#samc

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- 𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙊𝙣𝙚: “𝘿𝙪𝙚 𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙨” -

The first time Y/N saw Sam Winchester in person, it was at a distance — the sort of distance federal training told you was safe. Safer, at least. Two states over, seven open warrants, and every branch in the book had been searching for those damn Winchesters. A decade’s worth of false identities, petty theft, grave desecration, and a growing number of “disappearances” that seemed to follow them like a second skin.

Y/N had read the case files. Then she’d torn them up and rewritten them herself.

They were ghosts. In and out of towns within a week. Most of their aliases were weak covers — too old-school, too mythologically themed — yet no one ever caught them. She had to admit, it was kind of brilliant. Kind of infuriating.

She tracked them to a dying town in Nebraska. There’d been another body, drained of blood and left inside a church. Locals muttered about cursed land. The police blamed wild animals.

But she knew better. Or rather, she thought she knew better. That was before she saw what crawled out of that cemetery.

The first two days were all observation. She set up across from the seedy, off-highway motel — the kind with rust-bitten signage and enough vacancy lights to scream “dirtbags welcome.”

That 1967 Chevy Impala was hard to miss. Dean, the older one, had a walk like he owned the earth. Sam though… Sam moved like he was always thinking three things at once, but none of them out loud. The taller brother often looked back over his shoulder, suspicious. Y/N ducked every time.

Sam Winchester was not what she expected. She didn’t know why that disappointed her.

The library was her next lead. They’d been inside for over an hour, and when she trailed them in — just a civvy with a messenger bag and a resting bitch face — she found herself watching instead of arresting. Dean was nowhere to be seen, but Sam? Sam was standing in nonfiction, flipping through a stack of folklore books with such quiet concentration that Y/N almost forgot why she was there.

He smelled like leather, dust, and something earthy. Not cologne. Just... Sam.

And God, he was beautiful in that wounded, you-don’t-get-to-know-me way.

That shook her.

Y/N had always been good at her job. Methodical. Focused. Cool.

But for some reason, every time her eyes met Sam’s — which, she swore, happened more than coincidence could allow — something shifted in her ribs. A twitch. A flutter. She hated it. She wanted more.

That night was supposed to be it. The bust. The end. They drove out past town limits, no headlights, down a stretch of road that didn’t even show up on her GPS. She followed with care, headlights off, gun loaded.

Old cemetery. Of course it was an old cemetery.

She waited until they split up, Dean moving toward the south end with a bag of rock salt slung over his shoulder, Sam heading toward a crypt overgrown with moss. She moved quietly, silently. She was a shadow. Her badge clipped inside her coat. Her heart a drumbeat in her throat.

Then she raised her gun.

She should’ve called it in. But some reckless part of her wanted this. The glory. The collar. The name. She would finally be the one who caught the Winchesters. The haunted vigilantes.

That is, until the ghost showed up.

It materialized in front of her like a memory turned sour — woman in black, face pale and melting, mouth unhinged in a silent wail. Y/N froze. Her gun trembled in her hands.

And then Sam was there. Not walking. Running. Slamming into her, shielding her as the spirit shrieked.

“Get down!” he shouted, voice edged with fear and adrenaline.

The ghost screamed. Her head twisted full 180°. The air turned freezing cold.

Sam dropped a salt bomb at their feet and pulled a worn iron chain from his coat. The spirit shrieked again, fizzled, blinked out.

Y/N lay beneath him, stunned, trembling. Sam’s arms were braced beside her head. His eyes searched hers.

“You okay?” he asked, breath hot against her cheek.

She nodded, just barely. “...What the hell was that?”

He exhaled — something between relief and resignation. “Thought you might ask that.”

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🕯️ 𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙏𝙬𝙤: “𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙇𝙤𝙤𝙨𝙚”

The neon sign buzzed overhead, sputtering like it was holding on for dear life — The Rusty Nail was the kind of dive bar that smelled like spilled beer and stale secrets. Dim lights fought against cigarette smoke curling near the ceiling, while classic rock hummed low from a battered jukebox in the corner.

Y/N pushed open the heavy door with a grin that could have melted the snow off the Rockies. Sam Winchester, tall and ever-so-slightly awkward in a worn leather jacket, followed close behind. He tried not to show it, but there was a spark in his eyes — a little reprieve from the hunt, a break from the shadows that always seemed to cling to him.

