys to take care of tomorrow.
when you leave the bathroom, deanâs still gone and samâs laying on his bed. you almost tear up at the sight of him, tucked tightly into one half of the space and his back so purposefully facing your side of the bed. upset with this small cruelty, you climb into deanâs bed instead and fall asleep on your back before you can even change your bandages.
â
last night you caught sam reaching for your hand. he was motioning with the hand further from you, distracted as he complained about something dean said earlier. you glanced down for no particular reason and a movement caught your eye. his unoccupied hand had drifted closer to you, reaching out seemingly on instinct, as if walking next to you should mean holding hands with you. quickly, you looked away, and you never felt his hand even brush past yours. but you heard the rustle of his jacket as he moved, the pause in his words, and the shift in tone when he finally continued to speak. you donât think he knows that you noticed.
and the day before that, he gave you this dazzling smile and didnât even think twice about it. sometimes heâll smile at you wide, and the pretty look on his face will be ripped away as if heâs had some horrible realization that smiling at you is somehow a sin. but this last time, the smile faded naturally, untouched by the overbearing hesitancy he seems to have kept clutched in his hands for the past few weeks since that night with the shapeshifter.
thereâs this constant push and pull coming from him that you canât quite wrap your head or heart around. many days, heâs distant and thatâs it. all you get is talk of cases or how to stop the goddamn apolcalypse. other days heâs able to be decently normal; heâll joke and chat a little and youâll get a glimpse of your sam. and some days he just canât stay away, like thereâs this tug pulling him to you thatâs too strong to resist. it calls his hand towards yours, his eyes all over your face, and his body to stand right by you. those days he canât cover up any sort of longing gaze and heâs stuck staring right at you and missing you more than he ever imagined heâd have to.
you suppose you prefer the in between days, because theyâre the closest to the sam that youâve had by your side for so long. theyâre closest to the sam thatâs your best friend, the sam who didnât know he loved you yet. those are the days you can most easily pretend that something isnât wildly off about you and him, because dealing with unrequited love has sort of become your norm. and while the days he canât hide that he feels more for you are a desirable confirmation that thereâs some part of him that canât resist you, theyâre also a painful reminder that itâs not quite enough to keep him from distancing himself.
and lord, it just hurts so much when one of those sweet days turns sour. youâll feel at ease, hopeful and glad for the dayâs luck, when suddenly the good day has turned too good or one of you has laughed too sweet and loud because of the other. at that, sam will instantly pull away as if itâs dangerous to be happy together. you can see his eyes change from content because of you to tortured because of you and all you want to do is take him by the shoulders and shake him hard. then mostly likely kiss him hard too, if you can get him to come to his senses.
of course, thereâs that never ending love. you really donât think you could stop loving him if you tried with all of your might. but thereâs certainly anger. each day that passes by, you become angrier and angrier with him, so frustrated with him and his stupid decisions. with too much time to think about him and his odd behavior, you feel nearly sure that heâs just plain old afraid. of losing you or hurting you or some other classic, stupid reason and frankly, itâs completely unromantic. itâs making you feel like youâre losing your mind.
so when sam takes today, a half-normal day where you donât feel the weight of his hesitance bearing down on you, and he snatches that away with a simple, closed-off expression, you feel far too fed up to just let it go.
deanâs off at some bar and though his support in your argument might helpâbecause youâre almost positive that dean is on your side and is getting nearly as frustrated as youâyou need to confront sam alone first.
you let silence reign in the motel room until samâs done showering and about to settle into doing a bit of extra research before heading to bed.
âsam,â you start, already cursing to yourself when he looks at you without any of his usual eagerness to hear you talk. youâre sure he can already tell that youâre displeased from the way you said his name. âwe have to talk.âÂ
his jaw clenches and he glances down at the closed laptop in front of him. he contemplates how to answer for a moment. âi should really check for any signs of lucifer. we havenât gotten anything new in weeks, weâre bound to catch wind of something soon.â
your anger flares, but you tamp it down in favor of keeping this conversation as civil as possible. an angry you plus an angry sam never ends well, and youâre determined to make yourself heard before either of you walk away in frustration.
âno, sam. donât ignore me. i know that you checked during lunch today, so it can wait until tomorrow,â you counter.
âthis is important, you know that.â his voice is so flat and emotionless and stubborn and so unlike him that it hurts.
âit is,â you agree, âbut you already checked today, so iâm asking you not to make excuses and listen to me, sam. itâs not that hard.â you bite your tongue, almost wishing you hadnât made that last biting comment because you know itâll just antagonize him. but you also know that your anger is warranted.
you can see sam realizing he canât get out of this conversation in the way that he purses his lips in frustration.
