#hotbs

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝

𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚝 ⸝⸝⸝ 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 ⸝⸝⸝ 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 ⸝⸝⸝ 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 ⸝⸝⸝ 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 ⸝⸝⸝ 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 ⸝⸝⸝ 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚎

✧˖° Thanks to the Trickster, Sam Winchester is thrown into an alternate universe where you don’t know him at all—even though, in his world, you’re his long-term wife. The catch? Here, Sam is Jared Padalecki, your least favourite co-star. To be able to go back to his universe, he has exactly one month to make you fall in love with him again. Does Sam have what it takes to turn your disgust into desire?

In no way is this taking any credit from the original sources. © stargazedwinchester. Do not copy, translate or steal/claim this work as your own.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ want to join the taglist? pique your interest here!

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS, DO NOT INTERACT. UNEDITED.

synopsis: Jeon Wonwoo, renowned actor of the year— your ex, is paired up with you for the year's newly awaited movie; ironically about reconnecting with an old flame. Your reunion is anything but smooth, old grudges and feelings rise to the surface as the both of you continue working on the film. Will this give the both of you an opportunity to rekindle what was once lost or will this prove that you're better off moving on with each other’s lives?

rating: (n)sfw

pairing: actor! wonwoo x actress! afab reader

genre: actor!au, exes to lovers!au, angst, slow burn

warnings for this chapter: use of female pronouns for reader, written in third person, cursing— i think that's it— (please do message if i missed any)

wc: 1.1k

a/n: i've been working on this story for months and even so, i'm far from finishing it lol. again, please expect really slow updates since i just got a job and i cannot promise that i'll be able to update all the time.

my messages and ask are both always on, feel free to leave one! i also really appreciate comments and reposts! once again, thank you for choosing to be on this journey with me :) i hope you have fun as much as i do :)

Official tag for the series is #HOTBS

teaser || HOTBS masterlist

date posted: 11/06/25

The dimly lit lamp post illuminated the two figures that were standing in the middle of the rain,  shadows dancing around their faces as droplets from the heavy downpour masked the pair’s heavyhearted expressions. The rise and fall of their chests from their labored breaths was evident as they faced each other.

“Is it really that easy for you to throw three years away?” Wonwoo said, knuckles turning white as he gripped the ends of his sleeve.

Chapter 11

by. @porkcutletbowltrash

“I told you that was a bad idea,” Yuri was stewing from where he was standing in the kitchen stirring a pan of eggs around while Yuuri chopped vegetables next to him, “That is the last time I am going out drinking with you two ever again.”

Yuri didn’t need to glance at Viktor to feel him roll his eyes, “You say that every time something interesting happens.”

“Because only “interesting” things happen when I go with you two together. If I go with Yuuri it’s fine. If I go with you, it’s fine. If I go with Juli, it’s perfect. But whenever you two come together, it goes straight to hell.” Yuuri hummed in agreement next to the blonde.

“We do have a bad track record together, Vitya, I’ll give him that.”

The silver-haired man sighed from where he was balancing on the small window bench, a cup of black coffee in his hands, “I enjoy when we go out together, Yuushka.”

“I’m not saying I don’t enjoy going with you,” Yuuri grabbed a handful of peppers and tossed it into the eggs Yuri was stirring, “I just agreed that we don’t necessarily have a clean record when we go drinking together at bars.”

“We’ve never been kicked out…”

“That’s because we haven’t gotten blackout drunk while at a bar together.”

Viktor purred, “We save those times for at home…”

“Will you two stop with your gross flirting?” Yuri snapped, “For the record, you two were fine, I was the one who got puke all over me. Have you ever had someone puke all over you?”

6 - 𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐄 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ word count; 1,481 summary; sam finally wakes up where he belongs. with you safe beside him, the nightmare fades into something distant. it's replaced by a quiet, warm love that was never truly lost. tags; full circle moment, smut (18+), sub!fem, dom!sam, quiet happiness, mention of distressing dream, husband and wife love, established relationship 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 ꨄ︎ 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛

𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚘3! 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎? 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎!

The first thing he notices is the quietness.

Not the type that he’s grown used to over the past month, but the kind that hums with something missing. This is different.

This is familiar.

There’s no traffic outside. No blaring horns. Just the low, constant whir of the desk fan blowing in his direction.

