🪼☆🪽

It’s always been Dean, as much as you hate to say it. The way he memorizes your diner orders, the way he gives you and Sam the beds in motels or shares his bed with you when there’s no couch. The stolen glances, and lingering touches, the weight of his arm over your waist when you accidentally fall asleep on each other during movie nights. He’s always loved you, and there’s a voice in your head gnawing at you that says you always have too.

The realization sends cold water crashing down your spine. Your heart drops to your feet, landing shattered somewhere between your stiff shoes and the hem of your white clothes. A breath tears from your chest, half sob half scream, and you sink into the nearest chair.

“Are you alright?” comes a voice from behind you.

“I-. Yes. No. I don’t-.” Your voice breaks, and the first tear slips free.

Someone’s hands grab yours, someone else brushes a strand of hair from your eyes, and a third voice speaks up from behind you.

“What can we do?”

“I-. I need to-. I need to talk to him.”

You hear the door open and close, and someone’s footsteps disappear down the hallway, searching for your fiancé. It’s not really him you need to see, you think to yourself. It’s Dean that you really want, because he always knows exactly what to say. He’s always there to rub soft circles on your back, to tuck your head under his chin and pretend his lips don’t brush your hair as he mumbles reassurances against your body. He's a fortress of safety, warm and tender and everything you need.

Your arms hug around yourself as you wait, pretending they’re Dean’s holding you tight to his chest. Instead of slowing your tears like you’d intended, you cry harder. It’s regret and pain, guilt and loss, a sea of unfiltered chaos rising in your lungs.

“Are you alright?” a low voice says from the door.

You pick your head up to see your fiancé standing there, hands twisting nervously and eyes scanning your body. You nod, shrugging your shoulders as you draw in a ragged breath. The room is slipping, colours blurring together through your tears, and time feels slow and fast at the same time. It could’ve been twenty seconds, or it could have been two hours.

“Can you look at me, honey?” he says, kneeling beside you and taking your hands in his.

The room is quiet, and you note the lack of chattering voices.

“Where’s everybody?” you say shakily.

“I asked them to wait outside,” he explains. “I thought maybe you’d be more comfortable talking without them to hear.”

Your heart breaks all over again, because how could you think about Dean when your fiancé does this? A wave of guilt crashes over you; guilty for thinking about Dean, guilty for letting it get to this point, guilty for not choosing Dean when you had the chance. So many regrets, so many missed chances and lost opportunities. A lifetime of chasing normalcy, and you’d let Dean’s love for you fall through the cracks.

“Breathe for me,” your fiancé instructs, resting a hand lightly against your chest and gently pushing, letting you breathe with his hand. “That’s it, honey, take your time.”

You don’t know how long it takes, but eventually you’ve calmed enough to start talking.

“There’s-,” you start quietly. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“What is it?”

Your voice cracks. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

His eyebrow cocks in confusion. “Sorry for what?”

“For this.” And then, before you can stop it, you rush out, “I can’t do this. Not with you.”

His face falls, eyes flashing with sadness. “How come?”

“It’s not you, I swear to god it’s not you. You’re everything, and I do love you; I really do. But I can’t-. I can’t pretend I haven’t been wanting someone else. I can’t just walk down that aisle and pretend everything’s okay.”

“How long?” he asks, voice strained.

Your silence is enough of an answer, and he rocks back on his heels.

“I’m so sorry,” you repeat, hands trembling in his grasp.

“Don’t-. Don’t apologize.” He runs a hand through his hair. “If anything, I’m glad you told me now than later. I- I don’t think I could handle it if you’d just ditched me at the altar. I mean, come on, me standing up there alone? Pretty lame sight.”

That drags a weak laugh out of you, and the corners of his mouth twitch up in a smile.

“You’re not mad?” you ask.

“Mad? No. God, no. I could never be mad at you.” The honesty breaks something in your heart.

“Okay,” you exhale. “Okay.”

“Can- would- would it be alright if I can kiss you one last time?”

You catch his gaze, watching the way love for you still pools in his eyes. Your own eyes tear up, and you reach a shaky hand out, cupping his face and drawing him in. His lips on yours are warm, but you can’t help but imagine how Dean’s mouth feels. The kiss is salty with regret and tears, and you pour all the lingering love you still have for him into it; a goodbye gift for the road.

When you part, he presses a final kiss to your cheek before standing.

“Is there anyone I can call for you?” he asks quietly.

You pause. There is someone, but you don’t know if he’ll answer you, not after the way you left him and his brother for the civilian life. “Maybe.”

He gives you his phone, and you shakily type in the number. It rings three times, then a rustle on the other end as someone picks it up. You hear him clear his throat on the other end of the line, then his voice comes out a little rough.

“Who is this?”

“Sam? It’s me,” you whisper.

“What- are you okay?”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “I need your help”

“Wh- okay. What’s wrong?” There’s a scape of a chair on the floor as he stands, likely leaving the bunker’s library. “Do I need to get Dean?”

“No! I mean- not yet. Please.”

“Okay, okay. Take a breath. Where are you? I’m coming to get you.”

You give him the address of the church, something you’re thankful for; at least having the wedding here means it won’t raise too many red flags in Sam’s mind. He might just think you’re on a hunt, even though you swore off them for good when you left.

You hand the phone back, and your fiancé pockets it slowly. He walks to the door, pausing with his hand on the doorknob.

“This- this other guy,” he starts.

You brace for the worst, but what he says instead melts your soul and nearly makes you sob all over again.

“Is he good? Is he going to take care of you? Keep you safe? Make you happy?”

You swallow thickly and nod. “Yeah. Yeah, he will. He always has.”

Your fiancé gives a jerky nod. “Good. That’s- that’s all I want for you.”

“Please be happy,” you plead. “Do whatever you need, but just- be happy. Okay?”

“Okay.” He opens the door a crack. “I’m gonna- I’ve gotta explain what happened. Tell them-. Tell them we’re calling it off.”

You stand, unsteady. “I’ll come with you, it’s only fair.”

He stops you with a hand. “Don’t. My grandmother will kill you if she finds out. Besides, your ride’s on the way. I’ll get you to the back door, and you can get out of here.”

He takes your hand, touch gentle as if he’s restraining himself from doing anything more. He pushes past the crowd that’s gathered outside your door, shielding you with his body as you walk. He tugs you around the corner as someone walks past, and you exhale the breath you’re holding when their footsteps quiet.

When you reach the back door, he tugs it open, propping it with his foot.

“Take care of yourself,” he says, squeezing your hand. “I don’t know where you came from, or where you’re gonna go, but promise me you’ll be safe.”

“I will,” you promise.

“And if you need anything, call me. I’ll pick up.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” you say against his chest as you hug him.

He drops a kiss to your hair, murmuring a final goodbye. You let him slide the ring off your finger, cupping his fingers around it and holding it to his chest.

“You can keep it,” you say. “I don’t want it to get lost.”

It’s not a lie; rings are hard to keep track of when you hunt. And it’s a good ring too, sturdy and functional, yet pretty in a refined way. But what you really mean is that every time you look at it, you’ll feel like banging your head against a wall. There’s too much attached to the metal band for you to just keep it around.

“I’ll take good care of it,” he whispers.

And with that, he’s gone, disappearing back into the church like a ghost. You lean back against the wall, waiting for the familiar growl of the Impala pulling up.

What you don’t know is that while this was all happening, while you were having your realization in your room, while your fiancé held your hands and kissed you for the last time, Dean was standing at the doors to the church. He’d laid eyes on the set-up, the white decorations and the tables with flowers on them. He’d caught sight of the aisle laid out for you, ready for your graceful steps to walk along it. He’d held back his tears as he’d imagined you walking, your eyes shining with happiness and looking stunning in white. He’d left without a sound, taking the beat-up car from the bunker’s garage and driving off into the dust.

Minutes pass, just you and your thoughts, and then the door slams open wildly. You jump, hand instinctively drifting to your waist, but there’s nothing there besides expensive fabric.

“I can’t believe it,” a high-pitched voice says from the doorway.

You turn, confused, and you’re met with a slap across your face.

“Stop it!” you shout, but another slap connects with your skin, splitting your lip. “Get off me!”

“You did this!” the voice shrieks. And suddenly, your former fiancé’s words come rushing back to you.

My grandmother will kill you if she finds out. And oh boy, did she find out. She opens her palm, your returned engagement ring glittering in her hand.

“I can’t believe you. I thought you were good for him, that you were going to take care of him. That you were going to make him happy. And now, you’re, what, tossing it away for some other man?”

She grabs your arm, vice grip tight against your skin.

“You disgrace. I can’t believe I let you get that close to him. You gave him a pipe dream, and now you’re running off for some other asshole.”

You raise your hands in surrender. “I- I can expl-.”

Another slap. You feel your eye stinging where she hit you. “I don’t want to hear another word from your tainted mouth.”

There’s a shout from behind, a frantic curse, and someone’s tugging her back and away from you. You open your eyes, getting a peek of your ex-fiancé standing in the doorway, body blocking his grandmother from you. He mouths an apology at you, and you smile shakily in return.

A familiar low sound pierces the air; Sam in the Impala. He kills the engine, slamming the door behind him. He reaches you in the seconds, his long legs taking the stairs two at a time. You step into his arms and he hugs you back, cradling you against him. He makes eye contact with your ex at the church door, and he nods once as Sam nods back. An unspoken understanding, acknowledging that your ex is alright, and that you’re safe with Sam.

Sam’s grip is steady on your arm; strong, but not tight. He opens the door for you, helping you into the passenger side before rounding to his own side and starting the engine. He pulls away from the church, taking the fastest road out of town.

You lean against the window, watching the landscape blur past as he races to god-knows-where. The trees blur before your eyes, a mixture of tears and the speed of the car. Sam’s really pushing it to the limits, as if he’s got somewhere for you to be.

“Hey, Sam?” you ask quietly.

He hums back in response, eyes flicking briefly from you to the road.

“Why do you have the Impala?”

He freezes, hands locking around the wheel.

“Um-. It’s…a long story,” he says, sighing.

“Tell me, Sam. Now.”

Your tone leaves no room for escape, and he exhales heavily, bracing himself. He tells you everything; about how Dean had left to go try and see you, even if it broke him. A self-deprecating act, certainly, but who was Dean if not someone who thought he deserved punishment for letting you slip away? Sam tells you about all of it, and panic rises in your throat.

“Sam. Where is he.”

It’s not a question, but Sam answers anyways, pulling to a stop in front of a run-down bar.

“Go.” It’s all he says, one simple word, but you don’t need anything more.

You’re already half-out of the car, rushing into the building. It’s an old place, only one other car in the lot, which you deduce to be the one Dean had taken. You briefly remember seeing it parked down the road from the church as you looked out the window from your room, and your heart twists. If he’d been looking into your window, he would have seen you in white, waiting for someone to come with your flowers.

You burst through the doors, seeing the bar almost completely empty of patrons. There’s someone asleep in the corner, beer on the table, but he’s not Dean. The bartender’s eyes widen as you enter, and the glare you send him has him scampering to the back room, away from your wrath.

You scan the bar, eyes landing on a hunched figure sitting on a stool, hands holding a glass of whiskey that’s way too full to be a healthy amount. The figure takes another sip, jacket rustling, and it drains a third of the glass in one go. You step closer, noting the figure to be Dean. Your Dean.

His eyes are red-rimmed and slightly bloodshot, no doubt from the alcohol, although you suspect he’s been crying. His shoulders shake as he sits, head bowed and hair a mess. You can smell the alcohol coming off him in waves, sweet, bitter whiskey assaulting your nose.

You stop at his side, clearing your throat. Dean looks up at you, then away again, and you don’t think he recognizes you.

“Don’ need ‘nother,” he slurs, and you realize he’s so far gone he thinks you’re the bartender.

“Dean? Look at me,” you say.

He does, eyes half-lidded as they take you in. They widen in shock. Your heart jumps, thinking he’s about to explain himself.

“You’re really pretty,” he mumbles. “You ‘n angel or somethin’?”

You freeze, taken aback.

“An angel? What- why would I be an angel?”

He gestures at you lazily, elbow almost spilling his drink.

“You’re in white. ‘S like…’s like I’m lookin’ at an angel.” He takes you in, eyes gliding over your figure. “You look real good in white.”

He hiccups a little, rubbing his eyes. “’N you got a halo.”

You look up, confused. There’s a light above you that’s probably casting its glow on you, but it shouldn’t be that bright.

“A halo?” you say, dumbly.

“Yeah. ‘S like a light. Real bright and stuff. Can see it in your hair.”

It’s then that it hits you. The light must be reflecting off the pins in your hair, holding it all together. The pins that were supposed to hold flowers, but never did their job.

You reach up, taking one out and holding it to him. “You mean these?”

He nods, blinking slowly. “You took it away,” he says, frowning. “Halo’s gone.”

“Oh, Dean,” you murmur, sitting on the stool beside him. “Can you look at me? Really look at me?”

He tries, bless his heart, he tries. He takes another long sip of his whiskey, the glass now reduced to a normal serving size. You move the cup away from him, and he whines softly as you do.

“What’re you doin’ that for?” he complains.

“You’re wasted, Dean.”

“And?”

You grab his chin in your hand, yanking his head up. His glassy eyes meet yours, and he shudders like he’s been struck by lightning. Something clicks on in his brain, and he scrambles back like he’s been burned.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” he whisper-shouts, even though nobody’s there to tell him to quiet down.

“Coming to get your drunk ass and apologize.”

“I thought- you were- you were getting married. I saw you. At the church. You-.”

He’s rambling now, stuttering over his words as he tries to put two and two together. You wait patiently, hoping he makes the conclusion himself.

“And now I’m here. So, what does that tell you?”

He reaches for your hand, turning it over.

“Where’s your ring?” he asks, genuine concern in his voice. He’s still wasted, you remind yourself. "Why're you bruised? I swear to god, if it's your fiance-."

“It's not him, don't worry. And I don’t have a ring anymore.”

“But-.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes.

“C’mon, Dean, surely you’re not that drunk.”

He swallows thickly. “Why’re you here?”

“I called it off. The wedding. Realized there was someone else keeping me from getting married. Someone I’ve known for years.”

He’s quiet as he listens, nodding.