âiâ yâknow, iâve really tried to give you time.â you donât wait for him to really look at you to start. âwe all need time sometimes, but itâs not fixing anything. youâre not⌠youâre not trying to fix anything, it feels like.â
he wonât even look at you when he talks. âwhat do you want me to fix?â
âthe way youâre treating me!â you say, indignant and raising your voice a little, unable to hold back. âyouâ i donât know, youâre acting so strange! likeâ like one second youâre normal. normal sam, my best friend sam. and then you act like you donât want me around. like youâd rather be stuck in the car and motel rooms with anyone else in the world but me.â only once you start talking do you realize just how much you have to say. itâs not just stop acting this way, or letâs talk about it, itâs so much more. so much that you need him to hear and to understand.
your voice quiets again. âyou know, once, you told me that i was a god-send. that, that you can put up with all this shit because we get to do it together. itâs always been you and me! of course, itâs always been you and dean, but sam! weâre best friends,â you say it more like a plea than a statement. âyou used to say that. then it got to the point where it felt like we didnât even have to say anything at all. we just were. it used to feel like youâd do anything for me, just like iâd do for you. i never even questioned that, not once until ruby came along. even then, i knew it wasnât you. not an excuse, but i knew, once she was gone, youâd figure it out again. just like always. we always figure it out. so why, why for the love of god are you not even trying?â your own words hit you like a wall of bricks. when things happen, when things go wrong, or you donât understand something, youâve always figured it out together. what youâre supposed to do is voice your concerns to the other and usually without saying the words, ask for help. this time, sam wonât share the burden with you, wonât attempt to figure it out with you even when it so clearly involves you.
sam opens his mouth to speak, and at least heâs looking at you now, but you wonât let him say a word yet. heâll shut you down, and you canât have that.
âwhy do i suddenly feel so stuck? i feel like thereâs nothing i can do, like youâre slipping away, right through my fingertips! and thatâs just the strangest feeling when, for the longest time, i was convinced that youâd be the one constant in my life. i really, really thought that way, sam. and i get that iâm biased and blinded by my own feelings, i just never imagined that youâd do anything like this, pull away so suddenly and quickly and adamantly like itâs your lifeâs mission to put a bulletproof wall in between us. so, i guess at the very least, iâd like a bit of an explanation as to why you donât want anything to do with me anymore.â
your question hangs in the air, heavier and more smothering than a water-soaked wool blanket. you suppose you could keep talking; youâre not anywhere near out of things to say, but you need him to respond. heâs the one letting the silence take over, not you. he takes a deep breath, like heâs known heâd have to explain eventually, but would never be the one to willingly bring it up.
he answers plainly, almost honest. âitâs safer this way. itâs dangerous for you to be close to me.â you want to scream because you were right. you wouldâve loved to have been wrong, for him to have magically had some good reason for all this. but in the end, it has come down to the evils of the world pressing down on a good man and that good man caving to believe what the evils tell him he is. you want to scream because sam is wrong. being close to him feels like saving grace.Â
heâs not cursed, heâs not the cause of all the pain and death that rains down on the people he loves. and what about him? what about all the pain and death that rains upon him? where does he get reprieve, an apology for being singled out and tossed through all of these horrors by unexplainable forces? why canât he blame god? why canât he see that itâs not his fault?
âthatâs not true,â you beg, âand itâs not an excuse to treat me like shit.â he looks away, a physical manifestation of the fact that he doesnât want to admit that youâre right about at least that.
âiâm not trying to⌠to hurt you.â sam face just falls. he looks devastated. he wasnât trying to hurt you, in fact, he was trying to do just the opposite, but it happened anyway. âsee?â he pleads, desperate for you to understand, âno matter what i do, being around me is hurting you. i canât keep putting people through that.â
âso what? youâre gonna pretend to hate dean too?â you counter.
sam looks hurt. âi wasnât pretending to hate you. iâd never even pretend to feel that way about you, iââ he stops himself before he can say the words and clears his throat, not trying to be subtle when he changes the subject. âdeanâs different. heâs involved in all this shit too. he doesnât have a choice but to be around me, but you? you could be safe somewhere else.â
âand you think i want that? you think iâd make the choice to leave you, just to be a little safer?â you want to keep going, but he interrupts you.
âno, thatâs exactly it. youâd never leave us, and i know that. but ifâ if we stay at a distance, you might be safer.â heâs doing everything he can not to make it sound like he wants you to go. he just canât explain that the issue is that he loves you, that he thinks the solution is to stop loving each other.
âthatâs bullshit,â you shake your head. âsam, i know that you think youâre cursed or some shit like that, but itâs not true. none of this is your fault.â
âhow? how is it not my fault? the people i love die because of me, and no other reason. how is that not my fault?â he argues, desperately believing himself.
