#daffodil-mania

The Itch, pt. 3

Stanford era!Sam Winchester x fem!Reader. Swearing, sexually suggestive/explicit language, mentions of drugs and alcohol

Author’s notes: Y’all we are sO CLOSE to the smut I promise. I almost ended this series with this one but (spoiler alert) I felt like I just couldn’t until some smut happens. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Lmk what you think <3

—

You’re pretty sure you’re dreaming.

Because there’s no fucking way that you, a regular, ordinary Stanford freshman, are actually standing in the living room of one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen. And there is definitely no way that he’s making a trip downstairs to the communal laundry room in his apartment building to wash your shirts that he accidentally spilled a drink on. And there is definitely, absolutely, no motherfucking way that he’s eye fucked you tonight. Multiple times.

You pinch yourself. Hard.

You’re not dreaming. Here you stand, in Sam’s apartment, wide awake, waiting for him to get back with your laundry. A feeling akin to getting zapped with 5,000 volts of electricity surges through you at that realization, and it sends you scrambling to find Sam’s bathroom. You stagger into it and find that, much like the rest of his apartment, it’s pristine; and for some reason, that only makes you want to fuck him more. You shudder. Your eyes land on the mirror and you stare at your reflection; you look like you’ve done approximately 20 lines of cocaine — your cheeks are a deep red, and your pupils are blown so wide your eyes almost look black. You turn on the sink and bend to splash some cold water on your face. You pat your face dry as gently as you can with a hand towel, and then press your now icy hands to your cheeks. You shut your eyes and try to take in some deep, calming breaths, and while the exercise does help tone down your arousal, it does fuck all for your nerves.

After a minute you open your eyes and gaze at yourself in the mirror, and decide a pep talk is in order. You inhale and exhale one last time, and grip the edges of Sam’s sink. “Calm. Down.” You command your reflection firmly, pressing your lips into a thin line to emphasize your point. “He’s just a guy. And if you want to fuck this guy, you have to chill out. He’ll be back in a few minutes; until then, you have got to get a grip. Fix your hair, fix your makeup, whatever. But calm. Down.” You push away from the mirror, feeling slightly calmer but also a little silly. You play with your hair, trying to muss it in a way that’ll look effortlessly sexy. When you’re satisfied, you dig into your jacket pocket for your lip gloss and mascara and touch up your makeup. After you’re finished primping you attempt to make sexy (but not too sexy) faces in the mirror, but quickly drop the act out of embarrassment.

At this rate, you’ll never get laid again.

You shake your head and leave Sam’s bathroom, turning the light off as you do. You make your way over to his couch and plop down on it, and you’re pleased to discover that it’s just as comfy as it looks. You take off your jacket and the zip-up hoodie Sam lent you, deciding to neatly fold the latter, placing it gently on the coffee table, your own jacket lying messily beside you on the couch. You smooth your hands over your denim-clad thighs and take in a shaky breath. You rack your brain for something, anything, to occupy your thoughts until Sam returns. Oh fuck, Sam is gonna come back soon. The thought makes you shiver, and you find yourself compelled to dig through your jacket pockets for something to touch up your makeup again. You once again pull out the lip gloss; it's your favorite because the sheer pink color has a flirty, girlish quality to it, which has traditionally worked very well for you, and you pray that history repeats itself tonight. You smooth another thin layer on your bottom lip and rub your lips together in a way that hopefully won’t ruin your gloss the second you start talking.

You drum your fingers nervously on your legs and let out a puff of air. Your stomach is flip flopping like crazy and you’re not sure how much more of this you can take when you hear footsteps out in the hallway. You jump, your heart beating wildly in your chest, and you feel your hands start to shake and sweat with nerves. But the footsteps recede, and you draw in a slow breath while you sink back into the cushions of the couch and curse yourself for being the stupid, turned on, nervous wreck you are.

No sooner do you start actually relaxing than the door to Sam’s apartment swings open and you shoot to your feet, whipping around to face the entryway. Sam closes and locks the door behind him in a very deliberate manner, and you swallow the knot that’s forming in your throat, clenching and unclenching your hands at your sides. He looks as wound up as you feel, which is a small comfort. He draws a shaky breath as he turns, his eyes raking up and down your frame swiftly, triggering another wave of uncomfortable horniness. The pair of you lock eyes and you need his clothes off now, right now, and you’re about to tell him as much when he speaks.

“Your, uh, clothes should be done washing in about thirty minutes,” he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and continues, “a-and I figured I’d put them in the dryer after that. Wouldn’t want to get you soaked more than once tonight.” Your face feels like it’s on fire, and Sam’s eyes widen so much that it would be comical if your nerves weren’t making you feel as if you’re about to throw up. His face turns scarlet as he realizes the implication of his words. “Jesus, fuck, I-I meant your shirts, I wouldn’t want your shirts to be soaked, n-not—”

You can’t fucking take it anymore. You don’t even need your itch to drive you at this point; you’re acting of your own volition. You cross the room with a determination that stops Sam’s stuttering apology dead in its tracks, and once you’re in front of him you grab his collar and pull his mouth down to yours. Sam groans and the sound almost makes you cum on the spot, but then he spins you so you’re pinned against his door and kisses you back with a ferocity that makes your head spin. Your hands fly to the back of his head and root in his hair while his arms wrap around your waist, pressing you against the solid wall of muscle that is his chest, and a moan bubbles out of you before you can stop it.

Somehow, Sam manages to pull you even closer and laves his tongue across your bottom lip. You part your lips, allowing him access to the inside of your mouth, and Sam slots his tongue against yours. Your tongues dance together, fighting for dominance until Sam runs out of air and has to pull away panting. You start to plant sloppy kisses down his neck, leaving a trail down to his collarbone, and Sam laughs breathlessly. “Y-you’re insatiable,” he gasps, turning his head to face you. One of his sinfully large hands comes up to the back of your head and pulls you off of him and you bite your lip in order to suppress a whine. His hand smooths your hair away from your face and comes to rest against your cheekbone as the other moves to cradle your jawline. You are completely malleable at this point; you are his to do with however he pleases, and he knows it. Sam gives you a syrupy sweet smile and a traitorously blissful smile spreads over your face before you can even try to stop it.

