S0urw00lf

Charlotte stepped back, though her stance was firm as she took a deep breath, her chest heaving, “Listen, Rafe. I didn’t mean for this to happen; it just… naturally did, and it makes sense. I've known him my whole life, and I know it’s cutting it close, but it feels right.” There weren’t many things that didn’t make sense to Rafe, but hearing his fiancée speak was one of the few that he could add to that list. “You deserve someone who’d marry you without keeping secrets from you. I’m honestly doing you a favour.”

“Doing me a favour?” Rafe barked out a bitter laugh, shaking his head at how incredulously confident Charlotte was in the situation. “Nah, nah, nah. Tell me how any of this is meant to benefit me. How are we going to tell everyone?” 

“I don’t know, Rafe,” She turned, her manicured nails sliding off the engagement ring on her finger before placing it on the counter of the island. It didn’t feel real, seeing the ring that Rafe had given out of a place of love be discarded so easily, sitting solemnly on the marble top and mocking Rafe that he’d been played. Charlotte slipped her weekender bag on her shoulder, nonchalantly letting out, “I’ll have someone pick up my things. Goodbye, Rafe.” 

The hair that prickled under Rafe’s palm felt more like a bed of nails as he rubbed his head, trying to make sense of how his Saturday afternoon went from nothing to everything in a matter of five minutes. He watched her blonde hair swaying from one end to another as she walked towards the car of a man she'd apparently been choosing long before she'd admitted it out loud. 

Suddenly, everything that was in sight was all the more overwhelming for Rafe, the smell of the citrus candles she’d placed around the house still hanging in the air. The decor she had chosen with such taste hung across from a portrait from their engagement shoot, as he was dragged from one store to another while he blindly handed over his credit card. 

Reminders of her were practically plastered in every space a wall could have in a house as big as his, and it all had to come down. Rafe grabbed the familiar black trash bag, the polyethylene gliding smoothly in his touch as he opened it, tossing every little thing he could into the plastic without a care for if it broke. By the time he'd finished clearing out the main floor, his chest was rising and falling heavily, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to the back of his neck despite the cool air conditioning that hummed throughout the house. Once the main floor was stripped bare, he headed for his bedroom, tearing fabrics from the hangers into their impending doom in the bag. 

He tied off the last trash bag with a brutal, snapping shot that echoed in the silence of the bedroom, the adrenaline now wearing off, leaving a cold, hollow cavity in his chest. With every picture frame that shattered and every piece of her life that disappeared into the bag, the reality of it all seemed to settle heavier in his chest, a sickening realization washing over him that she hadn't just chosen someone else—she'd looked at everything he'd spent years building and decided it still wasn't enough.

Ward and his constant disappointment were another problem that he’d have to deal with soon, Ward having spent the past year telling anyone who'd listen that Rafe was finally settling down. The knowledge that he’d be met with the same condescending words that it was his fault, hurled at him, as Rafe would stare towards the ground in a blank stare. 

As he lay in bed that night, he looked at that picture on his phone, the one where he’d stood with Charlotte, him, and you on the day of his engagement party. Charlotte was leaning in much too close toward her childhood friend, who’d done the same, while you and Rafe just stood at the ends, smiling towards a camera without the knowledge of what would happen. 

You.

Rafe knew he had to tell you, even if it meant having to go to the fucker’s house. He'd seen Charlotte's location sitting at her parents' house, the little blue dot still visible thanks to the fact that she'd forgotten to stop sharing it with him. If they were still there, he knew they hadn't found a way to come clean to you yet.

Another amber-hued sunrise, streaked with remnants of baby blue and rose, flooded your eyes as you sat on the patio seats in your backyard. It’d been four days since Ethan was supposed to come back from his trip, yet here you were, staring at the screen where your last text to him was still left unread. You tried hard not to let your mind spiral from all the possibilities that could have happened, the morning wind contributing to the shiver that went down your spine as you thought of if there was a plane crash you hadn’t heard of yet, making you pull your sweater’s arms closer to you. 

It was almost impossible to imagine what life would be like for you without Ethan in the picture, having been with him for so long. Your love story was akin to a romance straight from the books: two teens who’d fallen deep in love in the midst of high school and soon enough, found themselves following each other through every step of life, whether it be going to the same university, applying for jobs in the same company, and now happily engaged to each other while living in a house was fit for you both. His scent from the sweater draped over your figure, interlaced with the slight scent of salt from the waterfront nearby, wrapped you in comfort that he’d come home soon, but there was an unsettling feeling knotting in your stomach that wouldn’t go away. 

Your train of thought abruptly came to a stop when you heard banging on the door, your name being called in the distance, dread filling you as your eyes widened. Just as you reached your patio door, you saw Rafe’s figure come out from the side, his eyes that seemed like he’d been awake for almost a month looking at you with a look of pity and regret as he softly called out your name. 

“Rafe! What are you doing here so early?” You opened the door, inviting him in as you made your way to the kitchen. “The bachelorette party must’ve been going super well since they still haven’t come back yet.” 

You’d noticed that he was hesitating to step into the house, the internal battle in his head as he tried to contemplate if it was worth stepping into the house of someone who’d gotten what was his, and inadvertently broken your heart without you even knowing it. Rafe knew he was going to be breaking a home that’d taken years to build. “Hey, are you okay?” 

“I, uh-” Rafe heavily sighed. Seeing you look so vulnerable and unsuspecting of what was to come next almost made him feel guilty for what he’d come to do. Almost. “Listen, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your fiancé isn't running late because the bachelorette party got extended. He’s not coming back to you at all.”

You froze, your hand hovering over the kitchen counter. “W-what? Rafe, what are you talking about?”

Rafe rubbed a hand over his jaw, already regretting this as the anger towards the two began to fester in his heart again. “Charlotte called off the wedding a few days ago,” Rafe said, his voice dropping into a sharp, venomous cadence as he finally stepped fully into the house. He couldn't stop his eyes from scanning the room, noting the domestic little life you had set up with the guy who had just ruined his. “Turns out they had this life-changing revelation that they actually love each other or some bullshit, and now they’re currently holed up at her parents' place pretending they’re some star-crossed lovers.”

He let out a harsh, mocking laugh, his jaw clenching. “So yeah. They’re together right now. The wedding’s off, and you and I just got completely fucked over by the same two people.”

Your face drained of colour. “That's not funny. Don’t fucking play with me right now.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, if this were a joke, I'd have stayed home.”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

“No, Ethan would never-” The words hit you like a physical force, leaving you breathless as the room seemed to tilt. Before your brain could even begin to process the sheer gravity of what Rafe was telling you, the heavy thud of the front door opening echoed through the hallway, making you both turn your heads towards the commotion of the sound as your name was called out. 

