#sam fluff

Speaking of, you keep half-teasing Dean that he should get checked for ADHD as well. 1) The guy has niche hyperfixations (he’s a fucking nerd when it comes to horror movies and classic rock. And cowboys. Don’t forget about the cowboys.). 2), He’s often quick-tempered / has poor impulse control. 3) He has stims. Lots of them. Happy stims, oral fixation when he’s focusing on something, the list goes on. 4) Terrible sleep pattern — basically non-existent.

If you own any fidget toys, you can count on Dean to try playing with them when he thinks nobody is looking. He ends up buying more, claiming they’re for you, but really, he likes keeping his hands busy too while you’re doing research together.

That said, sometimes research is a dread. Depending on how frustrating and/or boring a case is, your attention crumbles. Specifically during Sam’s long and tedious explanations about lore.

“Did you even listen to a single thing I said?” “Sure. Uh... vampires, or something.” Your guess couldn’t have been more wrong, but at least it makes Dean laugh. “Can’t blame ‘em, Sammy, your lectures are hella boring.”

When you refilled your cup of coffee for what must’ve been the third time, they almost scolded you for it. Weren’t you agitated enough? But you insist that it helps you focus, and damn, it does. You even managed to take a nap afterwards! Ever since, Sam and Dean make sure there’s always enough coffee in the Bunker.

Honestly, Dean and you make a mess of the bunker sometimes. Dean regularly misplaces stuff (or sniffs expired food, decides he doesn’t like it, and puts it back into the fridge anyway).

Your chaos is more organized, even if it only makes sense to you. Sam made the mistake of tidying up once — but after your day was ruined because you couldn’t find any of your stuff, he learned to never touch your things again.

You love Dean, you really do, but sometimes he drives you crazy. Like when he turns up the music in the car way too loud, or even worse, when his fingers drum along on the steering wheel. There’s listening to music, and there’s overstimulation. At first, you kindly asked him to turn it off. Over the years, you gained the courage to just reach over and do it yourself. Nowadays, all it takes is you rubbing your temples for him to get the cue.

In terms of RSD, that one is a reoccurring struggle between you guys. Talking about ✨feelings✨ isn’t exactly the Winchesters’ specialty. Unfortunately for you, who depends on some clear communication. Otherwise you’ll start overthinking.

Especially Dean, when grumpy, likes to just withdraw. The silent treatment is killing you, but the moment you hesitantly knock on his door and nervously ask him if you’ve done something wrong, he melts. He might carry a lot of anger inside of him, but none of it is directed towards you. Next time, he makes sure to at least tell you beforehand: “I promise it’s not you, sunshine, just need some space right now.”

Sam’s a bit more in touch with his emotions. If something actually upsets him, he’ll tell you — with the intent to talk it out properly. He always emphasizes how important it is to him that you don’t have to wonder. At the same time, he knows it’s not something you can turn off. All the more important that he checks in with you whenever he can see those wheels turning in your head.

Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester Taglist (Pt. 1):

@0ccvltism @ablondehoe @alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @angelicjackles @artemys-ackles @bejeweledinterludes2 @berryblues46 @bigivori @blueschevy @blueriver-shifting @bohoooitsme @calibootsgirl @cassieriddle713 @castielscaplan @charliesangel67 @chronic-fangirl-222 @conceepp @deanswifeyy @deanwinchesterlover67 @deekaag @dragonfly92 @edajcheel @emma1998sblog @emmy21842 @enchantedtomeetcoffee @fertilise-me @flanneledfae @foxyjwls007 @fuckingdamnitdean @hot-and-confused @idfc @idjit-central @jackles010378 @jensensswthrt @jey1ls @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78 @lessons-of-red @limbeldemango @lunaleah @lyarr24 @madelinessss @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @mahi-wayy @malindacath

“i’ve only been doing this for a few years — i don’t know how you and dean can still get up every day and do this,” you spoke, setting your shot glass down.

“dean loves nothing more than work all day, and crawling into someone else’s bed at night —“ sam laughed, taking his shot. “keeps him sane. and him getting laid and not cranky keeps me sane.”

“is sex what keeps you sane?” you asked with a laugh, motioning the bartender over for another round.

“sometimes — not really,” he shook his head.

“same,” you spoke. “casual sex is so hard to enjoy — i don’t care what dean says.”

“why do you say that?” sam chuckled.

“it’s hard enough teaching someone what you like — now you have to tell and expect a stranger to understand, and leave satisfied? that’s a lot of trust in someone i don’t know.”

he laughed again. “fair, but also — you might just have to advocate for what you want more. clear and explicit directions are the way to go.”

you stayed silent, wishing your glass was full once more to do something — anything — to tear away from the awkwardness of the situation. the whiskey had already began to dull your senses, but nothing ever seemed to dull sam’s. you knew he knew with barely a glance in his direction.

“unless you’re not able to convey clear and explicit directions…” he stated.

fuck.

“ok, lawyer,” you scoffed, taking your shot as you tried to hide your embarrassment.

“maybe that’s why you can’t perfect the ‘dean method’,” he spoke, fighting back a laugh, before awkwardness struck his face. “i’m sorry — i shouldn’t — i’m just messing around, is all.”

“you’re good, i know,” you smiled, waving your hand in the air. “but who’s got the time? i swear — it’s so much easier for guys.”

“definitely,” he spoke, and continued in a very technical manner. “i mean, i’ve heard that some women really struggle with even achieving orgasms by themselves.”

“i forgot you were a scholar, winchester,” you spoke, trying to not draw attention to the way your cheeks were reddening.

but with the way he stared at you, his eyes narrowing… you knew he knew your secret.

“you’ve never… before?” he questioned.

“no,” you spoke softly, holding his gaze. awkward topic, sure, but, hey — if he’s bringing it up, he’s got to deal with it.

“wow,” he spoke, letting out a sigh of disbelief. he did that weird thing with his eyes that he usually does when he’s surprised: they go wide, and they blink a few times — as if he could blink away the conversation he definitely regretted starting like an eyelash. “like… ever?”

“never,” you responded, shaking your head.

“wow,” he spoke, taking a swig of his beer. “that’s… that’s…”

“sam, i didn’t break my leg,” you spoke, trying to laugh it off. “i’ve never had an orgasm, but i’m not dead.”

“dean would think you might as well be,” sam quipped.

“agreed,” you chuckled, flagging down the bartender for another drink. “i’ve turned dean down a few times — lil too old for me — but if i get really curious, maybe i’ll —“

“don’t,” he suddenly spoke, shaking his head.

“…hey, you brought up dean and my sex life — this was bound to get uncomfortable,” you giggled.

“i can talk about either when they’re mutually exclusive,” he replied, now keeping his gaze on his beer bottle.

“and you’re also the one that brought up me needing casual sex,” you quipped.

“not with him.”

you rolled your eyes then, but the smile on your lips remained. “dare i ask — who, pray tell?”

you watched as sam took his time answering. he leaned over the bar with both elbows on the counter, letting both muscles strain against the sleeves of his shirt. his skin, lightly tanned, reflected the light from above to show off just how much sam put into working out. you watched the veins in his arms ripple, along with the one in his neck as he swallowed. once he took a final swig of his beer, he stared at you then. and when he finally spoke? well, he only spoke one word: “me.”

a half hour later, you were in the back of the impala. sam had you in his lap, manspreading his strong, long legs. it was hard to be insecure about anything about yourself with sam — he could pick anyone up and throw them if he wanted, so you felt like a goddess in your tight black jeans, grinding your core down onto him.

he had his large hands on your hips — pads of his fingers digging into your flesh. they would push and pull with every roll of your hips you gave. he wanted you as much as you wanted him, and he couldn’t help but want to control and mold it. the way you keened for him? sat so nicely in his lap? ran your hands all over his chest, up and down his neck, and through his hair? the pretty way you pressed your chest into him? oh, he was done for — but sam’s selfish side would be taking over.

“take off your pants and lay back against the door,” he ordered, pressing one last firm kiss to your lips.

you scrambled off of him, pushing your jeans down your legs as sam tried to pull the fabric off. there was nothing but confidence, determination, and hunger in his movements, leaving you with no room for awkwardness.