Sam’s eyes snap open.

For a split second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Like if he even shifts an inch it’ll all disappear again. 

But the mattress beneath him is dipped in a way that only he knows. The sheets aren’t too crisp, they’re a little worn in, and the air smells faintly of fresh morning coffee and something distinctively like home.

The bunker.

He’s back. 

Slowly, he turns his head. 

And there you are.

You’re curled into his side, half-buried under the covers, his hair a mess across the pillow like you fell asleep mid-thought. His left arm is tucked underneath you, the other resting against his chest, your hand cupped in his. 

Sam exhales, shaky and uneven, like he’s been holding it for days. “Hey…” he whispers, barely audible.

You don’t wake up, instead you shift slightly, pressing closer to him with your forehead brushing his shoulder. A soft, sleepy sound leaves you–something between a sigh and a hum.

It hits him all at once.

The weight of it. The relief. The rightness of it.

A quiet, broken breath escapes him, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a second, overwhelmed. His hand comes up almost instinctively, brushing your hair back from your face, fingertips lingering like he needs the proof.

You’re here.

You’re his.

“Sam?” Your voice is thick with sleep, barely there. “Why’re you awake?”

He lets out a soft, breathless huff of a laugh, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe this is real.

“I…” His voice catches, and he has to swallow before trying again. “I had the worst dream.”

You shift again, blinking your eyes open just enough to look at him, lashes heavy. There’s no suspicion there. “Yeah?” you murmur. He nods, even though he knows you can barely see it in the dim light.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I lost you.”

Your brows knit together faintly, like that doesn’t make any sense to you. “I’m right here,” you mumble, voice soft with sleep.

And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you lean up just slightly and press a lazy, absentminded kiss to his lips. You settle back against him without another thought, tucking yourself into his side again, like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

Sam’s hand finds yours under the covers, threading your fingers together. He holds on a little tighter than usual.

You let out a quiet hum, already drifting again. “Go back to sleep,” you murmur. “You’re overthinking.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I know.”

But he doesn’t sleep. Not yet.

He just lies there, watching you.

Memorising the way your breathing evens out. The way your lips part slightly when you’re fully asleep. The way your thumb brushes absentmindedly against the back of his hand—something you don’t even realise you do.

You did that there, too.

Different world. Same you.

His chest aches, but this time it’s not painful. It’s full. Overwhelming in the best way.

After a moment, you shift again, nuzzling closer, your head settling right over his heart. Your fingers tighten slightly in his, and you mumble something soft and incoherent into his chest.

Sam’s free hand drifts up your back, tracing the curve of your spine through the thin fabric of your shirt. The touch is light, almost reverent, as if he’s mapping you out all over again. You stir under his fingers, your body responding even in half-sleep, arching just a fraction into the warmth of his palm.

“Mmm,” you breathe, eyes fluttering open once more. This time, you don’t close them. You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze in the low light filtering through the bunker’s small window. There’s a question in your eyes, soft and searching, but no words yet.

He doesn’t answer with speech. Instead, he leans down, closing the distance to capture your lips in a kiss that starts slow, tentative, like he’s testing if you’ll vanish. But you don’t. You melt into it, your mouth parting under his, tongue brushing his in a gentle slide that sends a quiet spark through him.

You turn your head, exposing your neck to him, fingers threading through his hair to hold him there.

He peels your shirt up slowly, inch by inch, pressing open-mouthed kisses to every bit of skin he uncovers. Your breasts come into view, nipples hardening in the cool air, and he pauses to take one into his mouth, sucking gently, tongue circling the peak with deliberate care. You gasp softly, back arching, your hand tightening in his hair as pleasure ripples through you.

His other hand works at the waistband of your pants, easing them down your hips with your help, until you’re bare against him. He shifts, kicking off his own clothes in a hurried but careful motion, the fabric whispering to the floor. 

Skin meets skin, and the contact is electric, grounding him in the reality of you.

You reach between you, fingers wrapping around his cock, already hard and throbbing in your grasp. He groans low in his throat, hips bucking slightly into your touch as you stroke him with slow, firm pulls, thumb brushing over the tip to spread the bead of precum there. 

“God, you feel so good,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours, eyes locked on your face like he’s afraid to look away.