“Hey, baby? I’m home! Sorry, I’m so late; the trip became longer than we’d expected-” Ethan’s voice cut off the second he rounded the corner into the kitchen, his weekender bag slipping right out of his hand and hitting the floor with a dull thud. Then Ethan's eyes landed on Rafe, and it was as if someone had literally drained the colour from his face as he paled. It wasn’t much help that you could see small splotches of purple peeking out from under the collar of his shirt, nor the sickening smell of sweet, lingering perfume that clung to him; notes of vanilla and coffee so deeply embedded in the fabric that it felt as though she'd walked into the room with him.

You didn't even look at Rafe, though you knew that his cold glare was enough to frighten your fiancé. Your gaze locked onto Ethan, your voice barely a whisper but laced with a sudden, terrifying panic while your lips trembled. “Tell me he’s lying.” 

Ethan swallowed hard, his eyes glossy as he looked at you. “I don’t know-” 

“No!” You interjected, your voice raised at a level you hadn’t heard from yourself since that night. “Tell me he’s wrong. That you went on that bachelorette trip with Charlotte and did nothing else. That you didn’t confess your feelings for her. That you didn’t fuck her behind my back while calling to tell me ‘I love you’. That you-” 

You didn't even realize you were crying until the tears hanging from your jaw began to drip onto your feet, the sobs tearing from your chest before you could stop them. “Why, E, why? What could have possibly been missing from our relationship that was so easy to let us go?” 

“It wasn’t you; it’s just that Charlotte and I have known each other since we were babies. And during the trip, I realized that I don’t know how I would feel if I had to watch her get married and live the rest of her life with some guy who wasn’t me.” He moved closer to you, trying to reach out to console you, though you pulled away. “I guess Char just realized that, too, and it felt like we made sense. I promise it had nothing to do with us, baby, I swear.” 

Rafe scoffed, “So it took you right until our fucking wedding to realize that you wanted to be with her all this time? I don’t buy it.” 

“You don’t buy it?” Ethan snapped, pivoting toward Rafe as a desperate, defensive anger flushed his cheeks red. “This has nothing to do with you, Cameron! Get the hell out of my house!”

“Yeah?” Rafe’s voice dropped, a terrifyingly quiet rumble that sounded like a predator cornering its prey. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them until he was towering over Ethan. The air in the kitchen grew heavy, suffocating under the weight of Rafe’s volatile energy. “You think you’re a man just cause your name’s on the papers? You’re a coward, Ethan. You took my money to go sleep with my fiancée, and you ruined her life,” he gestured wildly toward you, his chest heaving under his designer shirt. “You’re a parasitic little piece of shit who couldn't keep it in his pants long enough to make it to the altar.”

“Rafe-”

“No, seriously,” Rafe cut him off, taking a step forward. “You spent years with her.” He jabbed a finger in your direction. “Years. And you couldn't break things off before screwing around with somebody else's fiancée?”

“Don't talk to me like you know anything about our relationship,” Ethan snapped, his voice rising as he lunged forward, shoving his hands square against Rafe’s chest. “Not my fault, your girl loves me more.” 

That was all the invitation Rafe needed. The manic heat that had been bubbling under Rafe's skin for days finally exploded. Before Ethan could even pull his hand back, Rafe’s fist connected with Ethan’s jaw with a sickening, wet crack, the only sound to be heard alongside your gasp, echoing through the kitchen. The force of the punch sent Ethan stumbling backward into the kitchen island, his hip colliding violently with the marble countertop. A decorative ceramic fruit bowl wobbled before crashing to the hardwood floor, shattering into a dozen sharp, white shards. 

“Rafe, stop!” you screamed, your voice cracking under the weight of the chaos.

But Rafe wasn't listening; the animalistic urge to destroy the thing that had humiliated him took over. He grabbed the front of Ethan’s shirt, the fury in him rising as he smelled Charlotte’s vanilla perfume on him, and slammed him against the refrigerator, raising his fist to strike again. Ethan groaned, his hands flying up to block his face, blood already trickling from the corner of his split lip.

“For fucks sake, I said stop!” Your voice rang out, louder and sharper than either of them had ever heard it. It pierced through the red mist in Rafe’s head. Rafe froze, his fist suspended in mid-air. He blinked, breathing heavily through his nose as he slowly turned his head to look at you. You were standing near the doorway, your hands trembling violently against your sides, tears streaming down your paled face. However, your eyes weren't weak anymore; but rather, it stunned him to see them filled with a raw, agonizing heartbreak that was all too familiar to him.

Rafe slowly lowered his fist, loosening his grip on Ethan’s collar, making Ethan slide down against the refrigerator, clutching his jaw and panting. You pointed a shaking finger directly at Ethan. “Get the fuck out.”

Ethan looked up, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes wide with a pathetic sort of shock. “Listen, sweetheart, just let me explain—”

“Don’t you dare call me that. I really don’t have the time for your shit today, Ethan,” you whispered, the venom in your voice making him flinch. Ethan opened his mouth to protest, but looking at the absolute finality in your eyes, he knew he had lost. He pushed himself up from the floor, avoiding Rafe’s lingering, lethal glare entirely. He grabbed his weekender bag from the floor, his head hanging low as he practically sprinted out the front door, the heavy click of the lock signalling the definitive end of the life you had spent years building.

The silence that followed was deafening, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of Rafe trying to catch his breath. He stood in the center of your ruined kitchen, looking around at the shattered ceramic pieces on the floor. The aggressive, manic armour he had arrived with seemed to deflate, leaving him looking suddenly awkward, a stark contrast to the violence he had just unleashed. He cleared his throat, flexing his reddened knuckles, refusing to look you directly in the eye.

“I, uh… I didn’t mean to break your bowl,” Rafe muttered, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly hyper-aware of how intrusive he was in your grief. “I should probably go.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself as the cool morning breeze drifted in from the open patio door, making you both feel the cold loneliness of having their reality flipped in a matter of days. The golden sunlight was fully pouring through the windows now, illuminating the empty space where Ethan used to be every morning.

“Hey, Rafe?” you called out softly, stopping him just as he reached for the doorknob.

He stopped in his tracks, and looked up to see you directly looking at him for the first time since he’d arrived. There was still tension between the two of you; there had always been. You'd spent years knowing each other through Charlotte and Ethan, though, never quite becoming friends and never quite becoming strangers either.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice thick with more unshed tears, while your words still had a weight of awkwardness to them. “For letting me know.” 

Rafe’s throat was tight, his expression softening into something resembling genuine empathy—a rare look on a face usually twisted by anger or pride. He gave you a tight, solemn nod. “Yeah,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against his bruised knuckles. “Anytime.”

You both stood there for a moment, surrounded by shattered pieces of the lives you'd spent years building. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly. 

With that, he stepped out into the crisp morning air, leaving you alone in the quiet wreckage of your home.

