sam girls .ᐟ 2.1 k words | x fem!reader 𝘀𝘆𝗻. ━  horrified by becky’s actions, you stay away from sam.

sammy .ᐟ 2.1 k words | x reader 𝘀𝘆𝗻. ━ the first time you call him sammy.

cuddles with sam .ᐟ 1.05 k words | x gn!reader 𝘀𝘆𝗻. ━  sam likes it when you let him sleep in your arms.

cuddles with dean .ᐟ 2.68 k words | x reader 𝘀𝘆𝗻. ━ dean learns to be a little selfish.

It’s one of those nights where everything was finally quiet. The motel room is dim as usual, lit by the soft orange tint bleeding through that cheap, dusty lamp shade. The humming from the motel's old heater fills the room in a way that feels way more soothing than annoying, and the TV plays something that Dean swore he had wanted to watch earlier. It might have been a western or some old rerun of Scooby-doo — maybe even something about cars — but he hasn’t looked at the screen at all in a while. Maybe a few glances here and there, but it had long since become background noise the moment you’d settled yourself comfortably on top of his lap.

Dean always gets distracted by you, that's nothing new. But it never helps the random times when you’ve decided to straddle his waist, with your warm thighs bracketing his hips with just enough pressure to thoroughly ground him to the bed in a way he didn’t know he'd find comfort in. And for you, well.. the heat that radiates from his body is almost soothing in the space along your legs. You can feel the solidness of him beneath you, the quiet strength in the way he shifts when he breathes. He’s firm and sturdy in a way that always makes you feel safe.

He's propped up against a couple of stiff motel pillows, one arm lazily behind his head while the other rests loosely against your leg, his fingers free and able to trace soft shapes against the underside of your knee. As if the action isn't just for you, but for him too — like he needs to remind himself you’re really there. You don’t say much during times like this, you never do because you don't really have to. You just sit there, on him, with a casualness closeness that is so deeply intimate, there really are no words for it.

You’re crocheting. Again. The hook you’re using moves in unison with the little flicks of your wrist, yarn sliding over your fingers as the pattern slowly forms in your hands. Dean's eye flicks over and sees the ball of yarn you’re using trailing from your bag at the end of the bed. Occasionally, it tugs with your movements, but your focus doesn’t waver. It never does. Dean doesn’t know what you’re making this time, but he doesn't ask. His eyes just track the small, rhythmic motion of your hands, completely mesmerized. It's one of those soft, quiet things he could never explain to anyone — how watching you do something so simple, with those hands he loves so much, can make his chest feel a little less heavy.

You’re warm, and steady, and it feels like the safest kind of pressure keeping him anchored to something real. He's still getting used to it, it's just not as obvious anymore. He could stay like this forever, just existing under you, looking at you and watching you create something with your hands. Dean doesn't say much either. He gets it.

The hand resting behind his head and the one by your knee eventually begin snaking up your legs. Dean’s hands find their way to your hips without him even realizing it. His thumbs brush gentle, absent-minded strokes over any sliver of exposed skin they can reach. The feeling of his calloused fingers on you is nice. It’s nothing more than muscle memory at this point. You shift a little under his touch, a small subtle reaction to which Dean can feel and it makes a soft smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

You don't look up. Dean isn’t sure if it’s because you’re too focused on the careful repetitive pattern of your work or because you’re used to him doing this every time, but Dean doesn’t mind. It gives him the freedom to look at you thoroughly. The soft curve of your brow, the gentle press of your lips, the peaceful way you settle on top of him like you belong there. It makes his heart ache a little in that sweet, familiar way. The one that's only reserved for you.

Though eventually, Dean's attention shifts and starts to notice the tug of tension in the yarn, the way it becomes a little too tight between you and the skein that’s stuffed away into your bag. Without thinking, he reaches out to help — because sometimes Dean’s just a little too quick to want to be useful. His fingers pull at the yarn, trying to give you a little more slack. But of course, instead of fixing it, he ends up pulling the entire skein into the space between his chest and you.

And he stares at it, a little wide-eyed for a second. He hadn’t expected that. Though now he has handfuls of loose yarn, tangled up around his fingers in a messy heap of knots. He almost looks a bit flushed, the way Dean lets out an exhale through his nose and risks taking a glance at you — only to find your mouth twitching with an amused smile you’re clearly trying to bite back.

“Sorry about that. Uh…” he mutters, ducking his head, sheepish. His rough fingers do their best to tease apart the mess, his big hands fumbling around the tangle of soft threads with a certain level of care. And there’s something in the way he frowns in concentration, the way the yarn catches around his knuckles, around his ring, that’s so painfully endearing.

And it’s sweet. You stop crocheting for a moment, just to watch him as he does so. The sight is… odd, but in a good way that doesn’t quite suit the image most people have of him. Here’s Dean Winchester: a man who stitches himself up in motel bathrooms every week, who's been stabbed and probably chased more than anybody. A man who, most notably, has been to Hell and keeps going like nothings happened, whose name alone creates an unsettling amount of fear into the supernatural — is laying on a creaky mattress with a pile of yarn on his chest, trying to untangle it.

It's completely out of his element, and yet he's doing it anyway, for no other reason than because he wanted to. And it’s a little attractive. Or a lot attractive. And no, it's not just because Dean looks good doing just about anything. It's because it’s him deciding to do the softest things. Something about it makes your heart swell, and the fondness you feel for him in that moment creeps up on you till its overwhelming. It’s a bit fascinating when you think about it.

For the last five minutes you haven’t moved your hook at all. It's way too entertaining watching Dean fumble with the mess of thread sprawled out all over. Some of it ends up pooled to the sides of him. The longer and looser strands had come apart easily, but the bigger and tighter knots that hooks onto the main strand closest to you he’s still having trouble with. 

He tries, even if you can tell he’s getting frustrated. His brows furrowed and his tongue just barely peeks out in focus. The way he handles the yarn, so gently and with way more care than you’d expect from him. You think about teaching him sometimes, because that thought is quite amusing. You know he'd protest, mention about how that's too chick-flicky or that it's something old ladies do. He'd definitely claim that it's not his thing while puffing out his chest in his macho man facade. Though, you probably could get him to do it. He is wrapped around your finger after all.

But that’s something to worry about at another time. You've had enough of watching him struggle, while simultaneously coming to the conclusion that you were also done crocheting for the night. So you reach forward, hands brushing against his warm ones making Dean still immediately. His eyes lift to meet yours and without a word, you gently take the yarn from his hands and toss the whole mess into the bag behind you. You don’t really care if it knots more in there, you can play with it on the car ride to the next case. All you really want now is to be wrapped in Dean's arms. The pull of wanting him close outweighs anything else a thousand times over.

Dean watches you and barely has time to process the change as your hand begins to rest against his chest for balance. And no sooner do you do so, you’re ducking your head down so your lips are on his. It’s not rushed or rough, but as you reach to cup his cheek, it steals the air from his lungs all the same. Your lips are so inviting and Dean swears he can taste the faint trace of your nightly lip balm somewhere in there. It’s the kind of kiss that leaves him dazed, one that says everything without any words at all, the kind of kiss that stays on Dean's mind even in his dreams. 

You tilt into it with a softness that melts away all his fears. Your body leans over his just enough that you’re still towering above him, the gentle touch against his chest lingers. And when you pull back, he’s left blinking. There's remnants of your lip balm coating his own as you both search each other's eyes. For a moment, your hand on his cheek stays — because he just looks so nice like this, all soft-eyed and peaceful, his face fitting perfectly in your palm. There's nothing here but love and adoration. Everything else sits forgotten and the dull sound of whatever show he’d picked faded into the background like white noise.

You slide off him slowly, though, one leg still hooked lazily over his waist, keeping yourself attached to him while your arm wraps around his torso. You're like a koala, the way your face tucks into the warm curve of his neck as you cling to him, hiding yourself away from the world. His scent gets inhaled in through your nose and the steady warmth of his body radiates through his shirt beneath your hands. And just as expected, his hand wanders up to rest at the base of your spine and continues to brush soothing symbols along your skin. 

Dean doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to say anything. Tonight’s just one of those nights where the silence speaks for the both of you. So he just holds you, because you're curled into his side just like you're meant to.

The room is calm, and safe in the late night as the both of you begin to drift off into sleep. You both aren't really sure how long until Sam returns from wherever he left to, and honestly, you don’t care. If he wakes you, you’ll just burrow back into Dean, nose nudging his neck, arms clinging tighter. Maybe you’ll even throw a pillow at poor, unsuspecting Sammy. It wouldn’t be the first time, and yet he’d still never see it coming. But for right now, you let yourself relax and sink further into the presence of Dean.

It wasn’t a secret that Sam’s birthday was in May. It wasn’t something he was trying to hide. It wasn’t something the brothers were trying to keep from you, either. It was just... a birthday and Sam had stopped wanting to celebrate it a long time ago. 

