summary: dean's favorite shirt is on the brink of disintegration and his dramatics have you rolling your eyes (lovingly) and offering to help
genre: fluffy fluff
warnings: absolutely none. unless you get sick of yearning (how could you ever??????) but that's kinda my specialty......... sorry
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For weeks you'd been trying to get Dean to hand over his holey shirt. Contrary to his belief, it was not holy, just full of fuckin' holes.
Sometime during his rebellious youth, he's picked up a Led Zepplin t shirt from a thrift store. He stumbled upon it strolling the aisles of the Salvation Army in search of a new sweatshirt for Sammy who had lost his last one. He had no money left to spend on himself, despite it being no more than six bucks, so naturally he used his sticky little fingers to shove it in his pants in the back of the store before walking out with it.
Proudly, he'd worn it constantly, for days straight, at the ripe age of fourteen. You think back on those days fondly. Waiting to see the too big shirt swallowing Dean in the front seat of the Impala as John drove up to the scrap yard. The smile that would light up your face when the boys came into view was met alike with their beaming faces. Those weekends they spent there were usually filled with shooting competitions and wrestling, because you'd be damned if they didn't include you on the roughhousing.
Seeing as it was previously owned, the shirt had always had a few small holes and threadbare spots under the armpits since it had come into Dean's possession. So, it's a shock to absolutely no one that over ten years later, the shirt has seen some better days.
In the weeks that you'd been begging Dean to let you mend it, it hadn't been washed. He hadn't dare touch it in fear of it disintegrating and him losing his prized possession. It sat in the back of the Impala, out of harm's way and stinking up the back seat, where you conveniently sat.
"Please, Dean, I can't look at this thing anymore," you sigh as the three of you head back out on the road.
"I can't smell it anymore, dude. Let her fix it so you can wash that thing," Sam chirps from the passenger seat.
"Not happenin'" he replies.
"Dean."
"I mean it," he looks up into the rearview to make eye contact with you and you roll your eyes.
"You're the one who taught me how to sew!" You try again, exasperated.
"First of all, I taught you how to stitch something up, specifically one of us if we needed it. I did not teach you how to sew."
"Okay, whatever you need to say to keep your masculinity intact," you grumble, cutting him off.
"And second!" he starts louder this time, making a point of talking over you, "that is the exact reason I do not want you touching the best thing to ever happen to me." You and Sam share a look at the sheer dramatics coming from his brother.
"Dean," Sam turns back to him with a tone only he can muster.
"You cannot be seriously referring to a Zepplin shirt as 'the best thing that's ever happened to you,'" you pipe back in.
"That thing is a beaut!"
"Yeah, maybe when it wasn't falling apart at the seams and stinking up Baby!"
"Don't bring Baby into this!"
"Well, it's true!"
It's quiet except for the rumble of the engine and the hum of passing cars as Dean ponders this. The silence stretches on for a minute or two before he breaks it.
"Fine," he mumbles without making eye contact with either you or Sam. The two of you turn your heads to eachother with wide eyes of disbelief.
"What was that?"
"Shut up."
"Are you serious? All it took was mentioning the car?" Sam asks.
"Sammy. She has a name."
"You're absurd," he scoffs. You sit silently in the back with a proud smile before reaching behind you to grab the offending shirt.
"Hands off! I wanna watch you do it," Dean practically yelps when he sees you reaching for it in the mirror.
"Dude..." Sam's head falls into his hands.
"You're so dramatic," you reply, but you comply and gingerly put it back under his scrutinizing look.
"Are you sure we have to do this? The holes make it look badass..." he whines when you bring the shirt to the small table beside the beds in your cramped motel room.
"Shut up," you say, reaching for the scissors.
"What are you doing with that?" his eyebrows shoot up in alarm.
"Relax," you reply, digging through your duffle to find one of your own t shirts. After grabbing one that has a faded blood stain you could never quite get out on the front, you begin cutting it up in rectangular sections.
"I don't get it," Dean says, watching.
"This is gonna take a while," you brush him off and go digging in your bag again for the needle and thread you know you have somewhere. You glance at him when he doesn't reply and find him still staring intently while his leg bounces in anxiety. You'd think he was waiting to get teeth pulled.
"Can you relax? I'm not gonna cut up 'the best thing that's ever happened to you,'" you smirk and turn your attention back to the project in front of you. When he doesn't move, but scowls at your comment you fix him with a glare and he huffs, moving to the edge of the bed across from you. He faces the tv, but when you look up at him periodically, you catch him side eyeing you, leg still bouncing like he's expecting the worst.
You stitch the pieces of fabric from your old t shirt to the prized possession, making sure the fabric is sturdy enough to be worn and washed regularly. The thread and the scrap fabric are a little mismatched but personally, you think it adds to the charm of the shirt.
You linger on the idea that your t shirt is now a piece of his favorite item of clothing and try not to get too poetic about it. By the time you're finished you've had enough time to cope with the fact that you're now one t shirt short for his sake, but you'd gladly give a piece of fabric for his material happiness. Even if it's just to see a genuine smile on his face for a few seconds.
And boy was it a genuine smile. His face lights up in wonder when you hold the finished product up to him.
"Good as new," you say, handing him the shirt. A grin stretches across his cheeks like none you've seen before. Gingerly, he reaches for the shirt in your hands and your fingers brush for a fleeting moment. His green eyes meet yours in amazement before turning back to the shirt and inspecting the stitches.
"I left some of the little holes at the bottom. For the whole badass thing you're obsessed with," you add in the silence, hoping he'll say something. His attention turns to the bottom hem, finding the little holes that litter the fabric from the friction of his belt.
He looks up again with a certain twinkle in his eye that makes the tips of your ears go hot. You look down with a smile.
"Thank you," he says so earnestly, you're not even sure it's him. But then he laughs his big full belly laugh and you know it's your Dean and your stomach is in knots.
He steps forward and wraps you in a side hug while he's still appreciating your handiwork.
"Sammy!" he shouts to his brother who's just finished his shower, "come check this out!" Sam sticks his head out the door, hair still wet and peers at the two of you. He smirks at the sight of Dean's arm around you.
"Gimme a minute," he says before shutting the door and shuffling behind it, presumably changing.
Dean turns to you again and grins.
Then he rips off his shirt. In a second, he's shirtless in front of you, which isn't something you're unused to seeing, but you certainly weren't expecting it, and there goes the butterflies in your stomach.
For the briefest glance, you make eye contact with him and he seems almost smug before throwing on his new and improved t-shirt. You blink rapidly and say nothing as he shows off in a mocking twirl.
"How's it look? Huh?" he remarks. You're sure your face is beet red, so you say nothing but shake your head.
Sam exits the bathroom with a smile on his face.
"Look at that," he chuckles, "it didn't explode like you thought it would!"
"Ha ha, Sammy. Very funny," Dean deadpans, turning to his brother.
Sam turns his attention to you and says, "It looks good." You smile in appreciation before clearing your throat.
"Okay. Time to wash it," you say, holding your hand out for the shirt to bring to the sink.
"Aw, c'mon. Can't I just wear it for like, an hour?"
"Dude!" Sam pipes up from the bed he's tucked himself into, looking up from his book.
"Is it so hard to believe that a man missed his favorite shirt?"
"You're so full of shit, gimme the shirt," you say.
"Whatever," he grumbles, hiding the smile on his face.
