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or; Â Â you dedicate yourself to the study of dean's back
âą warnings / tags: gn!reader, pre-established relationship, back kisses, vulnerable dean, tooth-rotting intimacy, fluff, faint allusions to smut
âżĚŠÍâż ŕźş
Deanâs astray.
He canât get a hold of himself. Heâs sure of it, because it should be easy to roll sideways and let you fall onto the mattress, and when you gawk, to flash you a smile and say he canât have you crushing one of his best assets. Heâll get an unimpressed look, but youâll move to sit beside him and pick up the conversation in a preferably more normal way.Â
But whatâs left of his will seems to be limp, dissolving away with the rest of his body.Â
Youâre talking. One of your theories for the case. The only remaining tether he has to the real world, which is taking him his darndest to parse through and conjure up answers to so youâll keep going. If you stop, his senses will take over, and theyâre already clamoring for him to just let go and feel this. He frowns into the pillow as another soft quake races down the pathway of his spine, trailing after careful fingers until your palm is just inches from his waistband. The chill of your skin brings down the burn of the sun to a gentler warmth. You say something about secondary locations that slips right past him.
Heâs gone loony. Youâre just theorizing, and heâs dying, hyperconscious of the sound of your breathing, the way your weight is pressing on top of his ass, your thighs caging him in. Your hands; mixing in with his warmth, switching between flat presses and featherlight traces â ever so gentle.Â
"--yâs and a good old stake, shouldnât be too hard for us," is the only bit he hears when your voice comes back, and his eyes fly open in alarm.Â
âHuh? Uhâ yeah,â he clears his throat. Totally listening. He shouldnât have taken off his shirt. ââCourse it wonât. Weâve ganked worse bastards.â
"Well, yeah. But these things can be a little sly."
âMmh,â he grunts. âNothinâ we canât handle.â
Heâs back to merging with his pillow, but he can sense the smile on your face. Youâve sat back up to simply rest your palms against the dips of his waist, eyes mapping out each plane, bruise, scar, and freckle into some little constellation of its own.Â
Itâs pretty, and sort of a representative picture of Dean. Not the first time youâre graced with the sight, but not like this â hands poring over his every mark of skin, which youâve always longed to do but deemed a long shot. Not that heâs shy â this is Dean, but you knew it was simply a sort of territory he tended to leave uncharted, and you were the last thing from a pushover. Not with him, and not when it took so much to even get here.Â
He seems to be letting you have it right now, though.Â
Youâd draw it; if you could ask as such without pushing your luck. Youâre still half-expecting Dean to clamber out of your grip any second, so while heâs not actively wrestling for an out, you could commit this to memory.Â
Youâre being awfully quiet.Â
Dean has half the mind to turn over and figure out why the hell that is, but that position would make you slip off of him just as heâs starting to warm up to his newfound fate, and he doesnât think he can manage a redo.Â
He lets out a muffled grumble of your name, and you hum, thumb tapping against him.
âKeep talkinâ.â
You blink, having at some point surmised his acceptance as exhaustion. Guess youâll have to scratch that.Â
âOh,â you murmur, suppressing a smile. âOkay. Um..âÂ
You look back down and pause over a particularly jagged line near his left shoulder blade â a knife wound from a ghoul attack you helped patch up. That was the very first time heâd given in to your aid. Your lips twitch, gently pressing it.Â
"You remember this?"Â
"Yeah," he said, angling his face sideways. "Got that in Nebraska. Stung like a bitch.â
You canât help but sneer as you trace the scar. âSam had to give up his new flannel,â you remind him â just because you know Sam still gives him shit for it â and it pulls a frown out of him. âAnd you still bled onto the carseats. Funny that you seemed pretty convinced you couldâve stitched it yourself.â
Dean scoffs, no matter that it had taken him a full hour just to get the needle through. Still. How many people can say the same?Â
âBecause I could. I think I know what I can and canât do, sweetheart, and that was onââ
âApparently not.â
His eyes shoot open, and he cranes his neck enough to be met with your smug smile. He returns it with a sardonic one. âHilarious,â he mutters before plopping back down â not his fault, your free hand started stroking his hip. âI couldâve. Only reason I let you do it was âcause you and Sammy wouldnât stop pestering me âbout it.â
âGee, I wonder why.âÂ
Deanâs rebuttals die at the tip of his tongue when you press a kiss over the old wound â immediately stiffening under you â and you freeze, hands flying to your sides in an instant. âShitâ uh.â Great. Good going, idiot. Of all the times youâve been able to hold back, this is the one you canât manage?
âSorry, I wasnâtââ
âDo that again.â
You must be hearing things.Â
The surprise is palpable as your gaze snaps down to him, and Dean swallows.Â
âWhat?â      Â
â....Do that again,â he says the words quietly. A mumble against cotton, looking almost bashful.Â
You remember then that this is much tougher for him than you. It shouldâve scared him off. Youâve got a dozen reasons why. None of which supported the plausibility that heâd be willing to try. But here you are.Â
Your mouth snaps shut into a smile. Deanâs fingers twitch, about to ask why youâve gone so silent again when he feels a peck on the same scar from earlier.Â
He feels you shift your weight before pressing another tentative kiss to its left.
âIs that okay?âÂ
â..Yeah.â
Only then do you continue. His eyes flutter shut as you pepper more upon his shoulders. Across, along, then moving down. You donât skip a thing: old burns, scratches, cuts. Every freckle, mole, and sunspot.
At some point, Dean lets himself go.Â
Itâs difficult not to. Not when youâre taking your sweet sweet time, particularly with the scars. When a whine isnât jumping to his throat, he makes sure to get a breath in on the intervals you place before every kiss â at times with a run of your thumb â as if recalling the memories associated with it, and wondering at the ones you hadnât been there for.Â
This doesnât mean it was easy.Â
Heâs spent the past hour doing the opposite, after all, afraid of what it would do if he gave in â because this is a tenderness heâs longed for all his life, rushing over him on a random Thursday afternoon with no warning.Â
âJesus,â he breathes out, gripping the sheets beneath him when you find your way back to his spine â languid, lingering kisses along where it curved. You had to crawl down â chest now propped on the back of his thighs, so the hand resting on his loin becomes his new tether. This time, he feels your smile when it curls up against him.Â
He doesnât get why youâre like that with him. Gentle, in your quieter moments together. Eager, even with the most mundane, tedious shit he could possibly think of. Stakeouts, beer runs, waiting for Sam, sitting on the sink when he shits. His friggin back.Â
Well. You do like him. Thatâs why heâs here. Thatâs why youâre here, but sometimes he doesnât get that part either. Because you seem to almost savor Dean. And heâs still learning how to take without knocking anything over.Â
His last spot a little further below, except this one wasnât exactly battle-bourne. He feels you kiss where heâs pretty sure your teeth bared into him a couple nights ago.Â
You pat it with a contented hum, sounding way too pleased with yourself. âStill holding up.â
ââm still gonna get you back for that.â
A snort. âAnd Iâm still waiting,â you say, moving back up to lay atop his slack figure and rest your cheek close to his shoulder. Which part heâs groaning about, youâre not sure. Both of you seem too content to care.Â
âDo you really still think you couldâve sutured yourself that day?â
âWhat, the Nebraska thing?â he huffs, pulling at the bedsheets. âYeah. I told ya, I was halfway through mâfirst stitch when yâan Sam came barreling in.â
You smirk. âYou were flailing around like a highschooler with gum on his back.â
âAt least gumâd be easier to get off my back.â
âAnd yet you didnât when you had the exact, literal chance.â
The headboard receives his unimpressed glower.Â
You know somethingâs wrong when he doesnât jab back, but then Dean moves. Youâre tossed to the mattress with a yelp, smugness wiped clean off your face, mirrored instead on the face of a towering Dean.Â
He raises a brow as you catch your breath. âLooks like you spoke too soon, huh?â
âNot really. That was a reactive decision, kind of a little late for it to prââ
Because youâll drag this into a debate for your own cruel fun, Dean stops you with a kiss. You melt into it all the same, even if your grin refuses to cease â thankfully, it spurs him on.Â
âYouâre a fucking pain,â he says into your mouth, pulling away only to press a kiss to your temple. âYou know that?â
âI revel in that fact, actually.â
Your grin only widens when he scoffs.Â
One of these days, heâll muck up the nerve to tell you to at least warn a man before you do things like that, or say that he doesnât revel in that fact.Â
For now, heâll let his face slip into the crook of your neck and let your hands lull him to sleep.Â
･đ a/n: i. (crawling through the dirt) fi..nally .. (wheeze of agony) got it done . dean's back is so smooth and clean in the show and to that i holler in objection. likely for the same understandable reason they didn't end up giving him tattoos but. still. enjoy the sprinkles of sub!dean.