âbecause youâre not the one who killed them! you didnât make that choice. those things happened to you too, sam. how much grief and loss have you had to go through because of things you couldnât control? it was never your fault, sam.â
âand yet, if they werenât around me, they never would have died. it doesnât matter what choices i made, it was the simple act of being close to me thatâs gotten so many people killed. and i canât lose you, too. i just canât and itâs just too possible that itâll be because of me. i canât live with that. i canât let you get hurt.â this is the most raw his voice has been in weeks, months maybe even. you can see just how completely, irrationally terrified he is that heâll get you killed and youâre starting to think that heâs too far gone for you to reel back to reality, to hope and perseverance and closeness. but you canât seem to give up, still full of things to say.
âthatâs not how this works!â you refute. âthis is my life, itâs your life, our life. and whether or not iâm around you or close to you, iâll still get hurt! itâs not like iâm just going to quit hunting so you donât have to worry. so sam, you could hurt me on purpose; pull away, refuse me when you have to know damn well how i feel about you. itâs not like iâve ever really been that subtle, you were just never looking for it until now. orâ or you could do your best and if i get hurt, itâs an accident, right?â you practically beg for him to agree, for him to see that treating you this way is so much worse than anything else that could happen to you because of him.
he curses under his breath. youâre getting so close to saying the sort of words that will make his resolve snap, one way or another. he says nothing and youâre still waiting for him to understand you. so, you hit him with something even more solid and irrevocable than your logic: your love.
âyou canât seriously think that iâm going to just let things go on like this, can you? is this really your plan? to pretend we donât care about each other? to throw over a decade of friendship out the window because you think somehow itâll keep me safe?â you make sure that heâs looking you straight in the eyes as you continue, voice thick with emotion, âsam, thereâs nothing, nothing that could keep me from loving you. iâve loved you since you were seventeen, at least. i was watching you study, realizing that you really were gonna go to college. damn, i was so happy for you and i was ready to do anything to help you get there. then i started thinking about how much i was gonna miss you. wondering if maybe i could get away too. if we could get away together. the next week my dad dragged me away on another hunt and i didnât see you for a year. we saw each other nearly right before you left and i considered asking if i could run away with you. but i didnât want you to have to drag any remnants of the life with you, and i was exactly that. i wouldnât have been able to make it anyway.
âand you know, the saying that absence makes the heart go fonder, itâs not psychologically true. the more time you spend with someone, the more you get to love them. but i really felt like it was sort of true because i missed you so bad that it made me love you all the more. i tried to talk dean out of asking you to come back to look for your dad, but when i saw you again i gave up on that. i didnât care that you had had jess or that you liked madison or sarah, and sure, ruby hurt a little more than them, but no matter what, i just liked being close to you. when i saw you again, i swore i couldnât look away. and i was content loving you through looks and longing and letting you be.Â
âbut sam,â your voice cracks as you say his name and you try to swallow your tears, âthis is just cruel. thereâs not even anyone else, but you feel so much farther than youâve ever been. youâd really refuse me after you dare to give me hope that you might actually love me back? i spend far too much time looking at you to miss the way you look at me. and i love listening to your voice so much that i could never miss the way your voice has changed when you talk to me as of late. you gave me hope for just a few weeks, and now youâre asking me toâ to what?â you shake your head, not even sure what heâs trying to change or fix and how.
âyou want me to let you go? and what, thatâs it? do you want me to stick around but pretend i donât love you? orâ or do you want me to just stop loving you and you think thatâll somehow fix things? because that sure as hell isnât possible,â you look at him so carefully, so deeply as you search for an answer in his eyes. âor do you just want me to go?â
you didnât mean that question, but sam truly considers it. at first you desperately wish that you could take it back. you donât want to go, you donât think you can be apart from him like that.
but he goes and does the worst thing that he could and he tells you, âyes. you should go.â he canât even look you in the eye when he says it and you know that you with certainty that you canât stay. you canât do that to yourself, to your pride, to your peace of mind. because with those four words heâs told you that he loves you, but not enough to try.
or too much, perhaps. he loves you too much to try, because itâs him who will really be worse off if something he does gets you killed. sure, youâd be dead, but sam⌠sam would be alive and stuck with far too much guilt and loneliness and loss and greif to deal with. but if you go, then sam canât be responsible for you. he canât curse you with his love that way, so sam may want you closer to him than heâs ever wanted anybody, but he wants even more for you to go.
you want to say something awful back. i hate you crosses your mind, but itâs so far from the truth that you couldnât even say it out loud. if you did, it would still mean i love you.
youâre horrible, sam, is the next thing that falls into your mouth, but you clamp your jaw shut before those words can fall out. you donât swallow though, you let the words sit on your tongue and you taste them and consider them. because in a way, theyâre true. samâs being horrible to you. but youâre naive, and, oh right, hopelessly in love with him, which means you want to spare him. it means that you donât want to convince him further that he can never be good enough for you, because he is. he is when he isnât being like this, and if he can figure it out, maybe heâll beg on bended knee for you to come back, say heâll do anything to make it up to you, tell you he still loves you so much and he canât be apart from you if youâll let him come close again.
but youâre so fucking angry at him. youâre almost blinded with love, but not quite because you already know that those hopes of yours are ridiculous moments after you think of them. heâs burned any possibility of you and him to the ground. you know this and you know that he knows it too. you hope it haunts him forever and you donât care if thatâs cruel.