“Someone who knows my diner order. Someone who falls asleep on my shoulder every movie night. Someone who definitely talks in his sleep, even if he denies it.”

“I do not talk in my sleep,” he says, and you think just maybe he’ll understand now.

“You absolutely do.”

Dean pauses, shoulders heaving as he inhales against a sob. “So why’d you come here? Just to tell me all this? Who’s the lucky guy?” There’s venom in his voice now. “Because I swear, if you came here just to rub it in my face-.”

“Oh my god, Winchester.”

You pick up his glass, knocking back what’s left of the whiskey in one swallow. You slam it back down on the counter, and Dean flinches. You stalk over to him, grabbing his face in your hands and smashing your lips onto his. His protests are muffled against your lips, and his breath hitches when you pull away.

“It’s you, you big idiot. I want you.”

Dean just stands there dumbly, hands still twitching lamely around your waist, lips parted breathlessly as he takes it all in.

“Me? You want-. But you wanted normal.”

“Yeah, I did. But it didn’t feel right, because it wasn’t with you.”

“So- does this- are you sayin’-.”

You laugh, throwing back your head.

“Yes, you dumbass. You’re the only one I’ve ever really loved.”

You sling your arms around his neck, drawing him back to your mouth. You kiss him again, and when you swipe your tongue along the seam of his lips, he lets you right in. You taste the whiskey on his tongue, smoky and bitter. He kisses you back with a ferocity you’ve never felt from him, clinging to you like a dying man as he tastes fire on your tongue and love on your lips. You kiss him like he’s the last source of oxygen left in the world, your breaths filling his lungs and his mouth on yours like it was made to be there.

When you break apart, your breaths are heavy, his chest heaving under you. You look up, finding his eyes staring at you with unrivaled love. It’s perfect. Messy, but perfect.

The moment breaks when someone clears their throat behind you.

“Fucking finally,” Sam says from the doorway. “Glad you two idiots figured it out. Can we please get out of here now? This place has practically every health violation in the floorboards.”

You snort, laughter bubbling from you at Sam’s frustrated tone. He’s exasperated, likely from having to bear witness to your years and years of mutual pining, but there’s a tenderness to it, like he’s truly happy for you.

“Yeah, Sam, we can get out of here. I need to change, my shoes are killing me,” you reply.

You lead the way, and Sam pats your shoulders gently as you walk past. He follows you out, tossing you the keys to the Impala.

“I’ll take Dean’s car back. Do not let him drive, he’s drunk off his ass,” he says, pulling Dean’s car keys from his back pocket.

“Thanks for coming to get me, Sam,” you say sincerely, giving him another hug.

“I meant what I said. I’m happy for you, really. But you could’ve probably done it with a little less runaway spouse drama and a little more talking.”

You smack his arm playfully. “Yeah, yeah. It’s the Winchester way, doing it as dramatic as possible.”

“Damn right,” Dean says behind you. Clearly, he’s made it to the car. “Gimme the keys.”

“No. Get in the car. I’m driving.”

He huffs but opens the passenger door anyway. You get in behind the wheel, tugging a flower from your pocket and tucking it behind his ear.

“For you,” you whisper gently against him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

He freezes, just long enough for you to start the car and get driving. He can’t fight you for the wheel if you’re moving, and you laugh when you see him staring at you open-mouthed out of the corner of your eye.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he slurs, but there’s something tender and real behind the alcohol fog.

“You love me,” you tease.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

bonus notes: i wanted to make a joke about sam's blurry wife in the finale but i couldn't make it work </3

it all started going downhill the moment you took on this hunt. sam and dean had been on the outs with each other again, and you’re not sure why. they weren’t saying much to each other—or saying much at all, period. they seemed to be avoiding talking as much as possible. it didn’t help that the hunt seemed to last forever, and it certainly wasn’t getting any closer to being solved. it seemed like the universe was laughing at you.

dean, as he always seems to do, breaks first.

it was mostly because he’s been realizing that he can’t do anything right. he can’t take care of his brother, and he can’t take care of the people he’s trying to save. he’s not mad at his brother. that’s not why dean’s avoiding him. it’s because he feels like he failed his little brother. no matter how hard he tries to make things right, in any sense, he always fails. always. whether it’s with sam or anything else, he fails. it’s discouraging, and it eats away at what little is left of his psyche. so when one of the potential victims almost dies, the one he swore to protect—it’s over. he’s done, at least for tonight. he’ll get up tomorrow, pretend to be fine, but he knows the truth. he’s a failure of a man.

that’s why he has to get out of bed in the middle of the night, fighting the tears that have been buried deep inside him this whole damn hunt. this whole damn year. he loses the fight almost immediately, and he can’t drown alone. he’ll never live to see tomorrow if he does. so that’s what leads him to your room, connected to his and sam’s own.

you wake, not even having been really asleep, but you blink when you hear the door on the wall open. you weren’t sure who you were expecting through the adjourning door between your room and theirs, but the moment you see dean’s glassy eyes, you fight the urge to get out of bed and meet him halfway. he gets to you eventually after carefully shutting the door, then almost falling into your bed you’ve called home for the past week or so. he doesn’t make a sound, but you feel your shirt getting wet where his face is buried into you. a few sniffles leave him as he wraps his arms tight around your torso, holding on for dear life.

you’re not too sure how long you lay with dean curled up beside you. he’s wearing his jeans to bed again, you notice, and you make a note to scold him nicely for it when he’s not sobbing in your arms. but for now, you hold him tight, like you’re trying to squeeze the sadness out of him. it doesn’t seem to work as well as you want it to, but dean knows. he always does.

sam’s not boding too well, either. he’s been having nightmares again, always ending with him waking up in a cold sweat and no air in his lungs. it’s exhausting. he’s trying to prove to everyone that he’s fine, that he can handle everything, but he’s not. and he can’t. not now. not tonight. he’s long overdue for a breakdown, and it seems like tonight’s going to be the night it all blows up. dean’s gone when sam glances at the bed parallel to his own—and he doesn’t care anymore now. the tears start coming too fast to stop, and there’s only one person he can think of within a 5 square mile radius that can help him not suffocate on his own thoughts.

you.

it’s you.

he gets your door open, not knowing his older brother had opened it once already tonight. sam freezes in place when he realizes who is next to you, hand still on the door handle. you know dean heard sam walk in, judging by the way dean tenses up in your arms. you think he might run—and if the roles were reversed, you realize if sam came to you first, dean would’ve never gotten this far. he would have suffered alone.

but he’s not.

and neither is sam.

while dean lay next to you, sam rounds the other corner of the bed, climbing in carefully, like he’s scared you’ll turn him away. you wouldn’t—never in a million lifetimes would you turn away either of these men. you hold them both now: sam’s arms fill the gaps where dean’s aren’t, their heads resting close to your own, faces buried into you to hide their wet eyes. you kiss each of the tops of their heads, the smell of dean’s hair reminding you of fresh-cut grass, sam’s resembling something like old paper. the only sound in the room is their muffled sobs when they feel the need to let the sound out and the occasional sniff from them.

your shirt is soaked now from the brother’s tears, the fabric sticking to your skin, but you don’t care. you’d jump into a pool fully clothed if you had to for them. and you know that they know that tidbit—it’s why they both came to you.

you hold them close to you until their sobs quiet into just soft sniffs and intakes of breath—and then until their breathing slows down to when you know they’re asleep. it is only then that you allow yourself to succumb to sleep, making sure to keep an arm around each of the brothers as you do. you don’t want them waking up without feeling you there.

maybe you didn’t fix all their problems, and you most certainly didn’t do much talking to them at all—but you know you can’t fix all their problems, all their issues that are cemented into their souls. you also know, however, that dean and sam didn’t go through this alone tonight. they never have to, not with you around. after so many years of suffering, they have you to hold them together now. you can’t heal them. you know that, too.

all you want to do is hold them though it.

so you will until the sun graces the horizon.

Some nights, he reads to you, from a book of your choosing. He settles on the bed or the couch and gives you room to curl against his chest. You’ve told him you like the vibrations of his voice in his chest; perhaps it is the same reason why humans enjoy the purring of cats. He always makes sure he has your favourite blanket ready to set over your shoulders, because you’ve told him the bunker gets colder at night. Castiel doesn’t notice, because he has no reason to, but if he listens closely, he can hear the bunker settling in its foundations, curling in on itself as though falling asleep. Temperature is not a necessity for a building at rest, although its occupants desire it.

Tonight, however, is not like most nights. You’re coming home tonight, having sent him a prayer earlier about being on your way. He estimates you’re maybe three hours out, although those three hours feel like an eternity when you’re not at his side. For someone who’s lived so long, there’s nothing more excruciating than the time it takes for you to be reunited. And yet, he still finds himself thinking he would wait for you for thousands of years if he must, because nothing really matters if you are not there to experience it with him.

On these nights, Cas has a routine that he sticks to without wavering. One alteration feels as though he’s made the biggest mistake of his existence, and he will never be caught letting you down in such a way. He has a checklist in his mind for these nights, for the ones where he’s certain he can read exactly what you feel and know exactly what you’ll do next, even without divine intuition. It’s the same dance each time, the same steps and patterns and the same soundless music that fills the space as though it has learned to live in the shape of your love.

He glances at the clock on the wall of the library to catch the time. He knows the time without it, because his very soul and existence is tied to the movement of the cosmos, and he can’t help but know the alignment of the stars. But he checks the clock anyway, because you’ve taught him the human joy of reading it, and he’s fascinated by how time moves in circles everywhere; all the way from the orbits of space to the hands of a clock on the wall. It’s late; not late enough to make him worry about your tiredness or health, but still enough that the sky’s been dark for an hour already and the stars are making an appearance. The bunker is relaxing too, the faint humming and creaking like a cat stretching out in a patch of sunlight, a mechanical yawn as it prepares to sleep.

Standing from the library chair, Cas rolls his shoulders in an imitation of a stretch, relieving the tension that builds up in his wings from prolonged disuse. It’s an unfortunate part of being confined to a human vessel; the wings cannot manifest as they should, yet they still take up space. His footsteps take him into the bedroom to begin the first of his tasks, light steps that leave a faint echo behind like the air remembers he was there. He speaks as he walks, narrating his day to the bunker.

He knows the bunker cannot understand words, and he knows that it cannot respond in words either, yet the sentiment remains. The words mean nothing, but the emotions are where objects thrive. The energies of a space, the divine iterations of speech that hum through every word of English Cas speaks; these are what the bunker picks up on, and these are what the bunker returns to him as an answer. A question makes the pipes hum louder, a compliment makes the furnace warmer, a simple observation makes the lights flicker in an imitation of a blink. He is most fluent in the language of between.

He knows these trials far too well. Inanimate objects have the unfortunate consequence of only being spoken to when used or needed. The words are appreciated and kept close to heart each time, yet they mean nothing than the act of casual conversation when nothing is required. Cas knows this, because he too has spent eons abiding only to the beck and call of prayer; it was only once he met you that he understood the value of simple conversation. Now, he is determined to let the ancient soul of the bunker understand what it means to be loved through chatter.

Once in the bedroom, he strips the sheets off the bed, balling them up in his arms. The pillowcases come too, and your sleep clothes that are nestled on the floor find their way into his arms. While he could fly to the laundry room and save time, he doesn’t. You wouldn’t. And so, as is custom of his sacred routine, he walks. He can’t speak to the bunker as he flies either, and he would never miss out on their conversations. The bundle of laundry gets thrown into the washer, timer set for the transfer to the dryer, your laundry detergent put in as well.

While he waits for the timer to sound, he wanders around the bunker, helping it to drift off into sleep. He starts in the most forgotten rooms, walking through them with a hand along the wall as if petting the back of a dog. Cas’s fingers traces the dips and grooves in the stone, and he finds himself wondering where these stones originated, or if those features were simply marks of the bunker’s existence. Perhaps there are stories there if he has time to listen, or perhaps they’re simple facts of the life of rocks. He should ask your opinion on this tomorrow, when you’ll be awake enough to give him an appropriate answer. He moves his way along, shutting off the lights in unused rooms as he goes, a slight flex of his grace clearing dust from unloved corners.

He stops in the kitchen, preparing a snack for you to have when you return. You may not end up eating it, but whether you do or not isn’t the point. The point is that he makes the same thing every time, because it’s simple and comforting and it gives you the chance to enjoy something made of love rather than need. Crackers go to a plate, some dried fruit from a cupboard follows. He leaves the frozen grapes and vegetables for later, because he’s worried that leaving them out for too long will make them inedible. He doesn’t have as good a grasp on this as you, because food left out wouldn’t harm him, but he can appreciate the disgust that comes with discovering a grape is too soft or a carrot too bitter.

The laundry is changed to the dryer when the timer goes, signaling your return on the horizon. With the timer set a second time, he enters the library to search for a story for tonight. He doesn’t want to find anything heavy, yet he still feels something new may be interesting to you. He grabs a new novel from the shelf, rescued by you from a charity event a week ago, tucking it safety under his arm after running his fingers along the glossy cover. Something in the bunker behind him shifts, and he turns to find a book sticking a few inches out from its usual place, the spine almost glowing. Cas examines it, finding it to be your favourite that had gone missing. Upon whispering a thank you to the bunker, it hums in content, air surrounding himself in a hug.

The air buzzes with the incessant hum of your attempts at contact, and Castiel opens his mind to you, letting you take the space you need for your thoughts.

Hey, Cas. I’m maybe twenty minutes out, Dean’s really sending it so…I hope I’m not intruding on anything by being early. If you haven’t already, could you make me some tea? The one in the yellow bag, please, it’s my good chamomile that Sam doesn’t know about. I missed you and…uh…yeah, I’ll be back soon. Love you.

Cas’s heart warms at your request. He hadn’t thought to make tea, but he’s more than happy to indulge in it for you; a deviation from his ritual might be helpful tonight. The soothing process of brewing tea is one delight of humanity he’s recently learned to enjoy, now that he understands the art of the kettle and the leaves. He knows exactly how many seconds must pass for the kettle to boil, the exact amount of breaths it takes to steep to your liking. Even the amount of honey put in is down to a science he’s spent months perfecting, because nothing means more to him than you experiencing joy from something he did.