Seven weeks later…

You sighed as you inserted the key into the keyhole of the door, being welcomed by the soft amber lighting and quiet stillness of the new abode that still couldn’t be called home or yours just yet. After Rafe left, you'd spent the following week with anything but a dry face, packing your belongings into cardboard boxes as memories that were once vivid and lively became confined within their brown, paper walls, stacked neatly in the corner of your bedroom. Even if the house had belonged to the both of you, you knew Ethan's name was the one on the deed, leaving you with no choice but to let him and Charlotte continue their lives together in the very house where you'd once imagined raising your children.

“Hey, hey, hey, roomie,” your roommate cheerfully called out as she lay on the couch, her laptop littered with lines of code glowing in front of her. “You’re home! How was your day?”

“Hi, Sage. Work was okay,” you gave a meek smile, even though it was a dead giveaway of how you’d felt. Even though you’d found Sage’s listing for a new roommate online, you were thankful that she’d been accommodating and understanding enough to understand when you were feeling the need to be on your own.

“I’ll, just, uh-” You gestured your thumb towards your room, rounding into the hallway. 

“Wait!” 

You stopped in your tracks, turning around towards her. “Yeah?” 

Sage winced, which immediately made your stomach drop. “I know you need your space and you’re feeling down, but…” Sage hesitated, closing her laptop slightly so the blue light from her code didn't illuminate the sudden dread on her face. She reached onto the coffee table, picking up a thick, heavy, cream-coloured cardstock invitation with your name scribbled in handwriting you’d know from anywhere. It made your throat tighten. 

"Oh."

"Do you want me to throw it out?" Sage offered gently. “Or we could burn it? A lot more fun.” 

You stepped back into the living room, your fingers trembling as you took the envelope from her. The paper was expensive, textured, and embossed with elegant gold foil. You ripped it open, the sharp tear of paper echoing in the quiet apartment. Inside was a wedding invitation. Charlotte and Ethan invite you to celebrate their union. The date was the exact date of your wedding, your name easily swapped out for Charlotte’s.

The ground felt like a top, spinning you as you struggled to keep your composure without losing your mind. For almost two months, you’d struggled to pick up the pieces of yourself, trying to go on with your usual routine without someone who’d been part of that routine for so long. Even morning coffee felt odd to have when he wasn’t there to make sure your coffees were made precisely how he’d perfected it for you both all those years back. 

"No."

Sage was off the couch immediately. "What is it?"

"They invited me," you laughed weakly, tears immediately springing to your eyes. "They actually invited me."

"What the actual fuck?" Sage snatched the invitation from your hands. "Oh, that’s so fucking twisted. I’m so sorry, babe."

Before the tears could even sting the back of your eyes, a heavy, demanding knock rattled the front door, making you both freeze. 

"I'll get it." You wiped furiously at your eyes before heading towards the entrance and pulling the door open. Whatever tears were left in your system had been shocked as you found yourself looking at Rafe, his appearance looking no different than yours. A permanent frown was etched on his face, while red rimmed his eyes, making the blue in them stand out more. 

“Rafe?”

"I need to talk to you." His eyes immediately landed on the invitation clenched in your hand, making his fingernails dig deeper into his palm as he tried to keep himself calm. "You got one too?"

Your stomach dropped. "What do you mean ‘too’?"

"They sent me one." Rafe let out a humourless laugh, bafflement overcoming his senses. “Some audacity they have.” 

“Rafe, I’m really not in the mood—”

“Just listen to me,” Rafe interrupted, wrapping his hands around your wrist as he pulled you towards the hallway. As soon as you closed the door to your bedroom, Rafe was leaning his hands on your dresser, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “Charlotte never changed the passwords to her email. I still have access to everything. They think they’re being slick, but I just saw the confirmation emails. They are taking the exact same honeymoon itinerary that we planned. The one I paid for.”

You stared at him, confused. “What?”

“I overheard it from Topper at the country club, they’re going to Italy and Greece,” Rafe said, a dark, vindictive smirk spreading across his lips. “It was supposed to be my wedding gift to her since her type A ass couldn’t stop perfecting her dream trip.”

“Okay, so what am I supposed to do about that?” You countered, shrugging your blazer off as you approached your closet. He tapped the folder, the noise almost as loud as your heart thumping as Rafe replied, “I want you to come with me. We're going, and we’re going to follow them and make ‘em pay for the shit they pulled on us.”

You blinked, your brain struggling to process the sheer audacity of the words coming out of his mouth. “You want me to WHAT?” you hissed, your voice rising in pitch, not entirely caring if Sage could overhear your conversation with Rage. “You want to follow our ex-fiancés on their makeshift-honeymoon wannabe trip and sabotage everything they do?”

“Yes,” Rafe’s expression was serious as ever, not a flicker of sarcasm in his voice. He leaned closer, his voice dropping into that persuasive, lethal cadence. “Think about it. We show up at the same places they go to and boot them out, then take every opportunity to ruin their entire trip. C’mon, they wasted all of these years of our lives just to fuck each other behind our backs, you don’t want a little bit of payback?”

You looked from Rafe’s wild, determined eyes down to the gold-embossed invitation mocking you from the counter. For seven weeks, you had been sad. You had been mourning a ghost.

“No, Rafe, no. I know you’re hurt and grieving, but I can’t do that to him.” 

“He ruined your life!” Rafe waved the invitation in your view, the gold foil catching the light. “They both did, and now they’re getting married on what was supposed to be your wedding day!”

The words hit you like someone had driven a fist into your chest, the air in your lungs coming out in a slow exhale as you were reminded once again. Your wedding day. That was the date you’d spent a year circling on calendars, the date you’d meticulously picked out flowers for, the date you thought you’d finally become a wife. Hearing Rafe voice the cruel reality out loud made the room tilt slightly.

An intense, exhausting battle ignited in your mind, tearing you in two directions. Part of you—the part that still wore Ethan's oversized sweaters and kept checking an unread text thread—shrank back in horror. Revenge was anything but what you wanted; it was all the more toxic. Part of you knew that if you followed through with this, it would just be letting them keep their chokehold on your life, even when they both had moved on.

But then your eyes flicked back to the gold-foiled invitation resting on the counter.

They didn't care about ruining your life. Ethan hadn’t hesitated to destroy your future, while Charlotte hadn't blinked twice before taking everything Rafe had built for her. They were rewriting their betrayal as a romance, and they were using a dream vacation to celebrate it. A sudden, unfamiliar wave of hot, venomous anger surged through your veins, momentarily drowning out the suffocating sadness. The red-horned voice whispered in your ears that they deserved to have their paradise ruined, to look up and see the collateral damage of their choices staring them right in the face.

You closed your eyes, your breath hitching as you tried to steady the frantic beating of your heart. You were so tired of being the bigger person. You were so tired of crying.

"Rafe, stop," you whispered, pressing your palms against the cool marble of the kitchen island to keep your hands from shaking. You opened your eyes, looking at him with a mixture of exhaustion and raw vulnerability. "I... I can't give you an answer right now."