He mirrors you, hand sliding between your thighs, fingers parting your folds to find you slick and ready. He circles your clit with feather-light pressure, watching your expression as your lips part on a quiet moan. Dipping lower, he presses one finger inside you, then two, curling them just right to stroke that spot that makes your breath hitch.

“Sam,” you whimper, the sound raw and needy, pulling him closer. Your free hand clutches his shoulder, nails digging in just enough to leave faint marks.

He kisses you again, swallowing your sounds as he works you open, his thumb now rubbing steady circles on your clit. Your hips rock against his hand, chasing the building heat, and he matches your rhythm, pumping his fingers deeper, feeling your walls clench around him.

When you’re trembling, on the edge, he withdraws his hand, earning a soft whine from you. “I need you inside me,” you plead, guiding his cock to your entrance, the head nudging against your wetness.

He nods, voice thick. “Yeah. Yeah, I need that too.” With agonizing slowness, he pushes in, inch by inch, savoring the tight heat enveloping him. You both pause when he’s fully seated, breaths mingling, bodies joined completely. It’s more than physical—this is reconnection, the piecing back together of something shattered.

Then he starts to move, thrusts shallow and gentle at first, rolling his hips to grind against you with each stroke.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your hands exploring his back, tracing the scars and muscles you know by heart.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the pulse there as he picks up a steady pace, the bed creaking softly beneath you.

Pleasure builds like a slow tide, waves of it crashing gently. Your breaths sync, moans blending in the quiet room. He reaches between you again, fingers finding your clit to rub in time with his thrusts, pushing you higher. “Come for me,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Let me feel you.”

It doesn’t take much. Your body tenses, then shudders around him, pussy pulsing as orgasm washes over you in soft, rolling waves. You cry out his name, fingers digging into his skin, holding on as if he might slip away.

The sensation pulls him under too, his rhythm faltering as he drives deep one last time, spilling inside you with a muffled groan against your shoulder. Heat floods you, his cock twitching as he comes, bodies locked together in the aftershocks.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead, he stays there, weighing a comforting press, arms wrapping around you to hold you close. You stroke his hair, pressing kisses to his temple, both of you breathing raggedly until it evens out.

“I love you,” he says finally, voice hushed, like a secret shared in the dark.

You smile against his skin, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back. “I love you too. Always.”

The bunker feels like home again, wrapped in each other, the world outside forgotten. Sleep claims you both this time, tangled and sated, the dream’s shadow banished by the warmth of you.

Because it’s always you.

✧ 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ // ✧𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 // ✧𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ

𝟣 - 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ word count; 1,514 summary; sam wakes up somewhere unfamiliar, in a life that doesn't belong to him. he's thrown into a world full of bright lights, scripts and expectations—where you know him, but you don't like him. by the end of the day, it becomes clear that what happened to him wasn't an accident. tags; disorientation, identity confusion, mildly emotional distress, au, culture shock, sam w. as jared p. 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 ꨄ︎ 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛

𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚘3! 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎? 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎!

Sunshine peers through the windows and the rays fall onto Sam’s face. His arm is raised above his head, sheets shielding his bare torso, and one leg is untucked from the covers. The faint warmth from the light wakes him up, rubbing one eye with his left hand.

“Mornin’,” he grumbles, shuffling onto his side. He opens his eyes and is greeted with an empty bed.

It’s not his bed, either.

“Y/N?” He calls out, confused. His brows furrow as he squints into the morning light–pushing the stray hairs out of his face.

He sits up, looking around at the painfully white hotel room. Walls washed thin of any sort of colour, ceilings higher than the bunkers and windows taller than anything he’s ever seen. The room itself is spacious, the bed is on a circular platform to the left of the door. White, voile curtains hang from at least twelve feet high. 

Sam frantically looks around the room, searching for something–anything–to show him that he’s dreaming. 

But it all feels too real.

Before he even gets a chance to think about what’s happened, a ringtone jolts through the phone’s speakers, with the name Eric Kripke in bold, white writing.

His thumb hovers over the answer button, afraid of who’s on the other side.

“Hello?” Sam’s hesitant at first, taking a deep breath.

“Jared,” Eric replies, his voice rushed and impatient. “Where are you? You’re ten minutes late.”

Sam pauses. Who the hell is Jared?

