Plus One
Title: Plus One
Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader
Word Count: 3.9k
Warnings: Weddings, marrying (third) cousins, awful exes and their families, kissing, fluff, slight angst
Summary: You’re going to a wedding, but you don’t want to go alone. Not when your ex is the groom, and not when your best friend is always up to be your plus one.
A/N: I watch too many rom-coms. I hope you enjoy! Thank you for reading. 🥰 Dividers by @firefly-graphics
Your chest expands on a shaky inhale, then shudders as you breathe out. Your reflection hasn’t changed since you first looked in the mirror a few moments ago, but you still stare at yourself in dismay. Plucking at the fabric of your dress doesn’t fix what’s bothering you, and neither does adjusting your hair.
“I can do this. It’s just a wedding,” you say, though you don’t believe it. You wait for the courage to come. If life were a movie, it would well up inside of you at this very moment and you would charge out the door, climb into your waiting Uber, and have a grand time all by yourself.
But life isn’t a movie, you think, and you glance down at your phone when it chimes. The Uber driver’s texting you again. After a second, you grab your phone and cancel the ride, texting a quick apology before opening the phone app and jamming your thumb against the contact at the top of your favorites list.
Sam picks up immediately. “Hey. Are you on your way to the church?”
A lump grows in your throat at the sound of his voice and you stare pointedly up at the ceiling, willing tears away. If you cry, you’ll have to do your makeup all over again.
“Y/N?”
“Um, I know I said I could do this on my own, but…” Your voice breaks and you suck in a breath to try and calm yourself. It doesn’t work.
“I’ll be ready in ten. Do you want me to pick you up?” Sam asks.
You swallow hard and let out a sigh of relief. Your shoulders slump and the ball of anxiety in your stomach loosens for the first time all day.
“Yes. Please.”
“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
You end the call and look back up at the mirror. Your appearance is… suitable. The outfit you’d agonized over all morning is nice, but not too nice. Your hair is neat and your makeup is enough for a wedding, but not too much that it looks like you’re trying to find a date. Your goal for this afternoon is to blend in.
Plopping yourself down on the couch, you attempt to distract yourself by scrolling until Sam arrives. You only succeed for a few minutes before you’re back up again, pacing the length of the hallway. When he texts that he’s downstairs, you grab your bag and hurry down to his car.
He’s parked in a fire lane with his hazards on. You shout an apology at your nosy neighbor, just like you always do, and climb into the passenger seat. As soon as the door’s shut, Sam pulls out into traffic.
“You’re gonna get a ticket one of these days,” you laugh, catching Sam’s eye. “I swear, that man lives to call the cops on people. He’s always standing outside, just waiting for someone to mess up.”
He’s grinning. He’s combed his hair and it’s freshly cut. The ends brush the collar of his navy suit.
“I wasn’t sure what you were wearing,” Sam tells you. He stops at the intersection, the one at the end of your street that you swear has the longest red light in Wichita, and grabs something from the cupholder between you. “Which one?”
It’s three ties, all slightly crumpled in his fist. You take them and gingerly smooth them out in your lap. Miraculously, one of them is a perfect match. The others would have been perfect with your second and third choice outfits.
He really does know me too well.
You toss the extras onto the backseat before laying your choice over the center console.
“Thanks again for doing this. I don’t know if I could face him all by myself. I mean, I could barely get out of bed this morning.” You cross your arms over your chest, feeling a little self-conscious at the admission.
Sam glances over at you. He’s leaning back in his seat, his grip on the wheel relaxed as he navigates the tight city streets and weekend traffic.
“What are friends for?” he asks. “I wouldn’t make you face this on your own. He was a jerk to end things when he did, but then to invite you to his wedding less than a year later?” Sam scoffs.
“He’s not a bad guy.”
The excuse falls flat, and you both know it.
“Thank you,” you say again. “I mean it.”
“Anytime.”
The rest of the drive is silent. At the third light, Sam puts on the tie, straightening it in the rearview mirror. You people watch out the window, occasionally pointing out interesting things to him, but for the most part, you try not to overthink.
It’s just a wedding, you tell yourself. People go to their ex’s weddings all the time. It’s perfectly normal.
Sam parks down the street from the church. He has to parallel park. You start to tell him it’s okay if you walk from the lot they’d mentioned on the invitation—the one that’s almost a mile away—but he’s backing into the spot with little hesitation before you can even get a word out. You have to admit, you’re impressed. After all these years, you wonder how you’ve never seen him parallel park, and you wonder further how he manages to be so effortlessly good at it.