Rafe lowered the invitation, his chest still heaving slightly from his outburst. He stared at you, his jaw tight, clearly expecting you to either jump on board or reject him entirely.

"I need to think about it," you said softly, your voice barely carrying across the room. "Just... give me some time. Please."

The fierce, manic energy that had been radiating off Rafe for the last ten minutes suddenly seemed to dissipate. He looked at you—really looked at you—standing in a bedroom that wasn't really yours, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes, clutching yourself as if you were trying to keep from falling apart. For a split second, the cold, calculating façade he often had on slipped from his face. A flash of profound pity and shared grief softened his eyes. He knew exactly what it felt like to look at the wreckage of a life you thought you'd secured, and for the first time, he didn't just see an ally for revenge but instead someone who was hurting just as badly as he was.

Rafe slowly let out a breath, tossing the manila folder onto the counter beside the invitation.

"Fine," he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He stepped back toward the door, his eyes lingering on you for one last moment. "Think about it. The flight leaves in three weeks."

As Rafe stepped out, you looked at the folder again, then back to the wedding invitation that was mocking you with its presence. Suddenly, your room felt bigger than it had since you’d moved in, the heavy silence of the apartment settling around you like a calm before the storm. The soft, gold-embossed font blurred beneath the shadows creeping across the kitchen counter, leaving you alone in the quiet dark with a choice that could either heal your heart or burn your entire world to the ground.

dividers: @cursed-carmine @saradika-graphics

Your heart broke each time, and every time it became harder and harder to bite your tongue because of how protective Dean was, and how willing to let go and accept it, Sam was.

But you weren't. You didn't like Mary. You didn't like the way she was raised from the dead and shoved into the boy's life like she still belonged. Like she'd been there the whole time.

You especially didn't like the way she disregarded her youngest son, your husband, just because she knew Dean longer.

She wouldn't even try.

At first, you thought maybe it was because she felt guilty or weird, but the way she clicked with Dean made it obvious she wasn't having any trouble being a mother.

The straw that broke the camel's back was the morning Sam had invited you and Mary to watch a movie together. Something fun- a movie he had picked and loved for years. You, of course, obliged because it was Sam and you could never resist his pretty puppy eyes.

You made yourself comfortable at Sam's side, and he wrapped you in his arms. Sam's eyes lit up when his mom walked into the room, taking a seat closer to the end of the couch than him. Just that small action made him deflate a little, and you again bit your tongue. Instead, you pressed a subtle kiss to his forearm and intertwined your fingers with his.

A little way through the movie, you had excused yourself to the bathroom, and when you got back, the movie was paused, and neither Sam nor Mary was anywhere to be seen.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you walked around the bunker, checking in all of the usual places Sam liked to hide out in. All spots came up empty.

The last stop you made was to your shared bedroom, where Sam was sitting on the corner of the bed with his hands in his hair and tears falling down his face.

"Baby?" You gently called as you approached. Sam didn't hide from you, he looked up at you, sad and teary-eyed. The sight made your chest constrict. "Oh, Sam," you whispered, stopping in front of him.

You put your hand on his face, wiping away the tears that kept falling. "Talk to me, honey. What happened?" You question gently.

Sam wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer as he buries his head in your chest. You resisted the urge to let tears fall yourself. You brushed your hands through his beautiful brown locks, scratching gently, and the base of his skull in the way he always found comfort in.

"Baby, tell me what's wrong," you urged him. You knew already, you knew Mary had yet again crushed his heart and hopes that one day he could really have his mama back.

"I-" Sam began, but his voice broke. You shushed him, "Take your time, honey… I'm not going anywhere," you continued, running your hands through his hair.

"I just… want her to see me." His voice strained. Your heart shatters. "The way she does Dean. I don't have any bond with her and she won't- she won't even try"

You bit your lips, trying to contain the heat boiling in your chest. "I know." You hated that it was the only thing that you could say.

Right now, as Sam clutched you closer, your mind had set. Mary would hear a price of your mind. You'd argue with Sam, you'd argue with Dean, if Mary can sit and choose favorites, you won't let her hear the end of it.

You sat with Sam for about an hour until he fell asleep. You pressed a kiss onto his forehead, giving him one last glance to make sure he was really asleep before slipping out of his arms.

You tiptoed out of the room and down the hallway.

You found Mary in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. She froze momentarily when she saw you.

You took a seat at the table. "We need to talk," you said, interlocking your hands. Mary finished chopping the tomatoes and set them aside. "What about?" She glanced at you.

You huff a laugh, "Sam." Your tone is harsh but still respectful. She looked off, as if she already knew it was coming, "What about him?" She sighed.

You rolled your eyes. "Look, I'm not gonna sugarcoat anything, you're an adult. You can take it." Your gaze on her hardens. "You have to stop treating him like some guy you met on the street."

"I don't"

You pinched the bridge of your nose, sighing in an attempt not to lose your cool. "You do. You're his mother, and you act as if you hate him."

She avoided your eyes, and you saw right through her. "You think he doesn't see the way you avoid him? That he doesn't see your favoritism for Dean? Sam's not an idiot, and he knows how to read a room."

"I don't try-" "No, you're right, you don't. I don't care what your problem is, but I advise you to fix it. He's been to hell and back, he lived with the guilt of your death and every one he's ever lost his whole life." You cut her off.

Your mind wandered back to an hour ago, when he was crying because the woman who gave birth to him would barely sit in the same room as him.

She folded her arms over her chest, looking as if she was trying to shrink into herself.

"And you know the worst part?" She looks at you questioningly, "The worst part is he's so much like you. he never wanted this life. None of it. He wanted to find love, build a home, and have a normal family. Ring any bells?"

Mary shook her head, sucking in a harsh breath. "I'm sorry- but I. I can't. I don't even know where to start with him."

You scoff, "How about an apology. Tell him you love him, get to know him. Him, not stories, not rumors. Him."

Mary leans against the counter, facing away from you. You could see the contemplation on her face, which irritated you further. How did anything requiring her son have to be contemplated?

You scoffed, standing up from your seat, "You know what- forget it. You obviously don't want anything to do with him. Just know this, he would've done anything to spend just a few hours with you when you were dead." You walked to the door, pausing. "Imagine how he feels watching you walk around his home and still making no effort."

You walk back to you and Sam's bedroom. He was no longer asleep; instead, he was standing in the middle of the room, looking like he was thinking too hard.

"Hey," you say, eyeing him. He turned towards you, a small smile lit his face, and his eyes were no longer red. Instead, they sparkled in their usual hazel color.

He walked towards you, wrapping his arms around you tight and secure, "Oh- what's this for?" You let out a surprised laugh, hugging him back.

Sam kissed your forehead, "for loving me. And taking care of me, even behind my back"

Oh.

You look up at him, "You know, it's rude to eavesdrop," you joked, trying to gauge his feelings. He shrugged, "You left me."