Being on the road constantly, hunt after hunt, stuck in stuffy rundown motels and surviving when maybe he shouldn’t have—all chipped away at whatever importance a day like that might've once held. At some point, it became something he really didn’t focus on anymore. Sure, Dean tried. But all his past attempts tended to fall flat, given that Dean's idea of a good time usually involved a stripper, or a random hook up, or spending the night in a bar hustling pool. 

But to Sam, another year older didn’t feel like something worth celebrating when most of those years were steeped in guilt and blood. Maybe, deep down, he didn’t think he deserved the attention. Maybe he didn’t think he deserved to be celebrated at all. Dean would definitely argue with him about that, and Sam knew without a doubt that you would too—because you were kind, and amazing, and believed in good things. You probably still believed in him more than he ever could himself. But none of that stopped the feeling that sat heavy in his chest: that he would never be pure enough, never be truly worthy. His birthday wasn’t a big deal. To him, it was just another reminder of how out of place he sometimes felt in the world.

But hearing his birthday was coming up soon left you with a hollow feeling in your heart and a rush of unrelenting determination. All you wanted was to find some way, to show him that he mattered. Because Sam deserved nice things; deserved to have a day all to himself to be shown that he was appreciated, seen, and valued for everything he was, not judged for everything he thought he wasn’t. You didn’t care about the mistakes he carried, how he felt all of them were flooding through his veins and how every good thing slipped through his fingers, not when you knew the kind of heart Sam Winchester had. Despite it all—even the worst of it—you knew Sam just wanted to help, to make the world a little less grim, even if he didn't think he deserved forgiveness or anything in return. You just wanted him to know, even for a little while, that none of the darkness he blamed himself for could erase the good he put into the world every single day.

The topic of birthdays never really crossed your mind when things had stayed fictional, that much was true. Though, it wouldn’t surprise you if you just hadn’t noticed at the time anyway. Still, you couldn’t help but feel like you should’ve known, like it was something you should’ve picked up on, even in passing. But you hadn’t. And it made you feel this certain type of bad that you knew you didn’t need to feel, but felt anyway even after things became real. That tiny, itty bitty, twinge of guilt lingered. And not because you thought Sam would be upset. Whether it was because he was genuinely the sweetest man you’ve ever met or because he didn’t think he deserved to be celebrated at all—you weren’t sure. Either way, you know he’d never hold it against you and that somehow made everything worse.

But, you knew about it now, though. It took up more space in your mind than the case you three were currently working. All you could think about was how to show Sam how important he was to everyone—to you. You knew he wouldn’t want anything over-the-top. He’d probably shy away or insist it wasn’t necessary, and the last thing you ever wanted was to make him uncomfortable. But you just couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how nice it would be to do something, even something small, just to celebrate the existence of his that you loved so much. To let the day pass like any other would be a crime. Though, if you had asked Sam, he’d tell you that all the love and attention that you give him day in and day out was plenty; that you were his present, literally sent to him from out of his universe, and he wouldn’t want anything else. It’s cute, truly, but no amount of self loathing on his part was going to change your mind. Sam Winchester deserved to be celebrated and you planned on making his birthday a good one.

The idea of getting Sam a book comes to you briefly. It was something that first crossed your mind. He was always reading, always buried in lore or research or flipping through some unrelated story in his downtime. But the longer you sat with the idea, the more it didn’t sit right—that it wasn’t a very thoughtful gift at all. Sure, he might like it. He might even thank you and give that small, soft smile that never fails to make you swoon. But would he love it? Would it mean anything? What if you picked the wrong book—maybe something he already read, or worse, one that he wouldn’t have ever picked up? You didn’t want to give him something that felt like homework, or a filler gift that he’d shove to the side thinking you didn’t care enough.

You wanted him to have something that proved he was worth more than the effort most people, and the world, extended towards him.  That there was more to him than just reading and being smart. His identity wasn’t just researching and scanning books for lore. You wanted to give him something that showed you saw him—Sam—someone who mattered. So you turned to the one thing you knew you were good at, something that always came from the heart: you decided to make him something handmade. Because handmade meant time and care, and it meant love—and that’s what you wanted to give him. You wanted to give him a gift that was useful and he could enjoy without having to do anything. One that he could look at and know that someone thought of him. Something that he could hold onto and know, without any question or doubt, that he means something. 

You probably should’ve thought more about it at the time, but the minute the idea popped into your head, you were set on it. Wrist cramps and lost sleep—none of that mattered if it meant making something for Sam. So, you decided that you wanted to crochet him a laptop sleeve. It was cute and practical, and honestly, to you it was kind of perfect. Sam loved that laptop. It was practically an extension of him. It was always glued to his side for research or case notes, and very rarely have you seen him part with it besides hunting purposes. Though sometimes, he’d let you use it for silly things, like watching videos or playing music, even if you had your own little fancy device that could do much more. But maybe that’s just because Sam was like that with you, where sometimes actually meant whenever you wanted because Sam was entirely that smitten with you. 

You considered how much he relied on it, and knowing how gutted he’d be if anything ever happened to it again. You remembered how bad things got after the car crash, and came to the decision that he needed something soft, and safe, and made just for him. You weren’t sure if he ever replaced the case he used to have, or if he even had one at all. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was how excited you were just thinking about it. You hadn’t crocheted in months, but your fingers were laced with an itch that wanted to and needed to start right away. It didn’t matter how tired you got or how sore your hands might feel—this was for Sam. And doing something for him, anything for him, always made it worth it.

Your crochet hook had been tucked away and untouched for so long, you were half-convinced you’d forgotten how to use it. Or maybe that was just you being a little dramatic. But either way, it all came back the moment you found the perfect pattern. It was like muscle memory, you really didn’t need to think about it too much. And it would never cease to amaze you how you had managed to sneak the project into the motel room without either of the brothers noticing. It felt like a small miracle in itself, and just slightly did you let yourself beam a little in pride. The design you chose was made up of six neatly stitched heart granny-squares with these two green and brown yarns that somehow fit your perception of what you wanted to do. They were nice colors, perfectly aligning on the color scale that did not muddy in a way that would have been considered ugly. No, the green yarn was the fluffy kind—moss-like, not too dark or bright either—and it felt both wild and comforting beneath your fingers. And the brown, while not as soft or plush or even the same type of yarn, was still nice and sturdy; used to form the heart at the center of each square and the border that held them together.

It didn’t necessarily strike you until it all started to form. It was a little cottagecore-y and at the same time, reminded you of a forest; how it was deep, and quiet, and grounding. And just a little bit, it reminded you of Sam. It's the kind of aesthetic that was rooted in simplicity, and comfort, and gentle care, all things you’d come to associate with Sam in the quietest parts of knowing him. He carried that same warmth, that same stillness that felt like home, and you wanted him to look at this and know someone thought about him; deeply, intricately, intentionally. That someone saw how much heart he poured into everything he does, and how deserving he was of having something done the same just for him. Every stitch was time and care you were more than willing to give—because Sam was worth it. Worth the effort. Worth being thought of. Worth being loved.

You spent the next few days determined to get every detail perfect. Even though the gift was for Sam, you still found yourself dodging Dean too—just in case. To you, there was no room for any type of oversight. Especially when you were constantly stuck at the hips of the Winchesters. You weren’t about to risk either of them catching on to what you were doing. So you took to working on it during the silent hours of the night; fingers working and moving meticulously in near tandem, with the light of the dull motel lamp casting over your stitches just enough to see, but not enough to reach the sleeping eyes of the unconscious men on the other side of the room. 

Working on it so late hadn’t bothered you. It reminded you of where you came from, if anything. How you used to stay up late all the time working on things like this. It felt nice, homely. And even if it seemed that you were just a bit more tired than usual because of it—so be it. A few sleepless nights meant nothing in the face of those soft, dimpled features and big, earnest eyes.

Though, by the time you finished it was technically already his birthday. You’d tied off the final stitch sometime after two a.m., making sure everything was secure before tucking the handmade case and the small card you found into your bag. The problem was, now you had to wait and you were too wound up with anticipation. You were completely wide awake, which was funny, considering your eyes had started to droop not too long ago. But your heart, body and mind were buzzing. You couldn’t just go back to sleep, even as you curled back into the covers to get away from the cool air that had been nipping at your skin for hours. The feeling was pulling at you, excitement melding itself to your bones. You couldn’t wait to see his face. To see that sweet smile and those pretty eyes. The thought of his reaction made your stomach twist with butterflies—so much so that you almost considered shaking him awake right then and there. Because of course, today of all days Sam decided to sleep in, instead of getting up right at four like he usually did.