“your hands feel so good on me,” you rasped. “can you touch me… there?”

you shouldn’t have even had to ask, he thought. he liked to hear your voice, though — especially when it was full of want and need. there was nothing shy about your requests, and there was nothing shy about his response. the pads of sam’s fingers had immediately found your most sensitive bud, drawing rough circles. he had to test the waters, after all — you didn’t know what you liked, but sam winchester would find out. you sucked in a soft breath at the feeling, but all that came out of you was a whine. a whine for sam’s hands. his arms. his chest. his muscles. everything that held him above you and shielded you from the world — hiding you from everything dangerous, while keeping you all to himself.

sam’s lips immediately connected with the soft, sensitive skin of your neck. you hated hickeys, but the way he sucked at your neck? drawing blood to the surface? keeping your attention and thoughts on him, and only him? it was intoxicating, the way it felt. sam drew primal feelings from you — there was no shame, nor insecurity. he wanted you to feel everything he felt for you, and he wanted you to crave it.

he wanted you to crave the way skin prickles when it’s excited and scared and sensitive. he wanted you to crave the perfect amount of friction and moisture on your clit. he wanted you to crave the smell of his cologne on his flannel, the whisky on his breath, and the hungry look he had in his eyes when he saw your nipples peak underneath your shirt.

“please, sam…” you whined, cheeks beginning to burn with pink.

“nah — not like that, baby,” he spoke. “gonna make you work for it.”

you detested him for that as he climbed off of you, settling against the back of the seat. he shoved his pants and boxers down. you situated yourself into his lap once more, letting out a huff of frustration.

“you’re pissed?” sam quipped with a cocky smile, smacking your ass before swallowing you into a kiss. “good. show me.”

immediately, you forgot how angry you were. how deprived you were. how frustrated with him you were. you grabbed him by the base, and sank down onto him.

sam filled you to the brim. a man of his size and stature would do nothing but. you could feel your walls squeezing him, holding him in place as you struggled to adjust to his size. but sam? the cocky bastard? sam could only stare at you with a knowing smirk on his face, hunger for a challenge brewing in his chest.

“you’re so mean,” you whimpered, rolling your hips down onto him.

“i know, sweetheart,” he spoke. he wrapped one arm around your hips, and used his other hand to push you back in between the front seats. “lay back for me, yeah? trust me — i’ll make it right.”

you threw your hands behind you, holding yourself up by balancing on the console. and when you felt sam thrust inside of you for the first time? oh, fuck… you knew exactly what he meant.

what they don’t tell you in romance novels is that it’s incredibly difficult to find those sweet spots that make you sing. they make it seem so easy to “come undone” with one finger or one thrust, but anyone left unsatisfied knows the truth. you know the truth, and that’s exactly how you got yourself in the back of the impala. but sam? oh, sam… sam was the one they wrote those stories about.

it’s like sam could tell what you were starving for. you needed a man to see everything you were deprived of, and wanted to give it to you tenfold. sam was selfish in the way that he was selfless — he wanted you to see stars. he wanted your cheeks and the back of your neck to blush. he wanted you to whimper. he wanted you messy and beautiful and full of life. but sam wanted all of that for himself.

sam forcibly kept you bent at the angle you were, but he didn’t have to. the head of his cock pistoned into that spot behind your lower stomach, and immediately you recognized that this is what they meant by that special spot inside. his tight grip on your hips forced you take every bit of his strength against the neglected wall that craved sam and all of his talent so, so badly.

“oh my god —“ you whimpered, throwing your head back. “i didn’t — how did you —“

“yeah — that’s right, baby. never had this before, huh?”

“n-nothin’ like this, sam,” you spat through bitten lips, trying not to cry. “it-it feels...”

you tried to keep up with his speed and aggression. you wanted to show him you were good too and that you could make him feel good too, but it was all so much. too much. putty in his fucking hands, you were, and you had never felt so safe nor so good.

“you fuckin’ tease me on every hunt —“ he rasped, taking one hand off of one hip. “flirting with everyone, when i’m right there.” he spat on your clit, making you shiver. “wasting your time, and mine.” his thumb found your clit, making circles. “any of them make you feel like this?”

“never,” you were starting to stutter, words and movements. the pressure building in your womb was building, and building, and building. it was all getting too much. “i should’ve — please —“

he grabbed you by the back of your head then, forcing you upright and close to him. your chest was pressed against him, and warmth spread throughout you once more. you rolled your hips against his like you were chasing him, afraid you would lose him.

“fuck —“ he rasped in your ear.

“sam…” you weeped. “i’m so close. don’t stop — please —“

he grabbed you by the throat then, putting space between your faces. he held you in place and your gaze, scolding you when you tried to drift off with your eyes closed. each thrust combined with the circles he drew was drawing you closer and closer to your demise.

“so fucking worked up, aren’t you?” he spat. “yeah, yeah — i can see it. face all red, and tears? so frustrated.”

you couldn’t do anything besides nod and try to wipe your tears away, forcing back whimpers. something snapped inside you when you saw the dark, feral look in his eyes. he wanted your orgasm as much as you wanted him to give it to you. and when it hit? when it consumed you? when it made you so weak you couldn’t do anything besides lean against him?

all he could do? fucking laugh.

laugh at your demise. laugh at how it overtook you. laugh at how it crashed over you and swallowed you whole. laughed at how it filled you to the brim and then some. but most of all? sam winchester laughed in triumph at the fact that the badass, independent spitfire he knew was coming apart and making a mess in his laugh.

“that’s right, doll —“

“act so tough, and this was all you needed —“

“fuck, you’re so pretty when you cry for me.”

the swell of pride in his chest was felt by both you and him. he was pushing, pulling, nipping, biting, and kissing you every which way. your mind bent each movement of his, completely pliant in his hands as you came undone. your climax — it was so powerful, you fell against him as he chased his own. he bit down on your shoulder as he came, fucking his load into you.

the collapse was felt by both of you. he held you against him as you both came down from your highs, rubbing your back with his thumb. when he sighed in relief against your cheek, leaving a kiss on the still blushed skin… you knew you weren’t the only one satisfied.

————

lmk what u think xoxo

Everything hurt.

Your shoulder throbbed where it was pressed against the hard ground, and your head pounded with a dull ache that seemed to pulse in time with the sound of rustling leaves above you. You blinked against the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, brain scrambling to make sense of your surroundings. The trees around you were too tall, and the forest looked like it was handcrafted by someone who read The Hobbit once and took it personally.

“Sam? Dean?” you called out, voice cracking with dryness. Birdsong was your only answer. You pushed yourself up, groaning as you scanned the forest clearing. Your gear was laid neatly beside you. A bow, quiver of arrows, and a leather pack, all arranged as though you had carefully set them in the grass yourself. Which you definitely hadn’t.

You ran your hand over the bow’s curved surface before picking it up, testing its weight and draw. You knew for a fact that you had never used one of them before, but it felt oddly comfortable in your hand. Like it had been made specifically for you. The arrows were balanced in just the right way.

But there was no sign of either Winchester.

“Dean? Sam?” you tried again, louder this time. Nothing.

You stood, checking the grass for tracks, but there was only the impression of where you had been laying. A knot formed in your stomach. This wasn’t right. The three of you had been together when…

When what? Your memory was foggy, edges blurring together like looking through frosted glass. How had you gotten here?

You slung the bow across your back, noting how the strap settled perfectly against your shoulder. Whoever had arranged your things knew exactly how you carried your weapon. And apparently, so did you. There was an odd sense of familiarity in these clothes. Your legs felt strangely light, muscles responding with unfamiliar agility despite the soreness.

“Well, well, well. Conscious already. I was hoping for at least one failed Constitution save.” A voice rolled out of thin air, smug and smooth with a deeply, deeply punchable accent. You whirled around, hand instinctively reaching for the dagger holstered to your thigh. The air shimmered, and you watched with horror as Crowley stepped into the clearing, dressed in his usual black suit. There was an ornate crown perched atop his head and a golden goblet between his fingers.