"Clingy"

"Only for you"

This makes you laugh, relieved he wasn't upset about you confronting his mom. You sighed, "If I crossed a line, I'm sorry. I can't stand to watch you wait for her to see you. It's not fair."

Sam frowns to himself, "It's okay, honey-"

"Except it's not. You and Dean have been without a parent for so long. Now she's here, and I can't even begin to imagine how it feels."

Sam's jaw clenched. He shook his head before picking you up bridal style. "I got you, though. And dean. That's all I really need. I mean, yeah- it sucks, but what's new."

You felt a pang in your chest, you opened your mouth to say something, but Sam cut you off with a kiss.

You melted into him without a fight. He laid you on the bed, then lay down himself. "Don't wanna talk about it anymore. Just wanna sit n lay with you." He muttered.

You smiled, "I think I can make some arrangements"

He gives you an 'oh really?' look. "Oh, can you? Wouldn't wanna ruin your busy schedule"

You snort, pressing a kiss to his lips. "Never too busy for you," you promise.

Sam smiled into the kiss, pulling you closer.

The anger directed towards his mother didn't leave. It wouldn't, not until she fixes her act, if she ever does. But Sam had a way of melting away your anger like no other, and right now, all you wanted was to focus on him. Because that's what he deserves.

Your heart broke each time, and every time it became harder and harder to bite your tongue because of how protective Dean was, and how willing to let go and accept it, Sam was.

But you weren't. You didn't like Mary. You didn't like the way she was raised from the dead and shoved into the boy's life like she still belonged. Like she'd been there the whole time.

You especially didn't like the way she disregarded her youngest son, your husband, just because she knew Dean longer.

She wouldn't even try.

At first, you thought maybe it was because she felt guilty or weird, but the way she clicked with Dean made it obvious she wasn't having any trouble being a mother.

The straw that broke the camel's back was the morning Sam had invited you and Mary to watch a movie together. Something fun- a movie he had picked and loved for years. You, of course, obliged because it was Sam and you could never resist his pretty puppy eyes.

You made yourself comfortable at Sam's side, and he wrapped you in his arms. Sam's eyes lit up when his mom walked into the room, taking a seat closer to the end of the couch than him. Just that small action made him deflate a little, and you again bit your tongue. Instead, you pressed a subtle kiss to his forearm and intertwined your fingers with his.

A little way through the movie, you had excused yourself to the bathroom, and when you got back, the movie was paused, and neither Sam nor Mary was anywhere to be seen.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you walked around the bunker, checking in all of the usual places Sam liked to hide out in. All spots came up empty.

The last stop you made was to your shared bedroom, where Sam was sitting on the corner of the bed with his hands in his hair and tears falling down his face.

"Baby?" You gently called as you approached. Sam didn't hide from you, he looked up at you, sad and teary-eyed. The sight made your chest constrict. "Oh, Sam," you whispered, stopping in front of him.

You put your hand on his face, wiping away the tears that kept falling. "Talk to me, honey. What happened?" You question gently.

Sam wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer as he buries his head in your chest. You resisted the urge to let tears fall yourself. You brushed your hands through his beautiful brown locks, scratching gently, and the base of his skull in the way he always found comfort in.

"Baby, tell me what's wrong," you urged him. You knew already, you knew Mary had yet again crushed his heart and hopes that one day he could really have his mama back.

"I-" Sam began, but his voice broke. You shushed him, "Take your time, honey… I'm not going anywhere," you continued, running your hands through his hair.

"I just… want her to see me." His voice strained. Your heart shatters. "The way she does Dean. I don't have any bond with her and she won't- she won't even try"

You bit your lips, trying to contain the heat boiling in your chest. "I know." You hated that it was the only thing that you could say.

Right now, as Sam clutched you closer, your mind had set. Mary would hear a price of your mind. You'd argue with Sam, you'd argue with Dean, if Mary can sit and choose favorites, you won't let her hear the end of it.

You sat with Sam for about an hour until he fell asleep. You pressed a kiss onto his forehead, giving him one last glance to make sure he was really asleep before slipping out of his arms.

You tiptoed out of the room and down the hallway.

You found Mary in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. She froze momentarily when she saw you.

You took a seat at the table. "We need to talk," you said, interlocking your hands. Mary finished chopping the tomatoes and set them aside. "What about?" She glanced at you.

You huff a laugh, "Sam." Your tone is harsh but still respectful. She looked off, as if she already knew it was coming, "What about him?" She sighed.

You rolled your eyes. "Look, I'm not gonna sugarcoat anything, you're an adult. You can take it." Your gaze on her hardens. "You have to stop treating him like some guy you met on the street."

"I don't"

You pinched the bridge of your nose, sighing in an attempt not to lose your cool. "You do. You're his mother, and you act as if you hate him."

She avoided your eyes, and you saw right through her. "You think he doesn't see the way you avoid him? That he doesn't see your favoritism for Dean? Sam's not an idiot, and he knows how to read a room."

"I don't try-" "No, you're right, you don't. I don't care what your problem is, but I advise you to fix it. He's been to hell and back, he lived with the guilt of your death and every one he's ever lost his whole life." You cut her off.

Your mind wandered back to an hour ago, when he was crying because the woman who gave birth to him would barely sit in the same room as him.

She folded her arms over her chest, looking as if she was trying to shrink into herself.

"And you know the worst part?" She looks at you questioningly, "The worst part is he's so much like you. he never wanted this life. None of it. He wanted to find love, build a home, and have a normal family. Ring any bells?"

Mary shook her head, sucking in a harsh breath. "I'm sorry- but I. I can't. I don't even know where to start with him."

You scoff, "How about an apology. Tell him you love him, get to know him. Him, not stories, not rumors. Him."

Mary leans against the counter, facing away from you. You could see the contemplation on her face, which irritated you further. How did anything requiring her son have to be contemplated?

You scoffed, standing up from your seat, "You know what- forget it. You obviously don't want anything to do with him. Just know this, he would've done anything to spend just a few hours with you when you were dead." You walked to the door, pausing. "Imagine how he feels watching you walk around his home and still making no effort."

You walk back to you and Sam's bedroom. He was no longer asleep; instead, he was standing in the middle of the room, looking like he was thinking too hard.

"Hey," you say, eyeing him. He turned towards you, a small smile lit his face, and his eyes were no longer red. Instead, they sparkled in their usual hazel color.

He walked towards you, wrapping his arms around you tight and secure, "Oh- what's this for?" You let out a surprised laugh, hugging him back.

Sam kissed your forehead, "for loving me. And taking care of me, even behind my back"

Oh.

You look up at him, "You know, it's rude to eavesdrop," you joked, trying to gauge his feelings. He shrugged, "You left me."

"Clingy"

"Only for you"

This makes you laugh, relieved he wasn't upset about you confronting his mom. You sighed, "If I crossed a line, I'm sorry. I can't stand to watch you wait for her to see you. It's not fair."