The leaves fall into the mug gracefully, dancing in the air like the oncoming of fall within a mug. Cas watches their patterns, admiring how nature imitates the angels; they, too, fall in these patterns, spiraling and swirling until they meet the ground. He doesn’t dwell long on this, because he doesn’t want to have such an integral part to your humanity be destroyed by his celestial pain. Pouring the water over the leaves, he hears the timer go for the final time of the night, ears tuned to the sound as though he’s been waiting for it.

While the tea steeps, the sheets are returned to the bed, tucked around the mattress until they’re snug, just the way you like them to be. Your sleep clothes are folded neatly for you and laid on top of your pillow, with your novels stacked on the bedside table. He almost leaves your fluffy blanket in the dryer for a while longer, intending to take it out when you come home, until the bunker appears to tap his shoulder and whisper a promise of keeping it warm for you in his ear. Cas can’t help the smile that splits his face at the way the building is so intent on loving you the way he does as he spreads the blanket out on the bed.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and the building hums in reply. “Actually…I have a request for you, if you are willing to accommodate it.”

There’s a pause in the air, like the holding of breath, a sign for Castiel to continue with his ask.

“The floor in this room is frequently loud. Perhaps you could…soften it?”

Another pause follows, a warm puff of air drifting through. Experimentally, Castiel touches the creaky floorboards with his shoe, finding, to his delight, that no sound is made.

“Thank you, again,” he whispers, voice gravelly.

Your tea eventually finds its way into the room too, resting on the side table underneath the golden halo of the lamp, making pretty reflections in the surface of the drink. Soft ripples as the liquid moves within the mug, filling space it takes up as it changes, the surface tension holding the shape of movement. Your snack appears too, all parts resting on the plate. He finds himself staring into it for long enough that he loses track of what time it is, only startled back into awareness by the sound of heavy boots on the stairs and the loud voices of the Winchesters.

When the sounds of their conversation have faded down the hall and the place has returned to the comfortable silence it usually inhabits, Castiel hears the bedroom door creak open. Looking up, he sees your tired face in his view, still gorgeous despite the weight of sleeplessness under your eyes and the shadows of a ghost hunt in your soul.

“Hello,” he breathes, standing.

“Hey, Cas,” you reply, stepping into his open arms.

You rest your head on his shoulder, and his arms tighten around you, palms flat against your back. He doesn’t rub circles, doesn’t murmur words or ask you questions; he knows you will ask for those in your own time. Instead, he offers stability, comfort, a love where you crave it the most. It ricochets off the deepest parts of your soul, illuminating them in the kind of care an angel could only give.

“I made your tea,” he says when you break apart.

“Thanks, angel,” you reply, already drifting toward the bed.

“Would you like to shower?”

You pause, clearly torn. “I showered at the motel before we left…tomorrow morning?”

Castiel nods, taking this in stride. “Tomorrow morning. I will wash your hair.”

You press a faint kiss to his cheek, and Castiel feels his entire body warm at the feeling of your lips on his skin. He’s missed how you feel, how you sound and smell, how you take up space. He doesn’t realize how lonely he is without your presence, how lost and untethered his mind is when you aren’t there to bring him back to reality and ground him.

“Cas?” you ask.

He blinks once, twice, eyes refocusing.

“Hey. Where’d you go?”

He clears his throat, seeing you already in your sleep clothes and under the warm blankets, mug of tea in hand nibbling on a carrot stick.

“I have been here the whole time. Perhaps you should rest,” he says.

You smile softly. “It’s an expression. You looked very lost in thought.”

“Oh.” Cas nods. “Yes, I suppose I was. I have returned, if that’s what you were asking.”

“Come sit down with me.”

You pat the bed beside you, gentle expression on your face. You look relaxed, possibly for the first time in a few days, and it makes Cas melt all over again. As long as you look like that, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you. He sheds his trenchcoat and tie, sliding his shoes off and neatly placing the laces inside them. Stiffly, as if still not accustomed to sharing a bed with you, he pulls back the covers and slides in at your side.

He takes a book from the bedside table, turning out the light in the process. He doesn’t need the light to read, his angelic eyes granting him the ability to see in the dark. Turning it off will help you too, leading you easier into the arms of sleep, cradled in the crook of Cas’s neck and the bunker’s ambience. He clears his throat as you settle against his chest, head resting over his heart. It may not beat, because he has no need for blood, but he allows the sound to exist, nevertheless. A symphony to your comfort, a backtrack to what lets you sleep at night without interruptions of ghosts long dead.

Cas doesn’t know how long he reads for, nor at what point the words on the page sounded like background noise to you rather than a story. He’s only aware of your grip on the half-empty mug loosening slightly as it rests on your thigh, your breathing evening out against his chest and drifting warm over him. Setting the book down with a bookmark on the page, he takes your mug without protest, resting it back in its spot on the table where it returns to the ring of condensation it left behind before.

“Sleep well,” Cas murmurs under his breath, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head when he’s settled.

You don’t acknowledge it verbally, but you snuggle closer to him in your sleep, one arm wrapping securely around his waist and pulling him tighter against you. Castiel smiles softly at your actions, brushing your hair from your face with the back of his hand and the tips of his fingers, slow so as not to wake you. He shuffles down the bed with you in tow, letting himself lay back with his head on the pillows, closing his eyes in the darkness. He won’t sleep, not really, but he’ll let himself drift into semi-consciousness like he always does with you.

These nights are few, yet special nonetheless. A night in the life of Cas, spent tending to the one he loves dearest; you, his darling.

You are special to him. Special enough that he would betray Heaven a thousand times over if it meant he got to be with you. He adores the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love, the way your fingers curl into the sleeve of his trenchcoat in busy areas. He loves being the one you go to for comfort on hard days, and the one you curl up next to when the bunker’s temperature is too cold. It makes him feel special when you ask him for things, because for once, he is useful in a way that isn’t a weapon.

It’s for these reasons that Cas finds it difficult to be alone in the bunker. He knows he has a multitude of ways to entertain himself while you’re gone, and he knows he’ll find joy in these little routines nonetheless, but he can’t help but wish you were there with him. He also knows you’re only gone on a hunt a few states over, and that you’ll come back. Perhaps some day he will have to take you through one of these days, so you can also share his routine, just as you’ve introduced him to yours.

Because Cas doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t know when his days technically start. Maybe they start when the clock hits midnight, or maybe they start when you wake up in his arms. But neither of these measurements seem right, and it seems useless to time his day on you when you’re not here.

On these days, Cas’s mornings start before the sunrise, when the soft shadow of night is slowly being overrun by the gentle light of morning. His internal clock seems tuned to the exact movements of the sun and stars, as though it understands that he, too, is celestial. This morning, he exits the bunker quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping building. Normally, he would leave with just a simple flap of his wings, but today, he walks. It feels right, to walk. You would walk, if you were in the bunker today.

So, walk he does. He leaves the bunker, walks along the rise of the hill that covers it, makes his way to the top. The grass is soft, the dewdrops resting on it wetting the leather of his shoes as he walks. His coat rustles in the faint breeze, furling out behind him not unlike his own wings. Tipping his face skyward, he closes his eyes and basks in the early morning light.

When Cas reaches the top of the ridge, he takes off his trenchcoat, spreading it on the ground with the same care one approaches a ritual. Because for him, it is. He sits cross-legged on one half of the coat, unconsciously leaving space for you to sit. You won’t, because you’re chasing down a ghost in Illinois, but he likes to imagine you’re sitting outside your motel room and watching the same sunrise.

He lets the light wash over him, admiring the way it reflects off the dew on the blades of grass. It’s like each one captures a tiny ray of sunlight, and he wonders if he were gentle enough, could he pick one up and keep it? He reaches a hand down, one finger extended, willing just a little bit of grace into the touch. The dewdrop stays intact, and he lifts it up with his finger, placing it in front of the sun as it slowly rises, light filtering through the trees.

Cas stays like that, with this dewdrop on his finger, for what might be an hour, or might be ten minutes. The passage of time isn’t something he concerns himself right now, because the world has been narrowed down to this little drop of water. It picks up the light, bending it and shooting it back out in every colour imaginable, and more than Cas knows humans cannot see. He wishes he had a way to show you those colours, because there’s a specific shade of golden-yellow in your eyes that entrances him every time he sees it. And you don’t know it’s there, because it’s not one you can see.

The little drop shimmers with a rush of blues and greens, bursts of yellows sneaking through. The trees reflect across the surface, their images distorted and washed out until they appear more as brown lumps rather than trees. But upside down, with the tops of them reaching toward Cas’s hand, he thinks that this must be what it’s like to be a bird.

When the sunlight warms his skin and he’s spent long enough in it that he swears he hears you fussing about sunburns, he stands and walks to the side of the bunker. His little garden lives here, full of plants that remind him of you. There’s a section cordoned off with some twine and mesh to keep the rabbits out, and that’s where he turns his attention to first. There are the sprouts of peas, tomatoes, and what he thinks is some peppers that migrated over last year.

Cas steps lightly along the outside of the garden, reaching in occasionally to examine the leaves and stalks of his plants. They look healthy enough, and the ones that are wilting get a slight flare of grace to satiate them. It’s not late enough in the year for them to start growing fruit yet, but he suspects they might start to within the next couple of weeks. He thinks about how he’d really like for you to be there when that happens, so he can show you the fruits of his labour.

The flowers are his next targets, and he observes them carefully, cataloguing their states in his mind so that he has something to compare future plants to. Cas has a list in a notebook of yours in your shared room that documents all the flowers he grows, and which ones get visited the most. He has a list for the bees, one for the butterflies, and one for the various other animals that frequent the garden. He makes notes of the most popular plants, and he takes advantage of when they give up their seeds, so that he can plant more the next spring.

When he’s done inspecting his garden, Cas thinks about you. He thinks about how you have a sketchbook somewhere that you hope to fill with sketches of all the flowers you can find. He really wants the ones he grows to be the first you draw, although he won’t be unhappy if they’re not. As long as you’re drawing something that makes you happy, he doesn’t really care what it is. He thinks about what you might be doing right now, and how you’re likely outpacing both Sam and Dean in research; he smiles gently at the look on Dean’s face when you find the clue faster than he does.

It's late in the morning when Cas decides he’s satisfied with the state of his garden. The sun has risen properly now, its light gracing the tops of the trees and dissipating the few clouds in the sky. He leans back against the bunker, feeling the cool walls through his shirt and coat when he hears it. The faint buzz that announces the arrival of the bees he so fiercely treasures.

“Hello,” he murmurs to the first one he sees.

It doesn’t reply, but Cas smiles anyways. It makes its way to the white flowers at the edge of the garden, settling down softly in the center of one. He watches it work, listening intently to the small noises it makes as it shifts; the delicate brush of wings on petals, the faint hum of the bee as it goes about its work. Small noises that are imperceptible to human ears, yet loud as anything in his angel ones.

“There is someone I would like to tell you about,” he continues.

The bee leaves the white flower, heading to a purple one instead.

“This person is…not here at the moment. This is why I cannot show you. But I would like to talk about them, if you would like to listen.”

The bee carries on, but Cas feels the slight shift in its attention away from the flower and to him, as though the bee is splitting its consciousness between its work and Cas’s words. He smiles lightly as he gathers what he wants to say.

“This person lives in this bunker. They’re a hunter, and I am very proud of that. Though I don’t suppose you would know what that means.”

Cas hums patiently as he listens to the bee, who has seemingly called over some friends. They make a chorus of music that Cas finds interesting to listen to, and he tracks the melody as it unfolds.

“Being a hunter is…difficult. There are many difficult chances to take, and I frequently worry for their safety while the three of them hunt. I trust that they are all capable enough to mitigate most of the damage, yet I still feel anxious. I suppose this is what happens when you love someone.”

The bee floats over light as a feather, coming to rest in the palm of Cas’s outstretched hand. He holds it up to his face, examining it carefully for any signs of damage. Finding none, he lowers his hand, content to let the critter rest in his palm after working so hard at the flowers.

“There is something I would like you to know about them too.”

He clears his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet afternoon.

“This person I love, whom I would like you to meet. There is something special about them. I have always found it strange that they should choose to love me. After all, what would a human want with an angel besides an answer to their prayers?”

The wind rustles the trees gently, as if the world is humming in understanding, indicating for Cas to continue telling it about you.

“And yet, they did. They chose me, over and over again. I find that admirable. How they can look at me and see something other than a weapon of Heaven.”

The other bees that have begun to cloud over the garden follow their brave friend, resting themselves on Cas’s arms, hands, even the top of his head. Their eyes are all on him, taking in his every word as if it’s gospel, as though his voice carries a weight heavier than anything they have ever encountered.

“I am forever grateful for that. That they can see me for me, and not merely an angel. This is why I want to introduce you, because I believe they will see you as more than just bees, too.”

Cas gives a small smile, feeling a faint pressure in his heart he has come to know as yearning. He knows he’s head over heels for you, and he knows that what he feels when you’re away will dissipate when you return. There’s something beautiful, Cas thinks, that he can love you strong enough to feel it even when you’re gone.

“That is all I wanted to say. You can carry on, now.”

The bee presses itself briefly into Cas’s palm, as though giving the angel a hug. It takes off, its friends following, heading north over the treeline and back to whichever hive they call home. Someday, he’ll follow them and see if they’ll be so considerate as to give him more of their honey. He won’t rush them, because he knows as well as anyone that all good things take time.

Satisfied with the bees, he enters the bunker. The door closes heavily behind him, and he feels a faint tinge of sadness at being trapped back underground. He takes this opportunity to sort through the shelves of books in the Men of Letters library; a task he’s been working at for a long while now. It feels as though every time he sorts a new shelf, another one becomes disorganized to replace it. There is a never-ending wealth of knowledge in this room, and some day, he might like to read it all.

Cas doesn’t know how much time he spends at this, but he stops with a jump when your voice cuts through the room. He says your name tentatively before realizing you’re not really here; you’re praying to him.

Hey, Cas. Dunno if you’re hearing this, but, uh. Just wanted to tell you we’re coming home tomorrow. We’re finishing up the hunt tonight, and – Dean, shut up – sorry, as I was saying. We’re finishing up tonight, so I’ll be back tomorrow morning, probably. Um…what else…oh, right. I saw this really cute bookstore today, seemed like something you might like. We should go sometime. Anyways, I’m gonna crash for a couple hours before we go burn these bones. I love you, Cas, I’ll see you tomorrow.