“Crowley?” you hissed, eyes narrowing as you trained your focus on him, dagger drawn and brandished. “What have you done? Where’s Sam?”

“Relax, darling. He’s alive. Probably. Woke up before you did.” His voice carried a hint of amusement that made your blood run cold as he sipped from the cup in his hand. “I’d give it… oh, eighty-seven percent certainty. That boy’s got enough charisma to talk his way out of things.”

You threw the dagger at him. It sailed through the air and phased right through Crowley before embedding itself into the trunk of a tree behind him. He didn’t even flinch. “Give me a little credit. You don’t think I’m foolish enough to write myself into the story, do you? I’ve seen how that turns out. Consider me more of a… narrative device at the moment.”

“A what?” You reached for a second dagger tucked into your boot. Thank god that you still had weapons stashed on your person despite this Ren Faire getup.

“A narrative device. I’m trying something... interesting.” Your stomach plummeted. In your experience, whenever Crowley found something ‘interesting,’ it inevitably meant trouble for you and the Winchesters.

“Cut the crap,” you snapped. “Where’s Sam? And Dean?”

“Moose is… elsewhere. As for Squirrel… Well, I might have misplaced him temporarily. Consider this a more intimate adventure.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as he sauntered in a casual circle around you. “Just a ranger and her moose. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?” Heat rushed to your cheeks despite yourself.

“You’re dead when I find you.”

“Yes, yes, death threats. How original.” Crowley sounded bored. “Look to the east, chickadee, and follow the sound.”

As though on cue, a faint tolling of bells drifted through the trees accompanied by the sound of drums and chanting in a language you couldn’t quite place. The sound pulled at something inside you, a thread of familiarity in this strange place.

“What’s that?” you asked, but when you turned back around, Crowley had vanished. His absence felt as tangible as his presence had been just a moment before. Without any other lead to go off of, you adjusted your bow and quiver and headed east, following the distant sounds.

The forest floor was springy beneath your boots, a pathway having been worn smooth by the feet of adventurers before you. The trees thinned as you walked, allowing more sunlight to spill through the canopy. The chanting grew louder as the trees gave way to a clearing. You paused at the forest’s edge, taking in the scene before you.

A large town sprawled in the valley at the base of the hill you were on, its buildings adorned with colorful banners and streamers that fluttered in the gentle breeze. People moved through the streets like ants from this distance. The sound of bells came from a central tower, its spire stretching skyward like it was reaching for Heaven. Around it, the chanting had taken on a fervent quality, joyous and expectant. Whatever was going on, it seemed like the entire town had turned out for it.

You followed the path towards the town, squinting to make out the details as you drew closer. The banners seemed to depict a radiant figure holding what appeared to be a sword, its blade catching sunlight in threads of golden embroidery. Not the usual religious iconography, but something about it felt oddly familiar.

A trumpet blast cut through the chanting, silencing the crowd below. You slowed your approach, instincts telling you not to get too close before you had the full picture of what was happening. A voice boomed, loud and clear enough that you could hear it from a distance.

“Citizens of Valoria! The day of choosing has arrived!” The voice carried ceremonial authority. “Our prayers have been answered! Our great god, Torm, has sent us his Chosen Knight!” You crouched against the hillside, trying to make yourself as small as possible since you had no idea what in the world was going to happen.

The crowd parted like water around stones, revealing a central dais where several ornately robed figures stood. And there, standing tall in their midst–

Sam.

Your breath caught. He was the tallest of all of them, dressed in ceremonial armor that gleamed impossibly bright in the sunlight. A sword hung at his hip, its hilt occasionally flashing with an inner light that seemed to respond to Sam’s movements. His face was a mask of polite bewilderment, his eyes scanning the crowd with the alertness of a hunter assessing a new and potentially dangerous situation.

Even from this distance, you could see the tension in his shoulders and the way his hand kept drifting towards the unfamiliar sword. Not quite reaching for it, but verifying its presence, as if it were simultaneously foreign and essential to him.

“The Chosen Knight has appeared!” the announcer continued, gesturing grandly at Sam. “As tradition demands, he must be claimed through the Sacred Trials! The victor shall earn not only honor and the favor of Torm, but also the bond of the Knight himself!”

The crowd erupted into cheers that echoed across the valley. You watched as several young women – and a few young men – stepped forward, each dressed in finery that marked them as competitors. Their faces were alight with determination and something else. A sort of hunger that made your skin crawl.

You continued down the hillside, keeping an eye on the overall crowd to spot any change in them if anyone noticed your approach. No one seemed bothered enough to care about a stray ranger approaching their town. Not with everything else going on. The festival atmosphere was even more pronounced up close. Stalls selling trinkets and food. Children running with ribbons. Musicians playing in scattered corners.

You pulled the hood of your cloak over your head and slipped into the crowd, moving steadily towards the central square where Sam stood. You tried to stay casual, approaching without looking like you had every intention to steal Sam away from the show. Even though you did. You paused at a couple of the stalls, briefly stopping to look over their wares.

One stall in particular had leatherbound tomes, and you stopped to glance over them, unable to stem your curiosity. Expecting religious tomes or abbey records, your brow wrinkled as you read the embossing on the spines. A Knight’s Heart. Bound by Oath, Undone by Desire. Her Knight of Unyielding Longing. You frowned, briefly thumbing through one of the books before snapping it shut when you skimmed over a line about the story-knight ‘sheathing his sword in her scabbard.’

Your focus on getting to Sam redoubled, heat warming your cheeks as you tried to push the book passage out of your mind. The press of bodies around you slowed your progress to him, but it gave you time to eavesdrop on snippets of excited conversation.

“–strongest knight in generations–”

“–divine light when he drew the sword–”

“–found at the shrine just this morning–”

“–whoever claims him will rule the province–”

You pushed your way to the front of the crowd just as Sam’s eyes swept over the onlookers again. The moment he spotted you, his expression transformed. Relief washed over his features before it was quickly replaced by confusion. Then a silent question that seemed to ask how did you get you here? You offered him a small shrug in response. An unspoken your guess is as good as mine hung in the air between you.

“The Sacred Trials will commence at midday! Tests to determine who is worthy to claim the Chosen Knight’s oath and service!” the announcer continued, his voice carrying over the square. Sam’s jaw tightened, and you could practically feel his frustration. Whatever game Crowley was playing, both you and Sam were unwilling participants. A herald stepped forward, unfurling an ornate scroll.

“The Trials are three! First, the Trial of the Arrow, to test precision and focus! Second, the Trial of Agility, to prove grace under pressure! And finally, the Trial of Intent, to reveal the truth of one’s heart!”

The crowd murmured excitedly as officials began organizing the competitors into lines. You counted at least fifteen people – mostly noblemen and women in elaborate wear that was wholly impractical for any actual trial, though a few wore simpler garments. They cast appraising glances at Sam like he was prized livestock, measuring his worth in muscle and stature. A familiar voice whispered near your ear, though when you turned, there was no one standing beside you.

“Quite the spectacle, isn’t it? I do love a good competition.” Crowley’s disembodied voice came over your left shoulder, as though he were sitting on it and speaking directly into your ear. “Poor Moose. Woke up at a sacred shrine with that sword practically glued to his hand. The moment he drew it – poof! – divine aura, glowing blade, the works. Locals nearly wet themselves with excitement.” You glanced around, keeping your voice low and dangerous.

“Get him out of this, Crowley.”

“Can’t do that, darling. The spell’s already begun.” His voice dripped with false regret. “Once chosen, the Knight must be claimed. It’s all very binding. Very magical. Very… permanent.”

The word ‘permanent’ settled like a stone in your gut. You watched as officials arranged the competitors, their faces alight with ambition and desire. If one of them won… what exactly would that mean for Sam?

“And if I don’t intervene?” you asked quietly, eyes fixed on Sam as he shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny of his would-be claimants.

“Then someone else wins him,” Crowley replied simply, his voice lilting with amusement. “And Moose is magically bound to serve whatever ambitious little social climber manages to shoot the straightest arrow. Quite romantic, really. In a feudal sort of way.”