The next day he wears the shirt on the drive to the next run down, monster plagued town. Then the next when you're searching for clues and interviewing people. He wears it under the fed suit. He wears it the next three days too, and then it really starts to stink. Especially after a brief trip to a sewage plant that had seen better days.
After days of begging coming from you and Sam, who have to put up with the horrible stench, it's the treatment plant that convinces him, much to you and Sam's relief.
He washes it and is amazed at the quality of your skill all over again, thanking you again when it's fresh and clean and stinking of tide detergent.
A week later he rips his pants and comes to you with far less hesitancy.
Your heart warms and that's when you really know you're done for.
deepest apologies that i've been mia... but here is a dean one shot for u dean lovers to make up for it (sammy coming next)
p.s. this is not proofread i just desperately needed to post something for proof of life xx
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summary: you've had a crush on sam for god knows how long. the three of you are at a diner grabbing breakfast before you head out of town after a hunt. you can't stop looking at sam longingly. silly goofy idiots in love, too stupid to see it. dean is sooooooo over it.
warnings: none. unless you can't deal with yearning, idiots in love, horrible communication (but still fluffy!).
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based on a lovely tumblr post i found by @lesbiandomesticity it warmed my cold dead heart and made me perhaps believe that love is out there for me ! (hah)
"you're sitting across from me in a shitty diner in anywhere, america, and i watch you pour too much creamer in your coffee and i think 'i love you.' you look up, catching me staring, and for a moment i think i'm brave enough to say it, but i take too long and the moment passes. i take the balled up straw wrapper and flick it at you, pretending that was my plan all along. you laugh. i never want to go another day without hearing that laugh. i think i will have all the time in the world to say it."
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"Alright, I'm starved," Dean says as he pulls into a spot in the small diner parking lot off the freeway. It's just barely 7:30 and your eyes are heavy with sleep. Around you there's two other cars, a beat-up red pick-up and a blue sedan around the corner that you couldn't make out.
Though exhausted, you muck up the energy to remark, "You're always starved." This comment wins you a chuckle from Sam who's up front with his head laid on the window. Your heart soars as you study him, his eyes still closed to block out the morning light.
"Shut up," Dean rolls his eyes and kills the ignition. He opens his door and steps out, "Let's go," he claps his hands together to rally you two out of the car. With a soft groan, Sam, eyes still closed, fumbles with the door handle and opens it. His limbs practically fall out with his lack of effort, but he manages to stand up, lifting his arms over his head and stretching the sleep from his muscles. Your eyes are trained on him like a hawk, stuck in your spot on the back bench, watching his shirt ride up the smallest bit. You're graced with a sliver of skin and your glance roams over the expanse of his stomach, hidden by a wretched band t shirt.
Dean rips your attention away by calling your name with raised eyebrows. You blink a few times before slinging yourself to the door and getting out without glancing back at Sam.
The three of you walk up to the door of the small building in silence. The air is muggy and heavy, impossible to feel comfortable in. When you walk through the door, you're welcomed with a wave of half-airconditioned air and the smell of bacon. One of the older waitresses invites you three to take a seat anywhere.
You slide into a booth in the corner, far enough away from the two other patrons sipping on their coffee that you won't have to whisper when talking about the monster of the week (that you'd just killed last night).
Sam and Dean sit across from you, Sam directly in front of you. He's busy trying to get rid of the stiff neck he has from contorting himself in the car to try and sleep. You watch as his fingers work at the junction of his throat and shoulder, pinching the muscle. Suddenly his eyes peek up at you, almost as if he can feel your stare, and your eyes divert to the menu.
Dean watches this hopelessly, sighing to himself over his idiot little brother and his best friend playing eye tag unknowingly.
A younger waitress than before comes by with a notepad in hand and a chipper little accent, "What can I get y'all?" she beams down at the three of you. A pretty curl falls into her eyes, and she blows it out of her face before fixing a look at the sorry group in front of her. You watch Dean make googoo eyes at her and roll your own.
"Can I just have a cup of regular coffee? Black?" you ask.
"Me too," Sam says.
"Me three..." Dean smiles up at her, eyeing her nametag, "Sandy." She smiles back at him before looking at you and Sam.
"Any food, or do y'need another minute?"
"No, I think we're good. I'll have-"
"We're gonna need another minute," Dean cuts you off with another charming smile and you give him a mean stare.
"Alright, I'll be right back," Sandy says. You glance at Sam's face as he watches his brother watch her walk away. Disbelief plays on his face as he shakes his head, his lips quirking up in a half smile.
"What was that for? What happened to being starved!"
"Yeah, yeah, you can wait. I wanted to give her time to reflect," Dean replies with a smile.
"Time to reflect? I'm hungry and you want to give her time to reflect? You need help," you groan, dropping your forehead to the table in defeat.
"You never quit," Sam says and you look up as he looks at his brother in amusement.
"Never, Sammy," Dean says as he turns his head with a grave look on his face. You have to laugh at his persistence.
"You're insatiable. It's not even eight yet," you point out.
"My love has no limits."
"Ha!" Sam guffaws.
"Love? Right," you snark, looking to Sam and sharing a look. Sandy comes back with three mugs and a pot of coffee in hand, effectively shutting you up for her sake.
"Alright, know what y'all want?" she spurs, as she finishes filling up your cup.
"Three eggs over easy and bacon," Dean supplies. Sandy nods, fumbling with her notebook under his gaze. When she looks up to Sam he says, "Me too, but can I get my eggs over medium?" she laughs at that with a "Sure," and your stomach churns in jealousy. Though not uncommon (Sam was very attractive and made most girls you met swoon) you still felt the rush of embarrassment creep up your neck at your instinct.
"And you sweetheart?" her voice dripping like honey, batting her eyelashes at you patiently. You sputter out, "Same for me," in response which makes her laugh unexpectedly.
"Aren't y'all adorable. Easiest customers I've ever had," she beams down at Dean again.
"Yeah well, I'm easy," he drawls, and you roll your eyes, again. Never has he said a truer statement. She blushes at this and assures you guys that she'll be back with the food soon before walking away. Dean follows her with his eyes again and you and Sam scoff this time.
"Dude," Sam starts, but is cut off by Dean.
"I'm gonna go talk to her," he says and beelines to the counter where she's brewing another pot of coffee and humming to herself.
"Goodluck with that," you shake your head before dipping your head to sip on your coffee.
It's silent between Sam and you except for the soft conversation between Dean and your waitress, and the muffled clatter of dishes in the kitchen behind them. A small tv played the morning news in the corner behind the counter.
Your fingers reach up to wipe the remaining sleep from your face, drawing Sam's attention to you with his big, soppy, puppy eyes. You drop your hand quickly when you meet his glance, enveloping your hands around the warm mug and feeling the heat seep into your palms.
"Coffee's not too bad here," you offer up a measly attempt at conversation. In the mornings it was always so much harder to pretend like you didn't have a hopeless crush on him, leading to the worst, cheesiest, and most awkward conversation starters known to man.
"You're such a coffee snob," he snorts.
"Am not! Just like when it's strong," you grumble before bringing the mug to your lips, "Besides. You haven't even touched your coffee," you add, taking another sip. His eyes avert from the sight of your lips before you can catch him in the act and dodges your comment. Instead of replying, Sam fidgets with the assortment of things on the table in front of you, his fingers hovering over the various diner essentials before landing on the bowl of creamers.