“Oh, uh–right. I just woke up. I’m sorry…” Sam trails, trying to find the right words to appease Eric.

Sam pushes himself up against the headboard, bare chest now slightly damp with panic. He runs a hand through his hair, a breeze whispers through a crack in the open window, the mesh drapes flowing like silk, casting light shadows across his torso.

Eric sighs. “Just get to the studio, okay? You’ve got a scene to shoot with Y/N. Hurry up.”

Before Sam can even respond, Eric hangs up and leaves Sam with the thousands of questions inside his head. He throws the sheets off of him, his bare feet touching the cold, waxed floor beneath him. He pads over to the dresser beside the bed, pulling a drawer open.

Sam examines almost every item of clothing in the drawer–clothes that are his size, but absolutely not his style. Chinos, plain button-up shirts, scarves? Who does this ‘Jared’ guy think he is?

The phone chimes with a quick twinkle. An incoming text from… Gen?

Good luck on set today! Can’t wait to see you later ;)

He doesn’t even bother replying–instead he just scrolls up to previous messages, looking through pictures. 

Pictures of them. Together. Texts–hundreds if not thousands of messages back and forth, full of ‘I love you’s’ and ‘I miss you’s’. 

Sam exhales slowly. The words are tender, overflowing with warmth in a way that makes his throat ache. Whatever else Jared is, it’s clear that he loves her. That part is real.

As soon as he’s ready, he grabs the phone from the bed, opens the Maps app and begins his descent downstairs to the lobby.

The lobby is cavernous, bustling with staff, assistants and camera equipment. Everyone greets him like they know him.

Like he belongs here.

One man in particular steps forward in a sharp suit, clipboard in hand, with that slick smile Sam would recognise anywhere.

“Morning, Jared,” he says smoothly, “rough night?” 

Sam freezes. His stomach drops. He knows that voice–that grin–but here, he’s got a headset and a laminated ID badge swinging from his neck.

Gabriel, Production Manager.

Sam’s mouth gapes open as Gabriel shoves a cup of lukewarm coffee into his hand, steering him toward one of the rooms backstage. Gabriel glances at him just once, but Sam can’t keep his eyes off of him.

Sam stops in his tracks, pulling Gabriel with him.

“Gabriel,” he scoffs, “what the hell are you doing here?–hell, what am I doing here?” He hisses, keeping his voice to a minimum. Gabriel tuts. “What are you talking about?” he chirps, acting like everything is normal. “You’re at the best hotel in Vancouver, silly. You’ve got a scene with Y/N in an hour.” 

Sam sighs deeply, clenching his jaw in frustration. Gabriel looks behind him, ensuring no-one can hear him: “Save the theatrics for the cameras, diva. Kripke’s already chewing drywall because you’re late. Wouldn’t want to keep your favourite co-star waiting, would you?”

The words are pitched just loud enough for the nearby crew to hear. Joking and professional, but the glint in his eye mocks him.

Sam stares, fury and confusion boiling under his skin, but before he can get a word out, Gabriel’s already flagging down an SUV. “Come on, Padalecki. Chop-chop. You’ve got fans to disappoint.” He wins, then ducks away, vanishing into the lobby chaos.

Sam’s shoved into the backseat before he can fight it.

The ride is a blur, city streets flash by until they pull up to a studio lot. White trailers and soundstages looming high. The crew dart in and out with clipboards, props and costumes. His chest tightens.

This is too much too fast.

The moment his feet hit the pavement, people descend–someone slaps a script into his hands, another smoothing his shirt collar, and a third brushes powder over his face before he can even protest. He feels like he’s drowning in a sea of names and instructions.

And then he hears you.

“Finally,” you mutter, stepping out from under a shade tent. You’re already in costume, lines marked on your script and a makeup artist giving you one last dust of blush. Your eyes cut straight through him with undisguised irritation. “Guess we’re all working on your schedule again, huh?” 

Sam’s breath catches. His whole world tilts as he knows it.

It’s you. Exactly you. Same eyes, same mouth, same little frown line you get when you’re annoyed.

Except this version looks at him like he’s the last person you want to see.

The warmth he felt from reading Gen’s texts this morning didn’t follow him out of the hotel room, and now it reignites like an ember finding that last spark.