âgo ahead, sam,â you laugh humorlessly, bitterly. the sound makes him look up from the guilty hole heâs burning into the table top with his eyes. âadd me to your list of ghosts before iâm even dead, and know, without a doubt, that this time it really was you who did it. you lit the match, sam. you pulled the trigger.â he looks at you, dumbfounded as if he finally understands what youâve been trying to say this whole time but knows that heâs gone too far. once a triggerâs been pulled, it canât be undone and he knows that. that knowledge is a sort of pain that rings in his ears and swirls violently in his stomach.
you grab your coat from the hanger on the wall beside you.
âwait,â he chokes out, tears shining in his eyes. you shoot him a harsh look and he shuts his mouth. he doesnât get to say that word.
âiâll call if i figure out how to stop the fucking apocalypse. otherwise, tell dean not to call, âcause iâm not coming back.â you grab your bag from the floor by the bed and walk past him to take all the cash from his wallet. you feel his eyes follow you until you reach the door.
hand on the door knob, you turn back to him and you stare him square in the eye to be sure he can see your tears, to show him he made you cry. you wonât tell him heâs horrible, so youâll settle for a simple, âyouâre wrong, sam. youâre wrong about this.â
then you walk out the door, cursing yourself for hating the sound of him crying more than anything in the world.
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I wish I was mutuals with so many cool writers on here but alas I am too shy đđźđđź
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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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Dean âđsammy let her cookđâ Winchester
Imagine being on your period with the winchester brothers.
i mean iâm currently late for mine (AND NO IM NOT PREGNANT) and lately iâve been feeling like i could strangle any man that approaches me
like just picture dean starring at you like âwtfâ as you just beat up the demon barehanded
the sick son of a bitch doesnât even have time to react back..you are just going full WWE mode on them
not to mention sam would be so worried he would try to walk towards you but dean would just put his hand in front of him like âsammy let her cookâ
you would just be throwing punches and screaming âTELL EVE WHEN I SEE HER I WILL FUCKEN RIP OUT HER UTERUSâ
to which caused sam to slowly walk back from the scene infront of him, hands in the air in surrender
afterwards dean wouldnât even complain about the blood dripping down from your face when you enter the impala (he would never say this out loud but you scared him)
sam would sit still the entire car ride trying to not provoke you into fighting, which to his luck, you almost ended up killing the drive thru worker for forgetting your fries
âY/n! LET GO OF HIS APRON!â âNOT UNTIL THIS MF GIVES ME MY CURLY FRIES!!â
the guy ended up giving you two boxes filled with fries and sam just did the awkward hand motion he did when dean was about to shoot the pigeon (PLS UNDERSTAND THIS REFERENCE)
dean would be throwing fries at you the entire car ride back to the motel while announcingâthe beast has been fed!â
bonus points if they need to stop to buy you more pads
dean would totally look at you and ask âwhat size of pussy do you have and what flavor you want?â as he checked out the pads
in the end he got you âsome night time ones with lime flavorâ to which you almost strangled him for forgetting your candy bar
âI SWEAR DEAN WINCHESTER IF YOU DIDNT GET ME MY CANDY BAR I WILL KILL YOU AND CUT YOU UP JUST TO DUNK THE LITTLE PIECES IN CEMENT AND HIDE THEM ACROSS THE WORLD SO THEY NEVER FIND YOUR FULL CORSPE!â
letâs just say after that dean never forgot your candy bar ever again
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When Supernatural premiered on September 13, 2005, the CW network didn't exist yet. The touchscreen phones didn't exist yet. Tumblr didn't exist yet. Archive of Our Own didn't exist yet.
Happy anniversary to the only show ever.