Sam frowns to himself, "It's okay, honey-"

"Except it's not. You and Dean have been without a parent for so long. Now she's here, and I can't even begin to imagine how it feels."

Sam's jaw clenched. He shook his head before picking you up bridal style. "I got you, though. And dean. That's all I really need. I mean, yeah- it sucks, but what's new."

You felt a pang in your chest, you opened your mouth to say something, but Sam cut you off with a kiss.

You melted into him without a fight. He laid you on the bed, then lay down himself. "Don't wanna talk about it anymore. Just wanna sit n lay with you." He muttered.

You smiled, "I think I can make some arrangements"

He gives you an 'oh really?' look. "Oh, can you? Wouldn't wanna ruin your busy schedule"

You snort, pressing a kiss to his lips. "Never too busy for you," you promise.

Sam smiled into the kiss, pulling you closer.

The anger directed towards his mother didn't leave. It wouldn't, not until she fixes her act, if she ever does. But Sam had a way of melting away your anger like no other, and right now, all you wanted was to focus on him. Because that's what he deserves.

Sam Winchester was, unfortunately– 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 wasn’t 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 (it’s just wrong!) or how for some reason, your hands got cold whenever y’all 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)

"Y’know–" You said, dropping into your seat behind him. " –one day I'm gonna start thinking you're psychic"

He smiled a little without looking away from his notebook. "M’not 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 I’m not gonna see a thing behind those bigass shoulders. (That’s the reason he’d started bringing you tea in the first place) Now you’ve 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 it’s 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. “I just listen to what you say"

God. You'd never met someone like him. Maybe that’s why he’d become your best friend so quickly, well actually your favorite person overall. College life was hard– there were the exams, awful bitter teachers, mean girls and their frat boys… Sam made it easier, more bearable. He’s your person. Even over your ‘boyfriend’ Jason, though that title wasn’t much of truth as it was an imposition– anyways, you didn’t want to think about him right now. Instead, your eyes land on the books stacked on your friend’s table. "You did it again?" You can’t 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 he’d left those notes in your notebook. "No they aren't" He might be the worst liar you’ve ever met– that or he just really doesn’t 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 you’ve seen all week. "I was already going to the library"

"Mhm"

"And they reminded me of you" There it is, the actual reason why he’d checked out all those books just for you. To him? It really was no big deal. He didn’t 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 you’d enjoy them, he wanted to walk with you to y’all’s 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 surprised– after all, he'd been tutoring you for months. Well… ‘tutoring’ 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 everybody– parties weren’t really your thing. Having Sam there would definitely make it easier to get through the night.

"Yeah… studying?"

You can’t 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 no” He huffs softly. “No plans"

You grinned, practically jumping to your feet. "Perfect"

His head tilted in puppy-like confusion, brows furrowing. "What?"

"There's this frat party tonight–" He groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically as if you’d told him to run a marathon or something. (Though he could totally do that, he’s surprisingly in shape for a bookworm) "Oh, c’mon" 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. "M’serious"

You give him your best puppy-eyes. (Learnt from him, of course) "So am I"

"Y’know 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 doesn’t even have to speak for you to know he’s about to try and argue how ‘no he doesn’t’ or ‘it’s not a big deal’ so you quickly add a: "You do" He frowned, briefly looking down at the notes scattered all over his desk. Same notes he’d spent all night making for y’all to prepare the exams without any more trouble than necessary. Huh. Maybe he did take care of everybody around him– but he’d always done that? It’s 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 second– 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 expected– 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 you’d get. He adjusted the straps of his backpack and stepped further inside– almost immediately, y’all 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 you’d 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, it’s said as a joke, but it’s also a genuine thought that’d crossed your mind since inviting him to join the party.

"I said I'd come" That’s also true. In all the time you’ve known Sam Winchester, he’s never disappointed you. Never lied, never betrayed– 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 didn’t know damn well he did in fact bring his backpack to a frat party. "...Yeah?"

"Oh my God" You laughed, though it wasn’t 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 didn’t give in that easily, gaze still expectant– he sighed dramatically before reaching inside. A packet of gummies, a granola bar, two water bottles, a notebook and exactly three highlighters.

You can’t 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 you– 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 y’all, you could still be in this little bubble. Well, that was until someone stepped up beside you– an arm heavily settling across your shoulder like a leash.

Your ‘boyfriend’, Jason. "There you are"

Your smile faltered for a second before returning, polite and kind as ever. That familiar popular girl mask you’d 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 man’s greeting as he turns his attention over to you.

You frowned. "We?"

Your ‘boyfriend’ 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 you’d 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 it’d been a while since y’all stepped out– but he wasn’t 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. “You’re the one who came to my friend’s party and started acting like a fucking attention whore” You hadn’t even done anything– you’d 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 doesn’t really need much to lose it. Sam’s 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 ‘invite’ because you didn’t 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 ‘boyfriend’ 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 wasn’t a new argument, this was familiar territory, this was clearly something he told you over and over. Then suddenly– 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 y’all automatically. His hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, usually soft eyes now uncharacteristically wide– 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. "C’mon"

Jason scoffed, clearly not used to someone stepping in. "Dude, are you serious right now?"

Sam finally looked at him– not intimidating, not aggressive. He didn’t 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 ‘oomf’. "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 hadn’t been more than a random, passing comment. You’d 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 grandparent’s house. And he'd remembered– 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 them– books scattered everywhere, flashcards from y’all’s past exam, sticky notes with reminders of small things, polaroids… One particularly catches your eye, a photo from your first study date. You couldn’t 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 that’d 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 could’ve asked– that’s what he’d chosen to ask. Not what happened, not why or anything like that, just a gentle… ‘Does it hurt?’ 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 him– 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: "S’not 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. "No–" He snorted a little. " –not 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 he’d packed for the party. You can’t 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 instantly– 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 him– 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 y’all noticing. And suddenly something inside you clicked into place. Oh.

But it never goes further than that. Not ever. One of you always stops it, usually you- pulling back and slumping against the mattress like it's not supposed to tear Dean apart the way he wants to keep going so bad. But he'll laugh, he'll grin and joke and pretend he's drunker than he is. And in the morning neither of you will mention it- why would you mention a thing like that? It's just a kiss.

He's staring at you across the small booth, lost in the way your eyes look in the dim light of the bar. He thinks you look beautiful, but he won't tell you that. It's not the sort of thing he says to you.

"-and then he actually went and knocked the whole top off!" You laugh, telling the end of a story Dean wasn't listening to.

Sam laughs next to him, clearly he was listening, "No way! How did the cop not see him?"

"Guess he had that magic touch!"

Both of you break into another fit of laughs. Dean feels guilty for not paying attention- he likes your stories. He picks at the label on his empty beer bottle, willing himself to pay attention to the words instead of the way your lips are moving.

You stand, grabbing the bottle out of his hand as you flash him a smile, "My round."

Dean doesn't watch you walk away. He's trying not to be obvious.