“Hey.” He sighs as his eyes take in every inch of your face, his thumbs now caressing your jaw and cheek. “Hey,” you breathe back, your hands snaking up to loosely grip his wrists, and he clears his throat, bracing himself for whatever it is he’s about to say. “I really like you—” he states gently, and you can feel the but coming from miles away and suddenly the incredible weight of your stupidity is crashing down on you, breaking your euphoric trance, “—but I want to do this right.”

You blink.

Oh. Well. That’s not what you had expected.

“I wanna take you out on a date, i-if that’s okay. You know, get to know you. I don’t want this to be just a hookup; I mean, you seem like a really cool girl, and I—” you stop his rambling in its tracks by placing a finger against his plush lips. An intoxicating tidal wave of relief and giddiness floods your gut, and you feel like you’re about to be swept away with happiness. His mouth makes an adorable “o” shape in surprise, and you give him another smile, barely containing your excitement. “That sounds more than okay. I’d really like to get to know you, too, Sam, and I certainly don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” Sam grins, really grins, and one of his eyebrows twitches upwards as he does. “Yeah?” You nod, your flimsy facade quickly giving way to your dorky elation. “Yeah.”

You barely get the word out when Sam dives back in for another kiss. You let out a squeak in surprise, which in turn prompts a laugh from Sam. Soon the two of you are giggling so hard it’s hard to stay upright, much less kiss. But the two of you give it a valiant effort, connecting your kiss-swollen lips over and over, passing breathless laughs between each other. Eventually the two of you manage to stumble over to Sam’s couch, and while at first you’re kissing whilst sitting side by side, things quickly take a turn for the horizontal. Sam’s hovering above you, pressing against you in all the right places — well. Except for one place, but you figure that that will come soon enough — no pun intended.

You resist the urge to rub your thighs together for some friction and gently push Sam away from you. Sam’s brow knits together in concern, his eyes sweeping your face, searching for any sign of discomfort. “Everything okay?” He inquires, his voice soft and genuine. You nod, pursing your lips. You feel hot and itchy and your core fucking aches with want. You take a deep breath to steel yourself. “Yeah, it’s just…” You wet your lips and manage to rush out, “I’m just really turned on right now and I know you said you wanted to do things right, and I do too, but I’m afraid that if you don’t get off of me right now I’m gonna fuck you stupid.” The words escape you in a rush and you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself for Sam’s inevitable awkward shuffle off of you and the even more awkward solitary walk you’ll shortly be making out Sam’s front door. But Sam doesn’t get off of you, and you never leave the couch. Instead, after it feels like hours have gone by, you slowly open one of your eyes to look up at Sam. His face is crimson and he blinks down at you slowly, his eyes glazed and unseeing. His head drops down to your shoulder, and you can’t be sure, but you’re almost positive a small whimpered “fuck” leaves him as he does.

“Are.. you… okay?” You tentatively inquire, afraid that you’ve somehow broken this beautiful boy’s brain. You feel him shake his head slowly, and with a deep breath, Sam pushes himself off of you, raising up so that he’s sitting beside you on the couch. You awkwardly scooch over to make room for him, and assume a sitting position yourself, not entirely sure what’s about to happen. Sam swallows, and you raise an eyebrow expectantly, pulling your knees to your chest.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just…” he trails off as he sinks back into the couch cushions, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. You shift slightly closer to him. “Yeah? You’re just what?” You murmur, resting your chin on your knees. Sam squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m just… promise you won’t laugh?” He winces. You nod. “I promise. What’s up?”

Sam takes in another shaky breath and opens his eyes, turning to look at you. “What you said. I really, really want that. You… have no idea how much. A-and I’m having a hard time… controlling… myself.” He says, his words coming out in a slow, deliberate manner. Your face flushes scarlet, and you feel very warm. “O-oh. I see.” Sam nods. “Yeah. It’s dorky, I know. It feels like I’m a freshman in highschool all over again.” He laughs awkwardly, and you’re quick to jump to his defense. “I don’t think it’s dorky. It’s… nice.” Sam cocks an eyebrow. “Nice?”

“Yeah, nice. Kind of… hot, even. It’s… well, it’s nice. To be wanted like that. Especially by a guy like you.” Sam looks extremely puzzled by that, and shifts closer to you. “A guy like me? What do you mean?”

If you felt warm before you are burning now. “W-well, I mean, you’re um, you’re funny. And smart. And you’re really… sweet. Most guys aren’t like that. Especially n-not really, uh…” you clear your throat. “…Especially not really hot guys.” You avert your gaze, suddenly fascinated with the wood grain on Sam’s apartment floor.

You feel Sam’s fingers gently slide under your chin and move your head to face him. You don’t know what you expect to see when your eyes meet his; but what you’re definitely not expecting is how soft and tender his gaze is. Your lips part, and Sam swoops in for a kiss. This kiss isn’t like the others; it’s not fueled by wanton need, and there’s no rushing. It’s undoubtedly passionate, but in a pleasantly understated way. It feels like someone has stirred up the embers of your arousal in your gut, and when Sam pulls away, your lips chase after his. He tucks your hair behind your ear with a grin. “What was that for?” You whisper.

“Well, I just got a string of compliments from a really, really pretty girl, and I really, really wanted to kiss her.” Sam murmurs, his face inches from yours. “Do you think she minded?” You shake your head. “Not at all. You should probably give her another kiss, though.”

“Oh yeah? Why?”

“Well, something tells me she’ll give you another compliment if you do.”

Sam nods slowly. “Ah, I see. So a kiss equals a compliment, then?” Now it’s your turn to nod. “Uh-huh. And Sam?” You husk, trailing your hand up Sam’s chest to fist in the front of his shirt.

“Y-yeah?”

“I wanna compliment you all night.”

—

😏

Study Date

High school!Sam Winchester x fem!reader. No smut, but there is a lot of making out. Mildly suggestive language.

Author’s notes: I’M BAAAAAACK! Sorry that this isn’t part 4 to The Itch, but up until very recently I’ve been stupid busy and incredibly stressed. Part 4 should be coming soon though! Thank you all for your patience <3

—

You glance anxiously at the clock on your bedside table, peering at its digital face as butterflies beat against your ribcage. Sam should be here any minute now. It’s freezing outside, and steady streams of cold air waft through the window you’ve opened for him. You feel like you can’t sit still, so you cross your room to the standing mirror that hangs from the back of your closed bedroom door. You turn this way and that in front of the mirror, inspecting your outfit with a keen, nervous eye. You’re still in what you wore to school; a form-fitting black sweater paired with a trusty pair of jeans. Upon closer inspection, you realize that the jeans do very little for your ass, so you decide to swap them for some more flattering pajama pants. There, you think, satisfied. Now you look cute, but not like you’re trying to look cute.