After pulling the keys from the ignition, he climbs out of the driver’s seat without a word, then walks around the front of the car to open your door for you.
“What is this? Special treatment?” you tease as you climb out, and he laughs.
“For a special occasion.” He offers you his arm, which you take, and you walk together to the entrance. “You sure you’re okay?”
You nod and take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Yeah. I think so. I will be, at least, now that you’re here.”
He smiles a little and opens the door for you. You take one of the wedding programs, ignoring the whispers coming from a group of your Trevor’s extended family. You’d met them last year at a family reunion. Being the girlfriend of four years, you’d been included in the festivities. If you’d known that only a month later you’d be single again, you wouldn’t have gone.
Sam leads you into the church sanctuary and you sit in the second to last pew. The stained glass is beautiful in the afternoon light and while a string quartet at the front plays through Pachelbel’s greatest hits, you read through the program.
“You didn’t tell me that she was his cousin,” Sam hisses in your ear.
You flinch and turn to look at him with wide eyes. “Keep it down!”
He’s staring at you with barely contained horror, and you grab his wrist. The jacket crumples under your grip and you pull him down, hunching over in the pew so you can whisper.
“I only just found out this morning, from Instagram,” you tell him, glancing around to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “I think they’re like… third cousins. Once removed, or something like that. I googled it—technically in Kansas, it’s legal.”
Sam’s face screws up in disgust and he sits up as an usher guides in an older woman entirely clad in Pepto-Bismol pink. You try not to stare, instead forcing yourself to look back at the program.
You’re reading the back when the organ blasts out a chord so loud that you jump. Sam steadies you with a hand on your thigh, and you glance at him once before your attention is caught by Trevor’s grandparents walking down the aisle together. Another older couple follows them in time to the music.
Sinking down in your seat, you have the sudden urge to run out one of the side doors of the church sanctuary. It’s only Sam’s hand on your leg that’s keeping you in place. You consider it again, however, when Trevor’s mom—the same woman who’d persistently brought up your lack of an engagement ring at the reunion—looks over and makes eye contact with you before she begins her walk to the front of the room. A few beats later, Trevor appears. He glances over at you, but his expression betrays nothing. You try not to feel disappointed, but your stomach still sinks and you bounce your leg in place. Your mind is already trying to pull you into another spiral as he takes his place near the altar.
What did I expect? For him to stop the wedding and tell me that he was wrong? That he shouldn’t have broken things off and that I should be marrying him today?
Sam’s hand finds yours. He laces your fingers together and you take a shaky breath, squeezing back when he squeezes once. His hand is warm. It’s a stark contrast to your own fingers, which have been freezing ever since your anxiety about coming to the wedding flared this morning.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs, leaning closer so that only you can hear him. “I’ve got you.”
You nod and take another breath. You force your shoulders to relax and your leg to be still as the first bridesmaid and groomsmen enter the sanctuary. As the second pair enters, Sam’s thumb slowly rubs back and forth over yours, not quite in time with the march being played on the organ. You stare down at where your joined hands are resting on the faded blue cushion between you.
You’ve held hands plenty of times before. When you were kids, you held hands for games at recess and when you played after school. As you grew older, you held hands when you needed to navigate crowds together at baseball games and concerts. Sam would hold your hand at the airport too, making it easier to get to your gate for your trips home during college. A few times, he’d held your hand on the way to class or to your dorm, but that had been short-lived. You’d never asked why he’d started, and you never asked why he stopped. Now, it feels weird to hold his hand solely for comfort, but not in a bad way. You wonder why you’ve never done it before.
Sam stands and you quickly follow his lead, realizing that you’d zoned out. The bride enters in a dress that looks like it came straight off the runway. It suits her well, but you can’t help but wonder if your Trevor’s mom would have pushed you to choose a similar dress. Every single aspect of the wedding that you’ve seen so far is exactly how she’d described your potential wedding while at the reunion.
You sit when everyone else does, and you zone out again during the ceremony. It isn’t very long. By the time your thoughts have looped back around to, “I can’t believe he’s marrying his cousin,” the newlywed couple is walking back down the aisle. You’re certain that you imagine the triumphant look the bride sends you as she passes your pew.
“Bag,” Sam says. You blink and then he’s reaching over you to grab your purse from the seat. “You ready to go to the reception? Or did you want to use the bathroom first?”
“I’m fine,” you reply, but he raises an eyebrow at you. “What?”
“You’re anxious. You’ve been anxious all day. You always have to pee more when you’re anxious.”