But, by the time Sam finally rose out of his slumber, you’d already been waiting for hours—quietly staring up at the ceiling, pretending like you hadn’t stayed up all night. You didn’t want to rush him, that would have been inconsiderate and rude. Sam had only just started to stir, rubbing sleep from his eyes and slowly easing into the day as he and Dean moved around the motel room in that leisurely, familiar rhythm—duffel bags unzipped, clothes swapped, vague plans murmured between them. You stayed back, gift tucked away, keeping up the act that nothing was out of the ordinary. You were just waiting. Waiting for him to be awake enough, conscious enough, to take it all in. And then, as if the moment had been handed to you, Dean tossed out a breezy “Oh, and happy birthday, man” over his shoulder. 

It was casual, almost forgettable. But it broke through the air like a tiny little spark, making you let out the faintest sound, almost like you’d just remembered something—even though the truth was you hadn’t stopped thinking about it. You shifted on your feet, bouncing slightly in front of Sam, catching his eye. His attention landed on you instantly—sharp but gentle. It was like he could already sense something was coming. His gaze was soft, though, swimming with something that you couldn’t quite place, but it made your breath hitch. It gained the attention of Dean too—because what the hell was that—but it seemed like you barely registered him.

“I know what you’re going to say,” you started, voice lower than expected. Your hands moving in front of you, animated, which was the only thing that was able to stop your bundle of nerves from getting to you. “And I know you guys don’t do big grand celebrations but… I still wanted to get you something. Um…” Your words trailed off as you shifted again, something thick and warm settling in the air between you. The quiet kind that held all the affection that didn’t need to be said.

And just for a brief moment, you catch Dean’s eye just as he’s slinging his jacket over his shoulder. He gives you a look—one of those smug, knowing ones that makes your stomach twist. It's not in a bad way, but it makes it feel like he’s in on something you aren’t. You raise an eyebrow, but before you can say anything, he’s already grabbing the keys to the Impala and casually tossing out a, “You know what, don’t even worry about today,” followed by a pointed and teasing, “You two have fun,” with a wink before he slips out the door. For him, he doesn’t need to know exactly what you’ve planned; he sees it in your eyes though—how much you care about Sam, how badly you want to give him something good. Dean’s spent his whole life trying to protect him, trying to give him scraps of happiness whenever he could, and now, seeing you want to do the same means a whole lot more than you think. He respects that. So yeah, he’ll kill time, circle back later, maybe speak to a witness or two. The hunt can wait for as long as you two needed.

Sam stares at the door for a moment, blinking in the quiet Dean left behind, his eyes flicking from the entrance back to you. It’s not that he’s protesting—at least not in any real way—just caught a little off guard, a bit bashful even in the way that tightens his throat and makes his ears warm. The thought that maybe this was some kind of setup crosses his mind, but the look on your face tells him otherwise. You didn’t entrap him; he knows that. And even if Dean had orchestrated a quick escape on his part, Sam should really stop being surprised by the things Dean does by now. But, it’s not that Sam would’ve been upset about it anyway if you had—of course not. You only ever had the best intentions in mind and besides, how could he ever complain about being alone with you?

But Sam has this look now—the one with that cute disbelieving little smile that tugs at one side of his mouth more than the other, all crooked and genuine. His dimples sink in as his eyes crinkle just slightly. And then he shakes his head, hair swaying with the motion, and he just looks so pretty like this—sweet and humble, all of his attention fully settled on you. “You didn’t have to get me anything—” he starts, voice low and sincere, but you cut him off gently, not sharply, just enough to stop the words you knew were coming. 

“No, I know,” you say quickly, breath catching a little as your nerves tangle with your excitement. Your voice is soft, almost delicate in a way as you look up at him—a little shy but most definitely full of hope. “I just… wanted to. Like I said. Please?”

And before Sam can respond, you’re already reaching into your bag, fingers curling around the gift you’ve kept tucked away. His attention sharpens immediately, a brief curiosity flickering across his face as he watches you pull it out. He’s clearly not expecting anything—it shows in the way his brows lift, eyes softening as that same bashful smile tugs at his mouth again. He’s overwhelmed, but not in a bad way—never bad when it comes to you. It’s more like flattered, deeply touched in a way he doesn’t quite know how to express yet. “You really didn’t have to—” he starts, but the words falter on his tongue the second he sees what you’re holding out to him.

It’s folded a bit, but the colors catch the light just enough—the soft green and brown, stitched together into something warm and lovely. His heart does this quiet little lurch. He doesn’t even fully understand what it is yet, but when your voice—sweet, careful, a little excited—starts explaining, it makes everything inside him still. He could listen to you forever like that. And when you mention it’s for his laptop, his brows lift again in surprise, realization clicking everything into place. 

“Did you make this?” he asks, eyes flicking back to yours, voice low and almost disbelieving. You nod, a bit shy, and he can barely hear the soft little “Yeah” tumbling from your mouth. For a moment he focuses on your smile that blooms when you see the way he’s looking at it—like it’s something precious. 

Sam turns it over in his hands, his brows drawing together in that gentle, thoughtful way he always gets when he's focused. He takes his time, eyes scanning every stitch, every corner of it. It’s adorable. Charming in a way that makes his chest ache, but it’s also incredibly well-made. His lips part slightly, and he breathes out a quiet, loving sigh. He brushes his thumb along the edge, marveling at the texture—soft, yes, but also sturdy. Sam’s pretty sure this thing could survive whatever rough treatment it was going to get. The more he looks, though, the more it hits him—how smart you were with the color choices. They were beautiful, intentional, and practical in a way that only you could manage. And it wasn’t just cute or endearing—it was you. Thoughtful, clever, kind. You made something that would last. Something just for him.

And the fact that it’s handmade—by you—strikes him somewhere deeper than he expected. It’s not just a gift. It’s a piece of you, something tangible he can touch and hold and use to remember you. The care, the time, the effort—it all floods him in an instant, and it makes his heart flutter in a way that he can’t quite explain. Sam’s not new to feeling loved around you, but this was different. More raw. More intense. Like something in him just… clicked. And he’s not sure he’ll ever look at this without thinking of how deeply, and sincerely seen he felt in this exact moment.

“Is it okay? You like it?” you ask quietly, hesitantly, and Sam’s head snaps up immediately to meet your gaze. He looks at you like you’ve just asked him something absolutely absurd. “I love it, are you kidding?” he says, and there’s an almost breathless laugh in his voice, fond and a little stunned. “When did you even have time for this? I didn’t even know you had yarn.” And despite the teasing edge in his words, his eyes are so soft, so full of something he can’t name.

The rest of the morning continues smoothly, lazily, after that. Sam, dazed with emotion, carefully slipping his laptop into the sleeve you made. Quick to do so, too, wanting to start using it immediately. It fits perfectly, like he knows it would, and the sight of it tucked into something so personal—something crafted just for him—makes his heart do this unsteady little clench. He runs his fingers along the yarn one more time, lingering, before glancing at you. You’re beaming still, eyes soft and full of accomplishment, and it only makes his cheeks flush deeper. He doesn’t say anything else right then, but the look he gives you says plenty.

And the world outside seemed to pause for a while. The two of you end up curled in his bed. Tangled in sheets and warmth, and Sam lets himself be wrapped up in you—your arms, your presence, your love. He feels dizzy, and it’s the kind of dizzy that comes with knowing he’s cared for so deeply. You pepper kisses across his cheeks, his jaw, the side of his neck, each one paired with a faint, breathless wish of “happy birthday.” It makes him laugh softly, muffling against your lips that latch onto his again. His heart feels so full it could burst, and he pulls you closer, hoping this moment stretches just a little longer.

And for a little while it does, and Sam forgets why he ever thought he didn’t deserve to be celebrated in the first place. The voice in his head—the one that always tries to pull at the past mistakes he’s made—goes silent under the weight of your affection. He knows those thoughts will come back tomorrow, and maybe you’re aware of that, too. But it’s hard to hold onto them when you look at him like that—like he’s good and worthy of being loved. You treat him so gently, deliberately, and he starts to believe that maybe he deserves the softness that you give to him so freely. 

The both of you might not spend his birthday doing much. Maybe the two of you leave the motel just to get some air, go out to eat at that tiny diner down the road. You’ll insist on paying with one of their frauded credit cards, grinning as you’re treating him. Sam just shakes his head but lets you—because you want to, and that makes Sam feel something. And later, when Dean meets back up with them, his eyes land on the crocheted case. He gives it a once over, raises his brow, teases that “It’s cute. Girly, but cute.” in usual Dean fashion. And Sam, smiling, just rolls his eyes.

It takes Dean a long time before he ever allows himself to be put in this position — vulnerable, open, seen. It’s not something he does. It’s not something he can do, or at least, not that easily. His life has never really been about him. Every good thing he’d ever done, every ounce of effort or care, it’s always been for someone else: Sam, Dad, the job. He’d never done anything for himself that didn’t somehow bleed into someone else. And even then, it never felt like enough.