What kind of person you are!
Fae, you're the kind of person who thrives on being alone. You don't need others to make it in the world, but others often need you. You're dependable, reliable, trustworthy, and grounded. Your perfectionism is due to the fact that you know exactly what you want, how you want it, and when you want it. And when it comes down to needing help, you will outwrite refuse and figure everything out on your own.
Because no one does it right anyways. So why bother?
You do virtually everything alone, you don't really ever feel like you have anyone to lean on anyways. You've done everything solo, so why should the emotional aspect of your life be any different? You're lost in your mind pretty often. Swimming in daydreams, drowning in thoughts, overthinking until you're sure you've lost it. You call it imagination, but it's really dissociation. You're uninterested in the real world because it's not going the way you want it to.Â
Everything hiding beneath your RBF is strong, and heavy. But when you open your mouth, it all comes out soft, faint, unconfident. There's no strength to portray yourself any differently, due to the fact it's all being used to keep everything in. And even if you opened up, who would it be to? The four walls of your room, or the trees, or maybe that one trustworthy friend of yours.
But even then, you don't allow them to scratch deeper than the surface.
You may not share your emotions or vulnerability. But you do share your curiosity, you express your suspicions, and your bright passion for the unknown in the world around you. You're the kind of person to take a 'walk' and then accidentally hike two miles into the woods because what if you happen to find, Bigfoot? You're the kind of person who pours over research everyone says is useless or stupid, and in your mind you're thinking,Â
"Well, what happens if we need to know about Lycanthropy? I am the only person in the room who could save us."
What kind of hunter you are!
You used to just be someone who obsessed over true crime in your bedroom. Listening to podcasts, watching Killer Kids on Peacock, looking into cold cases. And now here you were, standing in an abandoned warehouse where three people were found murdered. You just happened to be the only civilian curious enough to dig deeper than the cops were.Â
Hunting does scare you though, deep down it rattles you to your core. You're uncomfortable with the idea that at any point in time you could killed, hurt, gone. It totally unsettles you. But your determination and drive keeps your shaky hand holding up your flashlight, and your other hand holding onto your somewhat pretty notes.Â
As a hunter, you're thorough and thoughtful. You question everything and don't stop until all of your questions are answered. You care for every victim you save and meet, sometimes even checking up on them after the case is all said and done, just to be sure that they're doing well. Never by call though, likely through a message you'll reread a hundred times before you actually send it.Â
Your heart keeps you in the game. Logically, you think hunting is awful. It smells, it's gross, you're scared, the motels you stay at suck, and to make matters worse you're constantly covered in monster gore, and the other hunters are assholes. But you get it done. Your curiosity is relentless, and in the field, you're in control.Â
Dean Winchester and You!
You met Dean through another hunter. Dean owed that guy a favor, and what he asked for was for Dean to teach you how to hunt properly because he didn't want to do it.
"Get this Rookie trained for me, Winchester, and I'll drop what you owe me." Dean hated the idea. He hated owing people more. He also didn't particularly like when other people got involved in hunting, and he hated having to teach them how to survive.Â
But God did those pretty green eyes soothe his soul. You looked like nymph. Or something that'd lure him straight to the ocean by song. And your sweet demeanor might've worked on him at a bar, but in the hunt? It made him worry about you.
Dean's first impression of you, is that you won't make the cut. You're too soft spoken and too caught up in your own head. You're just a curious cat that was going to get squashed by the world you wanted so badly to be in and do right. But then again, he owed that hunter a favor, so he'd do his best to keep you alive and teach you what he knows.
"Fine. But I owe you nothing after this." Dean grumbled out bitterly with his arms crossed over his chest, before he looked over at you, "Get your gear, Sweetheart. Pack light, you're in for a long ride." He huffed through his nose, gave that other hunter a harsh glare before heading back outside and to his car.
Little fun things!
Dean didn't expect that once you get comfortable, you'd be so talkative. He also didn't expect you to question everything and actually want to learn. He assumed you'd be some chick who was getting into hunting not caring about much. But you care a lot. Just like Sam did when he was a kid. Your heart was in this. Not just your head. And not an ego.
Dean didn't let you really hunt alongside him or Sam until he trusted you with a weapon. And by trusted, he meant once you were trained by him. You held one of his guns up, one green eye pinched shut, the other focusing on the target ahead of you. Dean was coming up behind you to take your hands in his and help you aim, "Hold and aim like that. You do it any different, and your face'll be gone." You were tense under his rough palmed touch. He could feel your tension. And he stepped back feeling a bit strained himself.Â
Your first genuine hunt with Dean was one of your biggest nightmares. A warlock was taking the eyes of his victims and using them in rituals to take glimpses into the future. Dean was pushing ahead, cringing at all of the jars holding eyeballs. "Jesus, what a sight." But his pun fell off when he saw you, paled, wide eyes, gulping, "Fae? Y'alright?" He sighed heavily before pulling you forward by your arm to stay in step with him. Which.. inadvertently made you feel safer.Â
Sam and you read pretty often together. You'll read a book and then pass the book you just finished onto Sam and vice versa. Dean, he picked up that you really liked reading and started 'casually' swinging by the libraries in towns he'd have a hunt at, just to bring back new books for you. He always brushed it off as being nothing, that the books were for his 'nerd of a brother' too. But you know better than that, Fae.
You are one of the very few people Dean will hug regularly. He's been away on a hunt that took a few weeks, he's trudging through the Bunker, dropping his duffle once he sees you, and is allowing you into his arms for a hug. He grunts at the force you apply when you slam into his chest, but then he's laughing, "Missed me that much?" He's playing it cool, but you can hear his heart racing when you lean into his chest.