“I love you too,” he says to the empty room, knowing you can’t hear him.

The notion that you’re still safe warms his heart. You’re coming back tomorrow too, which makes him even happier. The fact you’d though to send him a prayer makes his heart flutter. Sure, you could’ve just called his phone and talked to him that way. But somehow, prayers seem even more personal, tailored specifically to what you want him to hear. Even if your thoughts wander to Dean being loud in the background, as he tends to be.

Cas leaves the library, walking into your bedroom when the moon starts to rise. He settles himself on the bed with a book and a cup of tea made the way you like, making himself comfortable in your absence. What he really wants is for your arms to be around him, your head on his lap as he reads aloud to you, the steady rhythm of his voice drifting you to sleep. And he’ll get to have that tomorrow, when you return. For now, he can simply sit in the fact that today was about as relaxing a day as one can get lately. He’d much rather share it with you, but he’ll settle for some much needed time with his bees and his garden, partaking in the simple joys of human life through the eyes of an angel.

Untitled By @pellucid-constellations

Drabble; Best/childhood friends to lovers; college!au, frat!bucky, college!reader; angst

"You're the one person I promised myself I would never cross that line with."

Through A Window, Darkly by @intrepidacious

Drabble; winter soldier!bucky, agent!reader

Prompt: A photo from your vacation shows a face staring through your hotel window. You were on the 9th floor.

HOLD ON TO THE MEMORIES, THEY WILL HOLD ON TO YOU... AND I WILL HOLD ON TO YOU by @bkchron

Established relationship; soft angst

You and Bucky deal with the lasting effects of the memory wiping.

Taste Test by @metal-armed-muse

Coworkers to lovers; Executive chef!bucky x sous chef!reader

Bucky Barnes doesn’t lose control. He doesn’t blur lines. But when his new sous chef looks at him differently, control doesn’t feel so important.

Blue Moon by @godmadeaterribleerror

[18+] Series: complete; 40s!bucky, strangers to friends to lovers

In the early 1930s, your path crosses with a young, bright eyed boy who doesn't seem to know the pain of the world. You ask him to wait. He does with a smile. Through time and war, you love him with the burn of all your heart. Across oceans and between worlds, he loves you so much he swears he could never forget.

Domestic Headcanons With Dean by @violained

Established relationship, fluff

You Can Feel, Pretty by @/violained

Drabble; established relationship; fluff

patching up dean's arm but his bicep is right there!! and it's so pretty!

Taste Test by @cowboylike-dean

Drabble; Established relationship, fluff

while helping you clean your room, dean gets distracted by your lip balm collection and uses it as an excuse to kiss you over and over

Untitled by @candytoothed

Drabble; angsty angst;

A stranger seeks your help

Safe In The Dark by @wendichester

Drabble; Established relationship, comfort

after a nightmare rips you awake, dean is already there—warm, steady, and whispering quiet reassurances until the fear fades and you can breathe again.

The Wrong Mouth Saying Your Name by @/wendichester

Drabble; Established relationship, angst with a happy ending

with two deans in front of you, the only thing left to trust is the part of him no monster can steal cleanly

The Very Serious Business of Stealing Blankets by @/wendichester

Drabble; Hunter!reader, friends to lovers?, fluff

dean starts a ridiculous argument over blanket rights

Wherever You Fit by @/wendichester

Drabble; Friends to lovers?, Hunter!reader, fluff

dean hates feet on his seats—just not yours

Stay Right Here by @/wendichester

Drabble; established relationship; fluff, smut adjacent

dean doesn’t say “i love you”. instead, he proves it in the quiet moments after

Are You Listening Yet by @stargazedwinchester

Hunter!reader; Angsty angst

The Ring Thing: One & Two by @/wendichester

exes to lovers?; pining!dean

1. dean runs into you at a park, sees the ring, the kid, the life—and tries very hard not to want something that was never his

2. years after dean walks away, a chance reunion in a park turns into a very casual, definitely-not-a-date dinner where monster goo, too much cologne, old feelings, and second chances all end up sharing the table.

Loop by @sorryitamyfirstdayonearth

[18+] Exes to lovers, time loop, angst with a happy ending

Dean gets thrown back into the day things between you and him fell apart. There’s something he’s supposed to learn, he thinks, something he’s supposed to solve. It’s tough, though, since he’s incorporeal, and there’s also no way in hell you’d ever forgive him. Or is there?

The Space Between Us by @atwistoffate

Series: complete; friends to lovers; angst with a happy ending

You and Dean get hit with a curse, one that really hates distance. And it keeps tightening the longer it lasts. Seems like you’re stuck side-by-side now… good luck with that.

King & Queen by @/sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth

Drabble; Established relationship; hunter!reader, bunker era; fluff

You beat Sam at chess for the first time, and you are a very ungracious winner.

Study You by @/stargazedwinchester

Drabble; Hunter!reader, neurodivergent!reader; comfort fic

you've always had trouble with retaining information to do with monsters and hunting. you think you've reached a dead end with studying, but sam swoops in with new perspectives to make you feel better.

Rent Free (In My Head) by @/stargazedwinchester

Hunter!reader; angst with a hopeful ending

sam has always had a crush on you. you're oblivious, of course, and sam leaves the feelings lingering.

The Long Way Home by @/wendichester

Drabble; Friends to lovers; hunter!reader; fluff

you mention loving sunflowers once, and sam quietly builds a whole ritual around bringing them back to you

Someone He’s Never Met by @/wendichester

Drabble; strangers (to lovers?): young!sam, civilian!reader; soft angst

sam keeps dreaming about a stranger he can’t name, can’t find, and can’t stop drawing

Lazy by @/wendichester

[18+] established relationship; hunter!reader; smut, fluff

after a brutal hunt you’re too tired to lotion your legs, so you ask sam to do it.

Sad Little Puppy Boy by @/wendichester

Missouri’s niece!reader; strangers to lovers?; soft angst

sam comes to your auntie’s house looking for answers, and you see too much of him too quickly—the grief, the guilt, and the want he’s trying very hard not to feel.

Secretly Daring Soldier Boy by @french-vanilla-in-the-clouds

Headcanon; Established relationship

Hungry Love by @godmadeaterribleerror

[18+] Headcanon, fluff

The ways Ben loves you

Untitled By @castielthinkr

Drabble; Supe!reader, strangers to lovers?

is like lovesick or basically head over heels when meeting her. Tries to show off and get her to be with him, reader likes seeing him that way and just teases along

Look Out For Me by @/godmadeaterribleerror

[18+] doctor!reader; strangers to lovers, soft angst

after being woken up, soldier boy found a woman, promised he'd never leave her, then did. two years later, he's back and looking for one thing only. you.

Cuteness Aggression by @aseafullofstars

[18+] Established relationship, fluff

it's not your fault you think soldier boy's just adorable first thing in the morning

Mouth Like That by @notmeolive

[18+] series: ongoing; human!reader; enemies to lovers, slowburn

you’re part of butcher’s crew, he’s the weapon they barely trust, and somewhere between missions, insults, blood, and bad decisions, soldier boy becomes the one person you should stay away from—and the one person who keeps coming back.

Strategy by @fayes-fics

Blurb; established relationship; smut adjacent

Grumpy by @/fayes-fics

Blurb; established relationship; fluff

Canvas by @/fayes-fics

Blurb; Strangers to lovers; meet cute

Coffee by @/fayes-fics

When you started at Stanford University, you weren’t expecting anything special. 

Sure, you were excited. Ecstatic, actually. Hell, you worked your ass off for four years, and maintained a weighted 4.0 GPA, just for this. So when you received your acceptance, you were over the moon.

But you’re smart. You kept your expectations low. Spent the first few weeks entirely focused on learning the campus. Made sure you knew all the best study spots. Memorized what to and what not to eat in the meal hall.

By week two, you could navigate to your classes so well, you could do it blindfolded. 

So, needless to say, when you’re so zeroed in on being the perfect student, making friends doesn’t come easy. Or, it didn’t, at first. 

But then he came along. 

The first time you ran into him, you were rushing out of your dorm, because you were ten minutes behind schedule. Well. Your own, personal, made up schedule… so technically, you were late for absolutely nothing. But that’s not how it felt. 

You’d been running to the elevator, since you lived on the ninth floor, absolutely determined to get to the library to study by six o’clock sharp (which, unfortunately for you, was in three minutes). 

That’s when you heard a yell. A deep, masculine voice, calling out for you to stop the doors before they could close. You didn’t.

Which, hey, maybe that’s rude. But you weren’t exactly in the mood to be holding doors for people (you could’ve), not when you were late (you weren’t).

It takes all of four seconds for you to realize your mistake, though, because he makes it into the elevator anyway. Oops.

When he slips inside the small space, the first thing you think is holy shit he’s tall. Like, at least six-foot-two, well over. No wonder he made it, with those legs. 

You make a point of not looking him in the eye, after you’ve just very rudely blatantly ignored him. But he doesn’t kick up a fuss. He doesn’t say anything, actually, which is almost worse than being pissed. Just breathes quickly from his little sprint, and nods at you when he leaves. Huh.

You thought that would be the end of it. Stanford is a big school, after all. But, because you have the worst (best?) luck in all of history, it wasn’t. 

You start to run into him. A lot. He’s kind of hard to miss, being massive and all (and gorgeous), so you notice. You meet him a couple times in that same elevator. A handful of times in your meal hall. Once or twice in the library. After a week, you’re almost sure that you’re being stalked—until you realize he just lives in the same dorm building as you. 

One day, a day that you were not late, and you were standing in the elevator, you saw him. He was walking towards you, or, more likely, the elevator. He didn’t call out, or run. But this time, you held the door. He smiled. 

And fucking Christ, he had a beautiful smile.

It’s that day that you learn that his name is Sam. He’s from Kansas, but his family moved around. A lot. He’s in his first year, just like you, but he’s studying pre-law. He likes to read. Doesn’t really party, but he’s not opposed to a fun night every once in a while. He hates Halloween (damn psychopath). Oh, and he’s six-foot-four. You were close. 

Somehow, despite your absolutely terrible first impression (which you have apologized about. A lot), you and Sam become friends. And then best friends. Until by the beginning of your third year, the two of you are practically attached at the hip. 

He knows everything about you, and you know everything about him. You study together. You grab breakfast, lunch, and, occasionally, dinner together. He knows your coffee order. He knows what shampoo you use. He knows that you crack your knuckles when you’re nervous, and grind your teeth when you’re focused. Hell, he knows everything down to your favourite pair of socks: the fuzzy ones with dogs on them, that you wear every time the two of you curl up in his dorm to watch a movie. 

Which, actually, is your plan for the night. 

You show up at Sam’s dorm at exactly ten o’clock, decked out in fluffy candy cane patterned pajama pants, because c’mon, it’s finally December, along with a black tank top. (Oh, and your socks. Always your socks.)

The halls are quiet. The only sound is the radiator buzzing at the end of the hall, the shuffling of your slippers on the carpet floor, and the crinkle of your chip bag as you manoeuvre the handful of items you’re carrying to knock on his door. 

He’s swinging the door open before you get the chance, though. Smiling down at you with those sweet puppy-dog-eyes, messy bangs falling over his forehead. He’s just as ready as you are, plaid pajama pants low on his hips, and some loose t-shirt. Well. It would be loose, if it wasn’t for Sam being fucking ripped.

Not that you’re paying attention to that, or anything. 

“Hey,” you greet, pushing past him before he can even invite you in, like you own the damn place. Because at this point? It’s yours as much as it is his. 

“Hope you’ve picked a movie already, because I really don’t want to watch you scroll through the menu for thirty minutes.”

Sam steps aside, watching you with an amused smirk on his face, an unlit joint slotted between his fingers. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he teases, nudging the door closed with his sock-covered foot. “Didn’t realize we were on a strict movie-watching schedule tonight.”

You make your way to his bed, dumping your collection of snacks onto his bedside table, Snickers, Jolly Ranchers, and M&M’s, before settling onto the pillows. You pry open the bag of chips you snagged without a word, but you roll your eyes at his teasing. 

Sam watches you with a look on his face that’s a little hard to decipher. Mock annoyance, yes. But there’s more. Something almost fond, that makes your heart skip a beat.

He follows after you a moment later, though, flopping down on the bed next to you, long limbs stretched along the length of the mattress. “But for your information,” he adds, pointing at you with that joint like it’s his finger, “I have picked one. A classic. The Thing.”

Oh, of course. Of course he chooses that one, again, like the two of you haven’t seen it more times than you can count.

Deep down, you know why. He does exactly this, every time it’s his turn to pick a movie. Picks something you’ve both already seen. So that way, when you inevitably start rambling about something stupid, he doesn’t have to pause or rewind. He can just listen. Because he’s sweet like that.

You don’t comment on it, though. You just hum at his words, and pop a chip into your mouth. 

There’s a fleeting moment where he just studies you. The way you made yourself at home. The way you look so at ease, relaxed. He even glances down at your socks for a moment, and you swear his expression changes again. Full of affection. Affection that only comes from seeing something that’s so you. 

But then his eyes flicker back to your face, and he laughs, watching you stuffing a handful of chips into your mouth without any shame. 

“…Sun Chips? Really? After last time? You said those were the reason that rat found my dorm—”

You cut him off by smushing your hand against his mouth, and his brows pinch together, nose scrunching up in such an adorable way that your face warms up just a little. Somehow, though, you manage to keep a straight face.

“Don’t talk about that rat, Winchester, or I’ll kick your ass.”

An empty threat? Probably. But you still grimace at the memory. Stanford may be a nice school, but the dorms are old. And apparently, not rat proof. 

He peels your hand off his face, acting like it takes a lot more effort than it really does (because, c’mon. You’ve seen those biceps), before he’s speaking again.

“Fine, no rat talk,” he agrees, showing you his palms in mock surrender. But because he thinks he’s hilarious, and because he’s an ass, he continues. “Though, for the record, you screamed. I calmly assessed the sit—”

You cut him off by jamming your elbow into his ribs, which makes him yelp, before breaking out in a laughing fit that is way too boyish for a massive twenty year old man. And way too cute.