Sam is his little brother, his responsibility. He raised him, he bled for him, he died for him. Dean had went to Hell with Sam’s name carved into every broken piece of him. Most people wouldn’t do that. But Dean Winchester isn’t most people. He’s his father's little soldier, the good son, the obedient one. There was never room for anything else. Never any space to figure out who he was outside of someone else's shadow. He didn’t belong to himself. Not when he was Sam’s guard dog. Not when he was John’s perfectly crafted weapon.

Dean hates himself — that much is obvious. He doesn’t need to say it out loud because he’s pretty sure that everyone already has that figured out, even if he wants to pretend that it isn’t true. It shows in the way he moves, the way he talks, the way he tears himself down before anyone else can get the chance to. He calls himself selfish, even though everything he’s ever done has been for the sake of everyone else. But he doesn’t see it that way. Dean never has. To him, sacrificing everything he is was just the bare minimum. That’s what he should do. Because what is he, if not useful? What is he, if not needed?

He’s so used to standing alone, to being the last line between the people he loves and the things that want to tear them apart. He'd rather it be him than anyone else — because somewhere along the way, he decided that his life just doesn't hold the same worth. Not like Sam's. Not like yours. And he hates that it hurts, but he also hates that he even thinks about wanting anything at all. Because wanting is selfish. Needing is selfish. And comfort? That’s not something Dean thinks he’d ever be allowed.

He’s touch-starved. He’s touch-starved in a way that's ingrained deep within his bones, but he’s convinced himself that this is just how it’s supposed to be. That he doesn’t get softness. Doesn’t get warmth. Doesn’t get to be held, or healed, or cared for. And if he ever lets himself want it — if he ever lets someone close enough to see how tired he is — then what does that make him? Weak? Needy? 

Yeah, it takes Dean a long while to let himself be put in this position — in your arms, safe, and loved, and for him to think that maybe he does deserve it. Even if he hasn’t earned it the way he thinks he’s supposed to. When it's so clear that all you want is to give it to him, no strings attached. It’s like coaxing a wild animal – careful, patient, and slow. You never corner Dean with affection, never overwhelm him with your gentle nature he doesn’t think he’s allowed to want. You just exist in his space, solid and steady, a quiet kind of constant that doesn’t ask for anything in return. And maybe that’s what gets to him most, that you don’t expect him to earn your kindness. You’re just there. And over time, that simple act starts to chip away at something inside him, something he didn’t even realize was still breakable.

It started with the smallest things. Your fingers brushing against his whenever you pass him something. The way you rest your hand on his arm when patching him up. They’re nothing, really — just harmless touches that you probably don’t even think about twice. But Dean does. He thinks about them more than he should. At first, he tells himself it's because he's not used to it. But the truth is, he misses it when it's gone. And that terrifies him. Because wanting something for himself? That’s not in the job description. That’s not who he’s supposed to be.

So when you get together and the cuddling starts, it’s always him as the big spoon. Of course it is. That’s who Dean is — the protector, the shield. He doesn’t let himself be held, not yet. He keeps watch even in the deepest of sleeps and in the darkest of nights, as if danger might strike at any moment. But your warmth seeps into him, like sunlight soaking into skin long starved of it. Dean’s drawn to you in a way that he hasn’t been drawn to anyone or anything before. His hand drifts to your chest, his breath soft and calm against your shoulder. It’s never deliberate, not at first, but over time it happens more often — these small, tender trespasses into comfort. And soon one day, without thinking, he simply lets himself fold right into you.

Dean revels in it more than he’ll ever admit. The way he fits so nice and easily in your arms — like he was always meant to be there. His head rests just above your heart, breathing synced with yours in the kind of rhythm that makes the world feel quiet for once. He's tucked into you so firm, your arms wrapping around him to secure him to you. As if in that moment, if something were to come through those motel doors, they would have to pry Dean from your cold dead hands. Because right now, he’s hidden from the world by the comforter that lays gingerly over him. It comes right up to his head, only his hair is visible to anyone that dare to even check. The only person that can truly see him is you. 

And Dean loves the little things that you do. Like how your fingers will trace shapes into the back of his neck, absent-minded and soft, like you’re painting calmness directly into his skin. Sometimes he wonders if you're drawing sigils or love notes, or just letting your touch wander. He doesn’t care what it is, though, just to be clear. He doesn’t care what you do. It leaves him feeling weightless, like his body is finally remembering what it feels like to be safe. That sensation, those tingles running down his spine, are enough to anchor him in the moment. And when everything else in his life has been chaos and guilt, and war — your touch is the one thing that doesn’t ask anything of him.

Which reminds him why he loves your hands. The way they move with such care, so soft it nearly breaks him into pieces. They’re nothing like his own — scarred, calloused, blood-soaked and burned by the weight of a world he never had a choice in. Your hands don’t carry the same kind of grief. They don’t know what it’s like to be dragged through Hell, to scream for years that don’t exist in time, to become the thing he swore he’d never be. He still remembers every second of it, every moment he was the one on the rack — the one being tortured, and worse, becoming the torturer.  And somehow, your hands still touch him like he’s someone worth such devotion.

That’s what gets to him the most. Your hands are from a place far far away, untouched by the things that plague his. There are no hunts or horrors quite like this life. And it’s that contrast that makes his mind wander. Because how could someone like you, with your soft hands and open heart, want someone like him? Someone who hates himself, who always puts others before himself and still believes he’s selfish for wanting anything in return. But even with all of that, even with everything screaming that he shouldn’t take it, he does. 

And you don’t mind. It surprises Dean the most how you completely and effortlessly don’t mind. He keeps waiting for the catch sometimes, for the moment when you pull away or start to expect something in return. But it never comes. Not with you. You let him hold on as tightly as he needs to, let him drape his weight across you like he’s something heavy and fragile all at once. His strong arms lock around your waist, pressing you close like he’s afraid of being pulled away. And even when his body sinks into yours like a living blanket — too warm, too much — you never pull away. If anything, you melt right into him, and he basks in that. In you.

You’d never complain. Dean doesn’t know if anything he does actually bothers you — nothing ever seems to — but that doesn’t stop him from overthinking. He worries about taking too much, about letting himself get too comfortable in a role he was never allowed to want. He questions if he’s too heavy, if he’s clinging too tightly, if maybe it’s selfish to crave softness when his whole life has been about giving it away. Sometimes, all it takes is a subtle shift from you, a stretch or a sigh, and his brain darkens with guilt. He’ll apologize under his breath, pulling back just slightly, ready to undo the comfort he let himself believe he could have. But you notice — of course you notice — and you meet it with tenderness, never rejection.

You resettle without hesitation, like you want him there, and he almost can’t handle how gently you handle him. You stroke the back of his neck with featherlight fingers, your arms curling around his broad frame as if you’re telling him to stay — that he’s safe. You press soft kisses to the crown of his head, murmuring reassurances in a voice that wraps around his heart like a warm blanket. It undoes him. Every single time. 

You might shift again, though this time it's much more gentle and slow, but Dean will barely register it. He’s just barely treading the line of that quiet space between sleep and wakefulness, just conscious enough to feel the warmth of you wrapped around him. And suddenly, a low, involuntary sound escapes him — so low that Sam who’s been long asleep couldn’t hear. It’s soft, almost like a whine, and you’re pretty sure if he were awake enough to notice, he’d probably deny it ever happened. But you do hear it, and it pulls a quiet laugh from your throat; a breathy sound laced with fondness and it tickles at Dean's brain. Though a sleepy pout tugs at your lips, even as you smile, and you lean in close to whisper a little teasing, “What’s wrong, hm?” but you already know. You know exactly what he wants, what he needs, because you’ve come to understand him in ways no one else ever has.

Your hand finds its way into his hair, still a little damp from the shower — the strands soft like clouds and a few curl slightly at the ends. Your fingers scratch lightly at his scalp, in slow and soothing consistent movements, while your other hand rests along his back; drawing slow, tender circles that feel like medicine to his aching and tension-filled body. You coo something nice, something sweet that melts into the space between you. It makes his mind go fuzzy and causes him to drift deeper. You don’t care that he’s heavy, or clingy, or quiet — you just want him to feel good. To be cared for, completely and unconditionally. And in this moment, that’s exactly what he lets you do. He doesn’t fight it. He can’t.

Your kisses are the softest sound he’s ever heard. Little clicks as your lips part from his skin, quiet and sweet and endlessly patient. Every single one makes him burrow closer, hiding his face like he could melt straight into you. He’s not embarrassed, not really — that wouldn’t be the correct word anyway — but his cheeks are warm, and he knows you’re amused by the way your chest rumbles with a quiet laugh. It makes him press in deeper, his face tucked away and eyelashes fluttering against your skin like a shy confession. And you take that as permission, because of course you do; pressing slow kisses across his cheeks, along his brow, the curve of his nose — anywhere your mouth can reach really and Dean just lets you. He can’t quite reach your lips from the angle he’s trapped himself into, he knows that, but he still tries to return the affection anyway. He’ll drowsily nudge kisses against your collarbone, or your shoulder, or anything he can manage.