He dumps them out onto the surface below and starts organizing them in a neat line, before stacking another row. You watch with amusement, lingering on the sight of his fingers twitching with effort to keep the creamers still when placing them down.
You rip pieces of your paper place mat as you watch him work, a heavy tension lingering, but an overwhelming calm settles over you two.
Soon there's a pyramid of creamers in between you.
"Don't even think about it," Sam says when he catches the look on your face.
"I don't know what you're talking about," you say with an innocent shrug, dropping the little balls of paper and inching your finger to the bottom row of the pyramid.
"I see your hand," he smiles.
"No, you don't," you grin back at him before flicking your fingers at his creation, sending the creamers tumbling to the tabletop.
"You're evil."
"Am not. That's life, Sammy," you sigh, helping him pick them up and put them back into the bowl from before. Finally, he takes a creamer into his hand for its intended purpose.
It's almost comically small in his gargantuan hand, and he fiddles with the plastic on top, failing to grasp the edge to peel it back. You watch for a few seconds more before grabbing it from him and shaking your head.
"I could've gotten it," he whined.
"Sure, you could've," you smile, peeling the top back and handing it back to him. He takes it from you gingerly, your fingers brushing and a train of electricity runs up your arm and straight through your heart, sending it into palpitations.
You have to hand it to yourself for not dropping it on the spot or even having a visible reaction when inside you felt like screaming in frustration. This crush was equal parts inviting and mortifying.
Your eyes are trained on the creamer as he pours it into his coffee. You peek up and see that his focus is on his task and not you, so you take the chance to study him. His lips are pursed in concentration, but other than that, his face is a picture of serenity.
So many times, you wished to reach out and wipe the frown from his face, smooth out the crease between his eyebrows so that his face could look like it does now, peaceful.
Now, you counted the moles on his face with practiced ease, smiling to yourself as your heart soared. His bangs had fallen into his eyes when he ducked his head to look at his mug and all you want to do is brush them away to see the warm swirling eyes that filled your dreams.
He picks up a spoon and begins to stir his coffee, turning it a milkier shade of brown, just the way he likes it.
I love you, you think.
It's then that he looks up, eyes dancing over your face as if he heard your confession. You can't look away, embarrassed to be caught, but desperate for the moment of stillness between you two when your eyes meet. You relish the look of curiosity he gives you and your heart beats in your throat.
You can feel the words on the tip of your tongue, begging to be let free. You imagine the wash of relief that would come with the confession, the imminent smile on your face and the laughter of reciprocated love.
They threaten to spill out, weighing in your pulse as it thrums against your skin.
You open your mouth to speak, and Sam's eyebrows raise in preparation. Overwhelmed with your own pathetic-ness and afraid of the looming rejection, you pivot last second and take the balled-up paper from before and flick it at his face, tearing through the stillness and sending him into a small fit of laughter, his dimples peeking out at you.
You smile back and giggle with him, the pressure in your chest forgotten.
Your little bubble is popped when Dean comes back, sliding into the vinyl bench next to his brother again.
"What's so funny?" he says with a raised eyebrow. You shake your head as your chuckle dies down, ignoring him in favor of sipping on your coffee.
"Nothin'," Sam says, shrugging.
"Hmph," he huffs, "food's comin'."
"Thank god," you say, pushing your mug to the side and swiping the little balls of paper out of the way when you see Sandy coming to your booth with three plates.
"How come you got more bacon?" you scrutinize when you see that Dean has at least three extra pieces in comparison to yours and Sam's plates.
"So now you're mad my flirting worked," he remarks.
"Good for something I guess," you smirk back at him.
You three tuck in, and you can't help but keep looking up at Sam, back to playing eye tag and avoiding eye contact at every given chance. Your feet lay next to each other below the table, and the warmth radiating off his legs is enough to satiate you for the time being. Not touching, but there.
You pay the check when you're all done, heading out with full bellies and Dean with a number he'll never call.
"You just can't help yourself," you say when he shows you the napkin with her number scrawled on it with a little heart.
Dean doesn't reply, instead grinning and turning the key in the ignition. Baby revs to life and you make yourself comfortable in the back, kicking your feet up and lying your head along the door.
"Shoes," Dean scolds, looking at you through the rearview.
"Shoes," you mimic in a nasally voice, kicking them off and letting them fall to the floor with a thud. Sam turns his head and smiles at you, sending your stomach into knots. Surely, you're blushing as you smile back to him.
Dean watches with disbelief that this has been going on for as long as it has but keeps quiet. The radio kicks in then and he makes a noise of approval, turning the volume up and whooping, "Bryan Adams! Hell yeah!"
You and Sam let out matching groans at his antics, but Dean ignores you, putting the car in reverse and singing along with the music.
Sam looks back at you when Dean lets out a particularly off-key belt and you two share a smile.
You'll get the courage to tell him one day. Probably.
the song, in case anyone is wondering, is heaven by bryan adams (cheesy 80s love song that motivated my ass to finish this).
summary: after two painful attempts at a communication of feelings, you and sam are suffocating from the tension. it's fucking up your hunts and making fools of you two. it has to be settled... after you kill a monster, shower, and have a few beers by the fire.
warnings: typical spn violence, some kinda gory descriptions of blood and violence, stereotypical miscommunication that maybe doesn't even get resolved, makeout, no smut (yet ;P)
words: 3,992
You'd been out since dusk, Dean by your side and Sam behind you two, ready to catch the strange corporeal spirit when it inevitably attacked Dean. The plan was simple: draw her out of the woods with a staged confrontation of cheating (Dean cheating on you of course) and leave him alone for the spirit to take her vengeance. Honestly, you weren't 100% on board with banishing her, when most of her victims were rapists and abusers, generally men who had severely wronged women. She was their protector, but as Sam reminded you, vengeance can turn ugly very quickly. You sighed, though you knew he was right deep down. At least you would be freeing the soul of a woman, your small comfort.
The plan would've worked out fine if she'd been as predictable as she was before, but like Sam said, retribution can get ugly fast. As soon as you turned your back on Dean, stalking off, she took her opportunity and swiped him into the darkening woods. Sam called out and you two chased after the spirit. Shooting would slow her down, but it was too risky with Dean in her arms. The two of you were no match for her speed and within the minute they had disappeared into a conveniently placed fog. The sky was getting darker and the both of you knew what would happen if you didn't find Dean quick.
As the two of you caught your breath, the woods hummed in silence, alive, but not quite. Your chest heaving, you looked at Sam, his eyes darting across the trees, looking for something to tell him where she went.
"Okay," you huff to fill the quiet.
"Shit," is all Sam says in response. You nod, gulping for air as you two try to get a feel for your surroundings. All you had to do was find where she was taking Dean and it would be easy after that. Hopefully.
"Do you still have that hiker's map on you?" Sam asks, head still whipping around at the slightest sound.
You pat your pockets, searching for the said map and finding it in your back pocket. You hand it to him, fingers grazing against his. The warmth radiating off of his callused skin gives you a sliver of comfort, but you can't admit to that in such a dire time as this.
"She must've taken him..." he trails off as he looks at the map, flashlight guiding his finger as he searches for a place.
"That cave?" you point to a cave not too far from the trail you were standing on.
"Where did those campers report hearing the screams? Do you remember?"
"The ones from fifteen years ago? Sam..." you look at him skeptically.
"Dean is out there," Sam doesn't raise his voice, but you can feel the urgency coming off of him in waves.