It’s true, you do. If you’d actually stopped to think for a second before replying, you would’ve realized that you do, in fact, have to pee.
“Fine,” you relent, albeit reluctantly. You take your purse when he holds it out for you. “I’ll meet you out front?”
“I’ll wait for you at the doors.” Sam leads you out of the pew, then steps aside so you can exit the sanctuary first.
A handwritten sign attached to a gold stand points you in the direction of the bathrooms. You join the line, and after only a few minutes, you’re finished and washing up at the sinks. You pause to check your makeup, and it’s while you’re brushing away a stray eyelash that Trevor’s sister comes up beside you.
“What are you doing?” she asks. Her words drip with venom and disgust and you freeze for a moment before your self-preservation skills kick in.
“Fixing my makeup,” you coolly answer. You look back at your reflection and rub your thumb along the corner of your lip to make sure your lipstick hasn’t smudged.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she pushes. “Nobody wants you here.”
You smile at her, keeping it sweet. As much as you want to get the day over with, you can’t stand the idea of her talking down to you. Her brother had broken up with you, not vice versa.
“Trevor invited me, so clearly, somebody does.”
Her face turns an unnatural shade of red. “You’re lying.”
You’re not, but you don’t care enough to argue with her. “It was nice to see you again,” you say, and then you turn and leave the bathroom before she can reply.
Sam is waiting for you by the doors, just like he’d promised. He takes your purse once you’re within arm’s reach, and with his free hand, he holds open the door.
“Very chivalrous,” you point out, and he laughs.
“My mom would have my head if she found out I wasn’t on my best behavior at a wedding.”
You laugh and take his hand as you walk, almost without even thinking about it. Almost. If you were being honest, you had to psych yourself up in the bathroom stall. Now that the idea of holding his hand for something other than practicality has crossed your mind, you can’t stop thinking about it.
“That she would. Mary Winchester doesn’t play around when it comes to manners.”
“No she doesn’t,” Sam laughs.
The car unlocks with a beep, and he opens the door for you. You’re a little surprised at how natural it seems for him. Not once has he faltered, nor has he seemed awkward about opening doors for you, holding your hand, and even holding your purse.
Why should it be awkward? He’s done plenty of other things for me, you think. You buckle your seatbelt, thinking of all the times Sam carried your books for you in high school and college, or your backpack when it got heavy. He’s brought you food and coffee too many times to count, and he’s carried groceries up the stairs to your apartment so you didn’t have to. When you were in a car accident last year, he dropped everything to come pick you up and deal with the tow truck and your insurance, then the mechanic, and then the rental car company.
The realization isn’t a sudden one, or a life-changing one. It feels like fitting the last piece into a puzzle and finally seeing the big picture. It feels like settling into bed at night and realizing that you’ve found the best, most comfortable position. It’s natural.
“Sam?” you ask, turning in your seat to look at him as he maneuvers the car out of the parallel spot and back onto the road. He hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t look at you.
“Are you being extra nice to me today because you know I’ve been anxious all day?”
“No.”
“Is it because we’re going to my ex’s wedding?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why are you being so nice to me? Why have you always been so nice to me?”
You can see a flush of pink climbing up his neck, but Sam laughs off your questions.
“What are you talking about? You’re my best friend, of course I’m nice to you.”
The light turns red and Sam stops behind a semi. He doesn’t look at you, though, so you chance it and reach over to grab his hand. You pull his fingers from the gear shift and lace them together with yours.
“Sam.”
This time, he meets your eyes, smiling. You know the smile, though, and it’s not his most genuine. He’s not telling you the whole truth.
“What, Y/N?”
“We’re friends. Best friends.”
“Yeah…”
“We don’t keep secrets from each other.”
He glances at the light. “Right.”
“So you’ll always tell me the truth? Even if it’s hard or awkward?”
He chuckles nervously, shifting his gaze between you and the stopped traffic. “Where are you going with this?”
“Do you like me?”
His ears are pink. So is his neck. “I don’t typically call people I don’t like my best friend, Y/N. What are you getting at?”
“You’re the lawyer, you tell me,” you say. You search his face, unsure if he’s purposefully avoiding the question or if he genuinely doesn’t understand. When his smile falters, you get your answer. “Sam…”
The semi starts to move and Sam looks forward again, slowly inching the car toward the intersection and then speeding up as traffic begins moving faster. He doesn’t let go of your hand, though. He settles them on the center console. His arm rests on his arm rest and thankfully, so does yours, but the angle is still a little uncomfortable. Neither of you is used to this.