Extras!
You are an absolute menace on cases where you go undercover with the brothers. You're in a sparkling new FED suit, on the porch of a victim's home, you and the Winchesters were about to interrogate them, and when you'd open your mouth, suddenly you were Agent Van Halen who also happens to be British. Sam would be dying internally, and Dean would just roll with it. "Looks like we're hunting with someone from, Wales." He'd snort and elbow Sam, who looked ready to murder you both. "Don't enable her."
Dean's sweet with you, because you're a natural comfort to him. You're the only stable thing he has in his life. Except for when he does something outside of what you planned in your head that day, but never actually verbalized for him to follow, then you're a little she-demon. But other than that, you're his Stable Haven. And he does what he can to make you happy and feel comfortable at the bunker, so you never decide to leave.
Dean got flustered the first time you asked him to help you with your hair, "You want me to help you, with your hair?" He raised a brow and looked at you confused. His gaze fell over to Sam who just shrugged. You had oil on your hands from cleaning your guns and you needed your hair out of your face to finsih the job. Dean carefully braided your long hair and tied it off with a band just for you. Just because you asked.
Dean used to doubt you as a hunter. But you were proving him wrong with each hunt you went on with him and his brother. Sure, he taught you the basics to hunting, but you were coming into being a hunter of your own making. He just worries about you getting hurt now. Not from a lack of knowledge, but from sacrifice. One the ballsier hunts you do quite a bit to save him and Sam, and that scares the hell out of him.
Overall!
Based on all of the lovely information you've shared with me, like your zodiac, your favorite color, your fears and more, I can say that you're a very loyal, reliable, and determined individual. Sure, you can be a bit of a perfectionist, maybe even hard on yourself by keeping everything inside, but you're still such a strong person.Â
You're someone who could be trusted to not burn down a house if they were home alone. You're someone who people can go to for answers that are deeper than what Google has to offer, but you're also someone who can make others question things on a more profound level too. You're seriously amazing Fae, and I hope both sides of your pillow are cold.
Now, based on everything, I see you being compatible with Dean, in the cutest and in an emotionally deep way. There is potential, because I see him finding you beautiful in and out. And if he were to just look past the idea that you're too good for him, it would flourish beautifully. If the relationship with him doesn't work out, it'd be on him.
You're his 'too good to be true', and he'd question you a lot, are you willing to reassure him?
"Fae! What the hell was that back there?" He's shouting over the downpour that's slamming against your bodies, "I was saving you."Â
"Saving me? I don't need savin', Fae." He scoffed out. "Well, clearly you did, Dean."
"No, you don't do that for me! Never. I ain't gonna lose you like everyone else who tried saving me!" He's angry, not at you, rather at what you did. You scared the hell out of him. You made him feel trapped and he hated it. He despised it even. If the rain wasn't pouring so hard, you might've been able to see his tears and his vulnerability better.
"You won't lose me, Dean."
"You don't know that, Sweetheart! So, stop takin' those risks. I'm not worth it." His self-deprecating nature was taking over. He didn't feel like he was worth more than your life, he wasn't even worth a quarter of it. "Stop that, Dean!"
"Stop what? Huh? Being honest. I thought you liked that, Fae. That I'd never lie to you." He snapped back at you. And it hurt. He could see your lips quivering; he could see your eyes hurting. He was pushing you away by making you feel unsafe, by putting thoughts and words that were never yours to begin with in your mouth and believing them.Â
"I'm sorry, Sweetheart. C'mere.. don't cry." He's walking towards you now. The inches between you both shrank into nothing. You were pulled taut against his soaking clothes and body by him. His hand is at the back of your head tangled in your wet locks, his other is rubbing your back.
"I'm sorry. 'M so sorry. I was scared, Fae. I was just scared." He sounded weak, he sounded vulnerable, and he was easy to forgive in that moment. He wasn't lying. He brough the hand that was in your hair to your face to angle it up. Rain dribbled down both of your pained features, "I'm sorry." He gritted out again, hoarse and rough.Â
You initiated it the final step that'd lead you two to more. You leaned up and kissed him. Your wet and cold hands cradled his face, as you poured yourself into Dean.Â
I seriously loved making this one! And I really hope that you like it and that it's accurate to you, if not you can totally let me know! It helps me grow and do better! <3
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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đ đđĄđ đ˛Öźđ˘ đ˘leepy pronebone with đ˘am đŚinchester
The room is bathed in the dim, golden glow of the salt lamp Dean insists on keeping in every motel room âfor vibes, Sammyâ, but right now, the only vibe is the slow, heavy drag of Samâs cock inside you, his body a warm, solid weight pressed against your back. Heâs half-asleep, his movements sluggish, like heâs fucking you in a dream. One he never wants to wake up from.
A pillowâs wedged under your hips, tilting you just enough that every time he sinks in, he stays there, buried to the hilt, his pubic bone grinding against your ass with a lazy, circular roll. You can feel everythingâthe stretch, the heat, the way his cock twitches inside you when you clench around him, like heâs surprised by how good it feels, even now.
His arm is a band around your waist, his fingers splayed over your stomach, pulling you back onto him with every slow, deep thrust. His other hand is clamped over your mouth, but thereâs no real force behind it. Just the quiet understanding that Deanâs in the next room, and if he hears anythingâeven the wet, obscene sounds of Sam fucking youâheâll never let either of you live it down.
âMmm, fuck,â Sam mumbles into the crook of your neck, his voice thick with sleep, his breath hot against your skin. âYouâre so tight like this.â His hips rock forward, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, and you whimper against his palm, the sound muffled but desperate. He smiles, you can feel it against your shoulderâbecause he knows what heâs doing to you.
His hand on your stomach slides further down beneath you, his fingers finding your clit with the kind of lazy precision that comes from knowing your body. He doesnât rush. Doesnât need to. His thumb circles you in slow, maddening little swirls, his touch feather-light at first, then firmer when you buck back against him, begging without words.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs, his voice a sleepy purr. âTake me. All of me.â And you do. You do, because how could you not? When heâs like thisâwarm, heavy, his cock throbbing inside you with every shallow breathâthereâs nothing else in the world but the two of you, the slick slide of skin, the way his chest rises and falls against your back.
His thrusts are lazy, almost drowsy, but no less deep. Every time he bottoms out, he stays there, his hips pressed flush against your ass, his cock pulsing like heâs savoring the way you clench around him. âFuck, you feel so good,â he whispers, his voice breaking just a little, and the sound of it has you squeezing around him harder, earning a broken groan from his chest.
His thumb presses down on your clit, and your body shudders, your orgasm building slow and deep, like a tide pulling you under. You can feel him everywhereâhis chest against your back, his cock buried inside you, his fingers working you over, his breath hot against your neck. âSamââ His name is a plea, a whine, and he swallows it, his hand pressing harder over your mouth as his own rhythm stutters, his hips losing their careful pace.
âI canâtâfuckâI canât last,â he admits, and the admission is raw, so Sam it hurts. His thrusts turn erratic, his fingers digging into your hip, his cock twitching inside you as he chases his own release.