You turn away from the mirror and snatch your hairbrush from your desk and give your hair a few quick passes with it. You’ve just set the brush back when you hear a rustling noise. You snap to attention, and whip your head to look over at your window. Sure enough, the rustling continues, and with it comes the faint sound of grunting. You slowly move to the window, just in time for a hand to slap down on your sill. You jump as a second hand joins the first, and then a head, followed closely by the rest of Sam’s lanky body. You grin as he plops down as gracefully as he can into your room, batting away your gauzy curtains. You close the window quickly and with a shiver.

You feel a pair of hands grasp your waist and then slide along your front, and you’re pulled back into Sam’s toned chest. You wiggle yourself around so you can face him, and you’re greeted by the sight of Sam smiling dreamily down at you. Your stomach turns madly as you wrap your arms around his neck. “Hi,” he grins, and you grin right back. “Hi.”

You’ve barely gotten the word out when a chaste kiss is pressed against your lips, which is quickly followed by a series of more hungry, determined kisses. The cold air from outside still clings to Sam’s jacket, providing a nice bit of relief from the heat that surges through you. Sam pulls away, catching his breath, and you glance down to where your bodies are pressed together, arching a brow. “Is that a snake in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?” You quip, looking back up at the brown-haired boy who towers above you. Sam rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the blush that spreads across his already flushed cheeks. “You know, I’m starting to think you only see me as a piece of meat,” he says dryly, pulling away from you so he can shed his jacket and shoes. You gasp dramatically, feigning shock, and place your hand over your chest, grasping at imaginary pearls. “What gave it away?” Sam chuckles, and plops down on your bed. “So, Mae West, do you want me to help you study for this test or not?” You pout, but dutifully trail over to the bed. “You’re no fun.” Sam grins at your mock disappointment, and gives you a swift peck on the cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it worth your while,” he promises, making you clench. Evil bastard.

You relent with a sigh, and open the top drawer of your bedside table, producing the flashcards you had prepared. You hand them to Sam before crossing over to your CD player, turning the volume up ever so slightly, just in case. Your parents love Sam, but they’re unaware of your late-night “study” visits, and you’d like to keep it that way. No need to tarnish their image of their perfect daughter and her respectful, gentlemanly boyfriend.

Sam clears his throat as you flop down on your bed, rolling over so that you can lay flat on your back. Sam opts to stay in an upright position while he quizzes you. “Ready?” You nod, mentally gearing up for the questions. You feel pretty confident about them already, having gone over them dozens of times since Mr. Warner announced the quiz last Friday, but you figure some extra prep can’t hurt. Besides, who could turn down some quality time with Sam and those puppy-dog eyes of his?

“First question: what is the difference between a prokaryotic and a eukaryotic cell?”

“A eukaryotic cell has a membrane bound nucleus; a prokaryotic cell does not.” Sam nods. “Yup,” he says, popping the ‘p’. “Next question—”

“So, do I get my reward yet?” You cut in, rolling over onto your side, propping your head up with one of your hands. Sam rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “You know, patience is a virtue,” he teases. “Yeah, well, it’s a good thing I’m not Catholic,” you shoot back playfully.

Sam’s on you before you can blink, hands scrambling up your sides to tickle you. You squeal and try to writhe out of his grasp, but it’s too late. Sam’s wiry, but he knows how to use his lean frame to his advantage. You can squirm all you want, but he’s putting most of his body weight on your lower half, making escape damn near impossible. “I yield! I yield!” You manage to stammer out between giggles. “Oh, no. You’re not getting out of this that easily,” he smirks, keeping you pinned while he continues the assault on your ribs. “S-Sam, seriously! I’m gonna pee my pants!” He hesitates briefly, and you seize your moment. You buck your hips and push, catching Sam off guard. This knocks him off of you long enough for you to scramble up and off of the bed. You don’t get far, though, when one of his thick hands shoots out and grabs you, pulling you back down to the bed. You find yourself under him once more, but this time he merely hovers above you, caging you in with arms at either side of your head. He moves some of the hair out of your face and tucks it gently behind your ear. “You’re getting better at that,” he compliments with a smile, green eyes twinkling. “Thanks. I have a pretty good teacher,” you purr. Sam sucks in a breath as his face flushes scarlet. “What’s wrong, pretty boy? I didn’t fluster you, did I?”

Sam kisses you fiercely and with an animalistic groan. You return the kiss eagerly, pulling him down so his body is flush against yours. The kiss continues to get more and more heated, your tongues battling for dominance. After a few minutes of this you’re starting to lose your cool when Sam pulls off of you. You blink up at him, dazed and uncomprehending. “Wha-? Why did you—”

Sam smiles at you, syrupy sweet and endlessly patient. He leans down close, and your heart starts thumping so fast you’re worried it might explode. You feel Sam’s lips gently brush the shell of your ear. “Because,” he breathes, “we have to get back to studying.” And with that, Sam’s completely off of you, picking your flashcards up from where they had been strewn carelessly on the floor. You groan in frustration, sitting up as you adjust your clothes and try to recover your senses. Sam sits back down on your bed, and runs a hand through his brown locks before he speaks. “Next question; what is…”

—

The Itch

Stanford era!Sam Winchester x fem!Reader. Swearing, sexually suggestive/explicit language, mentions of drugs and alcohol. No smut (yet); this one’s a good ole fashioned slow burn. Takes place around 2002-ish

Author’s notes: Helloooo! I said I had something longer, and here it is. I intend on turning this into a multi-part fic, so keep your peepers peeled! I didn’t post sooner because while I had ideas for this fic, nothing was really clicking for me. However, @uncouth-the-fifth recently shared some Sam AI chatbots she’d made (which I highly recommend you use btw) and after using one of them my creative juices started flowing again, and out popped this fic. Enjoy!