You watched as a nobleman’s daughter ran her fingers along Sam’s armored forearm, her touch lingering despite his obvious discomfort. Something hot and feral flared in your chest. This wasn’t jealousy, you told yourself firmly. This was strategy. Sam was your hunting partner. Your friend. You couldn’t let him get magically bound to a stranger in this bizarre place.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you stepped forward, pushing past a woman draped in silk and smelling of expensive perfume.

“I’d like to enter the Trials,” you announced, your voice carrying over the suddenly hushed crowd. The herald turned, eyebrows rising towards his ornate headpiece.

“You?” His gaze swept over your hunting clothes and the bow slung over your back. “A common huntress seeks to claim the Knight?” The crowd’s murmur intensified as the other competitors regarded you with a mixture of amusement and disdain. One woman in particular – draped in sapphire silks that probably cost more than everything you owned (which wasn’t a high bar, admittedly) – let out a tittering laugh.

“How… quaint,” she remarked to her companion. “Does she think this is a game hunt?” You swallowed down the urge to punch her.

“Are there rules preventing an outlander from participating?” you asked. The herald glanced towards the dais where an elderly man in elaborate robes nodded his head almost imperceptibly. Sam must’ve seen your expression fall.

“The Trials require you to be sponsored. We can’t have our Chosen Knight be bound to rabble,” the herald said. Sam stepped forward suddenly, his voice carrying with unexpected authority.

“I’ll sponsor her,” he said firmly. The crowd let out a collective gasp. The herald’s eyes widened in shock as he turned to the other man on the dais. Crowley scoffed in your ear.

“Sure, Moose, try to change their centuries-long traditions. That’s bound to go over like a lead balloon.”

“My Lord, can the Knight sponsor a competitor?” The elderly man stroked his silver beard thoughtfully.

“It is… unusual,” he admitted, his voice heavy with ancient tradition. Sam stood a little taller and set his jaw, leaning into the false authority the town had given him. He looked down at the elder.

“Surely, you’re not suggesting that the word of Torm’s Chosen carries no weight here…” You could hear the low tone in his voice and the quiet confidence that had no business sending a shiver through you. The elder balked. 

“There is nothing stating that it is forbidden, Chosen Knight. We’ve just never had a Knight express a preference before! We would never defy the will of Torm!” The elder sent a panicked look and a nod to the herald.

“Very well,” the herald said slowly. “The outlander may compete!” There was a mixed buzz among the crowd. Murmurs of excitement and concern in equal parts.

“What?!” Crowley made a spluttering sound in your ear. “That wasn’t supposed to work! This is supposed to be a tragedy!” You could practically see the vein popping at Crowley’s temple in your mind’s eye, and you couldn’t help but grin. Sam met your gaze. I hope you know what you’re doing, his look said. I’ve improvised in worse situations, your quirked brow responded. The sapphire-clad woman beside you sniffed.

“How touching. The Knight extends his pity upon a muddy huntress. You ought to bow in eternal thanks for his mercy.” Your fingers twitched with the urge to nock an arrow and aim it somewhere uncomfortable on her perfectly powdered face.

“The Trial of the Arrow begins at the western field!” the herald announced, gesturing towards a cleared area beyond the square. “Competitors, follow!”

The crowd parted as officials led the way, Sam being escorted at the front like some prized trophy. You fell in step behind the other competitors, ignoring their sideways glances and whispered comments.

“Ridiculous,” one nobleman muttered. “A commoner competing for the Knight’s bond.”

“Let her try,” the sapphire woman smiled thinly. “It will make my victory all the sweeter.”

You kept your expression neutral, focusing instead on Sam’s back as he was led ahead of the procession. His shoulders were set in that particular way they got when he was planning something. A tension you recognized from countless hunts with him.

The western field opened before you, a vast expanse of grass bordered by flowering trees. At its far end stood a row of targets. They were standard circular archery targets, but they were placed at what seemed to be an impossible distance. Even with your keen eyes, the bullseyes were little more than red specks. A gust of wind swept across the field, strong enough to make the competitors’ elaborate dresses billow and snap like sails. You tested it with a finger, feeling its direction and strength. At this distance, with the wind, hitting the target would be more than a challenge. It would take pristine instinct and maybe even a touch of luck.

“Competitors!” The herald’s voice boomed. “You will each be given one arrow. One chance to prove your worth. The five with the truest aim will continue to the next trial.” Servants approached, presenting each competitor with a single arrow. Silver-tipped and fletched with white feathers. When one reached you, you tested its weight and balance. Too light. Too ornate to be a hunting arrow. But it was serviceable, your ranger instincts told you.

The sapphire woman stepped forward first, her bow a delicate thing of polished wood inlaid with precious stones. Despite her finery, her form wasn’t terrible. She drew her bow with practiced grace, held it for three breaths, then released. Her arrow struck the outer ring of the target, drawing polite applause from the crowd.

One by one, the competitors stepped up for their turns. Some arrows flew true, landing in various locations on the targets while others veered off course entirely, claimed by the gusting wind. Four others had made respectable shots, with the sapphire woman still among the contenders. She cast you a smug look as you stepped forward.

You took position at the firing line, feeling the familiar weight of your bow – the one that was sitting so perfectly beside you when you woke. The wind had picked up, now blowing in unpredictable swirls across the field. You nocked the ceremonial arrow and drew it back with practiced ease that you didn’t remember fostering.

The crowd fell silent. In your peripheral vision, you caught Sam watching you, worry etched across his features. His lips were moving, but you couldn’t make out what he was saying. Your nerves shook your hands, and you forced yourself to take a deep, grounding breath. You couldn’t afford to miss.

Warmth wrapped around you as you took aim, and you swore you felt Sam’s presence behind you, steadying your arms as you looked down the length of the arrow. A little more to the right, a small voice urged in your head, and, if you weren’t mistaken, it spoke with Sam’s cadence. The same way he would urge you to adjust your aim when you were at target practice with him in the shooting range. You readjusted, trusting your instinct before exhaling halfway and loosing your arrow.

The wind whipped across the field, pushing your arrow further left than you had planned, but at the last second another gust caught the fletching, correcting its trajectory. The arrow slammed into the dead center of the bullseye with such force that the target shuddered.

Silence fell over the field.

Then, chaos.

The crowd erupted in cheers and gasps. The other competitors stared open-mouthed. The sapphire woman’s face contorted with poorly concealed rage. You lowered your bow, exhaling heavily as the herald rushed forward, gesturing wildly.

“A perfect shot! The outlander strikes true!”

You risked a glance at Sam. His eyes were wide, a mixture of awe, pride, and something softer. Something that made your chest tighten. For a split second, it was just the two of you across the crowded field, sharing a silent connection that felt more intimate than any words you had ever exchanged.

The moment shattered when the sound of furious scratching met your ears. You turned around to find Crowley – visible only to you – scribbling frantically in what appeared to be a leather-bound notebook.

“Impossible,” he muttered, looking up from the paper and glaring at your perfect shot. “The statistical probability– the wind patterns– you had disadvantage for that shot!” He threw his hands up. “This is why I hate working with hunters. No respect for the narrative tension!”

You smirked, relishing in his frustration as the herald announced the five archers continuing to the next trial. The sapphire woman had barely made the cut, her appearance now slightly disheveled with agitation. As the competitors were led towards the next trial area, a page approached and informed you that there would be a short reprieve for refreshments. The crowd dispersed towards the various food stalls, their excited shatter creating a bubble of noise around the festival grounds.

Someone shoved a plate of spiced meat and vegetables into your hands, and you kindly slipped into a small alcove away from the hustle and bustle of everyone. The last thing you wanted were prying eyes and ears asking you questions about where you were from. You hardly even knew where you were, and you doubted that people would’ve heard from the far-off land of Kansas. 

You felt a hand on your elbow and turned to find Sam ducking into the alcove beside you having slipped away from his handlers in the commotion. Up close, the ceremonial armor looked even more ridiculous. All polished silver and ornate engravings that hardly seemed useful in an actual fight.