And then his thumb presses down, hard, and the world tilts. Your orgasm rips through you, slow and deep, your body clamping down around him so tightly he groans, his own release following with a shuddering, broken cry against your shoulder. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing, his whole body trembling.
For a long moment, thereâs nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the thud of his heartbeat against your back, the way his grip on you loosens just enough to let you drag in a lungful of air. His hand slides from your mouth, his fingers lingering against your lips like heâs memorizing the shape of them.
Then, because heâs Sam, because he canât not say itââYou okay?â His voice is rough, worried, even now. Even after.
And you laugh, breathless, because of course heâd ask that. Of course heâd still be checking on you when heâs the one who just got fucked senseless.
You turn your head just enough to catch his mouth in a slow, sleepy kiss, tasting the salt on his skin, the faint hint of coffee from the diner down the road. âI will be,â you murmur against his lips, âwhen you do that again.â
His chuckle is quiet, low, and full of promises. âOh, weâre definitely doing that again.â
Š đđđđ đđđ. 2026 all rights reserved. Do not copy, repost, plagiarize, translate or feed any of my work into ai.
summary: steve taking care of you after a night out <3
tags/warnings: boyfriend!steve x reader, mention of alcohol consumption, drunkness, mention of vomit, hangovers, domestic fluff, caretaker!steve harrington, mentions of sex, use of pet names (baby, honey, pretty girl), this is diabolically tooth-rotting
---
Itâs almost 1:30 AM when the doorbell rings.
Steve glances up at the sound, breaking from his vigil on the couch in front of the TV. Heâs been sitting there fighting his own exhaustion all night while he waits for you to come home. When youâd told him earlier about your plans to hit a few bars with your girlfriends, heâd passed on the offer to join you, resigning himself instead to a quiet night in, recharging from work and letting you have your fun on your own. But because he always insists on staying up till you make it back despite your exasperated requests, tonight has been less than entertaining for him.
He doesnât mind, though. Heâd pull an all-nighter if it meant he saw you home safe.
Steve gets up from the couch and pads over to the door, snorting a little at the thought that you must be drunk enough not to be able to turn your key in the lock. Well, that was part of tonightâs plan, like youâd told him earlierâ youâd been looking forward to getting shit-faced all week.
Steve pulls open the door and finds you draped over your friend Gina, your miniskirt riding up on your thighs as you stumble against her.
Wow. Mission accomplished, then.Â
You let out a long, exaggerated gasp. âOh my God,â you breathe as your eyes find him. âOh my God, itâs Steve!â
Steve stifles his laughter at your expressionâ the total shock and joy splitting your face from ear to ear. âHi, baby.â
Gina shoots him a sympathetic look and hauls you back onto your feet, transferring you into Steveâs arms with a grunt of effort. âHey, Steve. Sorryâ sheâs really gone.âÂ
âSteve!â you say again as you fold yourself into his chest, his arms supporting you easily. You smell like fruity liqueur. âI kept trying to call you, but Gina took my phoneââ
âHereâs that,â Gina supplies, pulling the phone out of her pocket and handing it to Steve. She gives him a dry look. âI didnât want her to freak you out.â
âThanks,â Steve laughs, voice full of amusement as he clutches your swaying form. âAnd hey, thanks for taking care of her tonight.â
âAnything for my girl,â Gina tosses back, flashing a sweet smile. Sheâs not usually a big drinker, but itâs never a great job to be designated babysitter. âI should goâ Iâve got two more dropoffs.â
Steve smiles back, holding you around the waist while your fingertips trace patterns onto his chest. âYou need anything?â he offers Gina. âAnybody need a ride?â
âAll good. Iâm sober,â Gina assures him. âTell her to call me tomorrow, yeah?â
Steve nods, watching your friend retreat down the hallway. âYouâre doing Godâs work, Gina!â
She laughs and waves goodbye, and Steve helps you stumble inside, closing and locking the door behind you both.Â
âAgh!â you exclaim, pulling back from his grip a little to press a hand to your mouth, your excitement uncontainable. âWow. Itâs my boyfriend.â
âYeah, hi, baby,â Steve laughs, hands gripping you firmly to keep you from falling. âYou have a fun night?â
âThe best,â you gush, teetering off to the side in your heeled boots. âOh my gosh, I wish you came with us. I missed you so much.â
âI missed you too,â Steve tells you, maneuvering you further into your apartment and easing you down into an armchair. âLetâs get your shoes off, huh?â
âThese are my cute boots,â you inform him. âI like these boots.â
âThey are cute,â he agrees. âJust not so good to sleep in, right?â He kneels in front of you and lifts one of your feet off the ground to unzip your boot for you, and you suck in a breath.Â
âWhy are you taking them?â you ask in a whisper, appalled.
Steve has to bite his tongue to keep his smile down. âIâm just getting you comfortable, baby. You gotta change before bed.â
âI donât want to go to bed,â you shake your head. You always get argumentative when youâre drunk. âWhy are we going to bed?â
âItâs late, beautiful,â he reminds you. âYouâre gonna regret it tomorrow if you donât get some sleep.â
Your gasp again, both of your hands flying to your mouth. âYou think Iâm beautiful?â
Steveâs smile spreads as he stares up at you. âThe most beautiful girl in the world.â
Youâre trying to hide your grin behind your hands, but it isnât working. You tuck your knees up to your chest in your glee. âOh my gosh. Oh my gosh.âÂ
Steve heaves a sigh at the retreat of your legs. âMy beautiful, uncooperative girlfriend. Come on, baby. Help me out here.â
âI donât want to go to bed,â you repeat petulantly, humor in your voice as you angle your head at him. âJust wanna stay here and look at you.â
âYou can look at me when weâre in bed,â Steve reasons with you. âI promise, honey. Just let me get your boots off.â
You sigh and relent, letting him drag one of your feet toward his chest again. His hands come up your calves to unzip your boot, and he can feel your eyes fixed securely on him.Â
âYouâre so pretty,â you hum, eyes tracing over his face. âSo pretty. I was showing everyone pictures of you tonight.â
Steve feels his ears go pink. âBaby, what did I tell you about showing people my picture?â
âI canât help it!â you protest as he sets your now-bare foot gently down and moves for the other. âIâm so proud of you. Agh, youâre so cute.â
The words make something in Steveâs chest flutter, even after being with you for so long. It always feels like heâs still getting used to being loved the way you love himâ the way he knows himself to be capable of loving, but never fully expected in return. âThanks, baby,â he murmurs as he tugs off your other boot and rises. âOkay. You ready to stand?â
âMm-hm,â you chirp, reaching your hands up toward him. Steve leans down and wraps his arms around you to haul you upright, and you wobble as you teeter to your feet, only steadied by the press of your body against his. âWow. Youâre strong.â
Steve bites back his laughter. âI try.â
âYour arms are huge,â you marvel, gripping them with your icy fingers. Suddenly, you glance up at him, face open. âI love you. Will you kiss me?â
The words are so plainâ so natural. Steve doesnât fight his smile this time as he lowers his head and presses a gentle kiss to your lips, sweet and delicate.Â
You sigh into it. âWow. That was really nice.â
âI love you,â Steve tells you, amusement flickering through him. âOkay,â he repeats, his focus honed on stabilizing you once more. âYou wanna walk, or can I carry you?â
You wave him off. âPfft. I can walk. Iâm not that drunk.â
âUh-huh,â Steve replies flatly.