He does it on purpose, really. Riling you up so you shove him, pinch him, flick his forehead, before giggling like a schoolgirl. It’s masochism, seriously.

Even through your attack, a smile creeps its way onto your lips. Hard not to, when he’s laughing like that, with the worlds prettiest smile on his face, dimples and all. 

Sam mutters to himself, something about not knowing why he puts up with you, as he leans for the remote. Said remote is on his bedside table, or, literally right next to you, so why he doesn’t just ask for it, you’re unsure. But this means that he quite literally stretches on top of you, all massive, two-hundred-something pounds of Winchester, and you can tell he’s doing it on purpose.

“Sam!” you protest, but you can’t hide the laugh that comes along with it, as you shove him playfully. He doesn’t stop, though, you see that dimple popping, grabbing the remote with mock innocence. 

The closeness means that all of his Sam-warmth is pressed against you. ‘I run hot’, he always says, which is the understatement of the century, based on how he feels like a human furnace over you. And God, you can smell him, all masculine and woodsy and so him…

Jesus Christ, what are you doing?

By the time he leans back to his side of the bed, your face has gone a little red. If he notices, he doesn’t bring it up. Just leans back against his pillows with an exaggerated sigh, clicking play, then tossing the remote somewhere on his blankets. That’s something for the two of you to worry about later, when you’re tearing his dorm apart to find it. 

The opening notes of ‘The Thing’s eerie track creep in as he scoots just a little closer, just enough so your shoulders touch, and he fidgets with the joint in his fingers like he’s spinning a pen. 

“Comfy?” he asks, quietly, and his voice isn’t full of playful teasing or mock-annoyance anymore. No, it’s fallen right back into sweet, soft Sam, that makes you feel like your insides have been set aflame. Your heart does a stupid little somersault. 

“Mhm,” you hum, and you have to forcefully ignore the sparks that are currently exploding under your skin where your shoulders touch. Get it together.

To distract yourself, and maybe as an excuse to get a little closer, you lean forward, grabbing hold of his blanket, and you tuck it over the two of you. You let yourself fall into a more reclined position, melting into his sheets. 

You make it all of five minutes into the movie, watching the helicopter chase the ‘dog’ with a grimace on your face, like you haven’t seen it a hundred times over already, before you’re breaking the silence.

“So… do you know what you’re doing for Christmas break this year? It’s in, like, two weeks, which is insane,” you start, crunching a chip between your teeth. “I’m still deciding if I want to book a plane ticket home…”

Sam smiles like he anticipated this (he did), and makes no move to pause the movie. He just stares at the screen, but tilts his head towards you slightly as he speaks.

“Two weeks? Jesus. Don’t remind me. I still have to study for finals…” 

He runs his hand over his face, before letting his head fall back against his headboard with a thud. 

“Honestly? I’m staying here. Again.”

It was an answer you expected, but you hum all the same. Sam was never the type to go home during holidays, or, well, ever. He barely spoke about them beyond the odd comment about his brother, Dean.

He finally turns to you, just slightly, elbow propped up on the mattress. “I mean, we’ve got heat now that they ‘fixed’ the boiler, so no more sleeping in ten layers like last year. And campus is practically empty, anyway. Can study wherever.”

You let out a little laugh at that, memories of receiving Sam’s whiny phone calls ringing through your head, when you’d slipped away after dinner on Christmas Eve just to call him. ‘It’s freezing,’ he’d complained, ‘I can’t even feel my ass!’

“Oh, yeah? So no more waking up not being able to feel your fingers?” you tease, turning to look at him, movie forgotten.

He hums in response, nodding exaggeratedly like this is the most important conversation in the world, before continuing. “Uh-huh. I mean, why fly across the country for a week for a family who doesn’t even do Christmas, when you can stay where it’s warm, and eat half-cooked turkey in meal hall?”

“Wow. Great upselling, Sam,” you tease, but you can’t keep the smile out of your voice. 

“Just saying. It’s kind of nice. Lonely, maybe, but I can always… y’know…” he makes a rolling motion with his fingers, before bringing that damn joint to his lips, still unlit— and you get the idea right away. 

“Get really high?” You prompt, raising a brow at him, and judging by a look he gives you with a shrug, you’re right on the money. 

“Right,” you laugh, looking up at him, and that’s when you see it. Really see it. The glimmer of something in his eyes, something like pleading. Like those puppy eyes are asking you to stay without him saying it himself. “Well, since you make it sound so great… maybe I’ll stay back this year.”

His expressions changes immediately. Disbelief, at first, then softening into something so quietly excited, that your heart rate picks up a little. He smiles again, the kind of smile that brightens his whole face, and you can’t help but return it.

“Really?” he asks, like you’ve just told him he won the damn lottery.

“Why not? I mean. I flew home the last two years, it wasn’t all that great, and then I was all jet-lagged when classes started back up,” you explain, but Sam really didn’t need an explanation. No, he was excited as soon as the word ‘maybe’ left your lips.

He doesn’t respond to you right away. A little lost in his own thoughts, by the looks of it, and you don’t comment on it. His eyes flicker over you, that dopey smile on his face, before he briefly looks at the bedside table, then back at you. 

“Well… since you’ve decided…” he starts, stretching his long arm over you, towards the nightstand (so he can reach without leaning over you. Huh). “We can count today as the first day of holiday break. Let loose.”

He snags the lighter off the tabletop, bringing it back to his lap, but not without making sure he elbows you in the head first. Asshole. 

But even with the lighter in his palm, the joint between his two fingers, he makes no move to light it. Simply fidgets with it like it’s personally offended him. You raise a brow. 

“You gonna smoke that, or just stare at it?” you ask, teasing, and he shoots you a look. 

“Maybe I was trying to be polite,” he smirks, tilting his head at you, those cute little bangs falling over his eyes. “I’d like to not give you a contact high every time I breathe, thanks.”

He says it like he’s joking. Keeps that little grin on his face, all light and sweet, but you know there’s something genuine underneath it. He’s gotten high around you before, God, more times than you can count—but he’s always so cautious first. Like he’s worried he’s doing something wrong. Making you uncomfortable. 

If there’s one thing Sam Winchester will never do? It’s make you actually uncomfortable on purpose. 

The first time he got high around you, at the beginnings of your friendship, he’d been careful. Asked if you were sure it was okay, probably, like, over a thousand times before he even rolled it up. Then a few more times for good measure once it was, before finally taking the first hit, and offering it to you. And oh, when he found out that you don’t smoke, at all? He felt like a prick.

But that was two damn years ago, and even after your constant reassurance… he still tiptoes around the subject, like the little people-pleaser he is. 

“Sam,” you start, voice dropping low, almost like you’re a mother scolding her child. “It’s weed. I’m not going to be poisoned from second hand smoke.” 

He rolls his eyes again, a little dramatically. “Whatever,” he grumbles, like he’s annoyed with you, but you don’t believe it for a second. 

There’s another pause as the joint dangles between his fingers, before he exhales the world’s heaviest sigh. “Since you insist…” he teases, before flicking the lighter. The flame catches, shadows dancing across his face as he takes a slow pull, and leans back into the pillow, eyes fluttering closed. 

He holds it for a moment, letting it fill his lungs, before letting out a deep exhale, tilting his head away from you (ever the gentleman). Smoke billows from his lips in a steady stream.

You try not to get distracted. You really do. But watching the orange flame illuminate his face just right, the way his lips curl around the joint, his eyes closing as he inhales, the sharp curve of his jaw twitching as he exhales… 

Jesus Christ, you’re so fucked.

Something about it is almost domestic. The warm sheets. The movie playing in the background. The smell of weed wafting through the room. Shoulder to shoulder with Sam.

He exhales again, the weed taking effect. Not quite a high, not yet—he’s a seasoned smoker, after all—just enough to take the edge off. He sinks deeper into the mattress, eyes opening back up, and he stares at the TV for a moment like he’s in a daze. 

And oh, he stretches slightly, just getting comfortable, and his bicep flexes as it moves across his chest. 

…Not that you’re looking, or anything.

Before you can be tempted to do something stupid, like, lick Sam’s arm, you speak up.

“Can I try?” you ask, voice coming out so quiet, you’re not sure he heard you. 

He did. 

His eyes widen immediately as he turns to you, brows furrowed. “What?” he questions, and based on the way he sounds, you’d think you’d just told him you were dropping-out and becoming a stripper. 

He looks more than a little shocked, to say the absolute least. He’s watching you like he expects you change your mind, or turn around and say ‘just kidding’, before bursting out into laughter.

But when you don’t, the surprise melts away into confusion. Just a quiet intensity, and a little something that looks like excitement.

“Are you serious?” he asks, sceptical, and you almost laugh at the way he’s staring at you. Like he just can’t believe that you, a college student, may want to hit his joint.

“Yes, I’m serious,” you respond, and this time, you can’t hold back your amused snort. You decide then and there that confusion is a very cute emotion on him, puppy eyes and all. “I mean. I’ve been curious, y’know? And what better person than you to show me the ropes?”

His gaze drops to the joint, looking at it like it’s betrayed him, before flicking back to you, brows pulling together. 

“You’ve been curious?” he laughs once, short, disbelieving. “For two years, you’ve watched me do this, and now tonight? Tonight’s the night?”

You shrug, and despite his words, his fingers are already turning the joint between the two of you, offering it to you with a careful kind of hesitation.

“Alright,” he relents softly. “But slow. One hit. And don’t inhale like I do. It’ll wreck you.”

Those words make you raise a brow, because, one, you don’t understand what the hell that means. And two, there’s that gentle concern behind them. The kind that never fails to make you just a little fidgety. 

After a moment’s pause, you take the joint from him tentatively, like you’re trying to disarm a bomb, not smoke some pot. His hand lingers just slightly, fingers brushing yours in that stupidly electric way they always do. Jesus, what the hell’s going on with you tonight?

When his eyes meet yours again, they’re a little wide. Soft. Nervous. Heart-wrenchingly sweet, to such a degree that you have to advert your gaze before your cheeks flush all over again. 

There’s a few beats where neither of you move. Like the silence between you is heavy, charged. But then you snap out of it, and realize that you really have no idea what you’re doing. Sam seems to have the same realization a moment later, because he mumbles something about ‘corrupting the innocent’, before shifting again.

He sits up, scooting closer to you so his side is practically pressed against yours.

“Okay, hold on. Wait,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to the joint between your fingers. “C’mere for a minute.”

He motions for you to lean forward with a crook of his finger and a little head nod, and you roll your eyes at his sudden serious tone before complying. 

“Hold it between your fingers. Bring it to your mouth. Then, when you take a hit, pull in air without actually breathing in, like you’re sucking on a straw,” he instructs, voice low. “And don’t fully inhale it into your lungs. It’ll burn less. Shallow.”

You blink at him. Once, twice, then a third time for good measure. Right. Okay, then.

What?

You take in what he’s saying, you really do. The problem? None of it makes any goddamn sense.

And c’mon, you’re not the kind of person to lie to him. This is Sam, after all. So, you look him dead in the eyes, faces only inches apart from where he’d made you lean forward. And in the most deadpan tone you can muster, you respond simply:

“What the fuck does any of that mean?” you ask, and the question hangs in the air for a moment, before you laugh. “That sounded more complicated than those case studies you do in Criminal Justice. What do they teach you law-boys, how to make everything sound impossible?”

“Pre-law,” he corrects, not at all phased by your little dig, before leaning back, and turning his body just enough to look at you properly. 

His eyes are still so warm. Crinkled at the corners in that way they get when he’s trying really hard to not full-on cackle at you.

“Okay,” he drawls, shaking his head like you’re a lost cause. “Forget the lecture. Just… here.”

Before you can protest, or really fully process his words, he takes the joint gently from your fingers again. “You trust me?” he questions, and all he earns from you is a look. A ‘what kind of question is that?’ look, which apparently is enough for him.

Because slowly, deliberately, he brings the joint to his lips, taking a small hit. Holds it in his mouth for a beat.

Then he leans in just slightly, closing that lick of space between the two of you. And before your brain can catch up, or think holy shit, is he about to kiss you? His lips brush yours. Soft. Warm. Over too fast, barely even touched, but long enough for heat to flood your system, and lets the smoke slide between your parted lips before pulling back.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, voice low and rougher than before, eyes searching yours with a mixture of nerves and something dangerously close to hope. “Learned?”

You can’t answer. Not right away. 

Because holy shit, Sam Winchester just half-kissed you.

What the fuck?

There’s a beat where you don’t move. Completely stunned, even just for a moment. But then you process that he’s exhaled smoke into your mouth, and you breathe in. Not at all like a straw, and not at all shallow like he’s told you.

It burns, and it takes less than a second for you to break out into a coughing fit. 

At the sound of your coughing, and the sight of your eyes watering, Sam’s concern comes rushing back like a tidal wave. He’s already moving, one palm finding your shoulder, the other smoothing over your back.

“Woah, woah, slow down. Breathe,” he urges, running his hand gently up and down your back. “Told you not to inhale like me,” he teases, before his voice drops low again. “You okay?”

There’s real worry in his voice now, and a furrow between his brows. But he can’t help it, he still grins. And you could swear his cheeks look a little pink. 

“Yeah, I’m fi—” you’re halfway through a choked cough when it hits. It’s like your senses all relax at once, giving way to something lighter. Deeper. Like your heads filled with air. It’s not intense, but it’s certainly new. “—Woah,” you mumble, lifting your gaze, the burning subsiding.

And when your eyes find Sam’s, puppy eyes so full of worry, his brows pinched together so adorably? You’re not sure if you’re closer to laughing or whining at the sight.

“Slow,” he repeats again with a soft, huffing chuckle, watching your eyes go glassy while the coughing fit finally subsides. 

“You sure you’re good?” He asks quietly, eyes still narrowed with concern. His hand is still on your shoulder, and he’s leaned into your space like he’s afraid you might suddenly pass out. 

That little bit of carefree, heat-of-the-moment confidence seems to have died out, and he looks almost shy. Maybe a little guilty, like he’s done something wrong. “Listen, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Sam.”