"Okay, um... here, between these two," you point to the trail markers on the map. You can see your breath mingling with his as you two stare at them, memorizing where Dean might be.
"Let's go," he says, folding the map and handing it back to you before starting to jog in that direction.
You two are running for what feels like an hour, but can only be twenty minutes, before you make it to the spot where fifteen years ago, there was a search party for a woman who was reported missing. She was never found. Fifteen years later, you had to stop her before she flayed Dean alive.
You'd never forgive yourself if this is how that bastard died, fake cheating on you of all people.
Your chest burns and though you can't really feel it, you know the temperatures are dropping. A night spent in the mountains is not something you want to do.
The two of you slow your pace, there's a lingering fog clinging to the greenery. This must be the place. Looking around, you find signs of struggle, broken bushes and dragged tracks in the dirt, but no sign of Dean or the woman's spirit.
Sam backs into you, his shoulder blades tensing when they make contact with the back of your head. The slope of his spine is pressed against yours as he looks around. He nudges you with his elbow, you glance at him, finding him looking up before looking up yourself.
In the trees, you find them, she's tying Dean up, unaware of her spectators below.
With bated breath, you raise your gun, aiming and shooting her in her shoulder. She falls to the ground and you rush over, fumbling for the mixture of herbs from your jacket pocket. Tossing them on her, you pull your gun again, shooting her in her chest to keep her down as she struggles to get her footing. You reach again for the lighter fluid in your other pocket, hands full and slow from the cold. Sam comes up on your other side, lighting a match and dropping it on the woman.
You groan, agitated, "You couldn't wait?" you shout, finally grabbing the bottle and twisting the top off with your teeth. She's crawling towards you in jerking motions, effectively freaking you out. Your heart stutters.
Sam grunts, his lack of response is proof enough he's flustered too.
You douse her in the fluid as you stumble backwards and Sam shoots her again, making her fall to her stomach, before tossing the final match. You cross your fingers the spells you found in one of Bobby's journals works. The three of you weren't exactly sure how to kill her, but figured some combination of the various methods might work.
Despite the burning, she manages to get up (shocker! Your Frankenstein-spell didn't work), the fire doesn't seem to phase her as it licks the backside of her shoulders and torso. She lunges for you, nails scraping your arm as you attempt to dodge her attack. You shoot again and two more shots bury themselves in her chest. The piercing scream she lets out weakens your knees. Sam breathes heavy next to you, unsheathing the Bowie knife from his ankle.
"Keep her busy," he half-whispers before rounding the tree.
Her eyes are on you, advancing on you with a speed you could never match. Tackling you to the ground, she wails, still on fire and raising her hand. She jerks her flaming claw to slash your throat with her jagged nails; all you have time to do is brace yourself, tucking your chin to your chest and shutting your eyes tight.
Her nails catch your skin, but before her fingers can dig further into your cheek, her hand falls limp against your face, cradling it. You feel the heat radiating off of the flame that's barely sustaining itself, opening your eyes to see that her head has been lobbed off. Her torso falls onto your chest, knocking the wind out of you. Her blood is cold and thick as it begins to pool onto your throat and hair from the severed neck that sits inches from your face. Quietly, you process what has just happened before moaning in dissatisfaction.
"Fuck, are you serious?" you shout, shoving the, still flaming, body off of you and stumbling to your feet. Sam reaches out, hands grasping at your elbows and steadying you. You feel his thumbs gently stroking your skin, grounding you as you gulp for air.
"Sorry," Sam says, eyeing your state of mess and assessing the damage. You stare for a minute, his hair is in his face, half covering his eyes and tickling his nose, you're sure. The faint glow of the burning body frames his face so well, you're getting deja vu from the last time he looked at you like this. You look down to survey the damage done, and to dampen your thoughts, before sighing.
"It's fine, not like I liked this shirt anyways," you give him a half smile as you look up again and his eyes glitter in amusement, his dimples peeking out as the corner of his lips quirk at your comment.
You hear a grunt from above and see that not only is Dean tied up, he's gagged. You have to laugh.
After half an hour of climbing the tree and untying Dean, and another half-hour of fully burning the body, the three of you are back on your way up to the cabin. The blood has dried and is starting to itch as it flakes off your skin. Dean's at the front, a few strides ahead of you and bitching about being taken and tied up. You snort every time he mentions the tied up part, convinced this has taught him something about himself he hadn't yet discovered.
You and Sam walk side-by-side behind him, the back of your hand grazes against his every so often and you shiver. You aren't sure if it's the cold or the zap of life you feel when you can sense him physically near you.
He doesn't say anything on the whole trek back, quiet and observing, much like he's been for the past few weeks. In fact, it's been exactly like this, lingering looks and grazes of fingertips, but nothing said about the situation. Two weeks of tension, pulsing and building and so thick you can feel it in the back of your throat every time you look at him. It has you buzzing with desire; you find yourself reaching for him, to fix his shirt, to get the piece of lint out of his hair. Dean's sick of it, he's told you as much.
Now in the silence, your numbing stiff fingers still itch to reach out and touch Sam. You sneak a glance at his face that stares straight ahead. You think maybe he could reciprocate. You're not stupid, he has to feel some way about you, you're just not sure if you're willing to risk it.
As soon as you two get to the cabin, Dean crashes. Sam starts the fire in the small living room and you watch as he tends to the beginnings of the flames nestled in the logs. You're leaned up against the door frame and he catches a glimpse of you out of the corner of his eye, turning his head to you in acknowledgement.
"Uh... I'm gonna shower..." you wish you could hit yourself, you sound so stupid.
"Kay," he smiles and returns to the fire. You hear him chuckle as you leave the room and you feel fuzzy.
In the mirror, you assess the damage. Your shirt has a large blood stain around the collar and is singed in several places, though magically your jacket scraped by with only a few spatters of blood by the collar. Your hair is matted with blood, and also probably singed, though you can't really see it in the dim flickering light. Your cheek is sporting four shallow scratches, nothing that won't heal on its own. All in all, you'd done a pretty bang up job not getting entirely wounded. After all, 90% of the blood isn't even your own, if that isn't a win, you don't know what is.
The warm shower settles the after hunt jitters, your muscles relax and your heart slows to its regular rhythm.
When you pad out of the bathroom, hair soaking and towel wrapped around you, you're met with Sam sitting on the couch and nursing a beer. Another unopened bottle sits on the table in front of him as he watches the flames across the room. He doesn't notice you, or at least, doesn't make any movements to acknowledge your presence.
For a moment, you watch, keen eyes trailing his fingers as they grip the neck of the glass, tendons flexing
as the tip of his pointer traces the lip. The sweat from the perspiring bottle rolls off his knuckles and drips onto his jeans below. You don’t realize you’re staring until your eyes trail back up and find him watching you, a small teasing smile on his face. Your eyes widen, struck dumb and feeling stupid, you can’t manage to say anything but, “sorry.”
He’s quiet, doesn’t reply, but keeps the soft smile on his face for you before looking down at his bottle.
“I got a beer for you, if you want it,” he mumbles, “figured you might need it after…that.”
You snort and step forward, he reaches for the bottle on the table now, opening it with his teeth.
“Who taught you how to do that?” you ask, quirking a brow, “Your brother or a frat boy at school?” He chuckles at that and shrugs, sheepish. He holds the bottle out to you now, long arm reaching across the table to you, you take it, fingers wrapping around his own. Slowly, he lets go, eyes steady on yours, breathing shallow.