You shoot him a look you probably intend to be stern, but your total lack of control over your emotions right now isnât doing you any favors in convincing him. Still, stubbornly, you push away from him and make your way to the bedroom, Steveâs hands hovering over your waist as he follows behind you, just in case.
âYou got it?â he affirms, his voice a hum. âYeah, there you go. Okayâ careful, baby.â
âIâm fine,â you sigh. âIâm good.â
âYou think youâre gonna be sick?â he asks youâ not that heâd really mind either way. Heâs certainly helped you drunkenly vomit before.Â
âNope,â you assure him, the word dropping off your tongue casually despite the way youâre about to run into a wall.
âCarefulâ careful, baby,â Steve chides you, managing to grab you out of the way just before you smack into the doorframe.
âYou worry too much,â you huff.
Steve swallows his stress and steers you toward the bed. âYeah, well, you give me plenty to worry about.â He situates you so youâre seated on the bed, and you flop back against the comforter, heaving a sigh. Steve shakes his head fondly and crosses to the dresser to pull out some of his sleep clothes for you. He doesnât know if he could wrestle you into one of your pajama sets in your condition, and you have a weird obsession with sleeping in his clothes, anyway. Heâs never understood it.Â
When he returns, youâre winding your hands through the air and staring at the ceiling. âI feel great. I wanna stay up forever.â
âUh-huh,â Steve says again, playing along to get you to comply. âGotta sit up, babe. Come onâ gimme your hands.â
You heave another breath as you let him pull you upright, and Steve lifts your hands over your head so he can attempt to work your tight shirt off your body.Â
âWoah,â you giggle as his hands make contact with the exposed skin of your stomach. âWhatâre you doinâ?â
Steve pulls his hands off of you, just in case you want to do it yourself, and points to the sweatshirt waiting on the bed. âGetting you comfy. That okay?â
âYou wanna have sex?â you whisper conspiratorially, grinning at the offer.Â
Steve just barely holds back his laughter. âPardon?â
âWanna have sex?â you repeat, your eyes wide with enthusiasm as you reach out one of your legs and rub it along his.Â
He grins and shakes his head. âNot right now, baby.â
âWhat?â you ask, brow knitting in confusion. âWhy not? You always wanna have sex.â
Steve fights his blush again. âI donât always want to have sex,â he protests.
âYeah, you do,â you tease him. âIâm not complaining, though. Feels good.â
Steve lets out another laugh. âMaybe tomorrow, pretty girl.â
âYou donât want to?â you ask, still confusedâ hurt flashing across your face.
Steve sees that look and moves immediately to soothe you, one of his hands lifting to brush your hair down gently. âNot like that, honey. I just donât wanna do anything while youâre drunk, okay?â
âBut I want to,â you protest gently, your eyes finding his pleadingly.Â
âI know,â Steve smiles softly. âNot tonight. Sorry, baby.â
âWorst boyfriend ever,â you mutter, and he barks a laugh.Â
âYou want my help changing, or you wanna do it yourself?â he asks you, still grinning.Â
You consider your options, then look back up at him. âYou.â
âOkay,â Steve nods, always glad to have the confirmation. âHands up, buttercup.â
You dutifully lift your hands and help him wrestle off your top, and Steve is extra mindful to work the fabric gently around your chin, ensuring it doesnât snag on your face. Just as carefully, he unlatches your bra and pulls it off of you, practiced with this particular style after months of being with you. Your nudity is anything but arousing to him, thoughâ just intimate, in that strange, quiet way familiar domesticity has become precious to him. Itâs a kind of trust he doesnât know what to do with, the way the two of you are unashamed to be bare in front of one another, the way you put yourself in his hands tonight without a thought.Â
And he hadnât lied beforeâ he doesnât want to have sex with you now. He doesnât find vulnerability attractive.
Slowly, he pulls your clothes off of you and tugs you into his own. His sweatshirt and shorts absolutely dwarf you, and you wrap your hands gleefully in the too-long sleeves as you reach out for him again.Â
âHi,â he says again as your hands come around his waist, tugging him close. He holds you back, stroking your hair. âAre you hungry? You want me to make you something?â
âNo,â you sigh. âI need to wash my face. Thatâs all.â
âOkay,â Steve relents as your hands run over his back. âYou know, to do that, you gotta get up.â
âMm-hm.â You affirm lazily, your cheek pressed to his chest.Â
Steve smiles to himself and reaches down to scoop you up, hooking your legs around his waist. âCome on, beautiful. Letâs go.â
You make a muffled noise of agreement against him as he carries you to the bathroom.Â
âYou getting tired?â Steve asks, already knowing the answer. Heâs always been good at memorizing your tells. Itâs a small, affectionate hobby heâs adopted.
âNo,â you tell him petulantly, and he chuckles as he gently sets you down in the bathroom and you take a seat on the closed toilet lid.Â
Itâs a slow, quiet process as Steve wets a washcloth with warm water and turns to you, wiping gently at your face until heâs worked the makeup off of your skin. Your eyes are closed, and your breaths are sighing against his face. Steve is diligent about it, his hands moving with careful precision. When heâs done, itâs a wordless effort to get you to stand and rinse your face, towel it off, and brush your teeth. Eventually, though, Steve helps you get it done, and pads back to the bedroom after you.
He helps you into bed, pulling the covers up around you, and he can tell youâre too far gone now to protest any more. Pressing a final kiss to your forehead, Steve leaves to pick up the clothes still scattered on the floor and get you a glass of water for the morning.Â
âSteve,â you call out, your voice suddenly panicked.
He already knows what youâre going to ask. âIâll be right back, baby,â he promises. âGive me one second.â
You make a disheartened sound and turn over in bed.Â
Steve turns off the TV and picks up the front room as quickly as he can. When he returns to the bedroom with a glass in hand for you, the lights are all off except for the lamp on his nightstand, which casts light over your softened face. He smiles when he realizes youâve curled up on his side of the bed, your hair scattered across his pillow. He sets the glass down, turns out the light, and carefully slips under the covers beside you, realizing youâre still awake by the way you reach for him instantly, your arms wrapping around him.Â
âSteve?â you start, your voice a low mumble.
âYeah, baby?â he whispers back, shifting so you can curl up against his chest, your body practically thrown over his.Â
âYouâre not the worst boyfriend,â you tell him sleepily. âYouâre the best. Ever.â
His laughter rumbles in his chest. âThanks, baby. Youâre the best girlfriend ever.â
âIâm sorry you had to take care of me tonight,â you make out, your eyes already shut.Â
âWhy are you saying sorry?â Steve chides you, pulling you tighter into his arms and pressing another kiss to the top of your head. âNothing to be sorry for. I like taking care of you.â
âIâm sorry,â you say again, unconvinced.Â
âHey,â Steve stops you. âDid you have fun tonight?â
âMm-hm,â you affirm skeptically.Â
âThatâs all that matters,â he says firmly. âNo apologizing.â
You take a big breath. âI love you more than anything,â you mumble against his chest.Â
The words still Steve, halting his hands on you. Itâs simpleâ stupid. Heâs heard you say it a million times before. But he canât help itâ every time, it feels like youâve stopped his heart in his chest.Â
âI love you too,â he says back, his voice a little weak. âI love you so much.â
His hands continue their gentle tracing against your skin, and within moments, you slip into sleep. And Steve, swallowing emotion, follows after you.