You cut him off before he can spiral. Maybe it makes you weird, but seeing him all sweet and concerned, leaning into you, holding you like he’s worried you might fall? Yeah. It’s sort of doing it for you, in some fucked-up way. Not to mention the fact that your lips are still tingling. 

“I’m okay. It just feels… new?” you start, you melt into his touch just a fraction further. You don’t mention the half-kiss. Not right away. Instead, you continue, voice slightly dazed, and you can’t contain the little laugh that slips out. “Good new.”

He looks hesitant for a moment, like he’s not sure if he believes you. But whether it’s the look on your face, or your words, he relaxes. And when he laughs with you, warm and soft and God, you could get lost in it; his shoulders fall loose, letting go of some tension.

He studies your face again like he’s searching for any signs of nausea, or, God forbid, discomfort. But all he finds are flushed cheeks and dilated pupils.

“Yeah?” he prompts, and that boyish smile makes you feel all tingly. Butterflies rising in ways they shouldn’t, in places they shouldn’t. You’ve felt it before, of course you have. Deep down you know you’ve been falling for him for years.

But, apparently, getting a little high makes it a whole lot harder to ignore.  

“Uh-huh,” you nod, inhaling a breath that comes out more shaky than it should. “Really good new. As in, wanting more…”

He swallows hard. 

He almost looks conflicted for a second before he speaks, but there’s no doubting the way his gaze flicks to your lips for a fraction of a second, before he’s clearing his throat. 

“More?” He echos, eyes finding the joint still held between his fingers. “More as in… another hit? ‘Cause I swear, if you end up flat on your back because you take another one right now…”

Yeah. That image is doing absolutely nothing to help your racing thoughts. Flat on your back, in his bed, under him… you certainly have no objections.

And you catch it. The implication behind those words. Because taking another hit doesn’t just mean taking in more smoke: it means his lips brushing against yours again. Teetering into uncharted territory all over again. 

“Just… more,” you whisper, eyes trailing over his face, and the way your gaze lingers on his lips mirrors his own actions just moments ago.

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a second, you swear he sees right through you. But then that soft smirk comes back, the one that makes your stomach flip, and he lifts the joint slowly. He gets it.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “One more hit.”

He takes it himself first, not deep, just enough to warm the tip, and holds it in his mouth just like the first hit. Then he leans in again. Closer than before. 

And when his lips meet yours this time, still soft, but less hesitant, it’s not just smoke that passes between the two of you. It’s everything. 

He doesn’t pull away once all the smoke has been passed to you. You could blame it on the fact that it means you have to hold the smoke in your mouth for a moment longer before inhaling it. But the way he lingers?

Yeah. It’s not because of the smoke.

When you break away to inhale, neither of you pull back. Not really. The moment just holds. Smoke exhales from your lips, creating a haze between you, your breaths mixing in the few inches of space between your mouths. 

His free hand is at your cheek, thumb skimming over the edge of your jaw almost reverently, and when he finally does pull back, it looks like it takes physical effort.

He keeps those pretty eyes on yours the whole time, watching those blown-out pupils grow wider, a hint of a smile on his lips. And when he finally speaks, his voice is so low, it’s barely even audible.

“…How do you feel?”

How do you feel?

That’s a loaded question. Your head is all light and airy. The touch of his hand on your cheek feels dialled up to a hundred. It makes you feel warm, intensely so. Flushed. Needy. And those butterflies? Yeah, they’re fluttering pretty low tonight.

But you don’t say that.

“Feeling… a lot,” you murmur after a moment, and you really can’t stop your gaze from dropping to his lips just once. And oh, he definitely caught it.

His breathing changes, just slightly. Deeper. Slower, like he’s trying really hard to steady himself (and failing). His thumb brushes your jaw again, the movement absentminded, and this time, it lingers.

“Me too,” he admits, soft enough that it almost gets lost in the hum of the movie that’s been long forgotten. His eyes drop to your lips just as yours did.

And when he leans in this time? There’s no smoke between you. Just him. Warmth radiating off of him like a furnace. He doesn’t bring the joint back to his lips, doesn’t take another long drag. No, this time, he gets so close, that your noses brush together. 

And when your lips meet, this time it’s real.

He inhales into the kiss, soft and warm, like he’s been waiting forever for this moment. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, gentle but sure, holding you just close enough that you can feel his heartbeat through the small space between your chests.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate.

It’s Sam. Careful, present, full of something quiet and deep. The kind of kiss that’s been building up for years, hiding behind stolen glances, shared blankets, and late-night talks.

When your lips part, only because neither of you can breathe, it’s only an inch. Your foreheads rest together like neither of you want to risk being apart. 

“…Okay?” he asks, voice low, and a little unsteady. Like he’s half-way to falling apart from a single kiss. Careful and sweet, in that overly worried Sam Winchester way that makes your heart just ache. 

You don’t miss a beat before responding.

“So much better than okay,” you whisper, and then your lips are chasing his all over again. Like you got one taste, and you’re already addicted. 

His lips are just so soft. And he’s so gentle, so reverent, holding onto you with those strong arms like you’re something precious. Like you’re made of porcelain.

The second your mouth is on his again, his eyes flutter right back closed. He reaches past you just far enough to chuck the joint into his ash tray haphazardly (because oh yeah— maybe making out with a burning joint in your hand isn’t the best idea), before his hands are settling on your waist.

The only thing buzzing between the two of you now is pure heat and need that’s been building for years. His fingers trace across the sliver of exposed skin between the hem of your shirt and the waistband of your pants, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, tingling up your spine in a way that makes you shift. One of your hands is trapped between you, gripping his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you steady, the other sliding into his hair at his nape.

His fingers flex against your skin like he’s fighting the urge to grip your waist, to really feel. Dig his fingers into your flesh, leave pretty marks that he can look back at and know this is real.

He resists, just for a moment, before the intensity wins, and he’s hauling you into his lap like you weigh nothing. And when your legs settle around his hips, the sound that escapes his chest is almost desperate.

You let out a high pitched mewl of your own, one that is swallowed by him immediately, drinking up every little sound like a man dying of thirst. His breathing is laboured, coming out in little puffs from his nose that warm your cheek. 

He breaks just far enough to look you in the eyes. Breathless, flustered, and disheveled: hair messy from your fingers, lips pink and slightly swollen, and that look on his face that tells you he’s barely holding back from ravaging you.

But still, even with that spark in his eyes, the flame in his chest, he presses his forehead against yours again. Slow and honey-sweet. Like he needs a moment to catch up with his thoughts. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, and his voice is rough around the edges. His words tumble out like he didn’t have time to catch them, and the warmth that blooms in your chest feels like fire.

The look on his face is… intense. More intense than a random kiss between best friends. More intense than some high mistake that’ll be long forgotten by the time the sun rises. Intense like something you’ve been aching for for years, but have never allowed yourself to admit. If you thought your brain was going wild before, then it’s going bat-shit crazy now. 

After a moment of silence, nothing but the sound of your pants blending together, you speak. 

“Tell me… tell me this is real,” your voice is barely audible, but he hears. He always hears you. “Tell me this means something to you. Because if… if it doesn’t, I don’t know if I can—”

He doesn’t let you finish. 

His expression shifts instantly, eyes locking on yours with a fierceness that steals your breath.

“No,” he says, voice low and steady, like steel wrapped in velvet. “Don’t.”

At first, those words scare you. The doubts flow in like a wave. You fucked up. You’ve ruined this. The best thing you’ve ever had, and you ruined it—

But his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing the curve of your jaw like you’re something sacred. 

“This is real,” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips are just a whisper from yours. “This has been real for longer than I’ve let myself admit.”

He swallows hard. The hand on your cheek shakes in a way that you only ever see from him before a difficult final.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he admits, voice cracking slightly, and he grimaces at the sound. “Not because I’m high or lonely or drunk on whatever movie-night thing we have going on…”

A beat, and his eyes stay locked on yours. Like if he blinks too long, you’ll vanish.

“You. It’s always been you.”

For a moment, it feels like time has slowed. Like the world has stopped spinning on its axis, and the only thing left is this. Like the only thing left is him.

“…Yeah?” you whisper, half disbelief, half unbridled need.

Your expression must be blank, or maybe he can see that you’re barely even a breath away from breaking down under his palm, because he looks almost panicked. His eyes are wide, almost pleading. His jaw is so tight that you worry he might break a tooth. You snap yourself out of whatever trance you’d fallen into.

“Fuck, Sam… you have no idea. No idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that,” you say, shaking your head like you can’t believe this is real. Your hand that’s slipped free from his hair has found your forearm, pinching hard enough to bruise.

“It’s always been you. I just… I didn’t know how to say it without ruining this. Without losing you. I can’t… I can’t lose you, Sam. I can’t.”

The truth rushes out before you can stop it. All that fear. Fear of losing the one person who knows you, really knows you.

He starts shaking his head before your words even fully leave your mouth, and his free hand brushes your fingers off your forearm. Because he noticed. Of course he noticed.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” he leans in, pressing a soft, almost desperate kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, before whispering against your skin.

“I’ve been terrified, too, you know. Of saying the wrong thing. Of pushing too hard. Of ruining us,” his breath hitches like he’s choking on his words. “But I can’t pretend anymore.”

Another kiss. This one’s slow, deep, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into it. You swear his tongue darts out to brush against your bottom lip like he’s dying for a taste. 

He moves to pull away again. Probably to search your face for doubt. For any implication that he’s fucked all this up, despite everything you’ve said. Because Sam Winchester is nothing if not thorough.

You don’t let him. 

No, not a second passes before your lips find his almost desperately. Deep, and full of need, every ounce of longing poured into the action. 

His big hand splays along your back, and he’s pulling you closer, bodies flush together like he’s trying to erase every bit of space that’s left between you.

His fingers find the edge of your shirt, slipping just under the hem, like he can’t stand not touching you. The long digits slide under fabric in patterns that are almost rhythmic.

Your head feels like it’s spinning. Waves of pure need pulse through your veins with each gentle circle of his thumb. Your brain is still caught up in everything: that this is real. That this is happening. Because holy shit, you’re making out with your best friend.

You’re making out with Sam.

And you really, really never want to stop. You swipe your tongue along the seam of his lips, pressing into him with just a little more force, your hand finding his hair again. A silent question.

Can I?

And oh, the answer is abso-fucking-lutely, because Sam doesn’t miss a damn beat before his lips part.

It feels like an electrical current runs through your spine when his tongue meets yours, hot, feverish, and holy Jesus.

And when he groans, deep and ragged, it goes straight to your core.

He cups the back of your head with those massive hands, tilting you just slightly, so his tongue can slide against yours. Teasing, tasting, like he wants to memorize the moment. 

He doesn’t even pull back to start trailing his lips across your jaw. He mouths at your skin, slipping down to your neck, tongue darting out to lick your pulse point just to see you squirm. And oh, the second a moan slips past your lips?

Sam is done. 

He shudders like you’ve just ripped through every defence he’s built up over the years of pretending this wasn’t what he wanted to do. His thumb brushes along the strap of your tank top, sliding it down just slightly, his teeth grazing softly over your collarbone. He mouths at your skin with fever, sucking softly before releasing with a pop, and smoothing over with his tongue. Yeah. That’ll be a mark tomorrow.

Between peppered kisses against your neck, he murmurs, voice rough, almost pained. “You gonna drive me crazy, or let me taste you properly?”

He doesn’t let you answer the question, or even think about the implication (holy shit, he doesn’t mean—?) before he’s nipping your pulse point just hard enough to make you gasp, and the sound just about drives him wild. 

He’s barely holding back now. Like he’s lost in the feeling of you, and you have absolutely no complaints in the matter. Your fingers fist his hair like it’s the only lifeline you have left. His hands slide under your shirt completely, palms hot against the small of your back, pressing you close where you’re perched in his lap.

And when you whimper? That’s it.

He flips you gently onto the bed beneath him in one smooth motion, hovering over you with dark eyes and kiss swollen lips. But despite the way his pupils are black with desire, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t press his weight against you.

“You… you’ve gotta talk to me. Tell me if we’re going too fast,” he breathes. “Need to know if I can keep going. Please.”

Your heart aches at his words. They’re just so… him. Sam, the man who’d die before he did anything you didn’t want. Before he took anything that wasn’t his to take. 

“I want this. I want you, Sam,” you say, and your voice sounds way more wrecked than you’d intended. “We’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?”

His eyes scan your face, taking in your words, your flushed cheeks, the way you look sprawled beneath him.

His hands slide up your sides, your collarbone, down your arms, thumbs tracing a circle at your wrists. Not even sexual, just feeling you like he can’t help it. He watches the way you shiver, and swallows. Hard. 

Then his brows furrow, like he’s thinking, or lost in a thought, and for a moment, he looks almost conflicted.

“…How… how high are you?” he asks after a beat, and his voice is so low, that you barely hear it.

You blink at him for a moment. Because you’ve wanted this for so goddamn long, that you know it’s not the weed. Not just being lost in the heat of the moment. Fuck, you’d barely even taken a full hit. But this is Sam, after all. Terrified of misstepping. 

You almost shake him. Grab his shoulders and knock some sense into that thick Winchester skull, but you don’t. 

“I’m not,” you tell him, voice earnest. “Two, barely there hits. Nothing.”

He starts again, more insistent this time. “But it was your first time, you don’t know your—”

“Sam.”

Your voice cuts him off on the spot before he can spiral. Before his brain can twist things, or panic his way into thinking he’s doing something wrong (he hasn’t). Taking advantage (he’d never). Because you know him.

“I’ve wanted you for so long, Sammy,” the nickname slips out before you can stop it, and you don’t take it back. But instead of chastising you like he usually does, he just… softens. “All of you. Not just this. Everything.”

He hesitates for just a beat longer. His eyes rove over your face again, taking in every little nuance. Your blown pupils. Your swollen lips. The way your cheeks and collarbones are tinged pink. Your hair fanned over the pillows, his pillows, like a halo. His hand moves, smoothing over your fluffy pajama pants like he’s trying to soothe you, or himself.

“You’re sure?” he asks, just one more time. Because he has to know. (No matter how crazy it drives you.)

You nod, before realizing that that might not be enough for him, and you run your hand along his forearm. Soft. Soothing. “More sure than anything,” you say, and you’re not sure your voice as ever sounded so honest. “Are you?”

