#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

2 - 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ word count; 866 summary; a week has passed. sam is learning how to survive being someone else. fame is exhausting, pretending is harder, and working alongside you only makes it worse. tags; emotional manipulation, forced proximity, anxiety, implied emotional stakes 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 ꨄ︎ 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛

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

A week in, and Sam’s getting the hang of it–sort of.

He’s still waking up in a bed that isn’t his, still dodging texts from Gen that makes his chest ache with guilt (and confusion), and he’s still fielding calls from assistants who treat him like the world revolves around Jared Padalecki. But at least now he knows which side of the bed doesn’t have the breakfast tray stacked with kale smoothies and protein bars.

The studio has become a second home in the worst possible way. Sam can navigate the hallways without getting lost, can sip the fancy coffee without spilling it, and can even flash a charming smile at the crew without tripping over his own panic. 

Yet the hardest part isn’t the lights, cameras or the technical jargon–it’s you.

You’re everywhere. On the same scenes, same schedules, same relentless energy. And every time Sam opens his mouth, whether reading lines or trying to improvise a little charm, he’s reminded that you still don’t like him. Every smirk, every raised eyebrow, every subtle sigh aimed in his direction cuts sharper than any critique he’s ever gotten on a hunt.

He’s learning quickly that being Jared Padalecki isn’t about memorising lines or showing up on time–it’s about surviving people’s expectations. And for the first time, Sam understands how much pressure Jared must actually live under… even if he’s still a giant egotist in the process.

The past week had been a blur. Sam stumbled through Jared’s world as if walking through a dream painted by someone else’s hands. Assistants hovered around him like guardian angels—or prison guards—shoving scripts, coffee, and phones in his direction.

He thought hunting monsters was stressful.

He was wrong.

By mid-morning, Sam was exhausted. He ducked behind a set of props to catch his breath, only to find someone leaning casually against a lighting rig. Clipboard in hand, head tilted in just the right way to make him feel cornered.

“Rough day?” The voice was calm, measured—but there was an edge there, one he recognized immediately.

“You!” Sam hissed, shoving past props to confront him. “What are you—”

The man—pretending to be a production assistant, clipboard tucked under his arm—raised his hands innocently. “Easy there, Jared. You look tense. Everything okay?”

Sam’s teeth ground together. “Don’t play games. I know what you did. I know you’re here. Spill it. Now.”

The Trickster smirked, leaning casually on a prop ladder. “Ah… so perceptive. I do enjoy that about you. But you’ve got a problem, Sammy.”

Sam froze. “What problem?”

“You have exactly one month,” the Trickster said, voice slow and deliberate. “One month to make her fall in love with you. One month to fix what’s… been broken.” He tapped the clipboard as if that made it official. “Fail, and you stay here. No Dean. No Y/N. Just… this.” He gestured around, encompassing Jared’s world of scripts, assistants, and fake smiles. “An empty life masquerading as someone else.”

Sam’s stomach lurched. One month. One month to make the woman he’d loved for years fall for him all over again—without her knowing him.

Later that day, the studio hummed with life. Sam shuffled onto the set, still shaky but determined. He found you waiting, eyes sharp as ever, script clutched like armor. This time, he didn’t panic as much. He remembered your cues, your tiny sighs, the way you marked pauses in the script with a flick of your pen.

The director called, “Action!”

Sam breathed and spoke, focusing less on the lines themselves and more on you. He noticed the way your lips pressed into a thin line when concentrating, the tilt of your head when you listened. He stumbled over a word—but caught it quickly, improvising subtly, letting genuine emotion bleed into the performance.

You paused mid-line, blinking at him. Something about him—less arrogant, less cocky, more… real—made you frown. You shook your head as if trying to dismiss it. Jared wouldn’t have done that. He would have smirked, winked, and ruined the moment. But this… wasn’t Jared.

The scene ended, and the crew murmured appreciatively. You stepped away, brushing past him, still irritated. “Not bad,” you muttered, tone tight. “Try not to embarrass yourself next take.”

Sam’s chest tightened. You're still brushing him off, still annoyed—but maybe there was a flicker of curiosity. He couldn’t afford to hope. Not yet.

Break time found him lingering near the props again, watching you from a distance. And then he saw it—something achingly familiar. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a nervous little gesture, a tiny movement he had memorised from countless nights and mornings. The way you shifted your weight before delivering a line, the slight bite of your lip when focused.

Sam’s chest ached. It’s still her, he thought. Even in this world where you don't know him, even when you're angry and distant, you're still the same woman he loves.

He exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself. One month. One chance. He’d need every ounce of cunning, charm, and heart he had to win you over again.

And maybe you'd see him not as Jared, not some arrogant actor—but him.

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