When the morning finally breaks over your peacefully sleeping form, so does your pounding headache.Â
You groan as you roll over, realizing when you hit the abruptly cold other side of the bed that Steve isnât in it with you.Â
It takes a while for you to drag yourself out from beneath the covers and push to your feet, and you follow the faint sounds of plates clanking out to the kitchen. The image of your boyfriend standing there, pajama pants slung low on his hips, the skin of his bare torso bronzed by the morning light, his messy hair falling over his forehead as he stares down at the pan on the stove, almost feels like a miracle cure for your hangover.
You sidle up to him and lean back against the counter, arms crossed in the old sweatshirt he put you in, worn and soft from years of use.Â
Steve smiles as he glances over at you. âMorning, sunshine.â
You bite back your indignation at the nicknameâ the one he always uses when you sleep late. âMorning.â
âYour coffeeâs on the counter,â he tells you, gesturing with the spatula on his hand.Â
You mumble out a thank you and go hunting for the cup, watching out of the corner of your eye as the muscles in his back flex while he flips the pancake.Â
âSo, how bad was I?â you ask ironically, though you remember what happened last night with fair enough accuracy.
Steve shakes his head, still smiling. âNot bad.â
âMm-hm,â you reply, unconvinced. âIâm ridiculous.â
âYouâre cute,â he tells you, his grin spreading. âIt was nothing embarrassing, beautiful. You were just very excited.â
You let out a little groan. âGod, I showed so many people your picture.â
Steve huffs a laugh, going a little pink. âYeah, you told me.â
âNever let me get drunk again,â you beg him. âIâm a danger to myself.â
âYouâre an adorable drunk,â Steve informs you, eyes on the pancake batter as he ladles it into the pan. âYouâre so smiley. Iâd prefer it if you didnât fight me so hard, but Iâll still take it.â
You whimper, leaning forward to press your forehead against his shoulder, wishing it would soothe the ache there. âIâm sorry.â
âDonât apologize,â he tells you, like heâs said it a million times. âYouâre my girl. Itâs my job to take care of you.â
âYouâre too good to me,â you tell him, eyes pressed shut. âYouâre standing here being all perfect, making me coffee and pancakes and dealing with all my drunk bullshit.â
âWouldnât have it any other way,â he says mildly. âPlus, you know, youâre a really intense cuddler when youâre wasted. I canât get you off of me in the mornings.â
You laugh reluctantly, and Steve turns from the stove to wrap his arms around you, tugging you into an embrace.Â
âI love you,â he says. âYou make it worth it, you know that?â
Your hands knit behind his back, pressing him impossibly closer. âI love you. So much.â
He nuzzles into your hair, breathing you in for a moment. And when he pulls back, a smile on his face, all he tells you is, âEat your pancakes.â
You smile back at him, brilliant feeling shining in your chest. âThank you.â
âAnytime,â he throws back, waving his spatula. âAnd once youâre done, Iâm putting all your photos of me in a locked album.â
---
author's note: this is so deeply unproofread my bad
genuine writers getting wrongly accused of using ai because of witch hunt and proper grammar/structure in their works must be what being a woman in the 1600s who is wrongly accused of being a witch because she can read and is intelligent feels like
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some people will be like âI wonder why fanfic writers donât share their works anymoređâ and then this is them when a writer is kind enough to share something they write â as a hobby, for their own enjoyment â with them for free.
some people really donât realize how privileged they are that they get fanfics for free. imagine having access to something for free because someone is kind enough to share it with you⌠and then being rude, entitled and an ungrateful pos to that person who was kind enough to share their creation with you for free
âalmost 1 year is a lil too much for meâ fuck off. fanfic writers donât owe you anything. one of my favorite fics was updated after 13 years, and what I did is that I thanked the author for choosing to continue the work, I didnât act like a spoiled toddler by asking why they didnât update sooner. and even if a writer chooses to abandon their fic permanently with no explanation, that is their choice, their hobby, their decision. they donât owe your entitled ass anything.
you people let tiktok rot your brains to the point you see everything as content farm and engagement. not a piece of art created by the artistâs love and passion. itâs dystopian.
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stanford!sammy who saves reader from her horrible, borderline abusive frat boyfriend?
nobody writes younger sam like you do <33
omg i got two requests that were the exact same so here y'all go !!!
HANDMADE HOME
wordcount: 3335
summary: After a frat party takes a turn for the worse, Sam does what he's always done: takes care of you. Between orange juice, forgotten snacks, and an oversized Stanford hoodie, you begin to realize that love might not be loud after allâ maybe it's just Sam.
warnings: fluff with a bit of angst, pinning best friend sammy, reader is in a complicated ârelationshipâ, frat boys being assholes, one slapping incident but references to past abuse, sam is a sweetheart, standford!eraâ think thatâs all !!!
Sam Winchester was, unfortunatelyâ very easy to love. Not in the loud, obvious way frat boys were. Not in the way that had people crowding around him at parties or flirting with him in coffee shops. Nah, that wasnât him. Sam was easy to love because he remembered things. Little things, the kind people usually forgot. Like how psychology lectures always made you sleepy if they happened before ten in the morning, how you hated artificial grape flavouring (itâs just wrong!) or how for some reason, your hands got cold whenever yâall studied in the library for too long.
So naturally, every Wednesday morning when you sat behind him in psychology, there'd already be a warm drink waiting on your desk. The first time he'd brought one, he'd placed both coffee and tea in front of you with an awkward: "I wasn't sure which one you'd like" Now, after months of practice, he knew. (P.S. It was tea every time)
"Yâknowâ" You said, dropping into your seat behind him. " âone day I'm gonna start thinking you're psychic"
He smiled a little without looking away from his notebook. "Mânot psychic"
"You always know"
His shoulders shook softly with a warm chuckle. Cute. To be fair, when you first saw who you were sitting behind in class, your first thought was: oh damn Iâm not gonna see a thing behind those bigass shoulders. (Thatâs the reason heâd started bringing you tea in the first place) Now youâve grown quite fond of him and his huge-self, specially in moments like this where he shook with quiet chuckles. "That's not true"
"Of course itâs true" You retort, chuckling softly.
He shrugged, briefly pausing to choose the right words as he looked at you over his shoulder with that warm, dimpled smile of his that was more genuine than half the people on campus. âI just listen to what you say"
God. You'd never met someone like him. Maybe thatâs why heâd become your best friend so quickly, well actually your favorite person overall. College life was hardâ there were the exams, awful bitter teachers, mean girls and their frat boys⌠Sam made it easier, more bearable. Heâs your person. Even over your âboyfriendâ Jason, though that title wasnât much of truth as it was an impositionâ anyways, you didnât want to think about him right now. Instead, your eyes land on the books stacked on your friendâs table. "You did it again?" You canât help but call him out, an amused, fond smile tugging at your lips.