His hand stills on your thigh, but it doesn’t move. Stays warm on your pants, a comforting weight. 

“God, yes,” he whispers, voice low and raw. He leans down again until his forehead touches yours. “I want it all with you. Not just sex. The movies in pajamas, the stupid socks, the morning coffee runs… just us.”

Warmth pools heavy in your chest, and a wave of emotion crashes over you. Emotions you haven’t let yourself feel out of fear of overstepping, of ruining what you have.

You let out a shaky breath before you’re nodding again, “Yeah. I want it all. With you.”

He doesn’t say another word. Doesn’t have to.

He settles over you again, his lips finding your throat. He kisses down your neck like he’s tracing a map he’s memorized in his dreams, slow, reverent, but with an edge of pure hunger that makes your pulse jump. 

Each touch of his lips sends heat spiraling low in your stomach. And when he nips at that spot just below your ear, you gasp, and he groans, deep in his chest like you’re undoing him. 

His hands slide under your shirt again, this time peeling it up slowly, giving you time to stop him. But you don’t. Fuck, you never would, you arch into his touch instead.

When the fabric clears your head and falls away, he stares down at you like you’re something holy. “Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re perfect.”

His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts just enough for your breath to hitch. But he doesn’t rush. He won’t—not with you.

Instead, he kisses lower. Slow, open mouthed, each one a promise. A vow written in heat and need. 

When his lips finally reach the waistband of those stupid Christmas pants, the little fuzzy candy canes soft under his fingers, he pauses. Looks up at you from under his lashes. Still asking without words: Is this okay?

Uh, hell yes.

You’re half lost in the feeling of his lips leaving wet marks along your bare skin, and half in the way he looks over you. Lips swollen, eyes dark with desire, hair messy from your fingers tugging at the chocolate locks. 

You’re nodding before your brain even fully catches up with the movement. Because somehow, his gaze is a thousand times more intoxicating than the weed. “…Please, Sam.”

That’s all he needs.

Slow and deliberately, he hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down just enough to expose the curve of your hip. His lips follow. A hot, open- mouthed kiss pressed just above your pelvic bone that makes you jolt beneath him. Another follows, then another, each lower than the last as he peels the fabric away.

“God,” he whispers against your skin. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

His hands are warm on your thighs, squeezing your soft flesh with a groan that he can’t quite keep contained. And for a moment, he just… looks.

Pupils blown wide. Barely even breathing.

Your face flushed. How could it not? The way he’s looking down at you like you’re some kind of angel, even in your mismatched, plain cotton bra and panties, silly little dog socks reaching mid-calf. Yet he’s staring like you’re the most gorgeous sight in the world. 

His thumb brushes over your inner thigh. So close, but not where you need it, and you have to resist the urge to just pull him where you want him.

“You’re everything,” he says, pressing a trembling kiss just above your knee. “I’ve thought about this… about you, just like this… for so long.”

Another kiss, higher now. Slower.

His breath fans across sensitive skin as his hands gently part your thighs wider, giving him better access. And when you whimper again, because holy shit, this is really happening— his eyes flutter shut.

Then he looks at you one more time, eyes wide and full:

“Can I taste you?”

Your brain short circuits. Because, um, what?

He says it like it’s not just for you, but also something he wants. Something he needs. And that just about takes you apart right then and there. But you’re still… nervous. So while your core aches for it, your voice comes out low.

“You, um. You don’t have to do that…” you whisper, but even then, you don’t pull away. Don’t close your thighs.

“I want to,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like there’s nothing he’d rather do. 

Oh.

Still—you crack your knuckles where your hand is resting against the sheets, and he notices. He always notices. His gaze drops to the nervous fidgeting, the way your hand clenches and unclenches, and his gaze softens. He catches one of them, bringing it to his lips, a gentle, soothing kiss.

“Hey… we don’t have to,” he promises, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Not if you don’t want to. There’s no rush.”

It’s so tender. So fucking sweet that your heart feels like it might explode in your chest. So despite the nerves… he breaks you down, just a little. So finally, the need wins.

“…Fuck, okay. Yeah, please,” you plea, and his response is immediate. Lips trailing down your inner thigh with wet kisses that have you aching. 

Your fingers fist his shirt subconsciously, tugging the fabric at his shoulders, and he doesn’t hesitate. With one hand still cradling your thigh, the other reaches up to tug his shirt over his head, the movement stretching at his muscle, skin glowing faintly in the golden light.

And holy fuck is he ever beautiful. But you barely have any time to ogle (or do something stupid, like drool), before he lowers himself again. His mouth finally meets your centre, soft at first, just a kiss through soaked cotton, and he groans like he’s the one being worshipped. 

You’re halfway through a whine when he hooks a finger into your panties, pulling them aside.

“Christ,” he breathes, sending a jolt of need through your core. “You’re fucking drenched…”

One slow lick, from bottom to top, and you arch off the bed with a cry. “Holy shit, Sammy—”

He wastes no time practically tearing your panties off, and before you can even whine or complain, he’s hooking your thighs over his broad shoulders, fluffy-sock covered feet meeting his muscled back, and his mouth is back on you. 

His hands lock around your hips, holding you down as his tongue moves with slow, torturous precision. He’s studying you, how you twitch when his tongue flicks just above your clit, how you whimper when he dips his tongue just a little lower.

He loves learning, always has. That was one of the very first things you realized about him, when you first became friends. And now? he’s learning you.

He flattens his tongue, licking a broad stripe through your cunt, thumbs sliding through your lips to spread you open for him. Each pass is slower than the last, deeper somehow, not just physical. Like he’s not just tasting you, but claiming you. Drinking up your juices like a starving man.

One of his fingers slowly circles your entrance, just teasing, and you sob out his name like a prayer. He lifts his head, lips glistening, and smirks. A real one. Dangerous, and yet so tender.

“What do you need?” he asks, voice rough as gravel mixed together. But it’s laced with teasing, like he wants nothing more than to make you squirm. “Use your words, and I’ll give it to you. Promise.”

Your hips try to roll, just once, like if you move just enough, that finger might slide inside. Because that tone is just not fair. But you can’t. Not with his strong arm pinning you to the bed. 

“I—fuck, I want… want your fingers, please,” you all but beg, and your cheeks burn immediately. You almost want to tug on his hair to chastise him for turning you into a mess, but you’re too worried he’ll stop.

He hums, low and approving, like your pleads are the best sound he’s ever heard. And those vibrations? Yeah, they shoot through you like an electrical current. 

One thick finger slides in slowly, just to the first knuckle, testing, watching your face like a man studying salvation. 

“So tight,” he groans, pressing a kiss just below your navel as he sinks deeper. “You take me so well.”

Apparently, Sam Winchester has a filthy mouth. Which is not only insanely hot—but should be illegal.

Then a second finger joins, the stretch making you cry out, and Sam? He thrusts slow, curling them just right. Rubbing circles over that sweet spot inside of you like he knows your body better than his own. 

His mouth never leaves you. Tongue circling your swollen clit as his fingers work in and out, building rhythm, heat, pressure, until you’re trembling beneath him. The room fills with sweet, sopping wet sounds with each glide of his fingers, only drowned out by your blissed out moans and whines. 

He finds the perfect rhythm. One that has you teetering right there, your thighs shaking around his head, your fingers fisting his hair like you never want him to go. Pleasure sizzles in your core like a firework about to explode.

“Oh my God, Sam, Sammy, fuck—”

The sounds that slip from your lips are too incoherent to be words, and far too loud for a dorm room with such thin walls. But you’re way too far gone to notice, eyes rolling as your back bows beneath him. 

And holy shit, they only ebb Sam on. He speeds up those perfect, thick digits, curling and rubbing against that spongy part inside of you with fever, his lips sealing over your clit as he sucks. Hard. Cheeks hollowing as he gives you everything.

The wave of pleasure that crashes over you just then is intense.

Your back arches off the bed, thighs squeezing his head, your head thrown back with a cry that’s muffled by his palm because God, those thin dorm walls are a death sentence.

But you still make noise. Sam’s hand somewhat saved your dignity, but you let out high-pitched desperate whimpers into his hand, your cunt clenching around his fingers like you’re trying to keep him inside forever.

He doesn’t pull those fingers out. Doesn’t stop. Just keeps thrusting slow and deep, riding out every euphoric spasm with soft kisses to your inner thighs, and quiet murmurs of: “That’s it… let go, baby…”

When the last of the tremors finally start to fade, he eases those thick digits free with one last teasing stroke. He eases your legs off his shoulders with so much gentle care, and crawls up your body like a man claiming what’s always been his.

Lips swollen. Chin slick with you. Eyes wild and proud and so in awe that it takes your breath away. And when he kisses you this time, you taste yourself on his tongue. And damn if it doesn’t make your pulse jump all over again.

It’s dizzying. You can’t help the way you moan into his mouth, and he swallows it whole like he’s craving it. Your body is still shaking with aftershocks, tingling and sensitive, but you can’t help but crave more. Like he’s turned you into nothing but a greedy mess. 

He only breaks the kiss to let you breathe, before his lips are brushing every inch of your face in reverent little kisses as he presses you further into the pillows, settling between your trembling thighs like he belongs there.

He takes a moment to look at you, like you’re a masterpiece, and something about it just makes your heart just flutter. His lips quirk up in a smirk that he just barely is able to stifle, like he does when you know he’s about to tease you, but the look in his eyes is dark. Hungry.

“You’re a bit loud,” he says, that familiar playful look on his face. “I don’t even think you were that loud when you saw that ra—”

Immediately, you clamp your shaking hand over his mouth again (and holy shit his lips are still all wet from you), and you can feel him smiling against your palm.

“S-shut up, Sam!” you laugh, head falling back against the pillows, cheeks burning with embarrassment and lingering arousal.

But if there were any remaining nerves— they’re long gone. Because only one person can make you feel like this. Only one person who can make you feel so fucking good, then turn around and make you laugh.

“You’re insufferable. And way too fucking good at that,” you breathe, letting your eyes flutter closed. 

You’re still panting, still shaking from the intensity of your orgasm when he peels your hand off his face. His expression shifts into something softer. Something sweet.

He presses a kiss to your palm before letting go, then drags his lips to your wrist, your forearm, the soft inside of your elbow, each one slower than the last.

“You’re insufferable,” he murmurs against your skin. “Making me wait three goddamn years to do that.”

His hands slide up your sides again, fingertips dancing just under the edge of your bra. Then he stops. Looks at you, eyes tender, filled with silent question. You don’t waste any time nodding, arching just enough for those nimble fingers to unclip your bra with ease, sliding it off. 

He stares shamelessly like you’re the most gorgeous sight in the world, before his head is dipping back down. Pressing his mouth back to your throat, trailing along your collarbone, while his warm hands cup the underside of your breasts, thumbs swiping over your pointed nipples softly.

It’s sweet. It feels fucking good. And he’s still not pushing, even when you can feel how hard he is through the thin fabric of his pants pressed against your thigh.

“…Sam?” you whisper, and he answers with just a hum, sucking a mark into the soft flesh on your breast that will definitely be purple tomorrow. “I need to feel you. Please.”

He groans, low and rough against your skin, and you can feel his body tense above you. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, lips leaving a soft, wet trail of heat across your chest, tongue peaking out every so often to get a taste. His hands find your hips again, fingers curling against the sensitive skin beneath your ribs.

“Anything, honey. Anything you want.”

You can’t help but let out a strangled whine at the feeling of his lips, the deep tremble of his voice. The skin-on-skin of his bare chest pressed against yours electrifying. 

But then he pulls away.

Rude.

Peels those plaid pajama pants off, along with his boxers, in one clean movement, before crawling back over you.

And holy fuck, your eyes widen, mouth going a little dry at the sight. You knew Sam was a big guy. You have eyes. But apparently, he’s very well proportioned. As in—fucking huge.

“Jesus Christ, Sam…” you murmur, unable to peel your gaze away from the long, thick, hard, and aching sight of the gorgeous man in front of you. You weren’t aware cocks could be so… pretty. Your eyes are filled with desire. Need. Longing. And, yeah, maybe some nerves. Because holy shit, is that supposed to fit?

He notices the way your hips twitch, and his thumb comes to stroke your hip in a way that says you’re alright. You’re safe with me.

“Relax,” he coos. “I’ll go slow. Anything you need, honey, I’ll give it to you. Anything at all.”

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, gentle and sweet, so your eyes meet his again. “But I need you to talk to me. Can you do that, baby?”

You nod, melting into his palm like you were just made to be held by him. You can physically feel your body relaxing, easing into that familiar trust just from looking at those sweet puppy eyes of his. Fuck.

“…Yeah,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. Your hands wander as you speak like they have a mind of their own, trailing over his toned chest, down his abdomen. “You’re just… fuck, Sam. You’re perfect.”

A beat. And because you can’t help it:

“And massive.”

That earns a laugh out of him, low and teasing, his cheeks flushing pink in that sweet boyish way. But when your hand dips lower, fingers wrapping around him almost reverently, thumb sliding over the head, pre-come pearling from his tip, he freezes.

A gasp tears from his throat, low, ragged, like you’ve just lit a fuse. 

“Fuck,” he grits out through a clenched jaw, hips jerking into your hand once before he stills himself. “You gotta tell me to stop if it’s too much. I—I don’t want to hurt you.”

His voice is strained, every muscle in his body tight with restraint. But then you stroke him again, slow, curious, and he shudders. His forehead dropping to your shoulder with a groan that vibrates through both of you.

His hand finds yours, not to guide it, but just to press it tighter for one sinful second, before sliding it off of himself with a shaky breath.

“Please, I need you,” he groans. “Let me show you how good I can make you feel.”

You want to keep touching him. Want to stroke his pretty cock until he feels just as good as he made you feel. Until his come paints your chest, and he’s twitching under your touch.

But more than that? You want him inside of you. Need it.

“Fuck, yes,” you all but beg, and he sneaks another soft kiss before he’s moving.

You watch as he leans over you, every hard muscle in his abdomen rippling, bicep flexing where one hand rests by your head, and you have to resist the primal urge to just lick his skin. Like your brain has gone full cave-woman.