“Great, Sleeping Beauty’s here,” one of the sound techs huff. “Gen must be a saint,” another one adds, “if I talked to my wife half as sweet as he pretends to, she’d never put up with the rest of my bullshit.”

Sam freezes. The words sting–not because they’re aimed at him, but because he’s starting to piece together the box Jared Padalecki comes in. The one he’s trapped inside.

When he rounds the corner toward the set, he feels eyes track him. No-one looks impressed. If anything, there’s a sharp edge to the stares, as though every crew member is bracing for Jared’s next demand.

And standing off to the side, waiting with arms crossed and script in hand, is you. 

The look on your face could curdle milk.

“Alright, places!” The director calls, clapping his hands. “Scene fifteen, take one. Let’s go.”

You step onto the mark across from him, script tucked casually at your side, lines are already committed to memory. The way you glance at him makes his stomach knot. Like you’ve already written him off.

“Action!”

Sam opens his mouth. Nothing. The line stutters in his throat, works tangling together until he blurts something completely off script.

The director groans. “Cut! Jared, what the hell was that? Do you even know what scene we’re in?”

A ripple of laughter runs through the crew.

Your jaw tightens, eyes flicking to the ceiling before you plaster on a smile for the director. “Maybe we should give him a minute. Long night, huh?” The words are sweetened with poison, sharp enough that Sam feels them dig into his chest.

He shakes his head. “No, I’ve got it. I just—” But the next take is worse. He fumbles every other word, missing cues, tripping over blocking. By the third restart, the set is thick with exasperation.

When the director finally calls for a break, you round on him the second you’re clear of the cameras. Your voice is low but fierce, every syllable clipped.

“Are you kidding me, Jared? Late again, hungover, and you can’t even be bothered to look at the script?” You jab a finger at his crumpled pages. “Or were you too busy with Gen last night to care about the rest of us?”

Sam freezes. Gen? His mind races. Genevieve. Jared’s wife.

“I—” He swallows hard, scrambling. “It’s not like that, I swear.”

You laugh, bitter and disbelieving. “Of course it is. It always is with you. You don’t care how hard the rest of us work, as long as you get your paycheck and your ego stroked.”

Sam opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Because you’re looking at him like you hate him. Like every soft, tender moment from the night before never existed.

And for the first time, the weight of what Gabriel’s done slams into him full-force.

✧ 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ // ✧𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 // ✧𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ

3 - 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐒 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ word count; 1,924 summary; press events and long days force you and sam together in ways neither of you can avoid. something about him feels different to you—quieter and kinder—and it unsettles you. in private, walls slip, loneliness surfaces, and sam is reminded that even in a world that doesn't recognise him, you are still you. tags; emotional vulnerability, loneliness, seeing the real you, press junkets, soft sam, almost friends almost more, unexpected chemistry 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 ꨄ︎ 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛

𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚘3! 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎? 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎!

A week later…

Sam has fought demons, ghosts, gods, and the literal Devil. Not one of them comes close to a full-day press junket.

He’s barely through the studio gates before a handler slaps a thick schedule into his hands.

“Jared, you’ve got six interviews, two photo sessions, then the joint panel with Y/N. You’re both being transported there together. No wandering off.”

Sam inhales sharply.

A whole day with you. Trapped together.

For him? Perfect.

For you? Not so perfect.

He’s ushered into a makeup chair before he can even think of a reply. Someone powders his face, someone fixes his hair. Someone adjusts the collar of the shirt he still feels like he’s borrowing from a stranger. 

And then you walk in.

Fresh coffee in hand. Perfect posture. Expression already done with the day. You glance at him. “Please tell me you actually read the talking points this time.”

Sam opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“I… skimmed?”

You give him a look that could curdle milk. “Of course you did.”

But there’s something else there today—less ice, more… reluctant tolerance.

The first interview goes surprisingly okay, mostly because Sam keeps quiet.

You do your usual charming, witty thing—banter, stories, teasing the crew—and the interviewer turns to Sam with a grin.

“So, Jared! What was your favourite part of filming episode six?”

Sam thinks. Hard. What would Jared say? Arrogant joke? Something obnoxiously self-centered?

He clears his throat. “Um… honestly? Watching Y/N in that big emotional scene. She pretty much carried the whole episode.”

You blink. Once. Slowly. Like someone short-circuited your brain.