“Nice shot,” he said, voice quiet. His gaze darted around, making sure no officials were hovering nearby. “But you shouldn’t be doing this.”

“What, saving your ass?” You kept your tone light, but your eyes scanned his face, tracing the line of his jaw. You were just making sure there were no signs of magical influence or coercion. That’s all it was. He ran a gauntleted hand through his hair, the metal armor scraping as his arm moved.

“You don’t need to waste time worrying about me. We should be focusing on how to get out of this. Whatever this is.”

“Sam, I’m not going to let you get ‘bound’ to some random noble in God-knows-where-we-are.”

“We don’t even know what this ‘bond’ actually means.”

“And I’m not about to find out once it’s too late. Someone should be looking out for you, Sam. Might as well be me.” Sam’s expression went soft, the furrow between his brows easing slightly.

“Well... thank you,” he said, the words carrying more weight than their simplicity suggested. For a moment, you thought he might say more, but the herald’s voice cut through the crowd.

“Competitors! To the central pavilion for the Trial of Agility!” Sam straightened abruptly, the top of his head brushing against the low-hanging ceiling of the alcove the two of you had tucked into, his eyes darting to the approaching officials. You pressed your plate of untouched food into his hands.

“We should go.” You pulled your hood up, moving to slip away, but Sam caught your wrist.

“Be careful. I don’t think they’re too happy about that stunt I pulled to get you into the competition,” Sam warned before he was swept away by his ceremonial escorts. The sword at his hip glinted in the sunlight, and you were struck by just how perfectly he embodied the knight in shining armor archetype.

The Trial of Agility proved to be an elaborate obstacle course – one that would’ve been challenging enough in regular hunting gear. But you weren’t sure how the other competitors were going to manage in their more formal wear. Wooden platforms of various heights were connected by narrow beams and rope bridges, all suspended over shallow pools of muddy water. A course designed to humiliate all who couldn’t pass the test.

The sapphire woman went first, hiking her elaborate skirts up to reveal practical leather boots beneath. Clearly she had prepared better than you’d given her credit for. She navigated the course with surprising grace, only faltering once when a beam tilted unexpectedly beneath her weight. Still, she finished with dry skirts and a triumphant smile.

Two of the competitors, two noblemen’s children with more confidence than skill, toppled sideways into the water, each with a spectacular splash that drew laughter from the crowd. But the fourth challenger, a quiet young man in fine leathers completed the course with a grace you hadn’t expected. Each step of his was confident. Every movement was carefully calculated. He finished the course without missing a beat.

When your turn came, you unclasped your cloak and handed your bow and quiver off to a squire before approaching the starting platform with measured steps. You had seen the way other competitors had tackled each part of the course and were only partially confident about it. You gauged the distances and tested the first beam with your toes before committing your weight to it.

The course was designed to be unpredictable. Some of the beams rotated while others dipped or bounced. Some of them rolled or had strange knots that created an uneven surface. You moved with the instincts of a hunter, treating each step like you were stalking prey through treacherous terrain. Your breaths came shallow and uneven as you held your hands out to steady yourself.

Halfway through, a rope bridge suddenly went slack beneath you, and you dropped to one knee, balancing as it swung precariously over the water below. Your heart pounded in your chest, and out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of Crowley – still visible only to you – tugging on an ethereal string connected to the bridge. He grinned, raising an eyebrow in challenge. You scowled at him.

“Cheating bastard,” you muttered. You waited until it swung in your favor before using the momentum of it to propel yourself forward. You launched into a controlled roll, landing in a crouch on the next platform as the crowd collectively gasped. You glowered up at Crowley who looked down at you with infuriating amusement.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the one risking humiliation for a man in shiny armor.”

“Crowley, one of these days, I swear, I’m going to use your finest alcohol to draw a devil’s trap, and then I’m gonna set it on fire so you can watch it all burn.” His smug smirk faltered, and his eyes narrowed.

“That’s a 1947 Macallam. I’ve killed for less. Repeatedly.”

You stepped through his apparition, squaring your shoulders. The final section of the course featured levitating stepping stones that dipped slightly under pressure. You had seen other competitors tackle this. Each stone would only support your weight for a moment before dropping down into the water below. You sucked in a deep breath before moving. Your feet barely touched one platform before you had moved onto the next, your body finding a fluid rhythm even you hadn’t realized you were capable of.

“Marvelous form. Truly,” Crowley’s voice whispered in your ear, sarcasm dripping off of every word. “I’ve seen drunk squirrels do better.” 

Your next step faltered, catching too close to the edge of a platform and throwing off your balance as it dipped down. The crowd gasped as you slipped, catching yourself just in time to keep from sliding off into the water. You had a half a second to recover, already feeling the platform descending. But when you moved to leap to the next platform, you found your right foot inexplicably stuck, as though bound by an invisible shackle. 

Panic grabbed hold of you as the next platform rose above your head. Your gaze snapped to Sam, only to find his eyes closed and his face tilted up towards the heavens. Then all at once, the shackle snapped free. A warm hand settled on your shoulder, and when you looked, there was a faint, glowing silhouette that held an uncanny resemblance to Sam. He gave you an encouraging nod before his hand dropped to your lower back and, with a gentle pressure, pushed you upwards and forwards. 

You landed on the final, solid platform with cheers and applause. And when you stood and turned to look back at the course, you let yourself smile as you surveyed the faces of the crowd. The herald approached, clearly flustered by your miraculous recovery. Out of the corner of your eye, you were sure you saw Crowley smash his goblet into the ground, his outburst witnessed by you and you alone.

“The outlander has completed the Trial of Agility with unprecedented... agility!”

The sapphire woman’s lips thinned to a hard line as she realized you had outperformed her again. There were only three competitors left. You, the sapphire woman, and the young man in practical leathers who moved with the precision of a dancer.

“The final trial will commence at sunset!” the herald continued. “Ths Trial of Intent, the most sacred of our challenges, will determine who truly deserves the Knight’s bond!”

The crowd dispersed, murmuring excitedly about what they had witnessed. You caught Sam looking at you from across the way, his gaze warm and adoring. His handlers were distracted, arguing amongst themselves about the unexpected turn of events. He tilted his head slightly towards a bland-looking tent tucked behind several other ornate ones, and you nodded back to him subtly.

Five minutes later, you had successfully slipped into the tent, finding it empty except for a small cot and a table with two chairs. And Sam, of course. He was pacing in the small space, and you realized that there seemed to be a faint glow emanating from his armor that you hadn’t noticed in the midday sun.

“That was impressive,” he said when he met your gaze, a smile breaking through his tension. “Though I’m pretty sure Crowley intended to dump you in the water there.”

“Oh thank Chuck you can see him, too.”

“Yeah, woke up in the middle of nowhere, and he showed up telling me that he had this whole ‘game’ planned out. Then all of... this happened.” Sam gestured to everything around the two of you.

“Well he’s not very subtle.” You glanced around, making sure no one was eavesdropping on you. “Look, maybe if we just complete this, we can get out of here and figure out how the hell to get back to Kansas. You know what this last trial is about? The whole ‘intent’ thing sounds ominous.” Sam shook his head.

“No one will tell me anything,” he said. Then, his voice dropped to barely above a whisper, and you had to lean closer to hear him. “But I overheard something about a ‘binding circle’ and ‘true purpose.’”

“Well that certainly sounds magical,” you said, crossing your arms and cocking your hip.

“From what I can piece together, I think this final trial is about proving why you want the bond. Not just voicing it but proving it somehow.”

“So it’s like a truth spell?”

“Something like that.” Sam glanced over his shoulder before lowering his voice even more and leaning in conspiratorially. “These people believe their god can see into hearts. Reveal intentions.” You chewed on your lower lip as you considered his words.

“So I need to have the right reason for wanting to... claim you?” The word felt strange in your mouth. Possessive in a way you had never let yourself be. Your cheeks warmed at the thought.

“That’s what I’m gathering,” Sam said, completely oblivious to your discomfort. “But what counts as the ‘right’ reason? That’s the part I can’t figure out.” Both of you fell completely silent as footsteps passed outside of the tent. When they faded, you let yourself exhale in relief.