All the same, Sam knocks his knee under the table- a silent question.

Dean looks at him, "What?"

"You good?"

"Yeah- yeah course I am."

"You keep zoning out."

"I'm fine, just a weird hunt-" Twelve hours ago you were bleeding out in Dean's arms while Sam tried to fight off two ghouls, your blood soaking through his jeans as he kept you awake, "-nothing another beer won't fix."

"You and her-" Sam starts, not sure how he's going to finish.

Dean doesn't let him try, "I'm worried she's gonna rip those stitches if she keeps moving around."

"They're small, they'll stay." Sam assures him, then adds "That it?"

"That's it." Dean isn't willing to give in to the inevitable conversation.

"Just- you're getting real close recently-"

He practically rolls his eyes, "She's my best friend."

Sam feigns mock anger.

"You're my brother- I didn't get to pick you."

"But you picked her?" Sam raises an eyebrow.

"She's a friend. That's it. Drop it." Dean's tone doesn't allow room for question.

"You sure? Coz you're not looking at her like a friend." Sam questions anyway.

"I'm looking at her like a hunter. A hunter who's gonna tear her stitches." He lets out a sharp breath through his nose.

"All I'm saying is- if this is gonna get... messy-"

"It's not gonna get-"

"If it's gonna get messy, you need to give me a heads up. She's my friend too."

You cut them off as you walk back over, carelessly setting down three more beers on the table. You look at Sam, "Go get her, tiger!"

"What?" Sam laughs.

"The girl by the bar, talked you up to her- only thing is she thinks your name is Roosevelt."

"Roosevelt?"

"Same as her dog- it's like a fate thing."

Sam raises an eyebrow.

You laugh, "Just go with it! She's cute!"

Sam doesn't need convincing, he grabs his beer and slides out of the booth, giving Dean one more glance before he moves away.

You take your seat back opposite Dean, still grinning, "Now we've just gotta find a girl for you!"

Dean doesn't say what he wants to say. Instead, "I'm too fuckin' exhausted for that."

You laugh, "The Great Dean Winchester is too tired to get laid? Never thought I'd see the day!"

"Give me one decent night sleep and I'll be back to normal, I promise." he jokes.

"You're always coming up with excuses- what was it last time? Nowhere to buy a condom?"

"Hey- that's not an excuse, I take that shit seriously-"

"I don't remember the last time you even thought about taking a girl back. How long's it been, huh?"

Dean doesn't want you doing the math on how long he's gone without sex- the math on how desperate he's pretending not to be- "Speak for yourself- god knows how long it's been since you've been laid!"

Two months. Dean remembers the hickey that stayed on your neck for a week. The feeling he had seeing you walking around with a reminder of someone else on your skin. How sick he felt until it faded.

You blush slightly at his words, but take another sip of beer, "Find me a guy who's actually worth going home with and I'll find you my plans for the night."

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When Sam strikes out three drinks later, Dean's thankful. He doesn't mean to be, but he's been watching you fidget with the glass bottle with a desperate hope you have the same feeling he has. That feeling that mistakes are ready to be made.

By the time you stagger back to the motel, Sam's drunker than the two of you put together. The walk should only take five minutes, but with him slumped over your shoulders it takes fifteen. He's already half asleep when Dean gets the door open for him, helping him past the threshold so he can collapse against the bed.

Then he looks back at you. You're still stood in the doorway, just watching him. He doesn't know if its an invitation- if you know what he wants- or if you're just being cautious. He never knows with you, he can't work you out. You're just a friend, a friend he never stops thinking about, a friend he pictures spending the rest of his life with, a friend he needs more than he's ever needed anything.

He raises an eyebrow, "I'll walk you back?"

You nod, a small smile spread across your face.

Dean trails you to your room. Sam wouldn't say anything even if he was sober, this isn't an unusual sight. Dean always complains about the way Sam snores, about how sleeping with you is just easier.

He watches the back of your head, the way your hair falls as you step into your room, throwing your things down onto the tiny wooden table. He steps up behind you slowly, you don't move, just relax your shoulders slightly as you feel his presence behind you.

"I missed you." Dean speaks quietly, like he's afraid he's gonna say something stupid.

"I've been here all night." You laugh, still not turning around.

"I missed you."

You finally turn, looking back up at him, your eyes still sparkling like they did at the bar.

He brushes his hand across your cheek, moving a hair out of your face as he stares down at you, "You have a good night?"

You smile, "Course I did, it's always fun watching Sam get drunk."

He feels his heart pounding in his chest as he looks at you, that tingling in his fingertips that tells him he's drunker than he feels. That's what he'll pin this on- the alcohol- like he always does. He's been good at lying to himself recently, good at pretending he doesn't feel anything more. Today was a fluke, a weird moment where he couldn't stop staring- but he'll be back to himself by tomorrow. Back to being able to ignore that ache in his gut only you can resolve.

He won't admit he wants more than this, not to you, not to himself. That he wants more than stupid drunken kisses and hesitant mistakes. But if that's what you want, that's what he'll give you. That's what he'll give you every damn time.

His hand moves down as he runs his knuckle across your jaw, thumb finding your bottom lip, sweeping across it as he allows himself one moment of truth, "You look beautiful. I always think you look beautiful."

You reach down the hem off your shirt, pulling it up off your body without another word. Dean wets his lips as he takes a small step back, letting his eyes gloss over you. He's seen you like this hundreds of times- only a few hours ago he saw the same thing when he stitched up your abdomen, but he doesn't look there now. He's too distracted by your chest, the way your bra hugs your tits, rising and falling as you take in a short breath.

He leans down slowly, until his lips are almost touching yours, his eyes still trained on you. He could stop here, he could make this easy for himself, he could let the night pass without the taste of you waking him in the morning.

But then you push yourself up, closing the gap, until your lips press softly together. Dean's heart stutters when he feels the way you relax into the kiss, like maybe you've been waiting to do this just as long as he has.

His hand finds your waist without him meaning to, fingers wrapping around your body to pull you closer. His other hand reaches up, moving to the crook of your neck, running his thumb along your jaw. He feels your own hand find his nape, your fingers threading through his hair. You smile against him, unmistakable.

He pushes you back slowly, carefully, until the back of your legs hit the bed. This is moving quicker than it should, messier than it should, but Dean needs this. There's a chance that this will be the night you'll let it go further, that you'll let him give you everything he can. He's not willing to waste a second.

You collapse against the bed, Dean doing his best to lower you slowly against the mattress, though you both fall with a clumsiness he'll pretend doesn't make his heart tight. He likes being clumsy with you, it feels safe, like you won't judge him for any mistakes he makes.

He pulls at his own T-shirt, dragging it over his head and throwing it to one side in a move designed to get his chest closer to yours. He can feel the heat from your skin instantly as he presses himself against you, his hands finding their places back on your body. He holds the kiss, his tongue darting out to drag along your lips, his fingers curling against your skin.