You bring it to your lips, let the taste of barley swish in your mouth before swallowing. You tip the bottle back again, taking bigger gulps to finish the bottle.
“Is there more?” you ask when you put the bottle down, heading towards the beat up fridge in the corner of the room before he can reply. Inside you find a few more bottles with peeling labels.
“Jesus,” he says under his breath so that you barely hear his surprise.
“How old are these?” you ignore the comment, taking another and bringing it back to Sam to open.
“Uh, I dunno,” he raises his eyebrows, watching your outstretched hand. You stand expectantly, your hair is dripping onto your bare feet and only now are you aware that you’re still in just a towel. You see his adam’s apple bob and your stomach flutters, heat crawling up your spine.
The stillness of the moment lingers, what’s been left unsaid for the past few weeks weighs on your chest and heats up the tips of your ears. It threatens to spill, clawing its way up your throat.
His fingers begin picking at the label of his own bottle, hesitant to grab yours that’s still dangling in front of him, waiting.
Slowly, he shifts forward to meet your hand, allowing the silence to stretch between you. Again, he brings the bottle to his mouth, breaking the seal with his teeth and handing it back to you. When his fingers brush against yours, your breathing stops. He settles back into the couch, spitting the bottle cap out into his hand and tossing it to the rotting wood table in between the two of you.
“I’m afraid of what might happen,” you whisper, so quiet you’re not even sure he could hear it over your own heartbeat. The fire crackles behind you and you see the faint shadow of yourself cast onto his chest, blocking him from the warmth of the light. His eyes are on yours, flickering between the both of them, searching for more, waiting for you to elaborate. His eyebrows are furrowed in that perfect puppy-dog look of his.
You don’t want to cross the line, the table is the barrier between the two of you, preventing you from messing things up. If you stay on this side of the table, nothing changes.
From the safety of the other side, you confess with your eyes, willing him to see everything you feel. Whatever he sees, he understands. He understands the way the boy you grew up with would. He pats the couch cushion next to him.
“Sit?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper and pained. You let out a shaky breath and watch as your feet cross the line, round the corner of the table and slide into the couch next to him. Your legs are shut tight, acutely aware of the towel you still haven’t changed out of. Stiff, you bring the new bottle up to your lips and take a big swig, and then another.
You turn to him, and find his eyes searching your own. His hand is white knuckling his bottle, his lips have been bitten raw in thought.
“I’m sorry,” you try again to compile your thoughts, your emotions for the past weeks.
“For what?” he asks, genuine. His eyes are almost as watery as they were on that drunken night.
“Oh, god,” you mumble more to yourself than anything, “For not telling you earlier. For not saying anything that night, for not doing anything about it after,” you ramble afraid to look up and your heart hammering, you take another drink if only to avoid what he has to say in response.
The beer swirls in your empty stomach, warmth fizzing up your fingers and you’re partly thankful you hadn’t had anything to eat so that one and a half beers could make you tipsy enough to confess.
When you look up, his watery eyes have softened and the dimple in the side of his cheek has begun to pop out, your breath wavers.
“You made me look like such an idiot,” he whispers in tease.
“I didn’t mean to,” you reply even softer. The flames are flickering against his face again, always the warmth of the fire finding him and basking him in its glow. You don’t think he’s ever looked this good, shoulder leaning against the back of the couch and turned to you with rapt attention. The moles on his face are begging to be kissed, begging for you to just reach a hand across the way and break the final barrier. His bangs have begun to fall into his face and are casting shadows across his eyes, hiding them from the golden light, hiding them from your observation.
Again, somehow you’ve leaned much closer to him then you thought, gravitating towards him in the silence. You can feel his hand inches away from you on the cushion below, the pressure of his fingers caught in the fabric just next to your bare knee is enough to leave your head spinning.
“It would fuck everything up,” you try again, whispering to his watery eyes and his warm cheeks that are getting closer by the minute. You hang your head and close your eyes and grip the sweating bottle tighter in hopes that he can feel your struggle. When you look up you find him right there, eyes shifting across your face, studying the way your lips twitch and your eyelashes bat at him, startled.
“I know,” he says, eyebrows still furrowed as he sets the bottle down, cold beer glass hand coming up to cup your face. It’s damp but his touch is soft and you settle into it, heart stuttering in your chest as his nose comes close enough to bump against yours. You can smell the beer on his breath mingling with your own, you can feel the calluses on his palm rub against the bone of your cheek.
You two stare at each other, time slowing to the tune of your breathing, waiting. And then it happens, your fingers let the bottle slip out of your hand and to the ground, Sam closes the gap and suddenly his lips are on yours and the weeks of longing have come to fruition.
They’re soft and inviting, hesitant at first. He kisses you slow and gentle, plump lips slotting between yours in fluid movements that have you pulling him closer. His second hand comes up to cradle your other cheek, the scratched one from earlier that you vaguely remember in the haze of Sam.
His musky smell of sweat and pine deodorant fills your lungs, his bangs tickle just above your eyebrow. Your faces bump against each other as you kiss him more intensely. The slide of his tongue against your bottom lip makes your legs clench together and your brows furrow. Slowly, your mouth opens for him and he takes advantage of it, pulling your face closer and kissing you slow and sloppy. You can taste him, something you’d been dreaming about since forever. His breathing picks up and the sound of shifting fabric echoes in your ears as he inches closer. Your leg comes up, lifting to straddle him, and his hand meets your thigh, pulling it around his waist and resting against your bare skin where the towel has ridden up.
Your fingers have made their way to his hair, carding through the dirty strands and tugging. Your bodies are flush against one another now, one hand finding its way to his shoulder and gripping, feeling the size of it in your palm and flattening to smooth down his arm, gripping his bicep through his waffle knit henley. His body heat radiates through the fabric into your skin, his tongue slides against yours and you can feel the traces of a whimper hiding in the back of your throat. You can’t help yourself, your mouth wanders to his jaw, kissing against the faint stubble growing there. He breathes into your ear, hot puffs of strangled breaths as you continue your path down his throat, slow and gentle. The smack of your lips against his skin rings through the space between you, against the backdrop of the crackling, dying fire. Your tongue darts out, swirling against his skin before suckling at the junction of his collarbone.
“Please,” he whispers into the dark, fingers tangled in your wet hair, still dripping into the cotton of his shirt.
You come back up for air, partly to breathe, partly to get a chance of seeing him disheveled. His lips are swollen and his chest heaving. His hair is still in his eyes and your hand comes up from his arm to brush it out of his face so that you can see him better. His eyes are warm and observant, watching you but not the same as before. Now he watches you slowly with hooded eyes, drinking you in, in the quiet bubble of contentment the two of you have created. His fingers dance on the skin of your leg and his lips are quirked up in an amused smile, dimples peeking out at you, your favorite look cast upon his face. You feel lighter, like you might float away, so you grip onto his hair at the nape of his neck, tethering yourself to him.
“How…” you trail off, unsure of how to formulate the question that’s been nagging you since this whole ordeal started in that alcohol-reeking motel room.
“Doesn’t matter,” he whispers, “just wanna be with you.” Your heart melts and you settle onto his chest, his arms wrapping around you and sinking into the couch. He kisses the top of your head and you let out a huff of contentment.
“Gonna fall asleep like this,” you mumble into his chest.
“Mhm,” he hums.