“Whatever it is, I’ll figure it out,” you said with more confidence than you felt. “I’m not letting you get magically bound to someone who sees you as a status symbol.” Sam looked at you, his expression unreadable in the fading light of the sun outside the tent.

“And what do you see me as?”

The question caught you on the back foot, hanging heavy in the air between you. Your mind reeled, and before you could form a proper response, a bell tolled in the distance. “Final trial,” Sam said, stepping back. The moment slipped away like water between your fingers. “I should go before they come looking.”

“Right.” You nodded, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. He moved to leave, and before you could stop yourself, you caught his hand. “Sam.” He looked back at you. “I’ll get you out of this. I promise.” He flashed you his most brilliant smile.

“I trust you.”

The feel of his hand in yours lingered even after he left the tent, a phantom warmth against your skin as you followed the sound of the bells to the town’s central square. The crowd had grown impossibly large, pressing against barriers erected around a circular stone platform that sat at the base of the central spire. Torches flickered around the perimeter, casting long shadows across carved symbols etched into the stone. In the center stood three pedestals arranged in a perfect triangle, each bearing a small, silver bowl.

The sapphire woman and the quiet dancer in brown leather were already there, standing at opposite sides of the circle. You completed the formation, stepping at the edge of the stone a few steps away from your own bowl. The elderly official who had presided over the earlier trials stepped forward, arms raised for silence.

“The Trial of Intent is our most sacred of challenges,” he intoned, voice surprisingly strong and steady. “For the Knight’s Bond is not merely service but connection. Intent matters. Even here, in the eyes of Torm, purpose is what separates the worthy from unworthy.”

Three acolytes approached, each one carrying a small crystal carafe filled with clear liquid that caught the torchlight like liquid diamonds. One by one, they upended the liquid into each of the silver bowls. “Each challenger will step forward and place three drops of their blood into the sacred vessel,” the elder continued. “As they do so, they must speak their intent. Why they seek the Knight’s Bond.”

The sapphire woman stepped forward first, her confidence unwavering as an acolyte presented her with a silver needle. She pricked her finger without hesitation, letting three perfect drops of crimson fall into the silver bowl before her.

“I seek the Knight’s Bond to bring honor to my house,” she declared, her voice ringing clear across the hushed crowd. “To serve Torm through his champion, as my ancestors have done for generations.”

The liquid in the bowl began to shimmer then glow with a pale blue light. The crowd murmured, and you couldn’t help but feel that the reaction was... underwhelming. You had expected... something more. Admittedly, you weren’t entirely sure what you had expected, but a little more of a light show would’ve had more pizzazz. Maybe Crowley was losing his touch. The sapphire woman’s smile faltered as she stepped back.

The quiet man in brown leathers approached next, his movements graceful but hesitant. His fingers trembled slightly as he pricked his skin, watching the drops fall into his bowl. He took a steadying breath before speaking.

“I seek the Knight’s Bond because I have seen him in my dreams since childhood,” he said softly but clearly. “I believe our souls are already connected by fate’s design. Our threads have been weaved together in the loom of destiny.”

His bowl glowed a warm amber, brighter than the sapphire woman’s had been, and the light reflected in his brown eyes, lighting the determination there. Your chest ached. How were you supposed to beat a declaration like that? The crowd’s reaction was more lively at the glow of his bowl. You could feel sweat beading at the back of your neck as an acolyte handed you your own silver needle.

For a brief moment, you hesitated. This was magic you didn’t understand in a world that seemed handcrafted by Crowley. Knowing your luck, whatever you said was going to backfire terribly on you, and Sam was going to end up being stuck with some stranger. The needle shook in your hand. Your eyes found Sam across the circle, and your resolve solidified. You barely felt the prick of the needle, and you watched as three picture-esque drops of blood fell into the silver bowl, the crimson dispersing amongst the clear liquid like ink.

What was your intent? Why were you really doing this?

“They’re waiting,” Crowley’s voice was condescending in your head. Sam’s gaze met yours, and in it, you found concern. And trust. And something deeper you both had always danced around in the quiet motel rooms and greasy diners. You saw the quiet solidarity in knowing he always had your back. The unwavering confidence that he would be there to break your fall. You saw the way he knew you would find the right words. The truth rose to your lips, unbidden and raw.

“I seek the Knights Bond,” you began slowly, voice rising steadily with each word, “because the Knight chose to stand beside me long before any god ever asked him to kneel. Long before this ceremony, before this place. I seek this bond because it already exists, written in sleepless nights and scars. The Knight deserves someone who will choose him. Every time.”

The moment the words left your lips, the liquid in your bowl erupted with blinding white light. It shot skyward in a brilliant column, bathing the entire square in radiance that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. The crowd gasped. Some shielded their eyes while others dropped to their knees in reverence. A warm wind whipped around you, its origin inexplicable, as the light from your bowl died down and settled into a comfortable glow. 

You couldn’t see Sam beyond the light, but you could certainly see the scowl on the sapphire woman’s face to your right and the dancer’s graceful resignation to your left. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Crowley, his expression one of pure apoplectic fury. He was frantically flipping through his notebook, tearing out pages and tossing them into the air.

“That’s not– this wasn’t–” he spluttered. “The symbolism was supposed to be ambiguous, not literal! What happened to the subtext? Bloody hell!” As satisfying as it was to watch Crowley’s outrage, your attention was drawn back to the elder who was walking towards the center of the circle with Sam at his side.

“As is tradition, the Knight shall be bound to the one who has passed each and every trial,” he announced, motioning for you to step forwards as well. Sam stepped into the center of the circle, his expression a careful mask of neutrality even though you could see the questions bouncing around in his head. You joined him at the center, standing and facing him in front of the elder as the crowd fell into reverent silence. “Chosen Knight, please kneel.”

Sam dropped to one knee in front of you, drawing the blade at his hip and offering it up to you with both hands. You sucked in a sharp breath, your throat going dry as he bowed his head in supplication. The sword’s blade shone with an inner light, warm and alive in Sam’s hands. The handle was wrapped in leather worn smooth from centuries of use, and the pommel was adorned with a single crystal that caught the torchlight and fractured it into a thousand tiny stars.

You reached out and took hold of the handle. The blade was impossibly light in your hands, as though it were crafted from thin air rather than metal. The elder leaned in closer to you.

“You must announce that you accept his servitude.” That made you frown. That was the exact sort of thing you had joined this competition to prevent. To prevent Sam from getting stuck in some sort of bound compliance.

“No,” you said defiantly. “He’s not here to serve me.” There was a low murmur that spread across the crowd, and the elder’s face contorted in confusion.

“But tradition dictates–”

“I don’t care what tradition dictates,” you said, lowering the sword until its tip touched the ground. You knelt down, and Sam looked up to meet your gaze. “Partners don’t own each other. They choose each other day in and day out.” Sam’s eyes widened, and you could see the moment that understanding washed over him. The elder beside you spluttered, looking between you with growing alarm.

“This isn’t– the ceremony requires a physical representation of the Bond!”

Sam held up a hand, quieting the elder before he reached into a leather pouch at his hip. He produced two plain, platinum bands that sat in his palm. Their simplicity was a stark contrast to the ornate ceremony around you. You stared at them, heart caught in your throat as Sam’s eyes met yours.

“Will these work?” he asked the elder who was still making indignant sounds as he found himself stuck between tradition and potentially defying his deity. “They were in my pack when I woke up,” Sam’s voice dropped to a whisper that only you could hear. “They seemed… important somehow.” The old man studied the rings in resignation.

“I suppose they will suffice,” the elder finally conceded with a sigh. “Though, may I remind you that this is highly irregular. Stray too far from tradition and the gods will not look upon you kindly.”

Sam offered you one of the rings, his palm outstretched between you. You took the one that seemed to conveniently be your size and slipped it on, catching the fact that it seemed to fit perfectly where an actual wedding band would rest. You tried not to think about the implications of it. Sam pulled off his gauntlet and slid his own ring on. As he did, a golden band of light wrapped around both of you, and Sam’s presence settled around you, nestled between every breath.