“C’mon, Winchester,” Y/N teased, voice light but full of an edge that said I dare you. “Tonight, we let loose. You and me. No cases, no ghosts, no guns.”

Sam’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “You sure you want to hang out with someone like me, FBI?”

She shrugged, sliding through the crowd with ease. “Yeah. I’ve got a thing for mysterious, brooding men.” She smirked, daring him to roll his eyes.

He did, but only just.

The bar was sticky underfoot, and the air was thick with a cocktail of old sweat and whiskey. A few regulars nodded as Y/N and Sam settled at the counter, ordering a couple of cold beers that sweat like the neon sign above.

“You don’t get out much, huh?” she said, watching him carefully as he nursed his bottle.

Sam exhaled, voice low. “Not really. Hunting doesn’t leave a lot of room for nights like this.” His eyes flicked to the cracked mirror behind the bar, reflecting the tension hiding beneath his calm.

“Then I’m here to change that,” she declared with a grin. “You ever dance?”

Sam’s laugh was short but genuine. “Not since I was a kid. Not really something you do when you’re running from monsters.”

Y/N’s eyes glittered. “Well, tonight, you’re going to.”

Before he could protest, she grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the small cleared space where a battered jukebox spit out an old blues tune. The other patrons barely glanced up as she pulled Sam into a hesitant sway.

He was stiff at first, like a marionette unsure of his strings, but under her steady hands and soft encouragement, he began to relax. The lines around his eyes softened, the world’s weight momentarily lifting.

“You’re not bad at this,” she whispered, leaning close enough that he could smell the faint scent of pine and soap lingering on her skin.

Sam swallowed, voice rough. “You’re good.”

The music slowed, shifting to a slower, sultry rhythm that wrapped around them like a velvet cloak. They moved together, slow and uncertain, reluctant to pull apart even as the song faded.

Y/N’s gaze locked with his, searching. “Tell me about it,” she said softly. “Not the cases. Not the hunting. You. What’s it like... carrying all that?”

He hesitated, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “It’s... a burden. Always watching for the next monster, the next threat. But it’s more than that — sometimes I wonder if I’m the monster.”

Her thumb brushed his palm, grounding him. “You’re not alone.”

Sam looked at her then, eyes full of something raw and honest, as if the walls he’d built were crumbling just enough to let her see inside.

“You ever feel like that?” he asked.

Y/N smiled, a little wistfully. “All the time. But sometimes you gotta fight for the pieces of yourself that still want to be good.”

He nodded, a slow smile breaking through. “Yeah. I think you understand that better than anyone.”

The music faded to a close and the crowd thinned. Outside the bar’s faded sign flickered through the window, casting stuttering shadows across their faces. They lingered near the door, the space between them charged and quiet.

Y/N’s breath caught. “I don’t want this night to end.”

Sam’s smile was soft, genuine — the kind that reached his eyes and made everything else fall away. “Me neither.”

Without thinking, she stepped forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips — tentative, sweet, a promise wrapped in warmth and something dangerously close to hope. When they parted, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling.

“I have to get going,” she whispered, voice thick. “But... maybe this isn’t the last time.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small slip of paper — her number, scrawled with a little heart, folded and tucked inside. He smiled, fingers lingering on the edge.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “I’m not ready to pretend I don’t want this either.”

° = ° = ° = ° = °

The Impala’s engine hummed low as Dean slid into the driver’s seat, the night settling around them like a familiar cloak. Sam leaned back, eyes still on the paper tucked in his palm.

Dean glanced over, eyebrow raised. “So?”

Sam’s grin was sheepish. “She’s... different.”

Dean laughed, that easy Winchester chuckle that could shake the car’s frame. “Yeah? You like her, don’t you?”

Sam tried to play it cool. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean smirked, nudging his brother. “Come on, Sammy. You can’t even pretend.”

Sam shook his head, a little smile playing at his lips. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder, warmth and teasing wrapped in one. “Good. Because she sounds like someone worth fighting for.”

Sam tucked the number deep into his jacket pocket and stared out at the road ahead, a flicker of hope bright in his eyes.

I hope you all enjoy this, I had so much writing it.