—

The air is thick with the competing smells of booze, weed, and sweat. Some fratbro’s shitty spin on house music is booming at a deafening volume throughout the house, and all around you people are drinking, grinding; generally having the kind of time you’d expect at a frat party. It’s Valentine’s Day, so the amount of couples making out in corners has increased drastically, much to your chagrin. Your friends had dragged you here under the pretense that you all needed to blow off some steam after another grueling week of tests and homework. You have to admit, the idea had been tempting; you don’t consider yourself a party person, but you’d had this itch to do something outside of your normal routine. The itch had developed suddenly a week ago while you were standing in line at your favorite coffee place, debating on ordering your regular cup of joe or really spicing it up and asking for a shot of espresso when you saw him.

He was good-looking, sure; tall, despite his seated position at one of the tables, broad-shouldered and well-built with these soft hazel eyes that just screamed “kicked puppy in need of someone to take care of me”. But none of that is what kept your gaze on him. No, as ridiculous as it sounds, it was his hands. Huge, muscular hands that made your mouth water just thinking about them. Ten long, thick fingers that dexterously flew across his keyboard as he typed. You were hit with a barrage of hand-related fantasies ranging from dirty to holy fuck that’s dirty when the barista cleared her throat and brutally snapped you back to reality, causing you to stammer out an apology and place your drink order with haste.

Ever since then, you’d been haunted by the memory of those hands and felt “the itch”, as you called it. It was an aching want that existed deep in your gut, and it demanded satisfaction. It clawed at you, showing you images of those ginormous hands pawing you, squeezing your neck, your tits, anything they could reach. You’d done your best to resist, throwing yourself into your coursework, hoping desperately that if you ignored the itch it would go away. But it didn’t. So here you are, at a frat party, trying to find a way to scratch your itch so that the ghost of those hands could be put to rest and stop tormenting you.

You take a sip of the drink you’ve been nursing all night in a secluded corner of the living room and make a face. It tastes like piss and vodka’s evil offspring. You look around for a place to abandon your solo cup, but decide that you should properly dispose of it so no one knocks it over, or worse, drinks it. You crane your neck over the sea of sweaty, horny college students and map a path to the kitchen. Your friends had abandoned you long ago in favor of going onto the floor to dance, so your trip to the kitchen will have to be a solo mission. You take a deep breath, mustering up your courage and preparing yourself for the bumpy journey ahead, and plunge into the crowd. Things are going smoothly enough and it looks like you’ll actually make it to the kitchen unscathed when someone suddenly slams into you. Thankfully, you’re pushed into a sorority girl, so you manage to not eat shit or get trampled to death. Unfortunately, this crushes your drink against your chest, drenching the entire front of your top. Miraculously, the sorority sister is spared, and she doesn’t even seem to register the fact that she’s been bumped into.

You turn around to glare at whoever just ruined your favorite shirt and come face-to-face with a solid wall of muscle. You have to look up to get a good look at your assailant, and you see it’s him. The guy from the coffee shop. All of your anger is quickly replaced by an interesting cocktail of shock, embarrassment, and need. You thought he was big in the coffee shop, but standing before him now makes it clear just how fucking massive this guy is. He clears six feet easily, and you can tell he’s got miles of muscle underneath the henley he’s layered under a faded tee shirt.

You manage to drag your eyes away from his chest and see that all of the color has drained from his face, puppy-dog eyes apologetic and wide with shock. He’s speaking to you, but with your height difference and the ear-splitting music you can’t hear him. You pull a confused expression and have to shout “what?” a few times over the music before it gets through to him that you can’t hear a fucking word he’s said. He looks around quickly, then gestures for you to follow him. You do, confusion and nerves swirling around sickly in your stomach. Eventually he leads the two of you to a quieter corner of the room, and resumes his rapid-fire apologizing. “Jesus, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bump into you, I swear, I was just trying to get away from my friend who kept trying to introduce me to this girl and I—“

You hold up a hand to silence him and force yourself to smile. “It’s okay, shit happens, I get it.” He shakes his head, unsatisfied with your response. “No, no, seriously. I feel awful about your shirt—“ you don’t miss the way his eyes dart down to look at your front, and you realize with a blush that he could probably see down your v-neck if he wanted to, “—and I really want to make it up to you. I have an extra shirt in my car if you want to change, and I’ll get you a new drink, I promise.”

The poor guy looks like he’s about to have an anxiety attack, so you wave your hand again before laying it on his arm. His eyes snap to where your hand has curled around his forearm and you jerk it away, uncertain of what possessed you to touch him. Great, now he thinks I’m some kind of perv. You clear your throat before you start talking again. “Um, yeah, a-a new shirt would be cool. Oh, but don’t worry about the drink though; it uh, it sucked. I was actually on my way to get rid of it when you bumped into me, so maybe spilling it was a blessing in disguise.” Jesus Christ, you’re rambling and stuttering like a kid asking out their high school crush. You nervously tuck some loose hair behind your ear and try to inhale some calming breaths, cringing at your social ineptitude, and look up at him. He’s smiling kindly, revealing two adorable dimples that make you want to melt into a warm gooey puddle on the floor.

“Yeah, I tried one of the drinks earlier; I don’t know what was in it but it was not good.” He scrunches up his face and pretends to gag, which pulls some genuine laughter out of you. His grin gets wider and it makes his eyes crinkle, and this has your stomach doing somersaults and your pussy clenching around nothing. The song changes and after a smiley beat passes he leans in a little closer and tells you his name. “My name’s Sam,” he practically shouts into your ear, “Sam Winchester.” You turn your head ever so slightly so you can give him your name in return. “Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you.” Sam straightens up and you extend a hand for him to shake. He accepts, enveloping your hand in one of his gigantic palms. You fight to keep a blush off of your cheeks. Your hands fall, but he doesn’t release you. Instead, he gives your hand a small tug, and nods over his shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll take you to my car.”

You dutifully trail behind him, your hand still wrapped up in his. If you weren’t appreciative of Sam’s height before, you are now; he effortlessly parts the throng of people around you, allowing the two of you to walk to the door with ease. And it’s only when the two of you step out into the chill of the February night air that he lets go of your hand, which you try not to read into. You cross your arms over your chest to trap some of the warmth that is rapidly escaping your body, your still-wet top clinging coldly to your frame. There are a few wasted stragglers on the lawn, and the music starts to fade as Sam leads you to his car. You’re mildly surprised when you see what it is; a black Honda Civic sedan. It’s a newer model, but it’s nothing fancy. You get the sense that while Sam isn’t very materialistic, he takes pride in his possessions and their upkeep. He pops open the trunk as you rub your arms, wishing that you had opted for more layers than just your v-neck long sleeve and a lacy camisole. You glance back at the house, wondering what your friends are doing as Sam goes through the trunk. After a minute he produces a black Metallica tee. You accept it gratefully and smile at him, cocking an eyebrow. “Metallica? You’ve got good taste.”