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause, the tension of competition giving way to celebration. You caught a glimpse of the sapphire woman turning and walking off. The young man bowed to you in gracious defeat. Musicians struck up a lively tune as people began to dance and feast in earnest, the ceremony transitioning seamlessly into festival revelry.

Sam rose and offered his hand to help you up which you graciously took. You were led to a quieter corner of the celebration where food and wine had already been set out, and the two of you sat side by side at a long table. The handlers and officials finally left you alone, though the occasional reveler approached to offer congratulations or ask to touch the ceremonial armor Sam still wore. When the two of you were finally, truly alone, Sam let out a long breath, shoulders slumping with released tension.

“So...” he began, voice low. “I guess I’m... yours?” The question hung between you, weighed with implications that neither of you had had a chance to fully process. You studied the band on your finger, watching as the firelight danced across its surface.

“Only if you want to be,” you replied, trying to keep your tone light. If you played this off as one big joke or just something done out of necessity, then maybe your heart wouldn’t shatter when Sam told you that none of it mattered. The torchlight caught the angles of Sam’s face and softened them. Something shifted in his expression, and as you lost yourself in his eyes, the sound of music and laughter seemed to fade into a muted backdrop as the space between you narrowed.

“I’ve been yours longer than you know,” he said quietly. His hand found yours, warm and callused and grounding. The space between you seemed charged with possibility as you both leaned in, drawn together by something deeper than Crowley’s machinations. Sam’s other hand came up to gently brush your cheek. Your eyes fluttered closed as his breath mingled with yours, the closeness more intoxicating than any wine. The moment stretched, suspended in time as your lips hovered just a breath apart–

A bell tolled. 

Then another.

And another.

The sound reverberated through your skill, and the world around you blurred at the edges, colors running together like watercolors in the rain. Then– 

Darkness.

You woke with a gasp, bolting upright in an unfamiliar bed. Your heart hammered against your ribs, and for a moment, you couldn’t remember where you were. Motel. Standard Winchester special, complete with faded wallpaper and a lumpy mattress. The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 7:06 AM in harsh red numbers. You unclenched your fist, surprised to find something warm nestled in your palm. A small, platinum ring sat in your hand, not unlike the one you had been wearing just moments before.

You stared at it, turning it over in the dim light filtering through the cheap curtains. The details of your dream were already fading from your mind like morning mist, but the weight of the ring was undeniably real. A soft sound from the bathroom caught your attention, and you looked over to see Sam stepping out from the steam, towel-drying his hair. You caught his eye and immediately closed your hand and tucked it beneath the blanket.

“Morning,” he said, offering you a gentle smile.

“Morning,” you replied, voice hoarse from sleep. You cleared your throat and shifted uncomfortably, suddenly very aware of the metal in your hand. “Did you, uh… sleep okay?” Sam paused, the towel draped over his shoulders.

“Yeah, I…” he hesitated, one hand rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar gesture that always meant he was holding something back. “Fine. Good. Slept fine.” You nodded, trying to maintain casual eye contact despite the heat crawling up your neck.

“Good. Any… weird dreams?” you ventured, testing the waters.

“Nope,” Sam answered too quickly before clearing his throat. “I mean, nothing worth mentioning.” You nodded again, thumb absentmindedly stroking the warm metal hidden in your palm.

“Yeah, me neither.” You bit your lip, your gaze dropping to your closed fit beneath the blanket. The ring was impossibly heavy for such a small thing. “I should… probably get ready for the day, yeah?”

“Probably,” he agreed, tossing the towel over the back of the rickety wooden chair. “Dean’s already out grabbing breakfast. We have a couple hours in the car before we’re back at the bunker.”

“Oh boy, nothing like hours of Dean’s signature mixtape on loop. My favorite,” you drawled sarcastically. Sam chuckled, scooping up his wallet from the motel table. He pocketed it and reached for his phone, and as you watched his hands, you swore you saw something shiny and silver roll across the tabletop before he hurriedly snagged it. Sam made a show of checking his phone, but you didn’t miss how he slipped whatever had rolled across the table into his pocket with practiced stealth. You pretended not to notice.

“I’m gonna go grab some coffee from the lobby,” he said, already pulling his jacket on and moving to the door. “You want some?”

“Yeah, I’d love some.”

“Your usual?”

“Please and thank you.”

The door clicked behind him, and you exhaled in relief, waiting an extra beat before looking at the ring in your hand again. The ring of the knight who had chosen to stand beside you.

Somewhere far off in the distance, Crowley threw his notebook into the fireplace. The flames licked at the cover and pages, the edges curling as they blackened to ashes. He drained his glass of whiskey, and the ice cubes clinked against each other as he poured himself another.

“I survived Lucifer, Leviathans, and the Winchesters,” he said to no one in particular. “You would think I could handle two idiots with unresolved feelings.” Crowley drank.

Lower divider by @/kodaswrld

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Special tags for @aylacavebear and @aniresrene who had asked about this piece!

The past few weeks have been marked by a string of violent murders, but the most startling part was that nobody seemed to notice. Everything was just as it had always been, except for the fact that lately, people could be right in front of you one minute, drinking and enjoying their lives only to be found in pieces with their picture on the front page of the newspaper the following day. 

One of your regulars had met exactly that fate less than a week ago. Then a local preschool teacher you had graduated high school with, then the store clerk at the local supermarket who always greeted you with a kind smile while he bagged your groceries. Whatever was going on, though, it seemed unlikely to stop anytime soon. Unless someone was willing to do something about it, that is. 

From there, you began to look deeper into what was really happening to these people. Not knowing where to start, you combed back through the articles detailing each victim’s grisly demise. What connected them, what set them apart, anything that might provide some sort of clue as to why they were targeted in the first place. 

Since then, you couldn’t get it out of your mind. Running through the details over and over, wondering if there was something crucial you had missed. Your focus bordered on obsession and may have led to one or more patrons receiving a stiffer drink than they ordered, but that seemed like an acceptable trade off, all things considered. 

Pouring those last few drops into the patron's glass, you handed the drink over to with a smile before making your way to the end of the bar. The man you had greeted earlier was slightly hunched in his seat, leaning forward with his elbows on the bar top, in the middle of wrapping up a phone call as you walked up to him. “Yeah, I’ll let you know what I can find…Yep….Alright, I’ll keep you updated, Dean…Okay. Yeah, bye.” With that he hung up, slid his Blackberry into the pocket of his trousers, and lifted his gaze to you. His hazel eyes were enough to catch you off guard. He was the classic pretty boy with soft-looking hair, just enough muscle, and a smile that lit up his face. That’s not to mention his stature. Even sitting down, it was apparent that he was above average in the height department. All in all, he was an attractive man. The kind of attractive that could be disarming if you let it. And you would be willing to bet your bottom dollar that he knew it too. 

“Hi! Welcome to Lucky’s. What can I get you?” You asked laying down a drink napkin with a smile, leaning over the bar toward him to hear his answer. 

“Whiskey, neat please. And you wouldn’t happen to have been working around this time last week would you?” Pausing he reached into the hidden pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew his credentials. Lifting the badge for your view, he introduced himself as Special Agent Jim Morrison. 

“Funny,” you quipped with a little chuckle to yourself, “That’s not the first fake ID I’ve seen tonight.” 

The man looked startled for a moment, eyes widened and brows furrowed, his attention flicking between your face and the badge in his hand before he recovered his composure. Then, he settled his gaze back on you with a confused determination. “What do you mean?” He started with a breathy laugh. Glancing slightly downward, his tongue lightly swipes his bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth for a moment. The crooked smile, though, does little to mask his discomfort at being caught in his lie. “This badge is-“

“Oh, give it up,” you cut him off, holding him at attention with the sharpness of your gaze. “First of all, the photo is in the wrong place. Second, you have no badge number. And is Morrison even your real name or are you just a fan of The Doors, too?” You let him stew in his discomfort for a second before resigning slightly as you looked down at the drink napkin in front of him, “Look, it’s fine. I don’t need to know, okay, just put it away.” 