You hear a drawer open, the rustling of foil, and then he’s settling back between your legs, little square packet in hand. A condom. Without any prompting, or you having to ask, because that’s just the kind of man he is. And it only makes you want him more.

There’s a beat where you just watch him, until you freeze. Your hand reaches out to catch his wrist. 

“Wait, Sam,” you start, and just as the words come out, his expression shifts. Pure concern, already pulling away, so you speak fast. “I, um. I’m allergic to latex.”

He blinks at you for a moment, but then the panic in his eyes vanishes as quickly as it came. Instead, they soften into something so warm that you have to resist the urge to squirm or hide.

“I know,” he soothes, dropping his free hand to your thigh to run his fingers over your heated skin. “The, uh. The gloves, remember?”

…Oh.

Right. Nearly three years ago now, just a few months into your first semester. You’d been in a biology lab, doing some dissection—and whether you were just too excited, or too nervous to ask the professor for nitrile gloves, you’d ended up with a reaction.

And who fussed over you, practically sprinting to the pharmacy to buy you some antihistamines, not leaving your side for hours following? Sam.

But that was years ago. And it hadn’t come up sense. 

So for a few beats, you don’t respond. Staring at him with what had to be a pretty blank expression, because he immediately starts talking again.

“They’re latex free. Polyiso, uh… something,” he rambles, cheeks turning a cute shade of pink. “I can show you the box, if you want. Or—we don’t have to do this. We can stop. No hard feelings, I promise, baby—”

“No.”

You cut off his rambling immediately. Because fuck, stopping? That’s the last thing you want. 

But you’re just caught up in the implication. Because why would he, a broke college student, just… have latex-free condoms, knowing they’re more expensive? Unless…?

Unless he bought them for you?

The thought makes your heart rate pick up just a fraction. Makes you burn just a little hotter for him. Because holy fuck, he really has wanted you just as much as you’ve been wanting him. 

“I trust you. More than anyone,” you assure, locking eyes with him again. And when you find them—they’re so warm. “I need you.”

His eyes never leave yours.

For a second, you see it. The nervous hitch in his throat, the way his usually-steady hands tremble just slightly. Because this isn’t just sex. It’s you. And for Sam? That changes everything.

He rips the wrapper open, rolling the condom on slow, before he’s settling back over you, bracing himself above you with his elbow bent next to your head. The other reaches out just to brush your hair back from your face. 

“You’re sure?” he asks, just one last time, needing that confirmation. And when you nod, he presses a kiss to your cheek.

Then, one hand guiding himself, he pushes forward. Just the thick tip at first. A slow stretch that makes you gasp and your back bow beneath him.

He freezes almost instantly, concern flashing across his features. “Okay?”  

You nod again, can’t even speak, brain already going a little stupid, but the way you reach up to grab his shoulders tells him everything.

So he moves. Starts to slide deeper. So damn slowly, like he’s trying to savour every sweet inch. And fuck, is it ever a stretch. But he makes it better. 

He touches you like he can’t survive without feeling your skin under his fingertips. Hand traveling along your face, down your side, squeezing your hips. His body trembles like he’s about to snap, pressing messy kisses to your chest, your collarbone, whatever he can reach. 

His thrusts are so gentle. One small push, then he pulls back so just the tip remains inside, then sinks back just a little deeper. Every thrust allowing you to feel just a little more of him, thick and pulsing inside your dripping heat.

Before long, his hips settle against yours. He’s buried so deep that you think you can taste him. You can feel him everywhere. In your lungs, your bones, your soul. It’s so much, and yet—you need more.

Your core pulses to accommodate him, and it feels like you’re near stuffed to the damn brim. Like his tip is resting at your cervix, and you have to take a shaky breath to just relax. “…Oh, God, You’re so… fuck…”

“I know. I know, honey,” he coos, so soft and sweet that it makes you shiver. “You’re doing so good. Taking me like you were made for me, huh? So perfect…”

You moan right then and there, because who the fuck let him sound so hot, all blissed out and pussy drunk?

His damp skin glistens like honey in the low light, and you can hear how he’s holding himself back with each hitch of his breath. Can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the sweat beading at his temples, the taut lines of his muscles flexing with restraint. He’s trying to be so careful. 

He doesn’t move for a beat. Just stays, hips flush to yours, fingertips smoothing over your waist like he’s trying to soothe you. Give you time to adjust, even when he’s practically trembling. 

But despite how gentle he is with you, how much he cares, and as much as you adore how sweet he is, you’re not made of glass. 

“Sam?” you murmur, hands that were gripping his shoulders loosening to lace around his neck, and he hums against your throat. “You can move, baby. I’m not going to break.”

He stiffens. Just for a moment.

“…You sure you’re alright?” he asks, and his voice is ragged. Strained like every second of stillness is agony. But he waits. Because that’s Sam. Always putting you first.

When you nod, rolling your hips, just once to take him impossibly deeper, he shudders, a broken sound tearing from his throat.

Then he pulls back, just an inch, before sinking in again. And holy shit, it feels heavenly. 

Slow at first. Deep, deliberate rolls of his hips that make your breath hitch with every thrust. Each movement sends sparks spiraling through your core, stretching pleasure from every nerve like they were just made for him.

“God, you feel…” he breaks off in a low groan against your neck, your soaked core pulsing around him when he grazes deep, and he presses fevered kisses along your jaw. “So tight. So damn perfect.”

He starts to pick up the pace, still careful, but no longer holding back that hunger that’s begging to be sated. And when his hand slips between the two of you again? Find’s your clit with slow, maddening circles?

That’s it.

Pleasure explodes in your core like firecrackers, pure heat spreading from your lower belly though your limbs, your tight heat spasming around his cock uncontrollably.

“Oh my God, you—s’fucking good—” you cry, neck craning back against the pillows, and he nips at your heated skin like he wants to ruin you. The sounds should be embarrassing, they really should. But with how you’re feeling? You really don’t care. 

He growls, low, possessive, almost proud, and then he’s shifting.

One hand slides under your ass, lifting you just slightly, hiking one thigh over his hip, and suddenly, he’s hitting you deeper. The new angle makes your vision whiten at the edges. You can’t even speak, just a sobbing gasp as he thrusts again and again. Harder this time. Not rough, but relentless, slamming into you with a new kind of fever that moves your entire body with the mattress. 

The sweet combination of him petting your clit while he drives into you at a dizzying pace has you seeing stars, and suddenly, you can’t contain the sounds anymore. 

Moans. Mewls. Whimpers, whines, cries—everything, far too loud for a goddamn dorm room.

And when the heavy tip of his cock glides along that spot deep inside of you, white hot pleasure igniting in your core, you learn that, apparently, you’re some-what of a screamer. 

His hand covers your mouth so fast, almost instantly, the movement so instinctive that it would almost be scary if it wasn’t so fucking hot. It’s not cruel, he’d never hurt you, but in a way that makes your stomach twist with need. 

But he still doesn’t stop. Just slows his pace a little, still hitting right there, and his fingers ease up on your clit. 

“Shh… you’ve gotta be quiet, yeah? Can you do that for me, baby?” he murmurs, hips still driving into you. His palm is warm, fingers splayed wide as another choked cry spills into them. “We have plenty of time for that during the break. When it’s just us. Then I’ll find out just how loud you can get for me, okay, honey?”

You’re not sure you’ve ever been more excited for Christmas in your goddamn life. 

The words seem to hit you just as much as a physical blow, and all the combined pleasure has you shaking beneath him. And despite his words, he snakes his hand back to your slit, pinching your clit just once, so you let out another cry muffled by his palm. And when you do? That dimpled smirk on his face only grows. 

Bastard.

“You gonna be good for me, huh? Gonna quiet down?” he teases, and you nod almost frantically before he even finishes his sentence. He grins again. Cocky, heated. He knows it’s a lie. “…You’re not fooling anyone, baby. Not with how you’re clenching around me… fuck.”

Even then, he pulls his hand back just enough to let a whimper slip free as his cock drags along your sweet spot with perfect precision, then he teases your clit again.

Harder this time. 

You arch off the bed with a strangled moan, and he captures it, mouth crashing down over yours like he’s starving for every sound, every twitch of your body beneath him. And holy shit, he’s relentless. 

You can tell he’s on the edge of losing it himself. His brows are pinched, his breaths are coming out ragged, and he can barely contain the moans of his own that slip right into your mouth.

If it wasn’t for his mouth covering yours, you’re almost sure you’d be reported to the RA. He feels fucking perfect, hot and thick and deep, stars shattering behind your eyelids with each perfectly timed thrust. 

You know you’re getting close. Practically dripping around his cock, sucking him in like a vice, your legs shaking around his hips, pleasure drawn tight enough to snap.

He groans, watching your face like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “You’re so close, aren’t you? Look at you, shaking f’me already…”

His thrusts turn sharper, each one hitting your g-spot like a goddamn homing missile. His thumb finds your clit again, not just pinching this time, but drawing tight, slick circles over the swollen bud.

“Come on. Let go for me. I’ve got you,” he all but growls into your ear.

He kisses the side of your neck, one soft, sweet press that contrasts his hard movements, then bites down just as his fingers move just a little faster.

It’s too much.

You shatter. Back arching off the bed, nails raking down his back as pleasure detonates through every nerve ending. A full-body wave of pure white heat that steals your breath and leaves you gasping his name into the air. Cries of ‘Sammy’ and ‘holy shit don’t stop’ muffled only by his lips. 

Sam doesn’t stop. He rides out every spasm with slower thrusts, still hitting so goddamn deep, as if he’s savouring every pulse around his aching cock. 

“Sam, oh my—fuck, s’much—” you break off in another cry, incapable of holding back the pleads as pleasure explodes through you.

He can tell you’re already oversensitive when he slows a little, always so damn considerate, even when his eyes are darkened nearly black. He presses a kiss to your cheek, your forehead, your hair. “Just breathe for me, baby. That’s it…”

And the way he says it? Like he’s aching, voice rough, ragged, and desperate. Like it’s killing him to ease you down instead of chasing his own high.

He presses his forehead against yours, each puff of his breath fanning over your lips. “Can you keep going f’me, honey? Can you take it?”

And oh, fuck, can you ever.

“Mhm, please, fuck…” you barely manage the sound through your shaky breaths. But even through the overstimulation, the intense sensitivity shocking your nerves with each movement, it still feels so fucking good. 

And you really, really want to see him fall apart. 

His hips stutter forward at your words, a choked groan leaving his throat, hard and desperate. The angle shifts just right, so he’s hitting that spot again, and you can feel him pulsing inside of you. It’s so much. Almost too much.

“You take me so fucking well, I can’t—” he chokes on his own moan as his body jerks, just once, twice, hips slamming into you with uncontrolled need as he spills into the condom with a sound that goes straight to your core.

You’re not sure you’ve seen anything so beautiful. His face screwing up in pleasure, abdomen clenching tight, biceps flexing where they’re caging you in.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Doesn’t move.

Just collapses gently onto his forearms bracketed around your head so he doesn’t crush you, face buried into your neck, as if trying to hide just how wrecked he feels. But still, soft lips press a kiss behind your ear. Tender. Quiet.

You don’t let him hide, though. Your hands slide from around his neck to his jaw, pulling him in for a kiss. Deep, passionate, and so full of emotion. He holds onto you like you’re something fragile.

His mouth moves gently against yours, each kiss soft and slow, like he doesn’t ever want to stop. But he does pull back just barely to rest his forehead against yours, and it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like he’s staring straight into your soul.

One hand slides through your hair, smoothing the sweat-slicked strands from your forehead. “You okay?” he whispers, voice thick, and sweeter than honey.

Are you ever.

Your thumb traces circles over his jaw, his cheek, like a moment spent not touching him is a moment wasted, and it takes a second for you to catch your breath enough to speak. 

“Uh-huh. Fuck. So good.”

Your response, so filled with exhaustion and lingering pleasure, has him huffing out a little laugh. He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, lips curving up against your skin. “Still think I’m insufferable?” he teases, because of course he does, and you roll your eyes. 

“Yeah. And annoying,” you shoot-back, but there’s nothing but fondness in your voice, still trembling with aftershocks.

He can tell you’re overstimulated, your walls fluttering around him like your body is trying to milk him dry. 

“…Sensitive, huh?” He murmurs, not a real question. Just knowing. He slowly eases off of you, leaving you to whine at the loss of his weight. “Sorry, sorry…”

Your eyes flutter closed, but you can hear rustling as he strips off the condom and tosses it. The sound of his footsteps on the creaky dorm room floor. The light over his tiny sink flicking on, then water running.

You reopen your eyes just to watch, and suddenly, you’re right back there. In that sweet, domestic bubble the two of you have been mingling in for years between not-date-dinners and movie nights you have to pretend are platonic. 

When he returns he’s got a warm wash cloth in one hand, but he stops at the edge of the bed, just looking at you like you’re something sacred. Then, that soft, dimpled smile. The one only you ever get.

“Hey,” he says quietly, like the moment is too delicate for anything louder. 

He sits beside you and gently drags the cloth over your skin, slow, careful strokes across your thighs and most intimate parts, just enough to clean without being too much on sensitive nerves. His touch is so tender that it makes your heart ache.

When he’s done, he tosses it aside and climbs back against the pillows, tucking the blanket over the two of you, pulling you close against his chest with a deep sigh. Your legs tangle together beneath warm sheets, your fuzzy socks smoothing against his calf. 

Your head finds its favourite spot, the dip between his shoulder and collarbone, and when his arm wraps around you, he places a kiss to your temple.

Neither of you speak. He just takes the remote in his hand (after finding it buried under his pillow, of course), rewinding the movie since the credits were rolling. Picks up a bag of M&M’s off his bedside table, ripping them open, and hands them to you. Like taking care of you is just second nature for him.

And maybe it is.

And lying there, in his arms, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, is exactly where you want to be. So different than before, and yet? Exactly the same. 

AN: Another one from my AO3! If you couldn’t tell… I wrote this at the start of the month, lol, but at the time, I didn’t quite understand tumblr (and I still don’t quite have it 🤣). But anyway, I’m a sucker for Stanford!Sam, and am a firm believer in stoner!Sam. Sue me.

As always… if you have any (Sam) recs, ideas, questions, God, anything, please don’t hesitate to leave an ask!