And you call him such sweet things while you do it. They’re soft pet names that make him ache. Honey. Sweetheart. Words that never felt like they belonged to him before, but somehow, coming from you, feel like they do. He doesn’t know why you calling him sweetie makes his chest tight in a way that isn’t derived from panic or just something bad — but it does. But it’s also the way you say his name that gets him the most. The way it rolls off your tongue, syrupy and lovely, like something precious. You make his name sound beautiful. And Dean doesn’t know how you do it, how you take a name he’s only ever heard barked in anger or strained with urgency and turn it into something tender.

Your hand leaves his back for a moment and he misses the weight of it instantly — until he feels the soft brush of your fingers along his jaw. He sucks in a breath as you trace the edge of it with the back of your knuckle before cupping his cheek, stroking it with the pad of your thumb like he’s something delicate. He leans into it without meaning to, something quiet and needy pulling him into the warmth of your palm. You’re having fun with it, doting on him like he’s your favorite thing — and yeah, he is. He feels it in the way you touch him, in the way you look at him like he’s soft and worth loving. Dean’s never been cherished like this, not even close — and it makes him feel dizzy, overwhelmed in the best way possible. Dizzy and safe. Always safe, always with you.

It melts his heart and terrifies him at the same time. The way you treat him with so much care, so much softness, like he’s something worth keeping. And as much as he craves it, as deeply as his wretched soul aches for it, he still doesn’t believe he’ll ever actually deserve it. He tells himself he should pull away in the last conscious moments he has — but he doesn’t. He won’t. Because he let this happen. He let you in. Let the warmth of your love root itself in him until it was too deep to tear out without causing pain. Until not leaning into it hurt way worse than anything else.

Dean doesn’t know how he ended up here, wrapped up in arms that want nothing from him except for him to exist, but he gave up trying to make sense of it a long time ago. He can’t seem to make himself care about the why, though, not when you don’t seem to either. And maybe that does make him selfish because  he’s finally allowing himself to be. Sure, maybe there’s a whisper of guilt that still creeps into the corners of his mind, but you always chase it out with a kiss, or a soft word, or a tender look. And in these quiet, sacred moments, where his mind is just full of thoughts of you — he can’t think of Hell. He can’t think of all the horrors and pain and suffering. Just you. Sweet and gentle, and wonderful you. And somewhere in the deep dark of the night, Dean wonders why he was so against being selfish sooner.

The first time you call him Sammy, he hates it. He hates it because he hates the way it sounds. It's ringing in his ears. The way it comes off your tongue is putrid and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. It’s unexpected and it has him gapping. He hates it the most, though, because you’re crying.  

There’s a laundry list of reasons why he hates it. But none of those reasons have anything to do with you. Even then, you’ve never slipped up, never even come close to saying it. Maybe you’ve thought about it, maybe you haven’t — Sam isn’t a mind reader. But he’s pretty sure you know he doesn’t like it. You’ve heard him shut others down before, made it clear it was off-limits. Whether or not you ever wondered why never really crossed his mind. It could be that you’re just understanding. You’re always patient with him, always respectful. It wouldn’t surprise him, though, if you already knew.

It’s in the way you glance at him whenever someone else says it, some stranger who doesn’t know better. The way your eyes flick to his, gauging his reaction, but you never ask. Never push. Never assume you have the right. It’s like you already get it — that to him, Sammy is a chubby twelve year old with too big eyes and an even bigger heart, a kid who still believed in things before the world beat it out of him. Sammy is powerless. Sammy is soft. And Sam has spent his whole damn life trying to be anything but.

Dean gets away with it — most of the time. Some days, it doesn’t sting as much. Other days, it makes his skin crawl. But you? You never try. Never tested the boundaries of what he’ll allow, like it’s some kind of game. You call him Sam. Just Sam. Nothing more, nothing less.

However, that doesn’t matter right now because you’re crying. Because you’re hurting so much that it’s spilling out of you, raw and unfiltered, past your lips in desperation. And Sam knows — knows you’d never call him that on purpose, never say it just to get under his skin. You know how much it bothers him. But right now? He can’t bring himself to care. Because how could he, when your voice is shaking, when your hands are trembling, when whatever pain you’re carrying is heavy enough to make you forget something so simple? He wouldn’t be mad at you — not really. He actually doesn’t think he could ever be mad at you. Especially not when you’re looking at him like that, like you need him to be steady, to be something solid when everything else feels like it’s slipping away.  So he swallows whatever flicker of irritation tries to rise in his chest and focuses on what actually matters. You. 

You, who’s crying. You're crying and you won’t stop. It’s the kind of crying that shakes your whole body, that makes your breaths come out in sharp, broken gasps. And Sam doesn’t know what to do. He hasn’t ever seen you cry like this before. Maybe a quiet sniffle, or a small tear you’d quickly wipe away when you thought no one was looking — but never this.

He hadn’t expected this when he came back to the motel room. Dean had dropped him off before heading out to the bar down the street. It's the usual thing he does to celebrate another successful case. While Sam would’ve loved to join, he really didn’t. You were here and Sam could never stay away from you for too long. All Sam wanted to do was be with you and go to bed. 

But he hears it the minute he walks up to the door. It's muffled through the walls and the wood, but he can hear it clear enough. The sounds of heartbreaking cries and Sam grows frantic.  He’s quick to get the key in the door to unlock it. And no sooner does he do so, as he pushes it open, he finds you. He finds you sitting on one of the beds — at this point he isn’t sure which one it is and he doesn’t think you do either. Neither of you actually care, because that isn’t the concern. 

The sight before him is, and it breaks his heart. But he rushes in; fast and swift. The door shuts behind him with a clunk, and he sees you jolt. And all Sam can think to do is gather you up in his arms.  Because Sam isn’t some heartless freak that would close the door and walk away. His brain is too frazzled to think about anything else. He needs to hold you. He needs to calm you down. The tears streaming down your face tell him that you've been crying for hours. And just a little, it makes him sick, thinking that you’ve been upset for that long. 

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, your face buried in his shoulder like you’re trying to disappear into him. And all Sam can do is hold you. His arms wrapping around you so carefully, so gently, as if he’s afraid you’ll break apart completely if he isn’t careful — like you're fragile. 

“Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispers softly. “I'm here.” He soothes as he holds you. “Just breathe f’me, okay?” His voice is steady, even if everything else isn’t. You’re wrapped up in him, as your body trembles. It's not just from your crying. No, it’s one of those involuntary shudders. He cradles the back of your head with his hand, helping you press yourself further into him. It’s almost as if he's shielding you as you hide away from everything. And while Sam might not know what that everything is, he’ll find it and make sure it never bothers you again. 

And that’s when he hears it. It’s muffled against the fabric of his flannel, and just low enough that he would’ve missed it. But he can’t. Because you’ve kept repeating his name through your broken sobs. It’s rapid before it slows. You say his name like you're trying to convince him of some urgency without having to say anything else. And then he realizes that you aren’t just saying his name by the time you start teetering on the edge of calming down. You hiccup and sniffle, and he can feel the heat of your tears against his neck.

The world around him seemed to fade and the sound of the highway outside dulled to nothing. He freezes for a brief moment, his breath hitched as those syllables hit his ears. So soft but shattered — fragile and so, so heavy. It was gut wrenching, and the way you had said it was different. It was different then he’d ever heard it before. Dean said it with familiarity, obviously — sometimes teasing, sometimes sharp, sometimes warm, sometimes just to mess with him. But you? It wasn’t just his name anymore. It was everything you had been feeling. All the hurt and exhaustion and desperation bundled into those two syllables — and he feels that flicker of irritation in his chest shift.

That irritation changes into something intense and unhinged. It burns in his lungs and coils around his heart. He felt cheated, robbed of something precious — because he had always wondered how it would have sounded had it ever left your mouth. Because he trusts you so much that he’d imagine it plenty of times. He imagined it sultry and light, full of love and care. The way you’d look at him like he hung the moon and stars. He pictured the way your lips would curve around the syllables, how the name would dance from your tongue and into his ears. And even if Sam thinks he doesn’t deserve it, amongst all the things that haunt and plague his mind; he thinks that maybe, just maybe, if he had ever heard it like that, it would’ve healed something in him.

But now, in contrast to everything else, the name began to taste like salt and sorrow. 

You don’t really say anything else after that and it's clear that you don’t really know what to do next either. All you do is try and sink deeper into him, and Sam lets you. He’s patient as your breathing slowly begins to even out as he lets his warmth encase you. Your head lays so lazily against his shoulder, as does your body against his — so defeated, so worn out. And Sam feels just a bit guilty the moment he pulls away and your face is forced to emerge. 