Sam clears his throat and awkwardly looks at his feet, his expression a bit pained. “Actually, it is… was… my brother’s.” He says, looking up at you through his bangs. You nod, and decide against probing for more information. He’s a stranger doing you a kindness; you don’t need to know about whatever family history that is capable of eliciting such a reaction from him. You glance at the road and then back at the house before looking at Sam. Your cheeks feel warm. “Um, do you mind covering me? Sorry, I know that—“

Sam cuts you off, flustered. “No, god yeah, of course. I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think.” He admits sheepishly, redness creeping up his cheeks as he rubs the back of his neck. You shake your head. “It’s okay, really. Um, and thank you, for the shirt, I mean. You really didn’t have to.” His expression softens and he gives a small shrug of his shoulders. “‘Course I did. I’m the one who bumped into you like a total jerk. This is the least I can do.” His response only serves to intensify your burgeoning crush on him.

You both stand there for a minute, just looking into each other’s eyes, something similar to tension but too clumsy and new to be called that building between you. A fierce shiver courses through you, and Sam apparently remembers that you asked him to cover you. He maneuvers the two of you so that the car is blocking you from any prying eyes lurking on the street, and he places himself in front of you to shield you from the people in the house. He turns his back to you, giving you some more privacy, and you murmur a quick thank you as a burst of heat goes straight to your core.

You quickly shed yourself of both your camisole and your top, thankful to be in a dry shirt that doesn’t reek of alcohol any more. You tap his arm to let him know when you’re done, and he turns to face you. He sees that you’re still shivering and wordlessly goes back to his trunk, leaving you a bit perplexed and holding your sopping bundle of shirts in your hands. He pulls out a gray zip-up hoodie and stands before you again. “You look cold,” he says, obviously. It’s a sweet gesture, and it makes your heart flutter in your chest. Sam holds his hand out for your shirts so that you can pull on his hoodie, and you swap your bundles. As you pull on the hoodie, you tell him, “I really do appreciate what you’re doing for me. Most people would’ve just let me freeze.” You chuckle quietly, racking your brain for some other way to express your gratitude without sounding like a broken record.

Sam shakes his head, and another sweet, sympathetic smile graces his face. “Y/N, again, it was the least I could do, believe me.” You nod, and then gesture vaguely for your shirts. “Oh, right,” he says with a small laugh, adorably absentminded, and hands them over. As you go to take them, your fingertips brush against his, and you feel like you’ve been electrocuted. Deliciously, wonderfully electrocuted. The contact causes you to jerk your hand away, dropping the shirts. “Shit, sorry—“ you curse, and the two of you drop to your knees simultaneously to retrieve them. Your hands meet again, but this time the contact lingers. You lift your head to find Sam’s eyes boring into yours, his lips slightly parted, his cheeks flushed. And that’s when you feel it again.

The itch.

—

Author’s notes: I know this wasn’t a *super* long fic but I’m slowly pushing myself to write longer stuff. One of these days I’ll write something longer than 2,000 words, I promise. Anyways, thanks for reading!

Dream a Little Dream of Me

Sam Winchester x fem!Reader. Hurt/comfort, fluff. This fic includes swearing and graphic descriptions of violence.

Author’s notes: This is my first fic; please be gentle (or don’t; up to you). I started this at like,,,, 5AM a week ago and have been slowly chipping away at it ever since. For context this takes place sometime between S1 and S2, although the time honestly does not matter at all. Might write more fics; might not. Who knows? Anyways, enjoy!

—

It always starts the same way.

He always flops down onto the motel bed, sighing deeply and closing his eyes as his limbs stretch out over the mattress. He inhales, burying his face in the pillow that your scent still clings to, hiding a small smile as he does. The shower’s on and he debates sneaking in and joining you. He rolls over, pondering. He stays like that for a few seconds, arms folded behind his head when he feels it.

Drip.

Something wet falls on the side of his nose. His brow wrinkles in confusion as it slowly slides down over his cheekbone towards his hair. Without opening his eyes, he wipes it away. It was raining pretty hard earlier; he can tell the ceiling has been cheaply and improperly repaired several times. They’re always shitty and damaged in places like this, no wonder it leaks…

Drip.

This time a droplet lands on his right eyelid. His frown deepens as he wipes it off and opens his eyes to look at his fingers. It takes his brain a second to process what he’s seeing.

His stomach sinks. He whips his head up to the ceiling as bile rises in his throat. And there you are. It seems you never even made it into the shower; you’re still in your clothes from earlier. Jeans and a white tee shirt. Your hair is spread around your head like a halo. Your mouth is open, your expression one of fixed horror. You’re looking right at him but you don’t see him, your gaze a million miles away, comprehending something too horrible for words. As he registers the weeping red gash over your womb, your eyes snap to his and he knows you see him now. He’s right there. So close. You start to mouth his name when you erupt in flames. His shouts merge with your sobbing shrieks. All he can do is sit and watch helplessly as you burn. The stench of smoke and smoldering flesh starts to fill his lungs, choking him. And then someone grips him tight, maybe Dean, calling for him to wake up, wake up—

And he does. But it’s not Dean holding him; it’s you. Sam gapes at you, panting hard as sweat and tears roll down his face. You’re saying something but he doesn’t hear it. He surges forward and wraps his arms around you in an attempt to calm his panicked mind and assure himself that you’re real. You’re here and you’re safe and—

“—Sam, baby, it’s okay, I’m here, you’re okay, we’re safe, honey, we’re safe, Sam please look at me—” He manages to peel himself out of your embrace, his eyes taking in every inch of your perfect, unharmed face. Your scared eyes are wet with worried tears, brow knitted in concern. One of his hands comes up to cup the side of your face and you eagerly press a comparatively tiny one of your own against it, holding it in place. “You’re okay,” he exhales. You nod. “Yeah, I’m okay.” He bobs his head in a nod and wraps his arms around you again. Your arms instantly go around him, one over his shoulders to cradle his head and one across his back. You start to stroke his back as he relaxes, nuzzling his wet face into your neck.