He blinked. "What?"
"Those for me?"
His face immediately melted into an adorably guilty expression. Same one he got when you asked if heâd left those notes in your notebook. "No they aren't" He might be the worst liar youâve ever metâ that or he just really doesnât like lying to you.
You reached over, flipping through the books. Sure enough, every single one belonged to genres you liked.
He scratched the back of his neck, trying his very best to play it off as if it was nothing instead of the sweetest thing youâve seen all week. "I was already going to the library"
"Mhm"
"And they reminded me of you" There it is, the actual reason why heâd checked out all those books just for you. To him? It really was no big deal. He didnât do these things because it was some big scheme or he felt obligated to do so, he did them because he wanted to. He wanted to bring you tea first thing in the morning cause he knew you never had time for breakfast before class, he wanted to bring you books cause he knew youâd enjoy them, he wanted to walk with you to yâallâs classes because he knew those quiet walks were what you needed between exams⌠All those things, he did because he cared.
By the time Friday rolled around, Sam had already organized mock-questions and notes for your upcoming exam. You weren't surprisedâ after all, he'd been tutoring you for months. Well⌠âtutoringâ is how it started. Now it was mostly just an excuse to spend even more time together, the studying part was secondary.
"Okay" You announced, sitting up on the lumpy dorm mattress. "Important question"
He looked up, messy tufts of brown hair stubbornly falling over his eyes. "Hm?"
"Do you have plans for tonight?" You had to word it carefully in order to get him on board. It was important for you to convince him to come along, despite being fairly popular and getting along with everybodyâ parties werenât really your thing. Having Sam there would definitely make it easier to get through the night.
"Yeah⌠studying?"
You canât help but chuckle, shaking your head in fond amusement. "That's not a plan, plan"
He smiled to himself. Already knowing better than to try and convince you otherwise about his (lacking) social-life habits. "Okay, then noâ He huffs softly. âNo plans"
You grinned, practically jumping to your feet. "Perfect"
His head tilted in puppy-like confusion, brows furrowing. "What?"
"There's this frat party tonightâ" He groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically as if youâd told him to run a marathon or something. (Though he could totally do that, heâs surprisingly in shape for a bookworm) "Oh, câmon" You try to plead.
"No"
"Sam"
"No"
"Pleeease?"
He sighed. Yes. That small breath was the first sign of his agreement. You knew he'd cave eventually, he always did when you asked nicely enough. Mostly because it was you asking, but that was a whole nother conversation. "Mâserious"
You give him your best puppy-eyes. (Learnt from him, of course) "So am I"
"Yâknow I hate parties"
"I know..."
"Then why are we having this conversation?"
You smiled, because that was easy. "Cause you spend all your time taking care of everybody else, especially me" He blinked, head tilting in curious confusion. He doesnât even have to speak for you to know heâs about to try and argue how âno he doesnâtâ or âitâs not a big dealâ so you quickly add a: "You do" He frowned, briefly looking down at the notes scattered all over his desk. Same notes heâd spent all night making for yâall to prepare the exams without any more trouble than necessary. Huh. Maybe he did take care of everybody around himâ but heâd always done that? Itâs how he was raised, day in day out he saw his brother Dean work ass off to provide for him, always making sure he was okay before even thinking about himself. Before he can fall too deep into that rabbithole, you gently nudge his arm. "Just an hour, no more"
"...One hour"
You gasped dramatically, not even bothering to play off the proud, victory grin spreading on your face. "Yes!"
He laughed, shaking his head with faux annoyance. "You're impossible"
You just wave him off, that stupidly happy smile still hanging off your lips. "You love me"
He looked up before he could stop himself. And for half a second, literally half a secondâ something softer passed over his face. Those puppy, hazel eyes softening into a warmth he reserved only for you. "Yeah" Then he blinked, snapping himself back to reality and turning his attention back to his notes.
The party was exactly what Sam expectedâ loud, sticky floors, repetitive music and approximately two hundred people packed into one single frat house. He automatically regretted having agreed to this. But still, he'd promised you an hour so an hour was what youâd get. He adjusted the straps of his backpack and stepped further insideâ almost immediately, yâall spotted each other. You were sitting on the arm of a couch, talking to a group of people from one of your classes and still, the moment your eyes landed on him? Your whole face lit up. Somehow that made the crowded room feel a little less overwhelming to him. You excused yourself from the conversation and hurried over through the crowd.
"Sammy" You excitedly call out, making his shoulders relax at the familiar nickname. That was a privilege youâd slowly earned by spending quality time with him, plus that apparently only you and his older brother had.
"Hey"
"You came"
The grin on your face made him laugh, shaking his head fondly. "Sound surprised"
"Well yeah, I was fully prepared to drag you out of the library myself" Sure, itâs said as a joke, but itâs also a genuine thought thatâd crossed your mind since inviting him to join the party.
"I said I'd come" Thatâs also true. In all the time youâve known Sam Winchester, heâs never disappointed you. Never lied, never betrayedâ which is honestly more than you can say about most of the people in this room right now.
You smiled at the reminder, nodding to yourself. "But you also said you'd only stay for an hour"
"Still the plan" He chuckles softly.
You rolled your eyes, but then noticed the straps over his shoulders. "Did you bring your backpack?"
Sam looked down, double-checking as if he didnât know damn well he did in fact bring his backpack to a frat party. "...Yeah?"
"Oh my God" You laughed, though it wasnât mocking, it was warm and endeared in that way only Sam and his dorkish antics managed to pull out of you. "What'd you bring?"
"Stuff" Sam shrugged simply. You didnât give in that easily, gaze still expectantâ he sighed dramatically before reaching inside. A packet of gummies, a granola bar, two water bottles, a notebook and exactly three highlighters.
You canât help but chuckle. "You're unbelievable"
"I like being prepared" He retorts in all his six foot four seriousness, though you can quickly spot the dimples threatening to show on his cheeks.
"You brought study supplies to a frat party"
"You never know"
"Know what?"
"When inspiration might strike" He hums simply, those ridiculously endearing dimples finally pushing through. Your laughter only got louder at his sass, and despite himself Sam smiled too. God. He'd come for youâ not the party, definitely not for the party⌠Just for you. He loved these moments, moments in which despite whatever might be going on around yâall, you could still be in this little bubble. Well, that was until someone stepped up beside youâ an arm heavily settling across your shoulder like a leash.
Your âboyfriendâ, Jason. "There you are"
Your smile faltered for a second before returning, polite and kind as ever. That familiar popular girl mask youâd practically been trained to put on coming right back up. "Hey"
He kissed your temple while looking right at Sam, a quiet claim of ownership without giving a single thought about how uncomfortable you clearly were by his interruption. "Winchester" Jason hums, shamelessly looking him up and down.
"Hey" Sam politely replies, though you can see the tight, awkward smile on his face.
"We've been looking for you" Jason interrupts, completely ignoring the other manâs greeting as he turns his attention over to you.
You frowned. "We?"