He watches as your lip trembles as you take deep breaths. And a soft, small whimper nearly escapes your throat before he's pressing sweet kisses into your skin. It doesn’t matter where they land, whether it’s your cheek or your nose, he’s peppering you with enough kisses before you could even think about working yourself up again.

“Hey hey hey,” he coos and frowns slightly at your tear stricken face.  “It’s okay, honey. I got you.” 

He studies your face as you look at him, your cheek squishing and settling into his cupped hand. You just look so tired. He moves to smooth the hair away from your face and comes to the decision that he can’t just leave you like this. To leave you with dry tear tracks along your face and to wake up feeling miserable. No, he can’t have that. As gentle and loving as Sam can, he presses a kiss to your forehead and gingerly uses his thumbs to wipe the remaining tears from your cheeks. 

He’ll suggest ever so lightly to get you cleaned up. He murmurs it ever so tender, afraid of uttering any words too loud. And you don’t argue. You don’t wave him off — you don’t have the strength to. Instead you nod weakly and follow his lead as he sits you up. He moves fast, grabbing a washcloth that isn’t too far away in the bathroom and dampens it before dabbing at your cheeks. In fact, he wipes down your whole face so that there isn’t even a trace of your cries left. He moves more of your hair out of your face, the small strands of hair that were either dampened from your tears or the cloth, he isn’t sure. 

But his hands are steady. Sam is pretty sure that his hands have never been this steady in all his life. They’re precise and patient, soft in a way that is only reserved for you. And when you look up at him — with a small sad thankful smile and red rimmed eyes — he’ll just smile back reassuringly, pressing yet another kiss to your temple.  

He’ll ask if it's all better, and you’ll nod. You do seem much better now — calmer, more still — which Sam is glad for. And soon enough, the two of you are tucked tight beneath his covers, the warmth settling over you like a heavy, quiet comfort. You latch onto him immediately, burying your face as deep as you can into his chest, like you’re trying to disappear into the space between his ribs. Your grip on him, however, is no longer desperate but something softer, something lingering. His arms settle around you instinctively, holding you close. The slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing seems to lull you, your body finally relaxing against his. It’s peaceful. Almost perfect.

Though, a small ‘..ank you, ..ammy’ is murmured. The words drowsy, barely forming — melting into the warmth of him as sleep drags you under.

Sam tenses for half a second and his chest tightens briefly. But in the next moment, he isn’t paying it any mind. He doesn’t need to dwell on it. Instead, he just holds you tighter; pressing his lips to the crown of your head, lets himself sink into the warmth of you beside him, and exhales.

He wonders if you’ll remember in the morning — if you’ll realize what you said, if you’ll apologize for it, or if you won’t even think twice. He thinks about if you’ll say it again. Because, yeah, he feels extremely robbed. The thought gnaws at him. It's like it's been tainted with something new and he’s almost eager for it to not be. And maybe it won’t be tomorrow, maybe not even next week, but eventually. Because somewhere, deep in that big, smart, dummy brain he has, he knows that you will say it again. And when you do, it’ll be soft, bright, and full of something that only he could wish for. 

He can already hear it. He can already imagine the way his nickname will sound when it’s spoken by you not through exhaustion or desperation, but through delight. And it’s already music to his ears. Because maybe — just maybe — being called Sammy wouldn’t be so bad. Especially if it’s coming from you.

You’re reserved. It's the best way that you could describe it. It's done in such a meticulous way that no one could really tell. And you’re fine with that. It's how you wanted it, anyways. You make sure that nothing seems out of place. You’re careful, even though you really don’t need to be. Because even though it's a fact that you are now friends with the brothers — you are also very close friends with Sam. And it's because of him that you can’t just let go. 

And that… sucks, to say the least. It sucks because you never thought that he would ever want to be your friend. You actually don’t know what you’ve done to have him be drawn to you so much. You think, maybe, it might be the universe testing you somehow. Because it isn’t just that Sam is nice, or that he’s still trying to make you feel welcome. Though, it could be that Sam is just restless from spending too much time around his brother, but you aren’t entirely sure. No, it's in the way Sam's eyes light up when he spots you. It’s in how he’s so quick to talk to you, almost like he’s eager. It’s in the way he gets you to ramble on and on about your passions or things you miss — the way it makes your heart feel full. It’s in the way he makes you laugh, where there’s a look in his eyes you can’t quite place — but it's a good look. How sometimes you both end up talking for hours about something that means absolutely nothing at all. It’s easy. Existing with Sam is just easy, and that's why you think it's too good to be true. And that's why you never let yourself get too comfortable. 

Because you aren't sure if you’re just seeing things; if you’re reading too much into the little stuff or if you’re just being paranoid. Because there is one thing that was very obvious and very clear to you, long before ever being in the presence of the Winchesters  — you would have never made Sam Winchester uncomfortable the way Becky had. It’s common sense, really, and it isn’t that hard to do; especially if you were someone who respected the bodily autonomy of another person. You would never do any of the things she did — but at the start, neither of the boys knew that. And after a while they got the hint that, yeah, you were not Becky and never would be.

So even now, months later, you still keep Sam at arms length in a weird attempt to keep things normal. Though, you aren’t actually sure it's doing anything — it isn’t — but to you it is, and that's all that matters. Because the truth is, you like him more than you should. You’ve had a crush on Sam Winchester since the first time you watched the show and that never changed. Except, maybe, for your arrival and the month following it. Any feelings completely vanished for the time being as you were in a constant state of panic the whole time. Though now, with you being more at ease and a little more settled in, the small romantic thoughts crept back into your head. And at this moment, you are not going to make any sudden movements that would indicate that fact. Because as smart as Sam was, you were hoping that he wasn’t smart enough to see through you.

And, while that's great for you, it’s actually a massive problem for Sam. It's a problem because Sam does, in fact, like you. He likes you and yet to him, it seemed like you were ignoring every possible sign of it. At first he’ll think that you just want to be friends, or maybe you really just don’t notice. Which is funny, because Dean definitely notices and won’t stop giving him shit about it. But then Sam will notice the way when you two talk — that the smile you have doesn’t really meet your eyes, or the way you give him space. The way you keep a good distance away from him like you’re afraid to crowd him; or the way you try too hard to not brush your fingers against his whenever he hands something over to you — which by the way, he totally does on purpose. God, he's so pathetic. 

Sam’s aware that it's never out of malice — he can see that. You’re always warm and thoughtful, and always just so considerate. And yet, there’s something behind your eyes, something just out of reach. Sam will never pry, though. At least not yet. He lets you keep your distance, lets you think he doesn’t notice the way you keep yourself contained. But he does. And maybe he should say something, maybe he should push. But he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps thinking about it until it boils over. It's the miniscule things that he obsesses over, because maybe it's just him. That he's just reading too much into it. But he doesn’t think so. Dean will think so. He thinks Sam should just ask you out and leave him alone about it. 

“I don’t know, man.” Dean will say, very unhelpfully. “Maybe she's scared of you thinking she's some type of freak or something.” It's an… odd thing to say. But Dean is drunk, and Sam really shouldn’t be surprised when he was the one that barged into Dean's room at this hour. “She does come from that other place…so…” And he’s waving Sam off, too wrapped up in his westerns to finish. 

However, it’s like a light bulb going off in his mind, and Sam suddenly gets it. And maybe he should feel a little stupid for not getting it sooner. But he gets it now. And he’s off to go find you, because this just can’t wait till morning — he wouldn’t be able to sleep otherwise. Not that he sleeps much anyways. 

He finds you in the bunkers library, reading, with your phone laying face down on the table. It's not unusual for you to be there, but he’s lucky to catch you before you’ve decided you can’t take being up anymore. He takes a moment to breathe in the sight of you though. You’re gorgeous, the way the dim lit of the room paints your features. The way your hair falls because your head is tilted a certain way, and all Sam wants to do is brush it behind your ear. He knows you're not actually paying attention to the book in your hands. He sees you fidget, your eyes shifting over to your phone; you look sad almost, and Sam can’t take it anymore. 

He doesn’t need to convince himself of anything before he's already on his way over to you. He offers a soft greeting to alert you of his presence and sees the way you light up just a bit. It makes him smile as he settles into the chair next to you, but no sooner does he take a seat, he notices the way you shift your body to look at him. It's nothing big, or at least, it shouldn’t be. Just a small adjustment — an inch, maybe two — like that tiny bit of space will make some kind of difference. Like you’re subconsciously trying not to be too close to him. Sure, maybe you just want to give him your full attention, which he knows is probably also true. But the way you move is careful and deliberate, as if you’re hyper aware of the space between you. It doesn’t take him by surprise though. 