It’s dark in the room when you fall asleep, the fire dead and your chest warm, lulling to the sound of Sam’s heartbeat.
eek! this has been sitting in my drafts for months with like three sentences and i just finished it in two days (not edited rlly, sorry i don't do that). thank you @aseafullofstars (!!!! <33) for commenting fr that was my saving grace and the entire reason this got finished. hopefully this was a satisfying ending. (secret part four with smut next? and a full conversation about feelings? can you tell i suck at communication irl?)
more sam to come, i have some dean in the drafts too. putting my creative writing degree to good use here.
high school best friend! sam winchester x f! hunter! reader
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summary: sam winchester transferred to your high school in your junior year. he lasted all of five months there but in that time, you grew close enough for sleepovers. you reunite on the hunt years later... closer to his brother than he likes honestly. it's shocking that you can hunt for all of two minutes before he sees you take down a vamp.
warnings: some very mild angst, some fluff. jealous sammy and dimpled sammy. nerdy sammy. LOTS of back story i got carried away, sorry. some shit head big brother dean too. brief j*hn winchester mentions... idiots in love!
i love sam's dimples, what can i say.
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The first time you met Sam you were freshly seventeen in your junior year of high school. Sam was just a year below you, despite being seventeen himself (he was forced to stay back a year because of moving around so much. This severely irked him).
No one had the nerve to go up to the new kid, he was lanky and had a mean resting face that dared people to mess with him. You didn't have it either honestly, but luckily for you, you didn't need to because Sam had beat you to it.
"Is that Frankenstein?" he asked, pointing to the book in your hand. His locker was a couple across from yours, but the hallway was nearly empty. He shut his with a click before striding over to you with his head tilted in curiosity. You looked down to the book you had taken out, it was the assigned reading for your Honors Lit class, and you gripped it at the realization that he was talking to you.
"Uh. Yes," you stumbled over your words which made him quirk a half smile, his dimple peeking out at you. Suddenly the giant kid with a size too small shirt and shaggy brown hair seemed completely harmless. You smiled back and from that moment on you'd been inseparable.
Dean had teased Sam endlessly about his "girlfriend" when he would pick him up from school and see you lingering by his side on the stairs.
"Girl and friend, Dean. She's my friend who happens to also be a girl," he would correct annoyed as he slid into the passenger seat, inconspicuously looking back out the window at you.
"Yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night," he retorted with a chuckle and a glint in his eye.
Sam and you would pour over books, endlessly dissecting plot structure and sharing character analysis. He would geek out about whatever he was learning in history while you carefully listened and drew little cartoons of him while he babbled.
(His face would light up when he saw these drawings of himself, or sometimes it would be a panel of cartoon-him and cartoon-you doing something silly. Every time, he'd insist you sign them before carefully putting it in-between the pages in his book).
He'd purposely annoy you with arguments like who the best classic author was (he said Salinger, you said Steinbeck) and why Dally in the Outsiders was the best Greaser (you were quite fond of Ponyboy).
Sometimes you'd read in silence together, the white noise and the sound of his breathing enveloped you and you'd sometimes (a lot of times) get distracted peeking over your page to study his face and the way his brow furrowed when he concentrated.
Practically attached at the hip, you two would walk down the halls together, laughing about whatever stupid thing you could think of to get a peek at his dimples.
You'd be lying if you said you weren't harboring the teensiest crush on him.
What wasn't to love? His smile was the cutest. He was a full head taller than you, and then some. He loved to read all of the same books you did, and he was ever the gentleman, kind and reassuring. And he was funny! Most of the time you were in stitches when he would crack the rare joke (apart from his little sarcastic comments).
The only problem was that you didn't know a thing about him. All you knew was that he moved around a lot and had a brother. There was never a mention of his mother or father. The one time he had mentioned John was brief, and it was that he was kind of a hard ass because he was a Marine. The subject was quickly dropped in favor of Napolean and Napoleonic code, something he started reading about when he got bored in Pre-Calc the week prior.
You'd never gone to his house, but he would often come to yours, first to study, then to watch movies, then for dinner. Eventually he was spending weekends at your house. Your mother thought the two of you were dating. You had to shush her anytime she thought to bring it up with a sly smile at dinner. Sam wasn't stupid, he knew, but politely continued to eat with a faint blush on his cheeks, pretending he hadn't heard.
It irked you that you two could share so much of your time with each other, but you still knew so little about him. He knew everything there was to know about you. You'd only learned the little things, his favorite color (orange, the burnt siena kind), his favorite book (The Catcher in the Rye), how he liked his eggs in the morning (over medium, not too runny, but enough that he could dip his toast in it), and his favorite band (Alice in Chains). You took what you could get, and you never let it show, but it disappointed you that he didn't trust you to tell you. You were so vulnerable with him, did he think that you wouldn't understand?
One Friday he didn't come to school. You texted him a quick where r u??? before going into your shared chemistry class. You didn't hear from him the whole day and didn't see him again until that Tuesday. Worried sick, you pushed him for answers, especially for the black eye he was sporting. He dodged your questions and gave halfhearted attempts to change the subject until eventually he shut you out. He moved out of town a day later with no explanation. He had sent a goodbye text, but that was the last you heard from him.
For the next few years, you thought about Sam. All you'd had left of him was his Radiohead CD and an arbitrary green t shirt. You'd texted and texted but got no response.
When you'd graduated top of your class, you wished he was there. When you'd had no prom date, you wished he was there. When you were applying to schools you wished he was there.
When your mom got killed by a rugaru in your second semester of your freshman year of college, you'd wished he was there.
And like any hunter worth their salt, you dropped everything and began hunting the thing that killed her.
For a while you were chasing your own tail in circles. You came across other small hunters, but it wasn't until you'd met Bobby that you were finally able to track the thing down. All those years of your mom insisting on kick boxing and Jiu Jitsu classes were starting to make sense.
She'd been a retired hunter and a close friend of Bobby's. He told you that your father had been killed by a shifter a month before you were born, leaving your mother in ruins. Instead of aiming for revenge, she swore it off to keep you safe.
Fat load of good that did you.
Rugaru dead, you found yourself spending a lot of time with Bobby. You didn't go back to school, but you did start carrying your own weight around the scrapyard and helping with the hunter information hub.
That's how you met John Winchester. And evidently Dean.
When you first met them, you couldn't believe it. Were these the infamous Marine father and annoying brother Sam hardly spoke about back then? You couldn't believe it. You obviously hadn't known before that Sam's family were hunters, but things began shifting into place in your mind when you put two and two together.
He'd clam up when the subject of college was brought up, all the weekends he'd spend at your house, avoiding questions from your mother about where his family was and if he'd told them he was staying over. All the ominous talk about not wanting to go into the family business. Your heart swelled at the thought of seeing him again, only to deflate when Bobby had to explain that Sam wasn't in the life anymore. It was then you realized that all the time Sam spent with you, was to escape.
Pieces of you were glad Sam got out. His reluctance to mention his dad then made sense. But what stood out in your mind most often was his fiery blush when you told him that with the way he talked himself out of trouble all the time, he'd make a decent lawyer
Even three years later, you still thought about him. You missed him.
So you got to know the parts of Sam he hadn't shown you before.
Dean took to you almost immediately. He remembered you from that beat-down-town years ago and enjoyed annoying you just as much as his brother once had. When you got on your feet again and started hunting, you'd tagged along with John and Dean, eager to get out. When John got sick of lugging you around, calling you dead weight (not without a sneer and a scoff of disbelief from you) he sent you and Dean to small-fry jobs.