Your âboyfriendâ ignored the question again, arm tightening around your shoulders as a silent warning. "Come outside with me for a second"
"Oh" The quiet sound escapes your lips while you instinctively glanced up at Sam, a natural response youâd developed over time. "Well uhm⌠I guess I'll be right back then"
He nodded, a small polite smile on his lips. "No rush" When walking past him, you gently squeezed his arm. A small gesture, barely noticeable actually but Sam watched you disappear into the crowd anyway. The second you were gone, the party immediately felt too loud again.
Sam wasn't trying to eavesdrop. He'd just gone outside because he needed air, maybe hoping to run into you since itâd been a while since yâall stepped outâ but he wasnât actively trying to spy or ruin your conversation or anything like that. But then he heard your voice, quiet and smaller than he was used to hearing it. "...please, don't start"
Jason scoffed. "I'm not starting anything" He points at himself with way too much emphasis, almost hitting his own chest to drive his sentence into your head. âYouâre the one who came to my friendâs party and started acting like a fucking attention whoreâ You hadnât even done anythingâ youâd just sat there on the couch, mingling with a couple of friends and making easy conversation with the people at the party. Apparently that was enough to set him off anyway, though he doesnât really need much to lose it. Samâs jaw immediately clenched at the name, every bone in his body screaming at him to interfere but then the other man just continues on his tangent: "Not only that, but you bring you fucking puppy along" Sam looked down at the ground. Because embarrassing as it was⌠he kind of did behave like your dog.
He then heard your voice, soft and certain. "He's my best friend, of course I invited him" Emphasis on the word âinviteâ because you didnât bring him anywhere, he was his own person that made his own choices. You just asked him to come because you wanted him to come. Something in Sam's chest warmed only to shatter just a second later at how tired you suddenly sounded: "Whatever, Jay" You exhaled. "I'm going home"
Your âboyfriendâ laughed bitterly, drunk on smugness and beer alike. "No you're fucking not" His arm stretched out between you and the porch railing, effectively trapping you into the conversation.
"Stop" You try to reason with him despite knowing it was useless. His voice got louder and louder while yours got quieter, drowning out into the night. Sam immediately understood this wasnât a new argument, this was familiar territory, this was clearly something he told you over and over. Then suddenlyâ a sharp sound. Loud and unmistakable. You stumbled back, hands instinctively going up to cover your cheek.
Sam was moving before his brain even caught up to the movement. He stepped between yâall automatically. His hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, usually soft eyes now uncharacteristically wideâ panicked more than angry. "Hey" Both of you looked at him but he looked at you first. Always you first. "You okay?" You blinked, taken aback by the sudden backup before shaking your head. That answer (or lack thereof) broke his heart, even if it was just a little. He quietly shrugged off his comically large hoodie, carefully wrapping it around your shoulders. "Câmon"
Jason scoffed, clearly not used to someone stepping in. "Dude, are you serious right now?"
Sam finally looked at himâ not intimidating, not aggressive. He didnât need to be those things, not when he was a giant wrapped in muscles and flannel. His gaze was just firm, unwavering. "We're leaving" Then he looked back at you, checking if it was alright with you too. "...If that's okay?" You nodded immediately.
And that was that.
His dorm room smelled like a comforting mix of tea and coffee, books, clean sheets and just overall familiar warmth. It was distinctly Sam. He walked over to his mini fridge, crouching down with a quiet âoomfâ. "Orange juice?"
You stared at him as you sat down on the edge of his bed, still a bit dazed. "What?"
He looked back at you over his shoulder in that patient, caring way of his. "You said it helps when you're overwhelmed"
Oh. Right, you did say that. Back during finals week, three months ago. It hadnât been more than a random, passing comment. Youâd been reminiscing about when you were a kid, orange juice was weirdly comforting, something about the sweetness of it always brought you back to those summer evenings at your grandparentâs house. And he'd rememberedâ something so small and still, he remembered. Your eyes burned instantly with tears you refused to let fall. "Yes, please" He handed it to you before sitting at his desk, giving you space. Always giving you space. Your eyes wandered around his room in an attempt to play off the wetness in themâ books scattered everywhere, flashcards from yâallâs past exam, sticky notes with reminders of small things, polaroids⌠One particularly catches your eye, a photo from your first study date. You couldnât help but smile despite the circumstances. "...You kept that?"
Sam looked over to where you were looking. "Oh" Then he smiled. "Yeah" There were lots of them actually, way more than you expected. All of things he held close to his heart. Some were more worn down, faded from the sun, family pictures of a younger (smaller) him standing by his older brother. Others were even older, pictures of some bearded man working on cars while wearing a baseball cap thatâd definitely seen better days. The rest of them though? All of the two of you, of those shared moments where nothing else mattered. After a couple silent seconds, Sam spoke up once more: "...Does your cheek hurt?" Your eyes burned all over again. Because somehow? Out of all the things he couldâve askedâ thatâs what heâd chosen to ask. Not what happened, not why or anything like that, just a gentle⌠âDoes it hurt?â Your reply was no more than a small nod. He frowned thoughtfully, opening his minifridge and pulling out an ice pack. "Dean always says these help"
You laughed softly. "Your brother?"
Sam nodded, then awkwardly held it up. "...Can I?" You nodded again. He sat beside you, leaving a little space to avoid crowding you, then gently held it up against your cheek. Careful, so so careful.
You stared at himâ at this giant boy who somehow held everything as if it could break. His presence was somehow enough for you to find the courage to quietly speak up: "Sânot the first time this happens"
Sam froze, just for a second before nodding. Like he was absorbing the information, storing it away somewhere safe. "...Okay"
You blinked, head tilting in confusion. "Okay?"
He immediately shook his head, realizing what he just said. "Noâ" He snorted a little. " ânot okay" You laughed through your tears, enough to make him relax just a tiny bit. "Just mean..." He scratched the back of his neck. "...thank you for telling me"
There he was, your Sam. He reached down and opened his backpack, (of course he did) pulling out a granola bar heâd packed for the party. You canât help but laugh at the sight. "Oh my God"
"What?"
"You carry food everywhere"
Sam smiled, dimples decorating his cheeks as he shrugs. "Well you didn't eat tonight" Your face crumpled instantlyâ before you knew it, tears were falling down your face. Hot, heavy and uncontrollable. "Oh" He panicked, hands hovering nervously over your shoulders unsure of what to do. "Oh no no"
You laughed in a reflexive, poor attempt at reassuring him. Then cried harder. Your poor best friend looked absolutely devastated at the sight. "I'm okay" You said, wiping the tears away between soft, wet chuckles.
"Are you sure?" He frowns, those goddamn puppy eyes oh so soft with worry. You nodded, without thinking, letting your head fall against his side.
Sam froze before relaxing into it. Like this was the easiest thing in the world, like being there for you wasn't even a burden but a blessing he got to live every day. You sat quietly for a while. No words, no pressure. Just himâ warm, steady, safe. Eventually, you looked up at him. Really looked at him. At the giant boy with scribbled notes all over his desk, the boy who brought you tea every morning, who saved books specifically for you, who remembered every tiny detail you'd ever said, who'd somehow become home for you without either of yâall noticing. And suddenly something inside you clicked into place. Oh.
Maybe love wasn't supposed to be loud after all. Maybe it was just⌠Sam Winchester. Sitting beside you, holding an ice pack to your cheek, making sure you'd eaten. Like he always did.