What does take him by surprise, is the answer to his question. Not because it isn’t what he's expecting — it is, to some degree, anyways — but he can’t believe he was right. When he asks, he isn't mean or condescending, he isn’t bullying an answer out of you or being accusatory. No, he asks all nice, putting those puppy eyes to work. His voice is soft and calm, easing you into the conversation with clarity that you hadn’t done anything wrong; he just wants to know why you're so tense towards him. And for a moment, he expects you to deny deny deny. You don’t though. Instead, you let out this big strained sigh, wincing at your words before they even leave your mouth. It's like you’ve accepted defeat, like there was no use in trying to come up with some excuse. You felt you owed him the truth, and also you just couldn’t take it anymore. In doing that, however, it's the first time Sams seen you relax.

“I’m sorry. I… guess I’m still trying to get used to, you know, all this.” You apologize, and while it doesn’t seem like you’re that nervous, you are. But somehow that doesn’t convey itself through your words. Truthfully, to Sam you sound a bit shy, and it's cute. Sam nods along, understanding and a bit on edge for you to continue. You look like you have a lot on your mind and he’s ready to listen. “And I may have been a little worried about… making you uncomfortable.”

It takes a minute for your words to really register with him. As soon as they do though, Sam's expression softens as he watches you. He gets it — in fact, he appreciates it. That’s actually really sweet of you. In the midst of trying to find your footing in a world that shouldn’t even exist outside a screen, while you’re still trying to adjust to everything — you’re worried about him. It’s thoughtful, in a way that makes something warm settle in his chest. 

But as he thinks it over, turning your words around in his mind, something else clicks. You said him specifically — not anyone else in general, not Dean, just him. And the more he thinks about it, the clearer it becomes. You’re not just overthinking because you don’t want to be weird. You’re overthinking because of Becky. And Becky was his problem. Which means this — your carefulness, your nervous little hesitations — they’re all because of him. And then it dawns on Sam, confirming the sneaking suspicions he’s had already. That the way you speak, the way you worry, the way you care just a little too much. It isn’t just because you’re so kind and mindful. No, it all pieces itself together. You’re a Sam girl. You like him.

Before he even realizes it, Sam is already shaking his head, keen on reassuring you. You don’t need to apologize. You don’t need to worry about that — about him. He tells you as his voice is gentle but certain. He trusts you, in a way that he can’t explain, and there’s no way you could ever make him uncomfortable. And as he speaks, he watches the way you take in his words, the flicker of relief that crosses your face, the way your shoulders ease just the slightest bit. And something about it, about you, makes his chest feel strangely light.

Now there’s this quiet, new awareness that lingers between you both. It’s nice. Easy. The conversation continues deep into the night, shifting into something lighter, smoother — like an exhale after holding in a breath for too long. There’s something refreshing about it, about you, and it feels like a piece of something he hadn’t realized was missing just clicked into place. And maybe that’s why, as you keep talking, laughing softly at something he says, Sam lets himself settle into it. This new thing, whatever it is — is beautiful. 

And later, in the dark of his room, when it’s dangerously way too late for him to be up and you’re long retreated back into your room — Sam lets himself think back to your conversation. He replays it over and over. Because no, he’s not going to spill his guts any time soon. At least, not yet. First, he needs to ease you out of that careful tension, to get you to stop overthinking every little thing around him. It’s not just going to happen in a day, and Sam doesn’t expect it to. It’s not the time to lay it all out there, even if he’s almost certain you feel the same. He wants to take this slow — wants to do it right. The last thing he’d ever want is to make a mistake with you.

Still, that doesn’t stop the anticipation from drumming against his chest. He wants to tell you. Desperately. But he’ll wait, just a little longer. And maybe — just maybe — he’ll let himself take a little pride in it. In the fact that you’re a Sam girl. He lets the thought sit with him; lets a small, shy smile pull at his lips as he leans back against his pillows, staring at his ceiling and thinking about all the possibilities. Yeah. You’re a Sam girl. And he’s okay with that.

Sam hadn’t remembered when it happened. It started a long time ago, he’s sure of it. It happened so quick, so fast, and soon he couldn't remember the last time he slept alone. If he ever thought about it, the only thing he could imagine is your warm, soft body entangled with his. That every horrible, no good thing that had ever happened to him in his life faded the minute he was with you. And it makes him wonder how he could have gone so long before that without being in your arms. Because while Sam tries to take care of himself at every turn — eating right, going on his early morning runs, etc — he's aware that you just know better than him. 

He can feel it in your movements, in the way you tuck the blanket around him more. The way it makes him properly press against you, laying on you and molding himself to your body. He feels secure. He feels safe. The only thing visible about him is his head that rests against you, tucked perfectly under your chin. And for a moment, he’d worry he’ll crush you. He’s so much bigger than you, but you don’t seem to mind. In fact, you might chid him softly, wanting to give him the comfort he so desperately needs. Where you’ll always happily cradle him with such love and devotion it might just make him cry. Because as quick as he is to think that he doesn’t deserve it, that he doesn’t deserve you, the thought is pushed out from his mind entirely. Because you’ve told him many times that he does, and who is he to argue with you?

Where your fingers dance in his hair, combing through the strands so delicately. He feels mushy. And it sends a jolt down his spine when the pads of your fingers brush against his neck. He can feel when your hands move. Maybe you’re cupping his exposed cheek and brushing your thumb against his face. Or maybe he can feel you trace various parts of his features; his brows, the spot in between his brows, the bridge of his nose, his jaw, his dimples. It’s soothing, it makes him shiver, makes him feel nice. 

Sometimes, Sam thinks that he doesn’t care what you'd do — no matter what, it's leaving him with a fluttery feeling in his chest. Anything you do is full of nothing but love and care. Even when you hit a small knot along his scalp, it doesn’t rip him away from the feeling of the moment. Instead, he feels floaty. Because you give him a soft kiss somewhere on the top of his head, murmur such a sweet little apology, and go back to running your fingers through his hair again. And all he can do is nuzzle further into your neck, hiding his face from embarrassment. His cheeks burn, because he shouldn’t like this so much — but he does. It's his favorite thing in the world.

So yeah, he doesn’t remember the last time he was held so tenderly — so kindly, so affectionately. He almost feels like he's in a dream. He wonders if this is what his heavens like, regardless if he thinks he’s getting there or not. He feels so cared for and safe and never had Sam been so grateful for anything in his life. 

Though, Sam wonders if this is how you feel, on the usual days where you cuddle him. Where he holds you close, squishes you against him and his big frame. Where his big arms protect you in the night and the idea grounds him back to earth. It must be. And you're the cutest; the way you nuzzle up to him, the way you grab onto his clothes because you're afraid of him disappearing. You love him so much, and sometimes Sam just can’t believe it. 

Exhaustion runs deep in his bones now. He's so tired, so numb, it leaves his head dizzy. But you’re perfect. In a way that Sam really can’t put into words. You’re so generous, and kind, and sweet, and Sam should really get it in his head that all he has to do is ask. He doesn't need to wait till his sanity is gripping at his mind by a thread. Of course, that doesn’t matter though now. It was this hunt that had come and gone that snapped it. And all he wanted was to be with you, with all the comfort you're so eager to give. 

Because there are days where you can’t sleep. You’re a night owl. And no amount of lecturing on Sam's part is going to change that. The truth is, you had sleeping problems long before Sam Winchester ever found his way into your life. Still, it makes him feel guilty. It eats away at him like he somehow makes it worse, like he’s taking advantage of you. But you know he’s not. 

Sam needs you. It’s not a fact he will ever shy away from. And maybe you have one earphone in to distract from the enclosing silence, or that fact that Dean snores way too loud. And yeah, they should probably try for separate rooms, but money is always a bit tight and availability is always questionable. But it doesn’t matter. Whatever you are listening to doesn’t matter, because you aren’t even looking at it. Though, for the record, the sound is only up a notch. Anything more and you're too worried it’ll disturb him. 

Your phone is faced down on the nightstand and maybe once in a while he’ll feel the wire connected to it brush up against his face. He’ll wrinkle his nose and you’ll fix it. You’re attentive and alert. You’ll go to sleep when you need to. But at the moment, your focus is on him. He can feel your eyes through the top of his skull and the sweet, loving look you give when you're at peace. He can feel it in the way you play with the ends of his hair and how you press more gentle kisses against the crown of his head. Because you enjoy this just as much as he does. 

It's just the two of you – no monsters, no hunt, no world ending crisis. And even if there was, Sam was in your arms right now and it would have to wait.

modern!reader .ᐟ 1.02k words | x reader 𝘀𝘆𝗻. ━ one minute, you were at home and the next, you were gone. but now, here you are, and it looks like you are here to stay!

─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ───  ─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ───  ─── ⋆⋅𖦹⋅⋆ ───

sam winchester masterlist

dean winchester masterlist

𖤐 .ᐟ you are a long way away from home, whether you like it or not. you try so hard to maintain your composure, because in your mind, there is no point in freaking out. but you do, just a little bit in the beginning because how could you not? you’re a nervous wreck, no doubt. and the boys can’t really blame you.