Leaning over the bar to point out the discrepancies, it was impossible for Sam not to notice your chest. Your skin looked soft, a delicate chain hung around your neck with a pendant that fell beneath the collar of your shirt, likely nestled in the valley between your breasts. The warm creamy vanilla of your perfume blended with the quiet sweetness of your skin hit him the moment you leaned close, and he swore it nearly lifted him from his seat.

Sam chuckled to himself, recovering quickly and looking for a way to salvage the situation. Not usually the sort of man to go silent when in the presence of an attractive woman, he suddenly found himself at a loss for what to say. This woman was dangerous in every beautifully disarming way. It made him feel like he was 16 again, unsure and out of his league. Your charm numbed his senses while your wit robbed him of his certainty. “Uh, yeah okay. You got me,” he started coming clean with a shrug and a shake of his head. “My name’s Sam. Sam Winchester. By the way, uh, how did you know all that? Nobody’s ever questioned it before.”

“Well, Sam,” you paused, deciding you liked the way his name felt on your tongue, “...the fact that you just admitted to having impersonated law enforcement before aside, my dad was a cop. Always told me to watch out for guys who like waving badges around. Told me how to protect myself. So, I made an educated guess. It just happened to be right,” you replied with a wink. 

Reaching for the bottle of whiskey, you poured him his drink with a knowing smile. “You’re cute, but if you’re gonna lie to me, at least laminate it better next time.” You had to admit, it felt good to have a guy like him on his heels for you. “What was it you were looking to ask me?” 

The question snapped Sam from his trance. Oh, right! There was actually a reason he was here, and it wasn’t just to stare at you. “Yeah, so get this,” he begins, clearing his throat. He goes on to explain that he was inquiring for information about the recent murders plaguing the town, mentioning that each of the victims had visited Lucky’s in the days before their demise. He then produced a set of photographs from the file he had been resting his elbows on for you to view. Handing them over the bar to you, he asks, “Do you remember seeing any of these people in the bar over the past few weeks? If they were with anyone or went home with anyone?”

As the two of you talked about the case, you grew more and more impressed by Sam’s ability to put together all of the seemingly unrelated pieces of the puzzle. But if you were being honest with yourself, you were impressed by more than just his intellect. His voice was like butter laid melting over the ambient noise of the bar, and despite the gruesome subject matter at hand, you reckon you could listen to him speak all day. ‘This is wrong,’ you thought to yourself. ‘All of these people are either dead or missing and here I am drooling over a guy when I should be helping him find out what’s happening! Get it together!’ Your resolve lasts all of two seconds when you catch his eyes again. 

            Looking at the bent photograph in your hand, the lights begin to flicker above your head. Once, twice, and a third time before cutting out completely with an audible snap. A buzzing whine can be heard as the power drains from the neon sign outside. The air shifts suddenly, taking on a disembodied chill that creeps its way into your bones. 

            “…That’s not an electrical surge, is it?” you ask, trying fruitlessly to keep the faintest hint of fear from entering your voice. Sam is already scanning the vicinity, seemingly on high alert. His eyes dart back and forth around the room observing his surroundings as a trained warrior would in battle.

“Hurry. Do you keep salt behind the bar?” he asks, snapping his gaze to you. His brown eyes are wide with severity. 

“Salt?” you ask, blinking, not all that sure you heard the man correctly. What would he want salt for at a time like this? A margarita to calm his nerves? It is at this point that you begin to thank your lucky stars that the only other patron you had in the last hour decided that one drink was enough and left promptly after finishing it, leaving you and Sam alone in the bar. 

Another noise captures both of your attentions. A low groan emanating from the back hallway with no logical source. You can hear the rumbling of boxes being tossed about in the stockroom. The bottles on the wall behind you begin to rattle as the noises get louder and louder.

“Just-whatever you have. Grab it. Now.” Sam whispers, his jaw locked with tension, clearly readying himself to face whatever is behind that door. 

He’s already moving, muscles tensing under the thin material of his dress shirt as he pulls something silver from the waistband of his trousers, the metal glinting in the moonlight coming in the store window. In an instant, the fake FBI crime investigator is gone, and Sam becomes something else entirely. Something more akin to a hunter than a bureaucrat.

You hesitate. Frozen in your fear, you want to reach for the margarita salt, but you can’t. Your fingers won’t comply with any command that your brain sends their way. 

The back door slams open with a loud crash, pieces of plywood splintering off into the air with the force of it. A gust of frigid air blasts from the opening, nearly knocking you off your feet and throwing the bottles off of their shelves above your head. Ducking to avoid the falling glass, you find the salt container and toss it to Sam. 

“Stay down!” he tells you with the authority of a man who’s seen this sort of thing before. He circles the end of the bar toward the source of the noise, gun raised with the salt held in his nondominant hand.

In the darkness, a shadow shifts. A loud crash, then another, the sound of claws scraping against tile. From your position, you see relatively little. Moving slightly to peek your head out from behind the bar, you see something vaguely humanoid in shape but invisible, outlined in a layer of broken glass and wood fragments, vibrating like heat haze as it moves ever closer. 

Sam steps forward, between you and the creature, aims, and fires once. The sound reverberates through you, shaking you to your core. The entity screeches and disappears, blanketing the bar in an uneasy silence. The only sound left is the faint huffs of panted breath as you both come down from the rush of adrenaline. 

Broken glass glints in fractals on the floor as the lights flicker back on. You are still crouched behind the bar counter, heart thundering in your chest and a tightness in your throat, not knowing where to even begin processing what just happened. 

“Please tell me that I just imagined all of that, and it was just a giant raccoon or something,” you ask, shattering the stark silence and shuddering at how loud your voice sounds in comparison. 

Sam returns his weapon to his waistband, breathing hard, but managing a small smile. “Only if raccoons can be invisible and try to eat people around here,” He replies.

“Fantastic. You brought an invisible creature into my bar that may or may not want to kill me,” You retort, your voice dripping with sarcasm. At your sass, Sam chuckles, shaking his head as a grin takes over his face. 

“You’re welcome for not letting it get you, by the way”

“Oh is that what that was? You saving me? Because from where I’m standing, you owe me a new stockroom door,” you gesture to the carnage left in the creature’s wake with a nod of your head. Despite the severity of your earlier situation, you can’t help but find yourself becoming more and more at ease the more you talk to Sam. Something about his presence and demeanor acts like a balm to your frayed nerves.  

“Add it to my tab. Along with that drink I didn’t get to buy you.” Sam allows himself to look at you, as if hoping for approval for his poorly disguised flirtation.

Meeting his shy smile with one of your own, you reach under the bar hoping to find two rocks glasses untouched by the broken glass. Finding exactly that, you grab the closest bottle of whiskey left intact and pour the both of you a drink, trying in vain to steady the visible shaking of your hands as you pour. 

“So…a fake badge, a real gun, and an invisible monster…You gonna tell me what the hell is going on? Does this have something to do with all of those people you were asking about earlier?” you ask, beginning to put the pieces together in your head to try and figure out exactly what you have found yourself in the middle of tonight. 

Lowering his gaze for a moment, as if struggling to choose his course of action, he lets out a huff of air before looking up to meet your eyes again with a look of sincerity. “Usually this is the part where people scream, run away, and try to convince themselves that didn’t just happen.”

You counter, “Which part? When the invisible man shows up and rockstars the place or when the fake FBI agent pulls a gun?”

Sam grins, finding your resilient humor refreshing. “Either. Both. I lose track, to be honest.”

“Lucky for you, I’m not that easy to scare away.” you reply with a small smile.

“Lucky for me, huh?” Sam repeats under his breath with a light shake of his head at your cheeky attitude. Dean might just have to wait a little bit longer for that update, and to Sam, that is just fine.

𖤍: Greetings! I hope you have enjoyed this one shot! I am looking to write more of these, so please send me a request or leave a comment about what you would like to read next. Any suggestions are appreciated! Also, please let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list so you never miss an update!

 ˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Thank you to @pixopix for the dividers used! ˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