The interviewer lights up. “Oh wow! That’s sweet.”

You awkwardly sip your water like it personally offended you.

But the next interviewer is sharper.

“So, you two seem to have very different working styles,” she says. “Care to elaborate?”

You answer first, voice pleasant but edged. “I show up prepared. Jared… shows up.”

Sam winces. Interview laughs. You don’t.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s fair. I, uh… I’m working on it.” Now you blink again. As if expecting an ego-fueled comeback that never arrives.

“Weird,” you mutter under your breath, flipping your script page. “You’re not usually this tolerable.”

“Trying something new.” Sam grins despite himself. You try not to smile. 

You fail. 

Barely.

Hours later, where the sunset is beaming down through the mossed-up velux windows at least twenty feet high, hundreds of fans and bright lights take center stage in your mind.

You take your seats side by side.

You’re adjusting your mic pack when Jared settles behind you. He looks… softer this morning. Not physically; the man is still built like someone you’d hire to carry a fridge. But something in his expression seems calmer. Gentle.

First question from a fan: “For both of you—what’s the most challenging part of filming together?”

You go first, microphone poised. “Jared refuses to take anything seriously. It’s like working with a golden retriever hyped on espresso.”

The crowd laughs. The reporter laughs. Scribbles something down. You tell yourself it’s nothing–just an off morning, maybe—but it keeps happening. Every time you jab, he doesn’t parry. He absorbs it. Owns it. When someone asks about on-set antics and you say he never takes anything seriously, he nods instead of deflecting.

Sam clears his throat. “Yeah, uh… I can see that. But honestly? Working with Y/N is probably the easiest part of my job right now.”

The laughter dies down.

You stare at him. Stunned. The moderator raises a brow.

Sam adds, softer, “She’s… really good at what she does.”

A few fans in the audience gasp like they just witnessed a confession at a wedding.

You pull your microphone away and whisper sharply, “What are you doing?”

“What?” he whispers back.

“You’re being—you’re being nice. It’s weird.”

Sam smothers a smile. “Sorry. I’ll try to be worse.”

Your lips twitch. “Please do.”

The panel ends with fans buzzing about your “unexpected chemistry,” which makes you sink lower in your seat on the ride back.

“Great,” you mutter. “Now they think you’re capable of behaving.”

Sam glances at you. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

“They could think I’m unfixable.”

You stare out the window a little too long before muttering, “Don’t tempt me.”

But the edges of your voice are softer. Almost playful.

By the third interview, the room feels warmer. Smaller. You start watching him out of the corner of your eye, waiting for the performance to snap back into place. It doesn’t. He thanks crew members by name, lets you finish talking. The weirdest part? He compliments you without wrapping it in humour.

It’s unsettling.

The convention hall is louder–fans buzzing, voices overlapping, energy crackling in the air. You sit beside him onstage, microphone warm in your palm, lights glaring just enough to make the crowd blur at the edges.

Someone asks a playful question about who's more difficult to work with.

You sigh theatrically. “Oh, him. Obviously.”

Laughter ripples through the room.

He leans forward slightly, mic close to his mouth. “She’s wrong,” he says easily. “She’s the one who keeps everything together. I just… try not to screw it up.”

You freeze for half a beat before recovering.

That wasn’t in the script. Not the unspoken one you’ve both been following for years.

The panel ends to applause, but the feeling sticks with you: that strange sense of imbalance all the way through the signing line, through the hurried waves and smiles, through the moment your assistant pulls you aside to tell you the car service is delayed.

Thunder rolls overhead, loud enough to rattle the windows.

You end up in an empty conference room meant for meetings that never happened, rain pounding against the glass in sheets so thick it feels like being underwater. You drop into a chair, kicking off your heels with a groan.

“Perfect,” you mutter.

He hesitates by the door, then comes in and sits across from you instead of beside you, hands folded loosely in his lap. Like he’s careful not to crowd you.

“You don’t have to like me,” he says after a moment.

You huff a quiet laugh. “Trust me. I don’t.”

Jared nods, accepting it too easily. “Yeah. I know.”

That gives you pause.

“You’re arrogant,” you say, not unkindly, but honest. “You joke when people are trying to work. You make everything about yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t realize how much that bothered you.”

Your chest tightens, sharp and unexpected. You look away, suddenly fascinated by the rain.