A month or two in, Dean and you found a rhythm. Find the monster of the week, do your homework, scramble to kill the thing, celebrate with a few beers and a night at a dive.
You hardly brought up Sam. It was a touchy subject. From the tidbits you'd gathered on drunk sappy nights with Dean, Sam had left without looking back. He'd run off to college and was determined to leave this life and his brother behind. Dean hadn't spoken to him in years. You weren't sure if you should tell him that it didn't sound like Sam to leave with no contact, but then again, he had done the same thing to you. You'd only been friends for five short months; you had no idea who he could've grown up to be.
John brought him up when he needed to point out how much better Sam was at research then you were, or really anything you did-- Sam was better. The pride in his voice mixed with the disappointed look in his eye encouraged you to keep your mouth shut. Usually, you'd just sit there and fume, you hadn't known the man long enough to spit something back, sufficing with muttered fuck you-s under your breath. You hadn't wanted to upset Dean, you knew how highly he thought of his father and had decided it wasn't worth it.
Fire would rise in your chest when you saw the pained look on Dean's face anytime his dad talked about Sam. In the months you'd gotten to know him, you became fiercely protective (something that made Dean wildly conflicted, he was the big brother/mama bear... having someone else dote on him was foreign, but strangely not unwelcome).
Usually, when John started on a tangent, you just removed yourself and lugged Dean with you. He kept the shouting up as you two stalked off to the Impala, or the Motel, or wherever he wasn't. It was around those times where he would send you two off on your own.
That's how you'd found yourselves in the Impala on the way back from a hunt in Raleigh. It took a week and a half to find a haunted doll hiding in someone's attic, but you'd managed to salt and burn it without much damage. Two years of hunting with Dean put you at a comfortable ease during a hunt and the two of you pretty much knew the ins and outs of each other, both as hunters and as friends.
On the way out of North Carolina, Dean decided to call John, to check in and see how his hunt in California was going. Fourteen missed calls later, Dean was worried. Bobby hadn't heard from him, and John wasn't necessarily a friendly hunter, so none of Bobby's hunter friends had seen or heard anything either.
The car was silent while he figured out what to do in his head. His resolve never faltered, his gaze trained on the road ahead.
"I think I should get Sam," he said.
"What?" The idea of seeing Sam for the first time in over five years almost made your heart stop. But you didn't want to be selfish. it wasn't fair to bring him back because of a silly schoolgirl crush.
"Our dad's missing, Sam deserves to know," he had replied, knuckles tightening on the wheel.
"Dean, are you sure we should even bring him back in?" As much as you missed Sam, you respected him more.
"Our Dad is missing," he said with a tone of finality that shut you up. You'd have plenty of time to argue with him later, it wasn't worth it right now.
"I'll drop you off at Bobby's," he added.
"What?" you repeated, starting the fight you'd planned for later. There was no way you were sitting this out, you'd told him as much, but he wouldn't have anything of it. This was something he felt he didn't need to drag you into. You didn't even like his dad anyways, he had said. Which was true but hearing him say it felt like a slap in the face, as if you weren't allowed to want to help Dean, someone who had become family.
The car ride was silent after your argument. You'd gotten out of the Impala without a word, lingering to see if he might say something. When nothing followed, you stood there like an idiot for another second before a simple "Goodluck" fell from your mouth and you shut the passenger door on him. You'd turned and trudged into the ranch ahead, too stubborn to actually give a proper goodbye.
For days you wanted to cry. You hadn't heard anything from him, Bobby mentioned he had called when he got Sam, but nothing else. When you got over yourself, you realized that in Dean's stupid protective head he probably thought he was looking after you. Whatever he thought had made his dad disappear, he didn't want you to get hurt. That's what Bobby had said. You tried to not let it sting whenever you thought about him thinking you weren't capable or a good enough hunter.
A week passed when you heard about Jess. Still nothing from Dean or Sam. You hadn't known he was in a relationship, neither did Dean, by the way he spoke about him--at least, he had never mentioned anything. A twinge of regret pierced through your heart, and embarrassingly enough, disappointment. That stupid high school crush never really went away. But you'd only sort of gotten to know him, briefly, you had no claim on him.
You didn't call Dean to check on them. You didn't want to press, you were sure Sam didn't need that right now.
Another week passed with nothing from them, and you quickly got sick of sitting around all day and decided to go back out and hunt. Overthinking your relationship with the both of them wasn't doing you any good. Bobby was worried for you, but you'd amassed quite the skill since your mother died, your fighting skills far passed anything Dean could muster, and your aim was getting better as time went on.
You took a car from the yard--something you'd been tinkering with for the time you'd spent there--and packed a bag. Then the gear. And after a nice roast dinner you'd made for Bobby and yourself, you hit the road, following a lead on a djinn down in Tennesse.
And just like that, you had spent a year hunting on your own. Not necessarily with the same efficiency that you achieved when you were hunting with Dean, but you handled your own well enough. Hunts took a little longer, but then again, you were finally on your own, no crutch to fall back on. It was relieving as much as it was lonely. You missed sharing breakfast or lunch or dinner with Dean at a diner, laughing when he stuffed his face.
And the money thing was kinda hard. Dean handled the fake credit cards. You'd learned how to hustle pool and so instead of committing credit card fraud, you used good old-fashioned misogyny to win a couple hundred bucks from loser guys at bars.
It was one of these nights that you found yourself at the edge of a pool table, hustling a group of guys that had a little more to drink then they probably should've.
Five of them crowded around the other side of the table, four cheering on the fifth who was currently aiming for a striped ball in the corner pocket. You'd beat two of them already, but somehow the others couldn't believe that you, a woman, could not beat them. Let alone have the smarts to hustle them out of their money. It must be beginner's luck they chortled amongst each other.
The laughing stopped when you beat the fourth guy. And like clockwork, the fifth stood up to play. You had to roll your eyes. Did they even consider the fact that you were hustling them? You couldn't tell if they were more upset that they were losing their money or that it was a woman they were losing to.
Either way, pride got in their way. Another win, and you had over half a grand in your hand. You had to laugh.
"Good game, hon. You almost had me!" you shook your head in amusement.
"You bitch," the fifth man snarled. Two other men saddled up behind him, giving menacing stares.
They weren't so amused, apparently.
"Freaky, huh? I mean, are you sure you guys weren't going easy on me?" you couldn't help yourself as you pocketed the cash. You hoped the kitchen was still open, maybe you could get some mozzarella sticks to celebrate your win.
"You think you're funny?" One guy said.
"Oh no! A little girl like me? Funny? Can't be," you grinned. A small audience was forming as people began to take notice of the hostility radiating off of the men. You knew when to quit it, so you smiled extra sweet at them, an evil glint in your eye, before bending down to pick up your bag from the ground.
It was at this precise moment that a few things happened at once. First, the fifth guy (the ringleader if you will) stepped forward, no doubt, with the intent to scare you. You had anticipated this and popped up, ready to play dirty and kick his knees in, when another man from the audience stepped in with a deep "Hey!" You got a brief flash of leather, and, unable to stop what had already been put in motion, side swiped the fuck out of the man stepping up to your defense.
