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3 - ππππππππ ππππππ . έβ βΉ . έΛ . έ
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 youβquieter and kinderβand 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
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Sam has fought demons, ghosts, gods, and the literal Devil. Not one of them comes close to a full-day press junket.
Heβs barely through the studio gates before a handler slaps a thick schedule into his hands.
βJared, youβve got six interviews, two photo sessions, then the joint panel with Y/N. Youβre both being transported there together. No wandering off.β
A whole day with you. Trapped together.
Heβs 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 heβs borrowing from a stranger.Β
Fresh coffee in hand. Perfect posture. Expression already done with the day.
You glance at him. βPlease tell me you actually read the talking points this time.β
Sam opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
You give him a look that could curdle milk. βOf course you did.β
But thereβs something else there todayβless ice, moreβ¦ reluctant tolerance.
The first interview goes surprisingly okay, mostly because Sam keeps quiet.
You do your usual charming, witty thingβbanter, stories, teasing the crewβand the interviewer turns to Sam with a grin.
βSo, Jared! What was your favourite part of filming episode six?β
Sam thinks. Hard.
What would Jared say? Arrogant joke? Something obnoxiously self-centered?
He clears his throat. βUmβ¦ honestly? Watching Y/N in that big emotional scene. She pretty much carried the whole episode.β
You blink. Once. Slowly.
Like someone short-circuited your brain.
The interviewer lights up. βOh wow! Thatβs sweet.β
You awkwardly sip your water like it personally offended you.
But the next interviewer is sharper.
βSo, you two seem to have very different working styles,β she says. βCare to elaborate?β
You answer first, voice pleasant but edged. βI show up prepared. Jaredβ¦ shows up.β
Sam winces.
Interview laughs.
You donβt.
He rubs the back of his neck. βYeah, thatβs fair. I, uhβ¦ Iβm working on it.β Now you blink again. As if expecting an ego-fueled comeback that never arrives.
βWeird,β you mutter under your breath, flipping your script page. βYouβre not usually this tolerable.β
βTrying something new.β Sam grins despite himself. You try not to smile.Β
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.
Youβre adjusting your mic pack when Jared settles behind you. He looksβ¦ softer this morning. Not physically; the man is still built like someone youβd hire to carry a fridge. But something in his expression seems calmer. Gentle.
First question from a fan: βFor both of youβwhatβs the most challenging part of filming together?β
You go first, microphone poised. βJared refuses to take anything seriously. Itβs like working with a golden retriever hyped on espresso.β
The crowd laughs. The reporter laughs. Scribbles something down. You tell yourself itβs nothingβjust an off morning, maybeβbut it keeps happening. Every time you jab, he doesnβt 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. βYeah, uhβ¦ I can see that. But honestly? Working with Y/N is probably the easiest part of my job right now.β
You stare at him. Stunned.
The moderator raises a brow.
Sam adds, softer, βSheβsβ¦ really good at what she does.β
A few fans in the audience gasp like they just witnessed a confession at a wedding.
You pull your microphone away and whisper sharply, βWhat are you doing?β
βWhat?β he whispers back.
βYouβre beingβyouβre being nice. Itβs weird.β
Sam smothers a smile. βSorry. Iβll try to be worse.β
Your lips twitch. βPlease do.β
The panel ends with fans buzzing about your βunexpected chemistry,β which makes you sink lower in your seat on the ride back.
βGreat,β you mutter. βNow they think youβre capable of behaving.β
Sam glances at you. βCould be worse.β
βThey could think Iβm unfixable.β
You stare out the window a little too long before muttering, βDonβt tempt me.β
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 doesnβt. He thanks crew members by name, lets you finish talking. The weirdest part? He compliments you without wrapping it in humour.
The convention hall is louderβfans 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. βOh, him. Obviously.β
Laughter ripples through the room.
He leans forward slightly, mic close to his mouth. βSheβs wrong,β he says easily. βSheβs the one who keeps everything together. I justβ¦ try not to screw it up.β
You freeze for half a beat before recovering.
That wasnβt in the script. Not the unspoken one youβve 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.
βPerfect,β 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 heβs careful not to crowd you.
βYou donβt have to like me,β he says after a moment.
You huff a quiet laugh. βTrust me. I donβt.β
Jared nods, accepting it too easily. βYeah. I know.β
βYouβre arrogant,β you say, not unkindly, but honest. βYou joke when people are trying to work. You make everything about yourself.β
βIβm sorry,β he says quietly. βI didnβt realize how much that bothered you.β
Your chest tightens, sharp and unexpected. You look away, suddenly fascinated by the rain.
βYouβreβ¦ different today,β you admit.
βLike I said,β Jared begins, βIβm trying to be better.β he says.
Before you can respond, the lights flicker.
Someone leans against the doorframe, clapping slowly, grin wide and far too pleased.
βOh,β you sigh, relief washing over you, βItβs just Gabriel.β
Jared turns his head, stopping in his tracks. You glance back at him, but keep walking.
βThis is great,β the Trickster drawls. βHonestly. I should throw you into alternate realities more often.β
His gaze snaps sharp. βGet out.β
βRelax,β the Trickster says, eyes flicking to you. βSheβs still not buying it. Tick-tock, Sammy.β
Thunder cracks. The room goes empty.
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 donβt hear him at first.
Youβre standing in front of the mirror, shoulders slumped in a way heβs 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, technicallyβcontour sharp, lashes dark and heavyβbut youβre 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 youβve been holding that breath all day.
βGod,β you mutter to no one, rubbing at your eyes. βI hate conventions.β
The words spill out of you suddenly, like once the seal breaks thereβs no stopping it.
βI hate the noise. I hate how close everyone gets. I hate the questions they ask like they own pieces of you.β You laugh, but thereβs no humour in it. βAnd donβt even get me started on the journalists. Or the paparazzi. I swear, if one more guy with a camera shouts my name like weβre friendsββ
You trail off, shaking your head.
Sam steps in quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. βLong day,β he says softly.
You glance at him in the mirror, startled, then relax when you see itβs just him. βYou could say that.β
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 youβre tired. The faint crease between your brows when youβre overwhelmed. The way you tilt your head, studying your own reflection like youβre making sure youβre still there.
Not the woman who doesnβt know him. Not the actress who barely tolerates βJared Padalecki.β
βI justββ you start, then stop, pressing your palms to the counter. βSometimes I think about what itβd be like to wake up somewhere quiet. No schedule. No makeup chair. No one needing something from you before youβve even had coffee.β
Your voice drops, softer now, more honest.
βI want a normal life,β you admit. βA house. Maybe a dog. A husband who doesnβt care what I look like when I roll out of bed.β
Samβs chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.
You laugh again, quieter. βIs that pathetic?β
βNo,β he says immediately. Too fast.
You glance back at him, searching his face for something. Mockery, maybe, or that familiar easy charmβbut all you find is sincerity. Raw and unguarded.
He swallows. βI get it,β he says. Then, after a beat, quieter: βMe too.β
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. βEveryone thinks this life is a dream,β you murmur. βThey donβt see how lonely it gets.β
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 heβs held you through it. That heβs built that quiet life with you once already.
Because thatβs 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.
βThanks,β you say, unsure. βForβ¦ listening.β
He offers a small smile. βAnytime.β
As you grab your bag and head for the door, Sam stays seated for a moment longer, staring at the empty mirror, heart pounding.
And you just told him exactly what you want.
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