𖤐 .ᐟ you are armed with nothing more than your crochet hook, your small purse, and the clothes on your back. you are lost and for right now, you feel small and alone.

𖤐 .ᐟ but you are going to be put through an interrogation. they are the winchesters and can never be too careful. it’s nothing over the top, but you are from where you are and the boys had just about enough of their lives being on display. you are on your best behavior — polite and kind, but you are still nervous and a little shaky.

𖤐 .ᐟ you, who is trying to remain calm through the initial skepticism that came with popping up out of nowhere. the assumption is witches, a curse maybe. deans got the holy water ready just in case and sams flipping through lore for any type of explanation. there is, but no one likes it. there’s a recollection of something a witch had done a week ago, mentioning something about being out of this world. it’s a reach, a long shot even, but that witch is long gone. 

𖤐 .ᐟ so, here you are. you, who knows things. too many things. things that the brothers would rather you not know. you know their traumas — their childhood traumas no less. you know about most of their hunts and their world ending drama. deans wary, though sams more open to understanding. 

𖤐 .ᐟ that's because you aren’t threatening. you aren’t weird, at least not in a bad way. you aren’t obsessive, you're respectful. you don’t pry, you don’t push, you never overstep. you ask before touching anything, you clean up after yourself — making it look like you were never even there. you never bring up anything either, nothing that would be uncomfortable. nothing that would deliberately show the knowledge you had. you stayed in their present and contributed if asked. 

𖤐 .ᐟ you didn’t insert yourself in any hunts, maybe because you knew that you weren’t a hunter. or maybe because the boys would not be receptive to having to babysit you out there. but you are helpful. you organize lore books and help with research, and cook. that certainly softens dean up a bit.

𖤐 .ᐟ you’re a sweetheart, and over time it's really hard for them to stay away though. you're crafty and witty the more you come out of your shell, and it's a wonderful sight to behold. you are many things — soft and sweet, happy like sunshine; but you do have a little bark, and a little bite, and are most certainly able to keep up. you radiate such warmth that you are the calm to their chaos.

𖤐 .ᐟ the thing about you — the thing that makes it so easy for both of them — is that you already get them. there’s no need for explanations. no need to spell out their trauma or their history, because you do in fact, already know. and not in any way that makes them uncomfortable, not in a way that feels invasive. you don’t use it against them, don’t throw their past mistakes in their faces. you just understand.

𖤐 .ᐟ for sam, he doesn’t have to explain why he does anything. he doesn’t have to explain why he hesitates sometimes. why he still believed in trying to save people, even when the world has given him every reason not to. you don't see him as just sam winchester, boy king, a tragic protagonist. you just see him. you never look at him like he’s naive for wanting more than just hunting, for being drawn to books and research and the idea of a quiet life. you remind him, in little ways, that he’s allowed to want more, even if he never really gets it.

𖤐 .ᐟ and for dean… well, it takes longer for dean to get there. because it's one thing for him to slightly like you, to even tolerate your presence. it’s another to trust you and let you in. and he does. it’s the way dean stops questioning if you’re staying. the way he smiles when you giggle at his dumb jokes without forcing it. the way his heart clenches when you hand him one of his beers without him having to ask. the way you see him — the real him. not just the reckless, self-sacrificing jackass that he presented himself to be. and you don’t try to fix him. no, you would never do that. you don’t pity him. you just stay.

𖤐 .ᐟ there’s an unspoken something you notice in the way dean always finds himself standing closer to you than necessary. or the way sam’s gaze lingers a little too long when you’re focused on a book. the way both of them instinctively check to make sure you’re okay after a hunt, even though you weren't even there. how your absence feels wrong whenever you’re not with them.

𖤐 .ᐟ you do, however, treat them the way you think they deserve to be treated. with a little bit of softness and a little bit of delicacy. not too much. oh no, but just enough to not scare them away. 

𖤐 .ᐟ you don’t make them work for your understanding. they don’t have to explain why they are the way they are. why they react the way they do. why some nights they drink too much and fall apart under the weight of everything. you already know. and because of that, they don’t have to pretend with you. they can just be. 

𖤐 .ᐟ and maybe you’re stuck, trying to find your place in their world. sometimes you think that you have no business being here. it's dangerous with everything that goes on in their lives. and… that's okay. they’ll help you. they’ll pick you up and bring you in close. they’ll bring you back when you're distant — pull you back to reality. because you aren’t alone, you’re with them.

haircut .ᐟ 2.4k words | x reader 𝘀𝘆𝗻. ━ giyuu is depressed and you take care of him.

giyuu has a crush .ᐟ 1.4k words | x reader 𝘀𝘆𝗻. ━ giyuu is wholeheartedly in love with you.

giyuu learns to crochet .ᐟ 1.9k words | x reader 𝘀𝘆𝗻. ━ giyuu decides it’s time to tell you how he feels.

˗ˏˋ inosuke hashibira

It always starts like this when Giyuu can’t think straight. His brain is fuzzy and worn out from the day. He often wonders how he gets into these positions, but he’s aware that you just know him too well. Probably because you do know him better than he knows himself.

He always thinks about the time before it became you and him. Where the thought itched at his brain constantly. He fantasized about it. It was so hard not to in every waking moment, he even wondered if it was going to be the death of him.

But here he was, nose buried in the crevice of your neck, laying onto you just enough that he didn’t crush you; but you’d never complain if he did. His free arm wrapped around your midsection just enough to allow his hand to grip your side. The pads of his fingers barely dig into your skin. You could probably feel the tension in his body, his hands are firm and rigid against you. Perhaps he’s just a bit nervous you’d disappear if he didn’t hold onto you tight enough. He might apologize for that, or the fact that his hair is definitely in your face.

Oh, but you might giggle. He can hear it. It’s soft and light. You're so amused by him sometimes. You might call him silly, or you might not say anything at all. You might give the sensitive part of his scalp a good scratch to shut him up. You might, and you always do. The feeling of your nails dig into his head makes him squeak. The way your fingers brush against the strands of his hair. It’s heavenly. He buries his head deeper because he’s so embarrassed. His face is hot, and after all this time he’s still so touched-starved. The smallest bit of your attention destroys any functioning brain cells he has left.

It’s just so good being in your arms. It’s just as good as when you're in his. It’s rare, but when that happens he loves the weight of you on top of him. It grounds him back down to earth. And you’re so cute. Somehow you always end up holding his hand, holding it close to your chest and nuzzling yourself against him more. He can’t get over that you want to be around him as much as he wants to be around you.

Giyuu lets out a sigh in contentment.

He’s so tired but he’s so excited. It’s not his fault that he views you as perfection and it’s also not his fault for taking advantage of the attention you desperately want to give him. You’re so generous, and Giyuu had been looking forward to this for days. His mission had been taking too long for his liking and he wondered if this was some sick torment the universe enjoyed toying at him with. All he wanted was to be at his estate, with you.

But you were such a night owl and that was something that Giyuu found out pretty quick. You spent more time awake in his presence than he did with you. Giyuu thinks, and he wouldn’t be wrong, that you try to savor as much time as you can with him. It’s true, you wouldn’t deny it. But you had sleeping problems long before being with Giyuu; though, it makes him feel guilty that he somehow makes it worse.

You were crocheting something, as always, trying to tire yourself out mentally. Your hands working on the project were raised just above his face, and your elbow could be found resting against his upper back. It was so soothing, the way he could feel you working your hook in and out of the stitches. And every so often a stray piece of yarn might’ve brushed against his cheek or nose, tickling him ever so slightly.

It felt nice. The way you had him caged in your arms. He felt so protected and Giyuu couldn’t remember the last time he felt so safe.

He doesn’t know what you’re making; but he’s sure whatever it is will be perfect.

One day he’d get you to sleep though. Yes, he’d get you to drift off so peacefully and do the same to bring you just as much comfort that you do for him. He’d play with your hair. He knows you’d like that. He can almost see it now. The cute noises you’d make and the content, sleepy sigh you’d give as he has you wrapped up in his arms.

He’s in and out of sleep now, drifting off for a few minutes at a time. But he really can’t stay awake anymore. Even though he really wants to. He feels you put your crochet things to the side. However, he barely registers the mumble under your breath when the metal hook makes a ‘TINK’ sound when it’s placed.

It wasn’t too loud but it was too loud for you. You apologize, softly whispering to him but honestly, Giyuu doesn’t know what for. It didn’t disturb him, though he doesn’t worry too much about it when you give a little kiss on his forehead.

He snuggles closer, if that is even possible at this point. He’s on auto pilot as you bring the covers up more over the both of you. You tuck the material right up near his chin and the only thought he has is how cruel it was to make him get up tomorrow morning. Maybe you give him a few more kisses. They’re delicate and you even give him a gentle squeeze as you bring your arms around him; a small ‘love you’ is drowsily whispered through your lips as you rest your head on his.

And Giyuu is out, just like that.