You break the silence by asking if he wants to talk about his dream. Sam murmurs his dissent into your neck. You nod again. “Okay. Okay, that’s fine. What do you need right now?” You inquire quietly. “Jus’ need this.” He responds, his voice laden with sleep and sadness. His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. He wishes desperately that he could talk to you about his dream but he just can’t. Maybe one day… but not now. He isn’t strong enough now to tell you how paranoid the dreams make him. How guilty. Because you’ve replaced Jessica on that ceiling and while he loves you a part of him still can’t let her go. And the anger… the hopelessness… it’s almost too much for him.

But the safety he feels in your arms makes those feelings vanish almost as quickly as they come… almost. He’s calmed down significantly but there’s still that gnawing anxious feeling in his gut. Sam pushes against it, willing it to go away, and wishes that the two of you could stay like this forever; tangled together between soft sheets and even softer I love yous. He doesn’t have to think when the two of you are like this; he can just let go for a minute. Well, except for you, of course. He won’t ever let you go.

He pulls you closer against him somehow and you let out an “oof” in feigned protest. You maneuver the two of you around a bit so that you’re both on your sides, his toned stomach pressed against your soft belly, legs comfortably intertwined. You wrap your arms around him and now its Sam’s turn to rest his chin on the top of your head. He wraps his arms around you; one snakes up and around your back so that his hand rests on your shoulder blade, the other is slung around your waist. A few minutes pass quietly in the darkness before you tilt your head back to look up at him. “Feeling better?” He nods, and cranes his neck so that he can gently press a kiss to your lips. A lump begins to form in his throat when you kiss him back, blocking all of the words he wants to stay from bubbling up and out of his mouth. So instead, you speak for him. “I love you, too.” You whisper softly. He presses your foreheads together, closing his eyes gently as he does. You rub soothing circles into his back and that coupled with the exhaustion that now rests heavily on him starts to drag him into a (hopefully) peaceful slumber.

As he starts to fade out of consciousness he can vaguely make out the sound of you humming. He forces himself to focus for a second and recognizes the tune; it’s A Mamas & The Papas song that you told him your mother used to sing to you as a lullaby. You’ve hummed it to him a few times before on nights like these. Satisfied, he relaxes, and falls into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

—

Author’s notes: Attached is the version of the song I referenced/borrowed the fic name from. I always found it slightly creepy when I was younger (and still kind of do, tbh). Check it out :)

The Itch, pt. 2

Stanford era!Sam Winchester x fem!Reader. Swearing, sexually suggestive/explicit language, brief mention of serial murder and Ted Bundy. Still no smut but we’re getting closer (mwheheh >:3). Takes place around 2002-ish

Author’s notes: Hey y’all!! I’m so sorry it has taken me so long to post this. I could give you a whole spiel about why it took so long, but all I’m gonna say is bitches be crazy and life be crazier. Enjoy part two of The Itch!!

—

Sam’s looking at you, bangs falling in his eyes, pink lips slightly parted. His cheeks are flushed, and you spot a cute little mole on the side of his nose that you hadn’t noticed in the dim lighting of the house. Meanwhile, the itch is back in full force, and it refuses to be silenced. Your mind presents you with images of that mole peeking up at you from between your thighs, and you feel like you’re gonna explode, so you cast your eyes downward. Your eyes land on where both of your hands rest your dropped, soiled shirts, your fingertips barely touching. You slowly look back up at Sam through your lashes, and notice that his expression looks… hungry. His eyes are dark and unreadable, and you’re busy trying to work out if he feels what you do when he clears his throat and hurriedly picks up the shirts and shoves them at you before scrambling to his feet.

You rise as well, holding your shirts to your chest, feeling more than a little disappointed and very, very awkward. You’re unsure of what to say or do to break the tension when Sam speaks. “Um, if you want I can take you to my place and wash those for you. It’s not far; just five minutes.” He’s looking down at his feet, but the sliver of his face that you can see through his bangs is beet red. Your heart is beating wildly against your ribcage, and your eyes are glued to his frame. Your mind is spinning out of control and your thoughts keep flip-flopping from holy shit maybe he does like me to stop projecting your horniness onto this poor stranger, you psycho. You realize Sam is looking at you now, his face expectant, and everything inside you seems to freeze. Your heart stops beating and your breath hitches. He cocks his head to the side and you finally exhale with a nod. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be really nice, thank you.”

Sam nods gently, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Of course. We can leave whenever you want; parties aren’t really my thing, so I’m ready to go whenever.” You look back at the house. “Honestly, I’m good to go now. I just need to get my jacket from the hall closet before we leave,” you say, looking back at him. He’s nodding slowly, his eyes unfocused but trained in the direction of the house. “It’ll only take a minute, so you can wait out here if you want,” you continue. Sam looks at you and nods. “Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll go ahead and get the car started.” You smile at him, and you can’t be sure, but it looks like he gulps. “Alright then. Go team,” you quip, pointing two finger guns at Sam. Chuckling, he points his own finger guns back at you, and before you start to walk back he takes the shirts from you and says something about holding them so you don’t have to carry them the whole time. Walking back to the house, you can feel the itch like a burning in your chest, a swirling mix of excitement and tense energy. Just be cool, you think to yourself. He’s just a guy. A really hot, really tall, really sweet guy, but a guy nonetheless. Just be cool and everything will be fine.

With a deep breath, you plunge back into the house and muscle your way through the crowd to the hall closet under the staircase in the living room. Thankfully, there’s no one in front of the door, so you manage to squeeze inside and retrieve your jacket. You pull your phone out of one of the pockets and flip it open. You hastily text your friends that you’re leaving as well as a brief description of Sam — just in case. You don’t really see him as the serial murdering type, but you know damn well that you can never be too careful. No one thought Bundy was a killer either, after all.

You wait a couple of minutes for a response from one of your friends, but it never comes. You roll your eyes. Oh well. If you do get murdered, at least the cops have a place to start. You close your phone and shove it in the pocket of your jacket after you pull it on. You’re starting to feel quite cozy in all of your layers, so you push out of the closet and back into the living room. Before you know it, you’re crossing the lawn to Sam’s car. He’s already sitting in the driver’s seat but he steps out when he sees you coming. He opens the passenger door for you like a gentleman and a new generation of butterflies take flight in your stomach, fluttering in rosy bliss. The smile you bestow upon him as thanks is just the right mix of genuine appreciation and alluring shyness. “Thank you,” you purr, your voice laced with a level of confidence you didn’t think you possessed. Sam’s face flushes with color, and if you weren’t sure before, you are now; Sam’s into you. On some level, Sam Winchester is into you. Holy shit.