“I’ve liked you for a long time,” says Sam, after a few moments. He doesn’t look at you while he drives. His voice is quieter, almost like he’s confessing something. You don’t reply, giving him space to think and speak.
“You’re my best friend. I don’t want to ruin that by pushing you into something more, especially if you’re not ready for it. Trevor… Trevor was a jerk, and after he broke up with you, I realized that I never want to put you in the same position he did. I never want you to feel like that again. I never want to make you feel like that ever again.”
“You won’t,” you assure him. You rub your thumb over his, just like he had during the ceremony. “You won’t, Sam.”
“How do you know that?” he asks.
“I just do. I trust you.”
His throat bobs as he swallows. He lets go of your hand before turning into the parking lot of the reception hall and parking the car in the third row from the door, up against the edge of the lot. A couple in the car beside yours climbs out. They’re arguing loud enough that you can hear them through the windows until they’re closer to the row of cars behind you.
“Sam…”
“We should go in, we don’t want to be late.”
Smiling wide, you take his hand again. “I love you. I think I have for a long time, even before Trevor broke up with me.”
He turns his head and you laugh a little, unable to control the giddiness that the revelation has brought you. Sam looks utterly bewildered, but the slow smile growing on his face makes you want to jump and dance and shout for joy.
“I love you, Sam. Did you hear me?” You squeeze his hand.
“I heard you,” he replies. “I’m just… processing. Are you sure?”
You nod. “I’m positive. I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything in my life. You’re my best friend. I can’t imagine my life without you. I want… I want more.”
“More?”
“Than just friends.”
He smiles then, and with his free hand, he unbuckles his seatbelt. You unbuckles yours, turning further in the passenger seat. Before you can say anything else, Sam’s hand is cupping your face. He pulls his other hand from yours to brush hair out of your eyes.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
You nod, staring at him. You’re still bursting with joy—the butterflies are swooping around in your stomach, flying in loops so wide that you’re not quite certain you’ll ever breathe right again—but the stillness of the moment makes you hold your breath.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” murmurs Sam, “if that’s okay with you.”
You nod again, and then you close your eyes when Sam’s lips press against yours. They’re warm and slightly chapped, but you want to memorize this moment. For a second, you’re still, but then you inhale through your nose and kiss him back, one hand clutching his sleeve and the other propping yourself up on the center console. The armrest digs into your abdomen but you don’t care, as long as Sam keeps kissing you.
His breath is hot against your mouth when he pulls away. You have the distinct thought that he’s going to have to clean lipstick off his face when you’re done, and then he’s kissing you again.
It’s short and sweet the second time. When you separate, you let your hand drop from his arm.
“Sam…”
“I’m going to get carried away if we don’t stop,” he tells you, searching your face.
You nod, a little dumbstruck. Sam’s only had a few girlfriends, and none in recent years.
“You haven’t dated since college,” you say. He nods in response, his eyebrows furrowing slightly at the strange statement. “How’d you get that good at kissing?”
For a moment, Sam stares at you, but then he smiles wide. His eyes light up and he laughs, snorting once before you join in.
“That’s not what I thought you’d say!”
You laugh and bring your hand up to rub at the lipstick bordering his chapped lips with your thumb. You don’t get any off. In fact, you only succeed in making it worse. Sam looks like he just spent a week in the Yukon without chapstick. His mouth is swollen and pink all around, and you can only imagine that you look even worse.
“Let’s go home,” you say, smiling wide.
“You sure? We could go in, grab some cake before we ditch.”
“I’m sure. The last thing I want to do right now is see my ex kiss his cousin again.”
The car is still running. Sam reaches across you and in one smooth motion, grabs your seatbelt and buckles you in. You sit back against the seat and watch him, grinning as he buckles his one seatbelt once more, glances in the rearview mirror, and reverses the car out of the spot. When you’re back on the road, Sam heads the direction of your apartment with ease. He’s a good navigator—he got the lay of the land pretty quickly after the two of you moved to Wichita after college—and even though it’s been years, you truly have no idea how to get back through the city to your place from the reception hall. He seems to know already, though, so you sit back and enjoy the ride.
Sam grabs your hand to hold, just like he had before. You people watch again, too. Every once in a while, you glance over at him. He’s smiling while he drives. Knowing that you’re the one who made him this happy makes you feel giddy and light inside.
“Should we stop and get cake on the way home?” Sam suddenly asks, and you start laughing all over again.
Your cheeks ache from smiling. “I knew there was a reason I liked you!”
He holds your hand at the store, too. You can’t help but enjoy it.
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