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PLAGIARISM ALERT
PLAGIARISM ALERT! SHE'S BACK AGAIN AND DOING THE SAME THING! This user u/freedreameryouth (who has previous been known as MANY other accounts and has done this to many creators in many fandoms) lasted less than 24 hrs after perusing my blog before she plagiarized me again. I did NOT give her permission to adapt my drabble (she didn't ask because she obviously knew I'd say no) and what she has done is STILL PLAGIARISM. This "fic" you made is not "inspired" by my drabble. You blatantly used the exact same scenario, series of events, did not tag me (probably because you knew I would NOT allow this), slightly changed some language, AND KEPT MUCH OF MY EXACT WRITTEN LANGUAGE THE SAME. THAT'S FUCKING PLAGIARISM! OH. AND SHE RESTRICTED MY BLOG (lol) SO I WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO COMMENT ON THE PLAGIARIZED DRABBLE as the original creator, which clearly means she knows that I wouldn't approve and that what she is doing IS WRONG.
Ways to spot this user: She puts her age as in her mid-20s (24 last I saw), always uses a purple background for her blogs, and generally has "simp" somewhere in her username, blog title, or blog description. She has previously stolen fics from MANY creators from MANY fandoms and apparently still has not learned her lesson since I put her on blast and exposed her last time. SO... here we are. I will be blasting her again... PLEASE SPREAD THIS WARNING TO OTHER CREATORS YOU KNOW AND LOVE! Block this user if you are a creator and report their blog if you can. This person really should not be on Tumblr. (PLEASE DO NOT SEND HATEâThere is still a human being on the other end doing this, but FFS report them...)
@staff this person is a repeat offender with plagiarism. Myself and many other creators have more proof. Can you PLEASE do something about this?
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If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.
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âŚ.the gasp I guspedâŚ..
Honesty
Sam Winchester x Reader
lmao, i'm sorry. this is kind of an au where instead of sam getting the trials...you do! haha......might make a second part to this but i'll see how it'll do. also, in this there isn't the stupid "sam doesn't look for dean in purgatory" because the writers were fucked up when they wrote that, respectfully (or not)
Summary: You finally have a chance to close the Gates of Hell, forever, but everything comes with a cost, the question is, are you willing to pay for it?
Warnings: ANGST, love confessions, sad sammy, kisses, reader sees bobby as a father figure, reader is shorter than Sam, NOT PROOF-READ, english is not my first language
WC: 3.7k
You can learn how to change Y/N for your actual name here
enjoy!
As you lie there, soaked in hellhound's blood, panting after a fight against the creature, the glasses you wore to be able to see it dirty and obstructing your view, Sam and Dean stare at you, frozen and horrified.
You knew they would try and talk you out of doing the trials, especially after Dean's words to both you and Sam before he went on to almost get killed by the hellhound. Of course you two had followed him, even if Dean explicitly said not to, and you ended up under the dog, his disgusting breath fanning on your face as he barked above you, trying to rip your neck off. You knifed it and it quite literally exploded over you, bathing you in his gooey substance.
Now, all of you were in a room, Dean pacing back and forth while Sam just stood with his head down. You had your arms crossed, your eyes accompanied Dean's movements. He was restless, probably angry and desperately trying to find a way to counter this.
âWe can find another hellhound,â He argues âI kill it then it's all solvedâ
âDean, Crowley will be even more on our asses over this, he will not let his dogs out of the leashâ You say, calmly, trying to counter Dean's protectiveness in the lightest way possible. âI can do themâ
After you said that Dean stopped pacing around and both him and Sam looked up at you, eyebrows furrowed, almost as if you had just admitted to an unforgivable crime. The crime in the case was wanting to protect the brothers from these crazy trials. You knew how death followed them around like a plague and you couldn't handle losing them.
âNo, Y/N, you're not doing these trialsâ Sam speaks up, a tinge of anger in his tone. Anger, worry. He looked at you, his hair casting a shadow over his face because of the poor lightning in the environment. âYou could dieâ
âWell, too bad Samâ You said and the boys shared that look, a silent conversation between both of them, something that pissed you off in these moments because you had the right to know what they were plotting. âLook, I know you two feel like you have some responsibility over me, thisâŚinstinct to protect me ever since BobbyâŚâ You trailed off, the memory of the man you considered to be your father still too heavy on you. Sam frowned and Dean changed his position, on edge. You cleared your throat, the sudden lump bothering you. âBut I can protect myself, I can fight my own battles and, honestly? If we do close the gates of hell for good, which battles will be there to fight?â You say with a faint smile.
You look between both of them. They seemed deep in thought. Too deep and that worried you. You slowly walked towards Sam and when he took notice he stiffened up, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed harshly, his eyes taking in your rather dirty appearance. But still beautiful, he mentally stated.
Sam always thought you were the most incredible woman he ever met, invincible even, nothing could ever put you down and you could make everything work your way with your amazing mind and skills. And, obviously, your killer looks always managed to stun him every time, everywhere.