You’re about to say fuck it and plant a kiss right on his mouth when Sam does something you’re not expecting. He moves in a little bit closer to you, crowding you just enough, and ducks his head down a bit. Your heart is beating in your throat and your brain is short-circuiting when he breathes a hushed “you’re welcome” into your ear.

Holy. Shit.

And then he pulls away, a smirk plastered proudly on his face. His eyes twinkle as he leaves you gaping on your side of the car. He slides into the driver’s seat and you shakily climb into the car, trying desperately to regain your composure. He notches the car into “drive” while you buckle your seatbelt, and you can see his pleased expression in your peripheral vision.

You don’t think you’ve ever been more wet in your entire life.

Silence has just settled over the car when Sam turns his head slightly towards you, keeping his eyes on the road as he pulls away from the curb. “Wanna hear some music? There are some CDs in the glove compartment.” You hum your assent, grateful for something to break the silence, and for something to focus on besides the dampness in your panties. You open the glove compartment and find that there’s a small metallic blue CD binder in the otherwise empty compartment. You reach in and pull it out, setting it on your lap before you unzip it. You see that Sam has quite the motley collection; Red Hot Chili Peppers, Elvis, Deftones, and Celine Dion, to name a few. You take out Californication, the most recent Chili Peppers album, and pop it into the CD player. As the first song on the track list starts to play, you twist in your seat to face Sam.

“You’re not a serial killer, are you? Because it would be kind of a downer if this was just some elaborate ruse to murder me in your basement or something.” Sam snorts at that. “No, I’m not a serial killer. But even if I was, do you think I would freely admit to it?” You shrug. “Maybe. You could be trying to lull me into a false sense of security.” Sam’s bobbing his head thoughtfully, and you continue. “Or you could just be a very honest serial killer.” Sam makes a small humming noise, and the car goes silent for a while, which leaves you cringing at your stunted attempt at a conversation. Sam takes a deep breath, and in a rush he says, “But even if I were a serial killer, I could never kill anyone as pretty as you.”

Your face feels like it’s on fire, and you’re blushing so hard you feel like Pepé Le Pew. You search the recesses of your mind desperately for some sort of witty and equally flirtatious comeback, but the only thing you can come up with is, “Well. Guess I’m safe then.”

You mentally beat the shit out of yourself.

It’s not long after that exchange when Sam pulls up in front of an apartment building. He pulls into an empty space in the crowded lot that sprawls out in front of the building, and gently eases the car into “park”. The two of you unbuckle, but before you can exit the car Sam reaches behind his seat and grapples around for something. You can see a sliver of his stomach from this angle; toned and tanned, with a nice happy trail that leads into the jeans that are slung tantalizingly low on his hips. His boxers peek teasingly over the waistband of his jeans, and your mouth suddenly feels very empty.

You snap your eyes to the front windshield as Sam twists back around, your cheeks burning. He holds a plastic bag out to you, the kind that you’d get at a dollar store, and you can see that he’s used it to store your shirts in it. You take it, and when you meet his gaze you can see that he’s barely concealing a smirk. Your stomach drops and you realize that he knows you were ogling him, so you stutter out your thanks as fast as you can while you frantically exit the vehicle. Sam smoothly follows you, closing his door and locking the car with the fob. You stand awkwardly in the shadows, clutching your little bundle. Sam lopes over to you, taking his sweet time, and you get the sense that he’s fucking with you on purpose. Your itch is back, and it seems that the game is very much on.

You follow Sam to the complex, and he stops outside the main entrance to pull his keys out of his pocket. He opens the glass door and holds it, allowing you to go in first. “Thank you, sir,” you curtsy before walking in, grinning. Sam grins as well, and gives you a little bow. “M’lady.” The grin on your face widens, and you let out a giggle. You’re in a small entryway, and you’re currently facing the glass door that lets you into the lobby. There are two long and narrow glass panes on either side of the door, and through them you can see the interior of the lobby. It’s completely deserted; even the front desk has been abandoned. You see a few love seats facing the elevators, and then a small “exit” sign on a far wall above a door. Next to the exit door is another door that reads “stairs”.

Sam opens the door to the lobby, but this time he goes in first, which you don’t mind. You’re just happy to be here. You still can’t quite wrap your mind around the fact that you’re here, with your coffee shop Adonis, on the way to his apartment. Jesus Roosevelt Christ, you think you could squeal. Even if nothing happens, even if all you get out of this impromptu trip is freshly laundered clothes, you’ll be satisfied.

Well. Your itch won’t, but that’s a problem for your right hand to solve.

You follow Sam through the lobby, taking in the rest of your surroundings. Some wilting plants in big ceramic pots have been pushed into the corners of the lobby, and a few muted watercolors have been hung from the walls in an attempt to add more color to the otherwise drab space. You’re snapped out of your trance-like state of observation by the sound of the elevator button being pressed. Sam moves away from the button, hands shoved deep into his pockets, and you get the impression that he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. Maybe it’s nerves; you aren’t sure. You decide to break the silence.

“D’you go to any of the universities in the area?” You inquire, clearing your throat, even though you’re fairly certain you already know the answer. Sam nods. “Yeah, I’m a first-year undergrad at Stanford. You?” You nod, folding your arms over your chest. “It’s my first year at Stanford, too. But I think I might transfer to Palo Alto next semester.” Sam cocks a brow and smiles lopsidedly. “So you’re studying psychology, then,” he says, and you smile, too, and throw your hands up in mock surrender. “You caught me,” you chuckle. “What about you? What are you studying?”

“I’m pre-law,” he says, and he appears almost shy when he says it. He drags a hand through his hair, mussing it a bit, and it falls back in a way that looks effortlessly perfect. Damn him.

“Pre-law; that’s cool. What kind of law are you interested in practicing?”

“Well, the goal is to become a defense attorney. But I’m also really interested in environmental law,” He adds, his passion for his studies evident in his eyes, sparkling hazel star shows that you get the privilege of experiencing firsthand. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. He clearly wants to divulge more about his degree, but he restrains himself. As you step in the elevator, you ask, “Can you tell me more?”