He moves, planting light kisses along your jaw, the hand on your waist trailing up your body until he's running his thumb along the bottom of your bra. He nips at your earlobe, making your lean into him, your back arching as your breasts push against his chest.

He speaks without deliberateness, "I've been thinking about you all day- everything I wanna do to you-"

He never normally talks, something about keeping it silent makes it feel like you could be anyone- but you're not anyone. Dean wants you to know it's him, and the way you react to his words- the way you lean into him, a small gasp escaping your lips- clearly you do too.

He fumbles out something else, just to feel you move again, "I wanna touch every part of you-"

You reward him by kissing across his temple, your own hands running down his back, pulling him into you, heated.

"I want to see what you look like without this bra- wanna see these gorgeous tits-" He starts to regret it as soon as he says it, like it's something too primitive, but you keep kissing him, your nails dig into his skin, and he realizes maybe that's what you want too. Maybe he can't have everything- the affection and tenderness- but maybe, at least, he can have this.

He pushes it further, testing how far you'll let him go as he spills his secrets in a whisper, "I want to make you come on my fingers, want to know what it sounds like when you're moaning my name-"

This has never been part of the deal, anything more than soft kisses and groping hands. But Dean means it, he's thought about it constantly- every night since the first time you made out in messy drunken heap on an old motel bed. He's thought about all of it, how he'd touch you, how you'd react. He's touched himself with the images flashing through his mind, felt guilty after when he remembers who you are.

But you're responding. You're here, right now, and you're actually responding. Not with words, but with your body, the way you start grinding up against him, the way you pull him in close, the way a small gasp escapes your lips.

"I wanna fuck you with my tongue."

God he means it. That's all he wants, all he's wanted for months.

He feels you pull back slightly, slumping back against the mattress as you angle your body to push him away from yours. He swallows hard, heart pounding, that drunken feeling filling his body again. He doesn't want this to stop. It can't.

It doesn't. He realizes you're reaching for the top of your pants, kicking them off your legs before Dean even knows what's happening. He doesn't question it, just follows suit, fumbling at his belt so he can throw his own jeans off next to yours.

Your knees collide, the biting pain making Dean feel real- tangible- every sensation suddenly amplified. The way the pads of his fingers feel against your skin, your breath against his body. He knows he's drunk, that's why he feels like this, but he doesn't regret a thing.

Especially not when you let out a small laugh, pulling your knee back as your face twists into a mixture of pain and amusement, "Goddamn-"

You've spoken, breaking the seal that Dean didn't even realize was there. It makes him realize how desperate he is to hear more, how much he needs your voice.

He moves back against your body, tangling his bare legs into yours, pushing a knee up between your thighs. You react instantly, letting out a small gasp, pulling him closer, your lips landing on his shoulder in messy confusion.

He speaks quietly, grinding his knee against you, "I want to make you come so many times you don't even remember your name, I want you sobbing into the sheets-"

You moan against him, "Dean-"

Jesus he thinks he's gone to heaven in that moment, just hearing you say his name sends his brain fuzzy. He grips your waist tighter, fingers curling against your skin with a hunger he can't explain.

You bite down on his shoulder- Dean can't tell if you're trying to push him over the edge or if you're just trying to keep yourself quiet. Either way, the soft sting makes his cock jump, his jaw tightening as he lets out a sharp grunt.

He knows he should keep it down, that tonight shouldn't happen like this, but he doesn't care. Sam won't hear through the thin wall. He's too drunk. Sam won't know and you won't say and this can be your little secret. Your secret that he never wants to end.

He lowers his face until his lips are resting on the shell of your ear, his breath caught, "I wanna fuck you raw- want you to feel me come inside you-"

This is it. He can feel it. Your hands are grabbing at him, lips against his collarbone, hips grinding up. This is everything he's been so desperate for- fuck this is actually happening.

He moves down fast, lips against you- your jaw, your neck, your tits. He drags his tongue down, the feeling running down his whole spine as he realizes how good you feel, your chest right there, your eyes on him. He looks up as he moves lower, keeping his gaze trained on your face, the way you bite your lip absentmindedly.

He settles between your thighs, then look back down at your underwear. He holds his breath as he takes you in, this sight he's been so desperate to see. He reaches up towards your waistband, running the tips of his fingers along it.

You lift your hips off the mattress, a soft desperation spilling from your lips.

He can't believe the way you're looking at him, like he's something so special, so beautiful. No- no he really can't believe it. That's not how you look at him- that's not how friends look at each other. He's pushed this too far, too quickly- what if this is something you'll regret? A mistake that festers and eats.

He glances up towards the gauze on your abdomen, the one he put there only hours before. There's a tiny patch of blood starting to seep through, bright red and striking against the white of the bandage. The exact thing Dean's been worried about all night, sitting in front of him like a slap in the face.

He can't stop himself, he looks back up at you, propping himself up slightly, "Your stitches-"

"I'm fine-" you laugh, lifting your hips towards him again.

You're not. He knows you're not. He pictures you bleeding out in his arms, how warm your body was against his legs, how your blood soaked under his nails.

He was distracted. That's why you got hurt today- because he was distracted, he wasn't thinking, he was an idiot. He's always distracted by you.

And this is only going to make it worse- knowing what you look like with your underwear off. How's he supposed to focus when he knows a thing like that? When he knows what you feel like? What you taste like?

He pulls back, staring up at you, "Sweetheart-"

You swallow, it's like you know what he's going to say. You fall silent, letting him finish.

He doesn't want to. He wants you to stop him. But you don't, "-we're too drunk for this."

You nod, a small smile, "Aren't we just drunk enough?"

Don't make this harder, he wants to say, please don't make this harder. "We can't."

You nod again, and Dean wonders if the look on your face is regret over his words or regret this ever happened. He keeps one finger tracing your waistband for just a moment more, and then pulls back completely, staring down at your body like he's trying to sear it into his mind.

For a moment you just gaze at him, and then you shift on the bed, moving to one side to make space for him to lay next to you.

He looks at the blank space, willing himself to move into it. He wants to feel you next to him, wants to feel the warmth from your body as he falls asleep. These days it's the only thing that can make him settle, the feeling of you right there. And you're looking at him like that's what you want too.

But he knows he can't. Not after everything he said. Not after everything he's done. He needs to forget tonight, forget all of his feelings for you. He needs to get as far away from you as possible. At least right now, while his mind's still swimming and his cock's still throbbing and his fingers are still tingling.

He stands, quickly, trying not to look at the way your face seems to fall into confusion and longing. He swallows, looking away from you, "I need to go-"

"You don't have to."

He looks back, then regrets it, he can't see you right now, not if he wants to lie to himself, "I- I should check on Sammy-"

"You can stay."

"I'll tell him I was snoring- you kicked me out coz I was being too loud-"

"Dean- I-"

"You-" he sighs, "-You need to sort your stitches out before they get worse-"

You don't reply, just give a small nod.