“You’re… different today,” you admit.

“Like I said,” Jared begins, “I’m trying to be better.” he says.

Before you can respond, the lights flicker.

Your stomach drops.

Someone leans against the doorframe, clapping slowly, grin wide and far too pleased.

“Oh,” you sigh, relief washing over you, “It’s just Gabriel.”

Jared turns his head, stopping in his tracks. You glance back at him, but keep walking.

“This is great,” the Trickster drawls. “Honestly. I should throw you into alternate realities more often.”

His gaze snaps sharp. “Get out.”

“Relax,” the Trickster says, eyes flicking to you. “She’s still not buying it. Tick-tock, Sammy.”

Thunder cracks. The room goes empty.

Silence rushes back in.

He finds you tucked away in one of the smaller dressing rooms down the hall, the kind meant for guest appearances or last-minute changes. The door is cracked open just enough to let light spill out into the corridor.

You don’t hear him at first.

You’re standing in front of the mirror, shoulders slumped in a way he’s never seen on set. Your fingers work at the clasp of a necklace, movements practiced but tired, and when it finally comes free you let it drop onto the counter with a soft clink. Another bracelet follows. Then another.

Each piece feels like armour coming off.

Sam stays rooted to the doorway, breath caught somewhere behind his ribs.

Your makeup is still flawless, technically—contour sharp, lashes dark and heavy—but you’re already undoing it. A wipe drags across your cheek, leaving a clean streak of bare skin behind. You sigh as you do it, long and shaky, like you’ve been holding that breath all day.

“God,” you mutter to no one, rubbing at your eyes. “I hate conventions.”

The words spill out of you suddenly, like once the seal breaks there’s no stopping it.

“I hate the noise. I hate how close everyone gets. I hate the questions they ask like they own pieces of you.” You laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “And don’t even get me started on the journalists. Or the paparazzi. I swear, if one more guy with a camera shouts my name like we’re friends—”

You trail off, shaking your head.

Sam steps in quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. “Long day,” he says softly.

You glance at him in the mirror, startled, then relax when you see it’s just him. “You could say that.”

He takes the chair by the wall instead of crowding you, hands folding loosely together, posture unassuming. He watches as you wipe away the rest of your makeup, piece by piece, until the version of you that stares back is stripped bare and human.

And it hits him all at once.

The curve of your mouth when you’re tired. The faint crease between your brows when you’re overwhelmed. The way you tilt your head, studying your own reflection like you’re making sure you’re still there.

It’s her.

Not the woman who doesn’t know him. Not the actress who barely tolerates “Jared Padalecki.”

His wife.

The love of his life.

“I just—” you start, then stop, pressing your palms to the counter. “Sometimes I think about what it’d be like to wake up somewhere quiet. No schedule. No makeup chair. No one needing something from you before you’ve even had coffee.”

Your voice drops, softer now, more honest.

“I want a normal life,” you admit. “A house. Maybe a dog. A husband who doesn’t care what I look like when I roll out of bed.”

Sam’s chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.

You laugh again, quieter. “Is that pathetic?”

“No,” he says immediately. Too fast.

You glance back at him, searching his face for something. Mockery, maybe, or that familiar easy charm—but all you find is sincerity. Raw and unguarded.

He swallows. “I get it,” he says. Then, after a beat, quieter: “Me too.”

The words feel like a lie and the truth all at once.

You nod, turning back to the mirror, tugging your hair out of its careful styling until it falls loose around your shoulders. “Everyone thinks this life is a dream,” you murmur. “They don’t see how lonely it gets.”

Sam leans back in the chair, hands gripping the edges, knuckles whitening. He wants to tell you that he knows every version of your loneliness. That he’s held you through it. That he’s built that quiet life with you once already.

Instead, he stays quiet.

Because that’s the only way he can stay here.

You finish cleaning your face and finally turn toward him fully, meeting his eyes without the shield of a mirror between you. Something shifts subtly. Maybe fragile.

“Thanks,” you say, unsure. “For… listening.”

He offers a small smile. “Anytime.”

As you grab your bag and head for the door, Sam stays seated for a moment longer, staring at the empty mirror, heart pounding.

One month.

And you just told him exactly what you want.

✧ 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ // ✧𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 // ✧𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