He was used to seeing you in any type of clothing, from suits and dresses to sweats and shirts with corny sayings written in the front, which you argued were comfortable. And you always looked absolutely gorgeous wearing anything. Sam used to think he just admired you, the looks from afar were just friendly appreciation, his yearn to be around you was just a protective instinct, the goosebumps on his skin when youâd touch him were just a natural reactionâŚ
Until it wasnât just. It was. And that was horrifying.
And it got worse when both you and him spent the last year alone looking for Dean and Cas. Spending so much time beside you made Sam realize what he truly felt towards you and he was scared. Scared to say anything and scared to lose you. So, when you killed that hellhound, his heart fell to his stomach because he knew you would want to do the trials.Â
And when you stretched your hand to him, looking directly in his eyes, that determined gaze of yours slicing through his soul, he knew you would do anything to go along with this.
âSam, give me the spellâ You said firmly, not a request, a demand. He swallowed again, still speechless, still frozen, his fist tightening around the small paper which contained the words in enochian you were supposed to recite for the trials to start. You emphasize your demand by widening your eyes angrily and doing âcome hereâ motions with your stretched hand. âSamâ
âY/N-â
âDean.â You interrupt, anger seeping into your tone, making Dean shut his mouth into a thin line and a huff of air come out of his nose, just like a child would do when it was refused candy before dinner. He thought heâd seen you like this before, determined, practically unstoppable but boy was he wrong. You were more than insistent and that rang an alarm in Deanâs head. You knew that the one responsible for the trials could die and you were willingly going with it.
âDean, can you give us a momentâ Sam speaks up again and you quirk an eyebrow at him, looking between him and his brother. Sam looks at Dean, his pleading eyes and subtle nod giving enough information for Dean to get the message across. If there is one thing that can make you understand is honesty.
Dean slowly walks out of the room, giving you one last look that said clearly that you needed to listen with an open heart and mind to anything Sam would say. When he closed the door behind him, Samâs eyes were already on you, trained on your features and you shifted your weight on your feet, his stare intimidating.
âSo?â You said, trying to keep your ground. Sam sighed and lowered his head, considering all his options in the situation, he could tell you everything and be either rejected or accepted, he could lie to you, give you the wrong spell and work his way out like he always did and still keep you safe. Honesty. The word echoed in his mind like a chant.
He pushed himself off the table he was leaning on, crossing with you and going towards the bed to sit down. Your whole body accompanied his movements, his long strides making the distance between the table and the bed shorter than it actually was.
Once sat he looked at you and then at the spot beside him on the bed, silently asking you to sit with him and you caved, obliging to him. Your feet were light on the floor, quiet, accustomed to being silent while being a hunter, as you walked to the bed. The hardness of the cushion was not too much of a bother but still kept you grounded. Donât let your guard down.
After making yourself as comfortable as possible, sitting criss-crossed, you turned towards Sam who was with both his feet on the floor, staring at his hands drying his sweat on his jeans. You waited for him to travel inside his own mind, finding the words, the phrases, the honesty.Â
Honesty. Honesty. Honesty.
You swam in your own thoughts, especially those in which Sam was included. And those were the few thousands of reasons you wanted to be the one doing the trials, not him, not Dean. In your time alone, Sam had opened up to you about his want to live a normal life, away from apocalypses, monsters, godsâŚWhite picket fence, the whole nine. Dean had wanted that too, hell maybe he wouldnât let go completely of the hunting but at least he wouldnât have to deal with demons on his ass, never ever again. You didnât see yourself getting out.
You grew up in this, much like the boys, but to you was different. You liked it. The adrenaline was like a drug pumping through your veins everytime you killed an abomination and, honestly, family wasnât your strongest trait. All those whom you considered family were cremated â just becauseâŚwe donât usually bury hunters, so you canât say they are six-feet under. Your love life was most definitely inexistent, you didnât have time for falling in love with anyone.
Until. You did.
Until you fell. And hard. Face first in a bag of nails because you knew it would be trouble falling in love with Sam Winchester. You were both unlucky when it came to that feeling, always losing, always sacrificing, always in a battle. But how could you not? He was a gentleman in full, kind, sweet, caring and at the same time deadly â no pun intended. He would protect those he cared for with his life, his sense of protection his greatest quality. He was so selfless sometimes it made you mad. You had told him once âBe selfish, just this one time!â and even so he couldnât. It wasnât his nature.
Sam wanted out of this and you wouldnât let him abandon that dream because of you. You werenât worth his life, you told him once after following a lead on how to open the doors to Purgatory and pull Cas and Dean out that almost got both of you killed. You were crying as you drove him to the hospital, the blood on your hands staining the steering wheel.
He was pale, his hand weekly pressing over the wound on his stomach, his breathing shallow. When you told him that, he trained his tired eyes on your face and in a rough and tired voice told you to shut up. Shut it, jerk. And fainted.