Sam’s sheepish smile turns into a full-scale grin, and he wastes no time on diving in. He tells you about why he chose pre-law, details his coursework, shares some funny stories from classes, and the two of you get so engrossed in your conversation that you actually miss your stop on his floor. It’s only when the elevator is called back down to the lobby and a new person steps in that you realize. Sam turns scarlet and apologizes profusely. You tell him that it’s alright, and you give his forearm a reassuring squeeze that seems to abate some of his nervousness, but not the tent that you pretend not to notice forming in his pants.

After an awkwardly silent elevator ride, the other passenger exits onto the seventh floor, and you continue your ascent. The elevator dings again on the twelfth floor, and Sam steps out first. “It’s the second door on the left; room 1203.” He explains in a murmur. There is an unbroken quietness on the twelfth floor, probably due to the late hour. You check the time on your phone; it’s nearly one in the morning. You stifle a yawn, suddenly very sleepy despite the throbbing you still feel in your core. You blink to try and combat how heavy your eyes suddenly feel, but the rhythmic sounds of your footsteps in the carpeted hallway makes it even harder to concentrate.

Sam slots his key into the lock and opens the door with ease. He holds it open for you, the chivalry routine but not unwelcome at this point. You trudge into his apartment and he flips the switch on, basking everything in a soft yellow light.

Sam’s apartment is a studio. To your right, there’s a small kitchenette and dining table complete with two chairs. Directly in front of you, a bed has been pushed against the far left wall, and it’s been neatly and almost militarily made, with a few blankets and fluffy pillows resting on top of the gray comforter. Across from the bed there’s an extremely comfortable-looking and well-loved sofa that faces a wall-mounted TV and a slightly scuffed-up coffee table. You notice that the walls are devoid of any type of art or posters, unlike the lobby. There are also no plants or rugs to be seen. The decorations and attempts at making the space feel more homey are kept to a minimum, which confirms your earlier suspicions about Sam’s anti-consumerist tendencies.

You hear Sam closing and locking the door behind you, so you move deeper into the apartment to make space for him. Your heart begins to thump. You turn to watch him lock the door, and you notice that he has some kind of decorative macrame hanging from his ceiling eight beside his front door. It’s made of some kind of woven rope-like material, and in the middle of it you recognize a pattern that you’re faintly aware protects against the evil eye. This highly decorative and spiritual display doesn’t seem to match the rest of the decor in Sam's apartment, nor does it seem to match Sam as a person. But, again, you just met the guy, and far be it for you to judge anyone’s practices or beliefs.

Sam turns and notices you looking at his display, and he flushes. You’re starting to notice that whenever you discover something personal about or of personal value to him, Sam becomes embarrassed and almost defensive. You wonder what kind of life he must have had that has made him so secretive and protective.

You gesture vaguely to the macrame. “I really like your display. That’s a protective symbol against the evil eye, right?” Sam nods, glancing at it, his head ducked. “Uh, yeah. It’s found in a lot of Mediterranean and some Central and Western Asian cultures. Actually, there are even mentions of similar symbols or wardings used in Abrahamic religions.” He explains, his words coming out slowly and carefully. He worries a hand over the nape of his neck and jawline, and you nod, processing the information. His eyes snap up to look at you, and he looks not unlike a deer in headlights. You gesture to the macrame again. “If you don’t mind my asking, how do you know all of that stuff? It’s really impressive.”

Sam swallows thickly. He looks like he’s about to vomit and you’re about to apologize for being such a massive bonehead when he exhales, seemingly pulling himself together for a response. “I was really into folklore and mythology growing up, and I’ve taken a few classes on it here. A-at Stanford, I mean.” He braces himself as if you won’t believe him, but you just nod in a way that you hope seems nonchalant and accepting. Your itch has slowly started making its presence known once more, whining at you, begging for satisfaction. You decide to let your itch win this round. “Smart and cute. Nice.” You blink at him, slowly, allowing a gentle smile to sweetly spread across your face. You hold your breath, hoping that he doesn’t respond adversely to your flirtation. Sam flushes pink again, and his eyes take on that hungry look again.

Time seems to slow to a crawl, and the air is so electric that it makes your hairs stand on end. You can feel your heartbeat in your core and your body seems to be radiating some sort of electromagnetic current that’s pulling Sam towards you. Your heartbeat grows louder and louder with every step he takes until eventually it’s all that you can hear. Sam’s towering over you now, and you swear your heart is beating out of your chest like you’re a goddamn Looney Tunes character. He bends down slowly, and…

… And he takes the plastic bag of shirts from you. He straightens up, a devilish smirk plastered on his face, his hazel eyes twinkling. “I’m gonna run these down to the laundry room. Make yourself at home.”

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

—

Author’s notes: That’s it for part two!! I really wanted to make this part longer, bUT I also really wanted to post something because I know it’s taken me a dick year to get this out. I hope you enjoyed and let me know if you want to read more of this fic!

⛧ 𝚍𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚕-𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚊’𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 ⛧

last updated on: 05/26/24 <3

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hi! i’m daff (she/her), and i write gen and smut; basically, you name it, i write it. i currently write supernatural fanfiction, and all of my fics are sam winchester x reader; however, i am open to writing for more fandoms in the future! i am not taking requests at this time, but i might be soon (👀). thanks for stopping by! *:･ﾟ✧

coffee break - fluff

dream a little dream of me - hurt/comfort, 18+ language, mentions of character death

study date - fluff w/ implied smut, 18+ language

the itch pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4 (coming soon!!) - slowburn w/ eventual smut, mentions of alcohol, 18+ language

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Coffee Break

Tags: Sam Winchester x gn!Reader. Pure, unadulterated fluff. No warnings

Author’s notes: I’m back again with another fic! This time, I wanted to try my hands at writing a drabble. I’m currently working on some bigger fics rn, so stay tuned!

—

You hear footsteps approaching, and, recognizing their pattern, you look up and smile at Sam. He holds one of the steaming to-go cups out to you, and you accept it gratefully. You don’t need to ask what he put in it; you already know. Two packets of Splenda and just enough creamer for some color. You take a sip. Perfect. You sigh contentedly, and Sam fails to hide a proud little smile as he sits. He doesn’t move to open up the laptop in front of him; instead, the two of you quietly bask in the domesticity and peace of the moment.