At the hospital you stayed hours by his bed every day. The doctors had told you he would be okay, that thankfully no vital organs were damaged and when he woke up you hugged him tightly, your arms wrapping around his neck desperately trying to make sure he wasnât going anywhere. His hands soothed you, rubbing your back up and down. You wonât get rid of me that easily, he had said and you laughed.
Ever since then you swore to yourself that you would guarantee that Sam wouldnât put himself in danger for you anymore and you were not breaking that promise.
âDo you remember the night we met?â Sam spoke and you turned your eyes to his face, his hair shining against the yellow light and worry lines between his eyebrows.
âJohn had left you at Bobbyâs and when I came back from school you scared the shit out of me. I had my gun in hand and everything until Bobby popped up, desperately trying to explainâ You said, smiling at the memory. You were all so young back then, Sam was still shorter than you â which didnât last long â and you had lost your parents a few months back.
âEver since that night I knew you would beâŚsomething in the long runâ You gave him a puzzled look and he laughed lightly at your face, his dimples appearing on his cheeks. âI knew you would turn out to be strong, brave and I knew you would end up being one of the most important people to meâ
You smiled stupidly at that, your face heating up. You didnât know what to say to him, your eyes drifting to your fingers over your lap because you couldn't keep his strong gaze. Sam sighed and considered his options, he could either hide his feelings for longer or be honest. Honesty, honesty. The word echoed through his mind like a mantra.
Sam reached his hand to wrap over one of yours, making your eyes shift from your hands to his face again. Physical touch wasn't uncommon between the both of you. Sleeping in the same bed when motels were full, sleeping on each other's shoulders, â more you than Sam given the height difference â hugs, cheek kisses, cuddling while watching movies. But something about this hand hold felt more intimate, like a wave of emotions were being poured over you like cold water. Sam squeezed your hand.
âI can't lose youâ Sam said, his voice low because he knew that if he spoke any louder he could break.
âSamââ
âY/N. Please.â He begs, even if he doesn't know what he's begging for. Please, let me talk. Please, don't do the trials. Please, love me like I love you. âI can't lose youâ
He repeats and you feel like you just got punched in the guts or like a knife went through your chest. He sounded so raw. Those four words meaning more than any poetry you've ever laid eyes upon. You squeeze his hand to ground yourself.
âCan't or won't?â You ask, voice weak.
âBothâ He answers. âBoth because I won't let you do this and can't because if I lose you I won't know how to keep going.â
You shake your head no, closing your eyes for a brief moment, your memories together flooding in again. His smile tattooed in your brain, his laugh playing over and over like a broken vinyl. You needed to do this.
âIf I do this then that means you can finally have a life, a wife, kidsâŚI can't let you lose this.â You say, tears welling up in your eyes. âAnd I need to do this for you, for Dean, for CharlieâŚLosing me is just a consequence for the greater goodâ
Now it's Sam who shakes his head, low breathy no's coming out of his mouth. He looks up at you, eyes watery and those stupid puppy dog eyes staring right into your soul, crushing your heart to pieces.
âYou don't get itâ He says âWhen I look into the future I can't imagineââ He takes a breath, considering whether to tell you or not. Fuck it. âI can't imagine it without you. The house, the kids running around, the dogâŚthey're ours.â He stops for a moment, waiting to see if you caught what he meant but you just looked at him, wide beautiful eyes full of confusion.
âSam what are youââ
âAnd you're the wife. My wife.â He says and he can see the realization come into your face, slowly. The way your jaw drops slightly, your shoulders tense and your hand squeezes his even harder. Sam swallows but now he can't back away. âSo I can't let you do this because if you do it and die I won't be able to keep going because I love you, Y/N. I love you and even if you don't reciprocate I won't stop loving you. You're the first thing I think when I wake up and the last thing I think about once I fall asleep.â He keeps going, almost out of breath once he finishes, avoiding your eyes, avoiding rejection. âSo, please, don'tâ
Don't do this, don't reject me, don't run.
âSam, look at meâ You say, one hand slowly grasping his cheek, your thumb drying a tear that he didn't know had fallen. Once he looked at you he saw you smiling. Smiling with teary eyes. âI love you, tooâ
You practically whispered and a feeling rushed into Sam's body. Like someone had shot him up with adrenaline and suddenly he was aware of everything around him, your warm hand on his cheek, your hand under his, the white noise of the animals outside. And his own heartbeat.
He closed the distance between the both of you, his lips finally touching yours in desperation. Pure and raw desperation. His hand went up your arm to your neck, gently pulling you more into him and yours slipped to tangle into his hair, running the soft locks through your fingers.
The kiss felt electric and it burned. Burned you from the inside out with the wave of a thousand emotions. Your head went back to those moments with Sam. Your mind was just completely him.
And it was the same for the Winchester.
He already had thoughts consisting mostly of you but now he felt in heaven, like in finally connected with whom he mostly desired, both physically and emotionally. His other hand slipped around your waist to pull yourself over him as he laid down on the bed.
You followed and slightly smiled into the kiss. Until you grounded yourself. Sam wouldn't let you do the trials, not now that you had confessed, not now that he knew you loved him too. So you had to take matters into your own hands.
As Sam laid you over him, you straddled his hips, the kiss continuing into an unexplained hunger and lust for each other. You sensually dragged your hand down his chest, earning a soft gasp out of him, both his hands tangling in your hair, messing up your curls.
Your hand that slid down his body discreetly went into his pocket, feeling for the paper with the spell written on it. You mentally apologized over and over to Sam, your mouth opening to let his tongue in to explore it, butterflies flying around in your stomach. He was gentle, caring but yet hungry and you could feel it.
I'm sorry.Â
You pulled away breathless, the paper clutched in your hand and Sam looked at you through hooded eyes, his chest heaving with his heavy breaths and a confused frown on his face.
âI'm sorry Sammyâ You said as you got off the bed and started to quickly pronounce the words in enochian, your hands trembling around the paper. Sam widened his eyes once he realized what you'd done, patting his pocket in reflex, knowing you had taken it out of there, and stubbled off the bed.
âY/N, no, please!â He yelled but it was too late. Once you said the last word an almost unbearable pain cursed through your whole body, knocking you to your knees, a loud groan of pain leaving your throat.
Sam kneeled beside you with a hand on your back, mumbling curses and apologies to you but you couldn't hear him, the pain so strong it made your ears ring. You felt a burn, like you had injected lava into your veins, opening your eyes to see your arms shining. Everything was spinning and the only thing guaranteeing you that you were still alive was Sam's warm touch over your back.
After seconds of excruciating pain you felt it going down and saw your arms returning to their normal tone. You collapsed into Sam's arms and he made sure to hold you tightly, still mumbling apologies with his eyes glossy with tears.
âWhy did you do this?â He repeated, over and over. He didn't know if he wanted to kill you or hug you so he decided for the latter. He hugged your frame, pressing your head against his chest with a trembling hand and giving light kisses over it.
His other hand pressed your back against him, making your whole body stay in contact with his. His knees hurt on the hard ground but nothing compared to the pain he felt in his heart. He felt helpless.
You opened your eyes to look up at him, a faint smile on your face. You lifted a hand up to his cheek and took a very good look at the handsome man you loved. He was crying but he always looked beautiful, no matter how.
At your touch he closed his eyes, guilt spreading through his body. He touched his forehead to yours, making you close your eyes until you spoke up.
âI did this because I love youâ You said and he opened his mouth to protest. You gave him a look, saying you werenât done. âI love you too much to see you die and I know you can keep going if I die, you are one of the strongest men I know. Youâre smart, youâre brave and you went through so much that I canât let you give it up because of me. And you know I would never, ever, let you take responsibility over this and I donât want you to blame yourself, this was my choiceâ
âI canâtâ Iâm sorry, Y/N, Iâm so sorry I got you into this, Iâm sorry I couldnât protect youââ You stopped him with a kiss and he sighed sadly, his hands wrapping around you tighter as if you would disappear at any second. You felt horrible but at the same time relieved. Relieved that if anything happened, Sam would live.
âDonât say thatâ You whisper against his lips. âDonât apologize for something that isnât your fault. This is on me.â You say as you pull slowly away to look into his eyes, the mix of colors hypnotizing you. You felt like you could see every ounce of his soul through those eyes and it was filled with sadness.
Sam was angry, not at you, at himself. The moment he saw the hellhound die above you, bathing you in its blood he knew it was over, that you wouldnât back away but still he blamed himself. If I were quicker. If I were smarter. The words ran around in his brain. When he looked at you he saw yet another one of those he loved dead. Another corpse that hung over his shoulder.
âWe can do this, I can do this. Iâm strong enoughâ You said. Sam knew you were strong but this was beyond you. This was God and Demons and Heaven and Hell. This was biblical and nothing like the things you faced before. He was scared.
âI know you are but what if Iâm not?â He asks and you wait for him to continue. âWhat if Iâm not strong enough to let you go if it comes to it?â
âYouâll have to be. If not for yourself, for me. Keep going for meâ You reply with a soft look and a slight smile that made Sam choke on a sob and smash his lips against yours.
This kiss was filled with different emotions. Sadness, grief and guilt were poured into it but yet so much love. So, so much.
You didnât get a verbal answer from Sam but you got plenty of information from the kiss. Iâll try, for you.
And that was enough.
A/N: Notes and reblogs encourage me to keep writing, feedback makes those writings better. Thank you for reading, Xoxo.
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