"Shit!" he cursed as he went down. Shocked and apologetic, you turned to help him up, barely catching a glimpse of your victim, when a heavy hand came crashing down on your shoulder and pulled you away roughly. Assuming it was one of the other pissed off guys, you turned and swung in the general direction of what you assumed to be your attacker's head.
A familiar "oof" came when you made contact with a cheekbone. Immediately your brows furrowed, your hand slackened and your heart dropped. It couldn't be.
Your mouth was too slow on the uptake and Dean beat you to it. Hauling himself up from the floor where you'd swiped him down and called your name in disbelief. Your eyes widened when you realized.
Your head whipped around to see Sam standing behind you holding his cheek, bewildered.
"Holy shit!" you looked between Dean and Sam, the angry men stood forgotten on the sidelines of the whole ordeal, unsure of what to do. You paid no mind as you looked back to Sam again, not convinced this wasn't a dream.
"What are you doing here?" Dean asked as he pulled you in for a hug. You embraced him and shoved your face in his leather jacket.
"What am I doing here? What are you doing here?" you quipped, slapping his shoulder.
"Getting attacked by you, even though I was about to defend your ass!"
"My ass doesn't need any defending, thank you," you smiled.
"Right. You had it handled," he rolled his eyes. You slapped his shoulder again.
"Yeah, I did. I'm a way better fighter than you," you shrugged.
"You are not."
"Bobby thinks so."
"What?" That got him. Before you could unleash your witty reply, Sam cleared his throat behind you, turning both yours and Dean's attention to him. He wouldn't look at you at first, just made big expectant eyes at Dean.
"What?" he said, clueless. Sam scoffed and rolled his eyes, turning back to you with a soft smile on his face.
"Hi," he said, all sheepish.
"Hi!" You beamed and immediately pulled him in for a hug. He was at least three inches taller than the last time you'd hugged him. He smelled the same, though. Just the feeling of his heart beating against your cheek pulled you back to seventeen, pining after him and laughing in the echoing hallways.
"What are you-"
"Why are y-" you both cut each other off with an awkward chuckle as you pulled away.
"Sorry, you go," you smiled.
"No, no. You first," he gestured with his hand, eyebrows furrowing in curiosity, dimples peeking out in amazement.
"Uh, before you two start, can we sit? I need a beer," Dean chimed in with a grimace. You rolled your eyes, Sam mirroring your expression before turning to the nearest booth.
When you guys settled, Sam across from you and Dean on your right, you ask your question again, "Why are you guys here?"
"Hunt, duh," Dean replied, taking a sip from his beer. You saw Sam's eyes widen in annoyance in Dean's direction.
"Oh. Right. Sammy, she's a hunter now," he explained. Your head spun back to face Sam.
"Wait, you didn't know?"
"How was I supposed to know?" he replied, half joking, half butthurt at being left out.
"Well, I assumed your brother told you," you shrugged, looking to your right and fixing Dean with a look.
"Sorry, but he would've gotten all worried and distracted. You know how he is," he busied himself with a ring on his finger, avoiding eye contact.
"You're an idiot," you said before turning back to Sam with a smile.
"So you're a hunter..." he trailed off.
"Yeah, have been for about... four and a half years now?" you sighed.
"Wow. And that's how you know my brother," he said, eyeing Dean.
"Yeah. Went hunting with him and John a few times. Then with Dean for like, what? Six months?" you turned to ask.
"Eight," he replied.
"Eight months I guess," you said turning back to Sam. He had an unreadable look on his face. If you hadn't known any better, you'd say it looked like jealousy, but that couldn't be. He'd tensed up when you brought up John too, and by the clear lack of him around, you understood that they still hadn't found him. You didn't push the subject.
Sam's hands rested on the table in front of you, his fingers woven together and fidgeting. He didn't say anything for a while, just looked at you like you could disappear any moment. He seemed like he wanted to say something but refrained. Maybe for Dean's sake, maybe for his own. You wished he'd just say it.
After a moment he smiled, "Man, I can't believe it's you. I thought for sure you'd be a professor or something," he shook his head.
"A professor? Why?"
"Well, I was gonna say doctor, but you hated chemistry so much back then..." he trailed off. You laughed.
"Yeah, you're right," you wanted to reach out and touch his hand just to feel him. You still didn't believe he was right there in front of you, after all the years of wishing you could see him, hear his voice.
Dean spoke up then, "We're here about some disappearances."
"Me too. It's a vamp nest," you said without turning your head. You couldn't stop staring at Sam. He was looking down at his hands, so you drank him in without freaking him out. His hair had gotten longer; he kept his bangs though. The urge to trace the moles on his face made your fingers twitch and you had to squeeze them to remind yourself of where you were. Of who you were to him. His girlfriend had only died just last year.
"You're quick," Dean replied, "when'd you get here?"
"Mmmm, last Friday?"
"Huh," Sam chimed in, studying your face. Though he tried to mask his surprise at your efficiency in finding the monster in a short few days, his mouth gave it away, twitching in disbelief.
"Right, well, y'know where it is?" Dean sipped the last of his beer and motioned for another.
"Oh yeah, couple buildings down from here, was gonna head over after I gambled for my lunch money for tomorrow," you grinned. Sam laughed at this.
"Alright lemme finish this and let's go," Dean motioned.
"Are you hijacking my hunt?"
"You don't want help?" he tutted.
"Yeah, yeah," you swatted him away as he poked your arm. Sam watched this interaction closely, his jaw clenched. You only caught a glimpse of it before he steeled himself and his face went back to neutral.
Dean finished his beer in two big gulps and you and Sam followed him out and to your car.
"You fixed this thing up?" Dean gestured to your mustang.
"Mhmm, this is Cherry," you puffed up your chest in pride as the boys looked onto your cherry red muscle car.
"Creative," Sam quipped with a teasing smile. He peeked into the car, eager to see what you had in there. He wanted to take in as much about your new life as possible. He felt like he missed so much.
You popped your trunk, grabbing a machete and a book from your duffle.
"Hey, you still like this book?" you called out to Sam whose head was almost fully in your passenger side window. He shot himself up so fast, you were surprised he didn't hit his head. Sheepishly, he walked around to you where you held out your beaten copy of Frankenstein that the two of you had gushed over all those years ago. A laugh bubbled out of him, and you warmed at the sound.
"You still have this?" he reached out to take it from you, his fingers brushing yours, butterflies erupted in your stomach.
"Well, yeah. It's in your hand, isn't it?"
"Still a smartass then," he shook his head with a fond smile.
"Says you," you nudged his shoulder. Dean had wandered off to the Impala to grab their gear, so it was just the two of you alone. "You can have it," you said pushing the book closer to his chest. More fluttering in your stomach at the contact with his warm hands.
"No," he tried to argue but you shushed him.
"Seriously. I've read it so many times, I can recite whole pages, word for word." He laughed again at this, and you beamed.
"Fine. But I'm giving it back when I'm done."
"Sure, you are."
"I missed you," he said after a moment of silence. You looked up at him.
"I missed you too."
"I wanted to call so many times," he said.
"That's okay," you looked down and kicked at a pebble with the toe of your boot.
Both of you weren't sure what to say next. The Impala started with a roar in the distance, filling the silence between you two.
"I'm sorry about Jessica," you whispered. You didn't want to bring her up. You didn't know how Sam was doing; you hadn't ever talked about anything so vulnerable regarding his life with him before, but you needed him to know.
Before he could reply, Dean rolled up, window down and head sticking out his driver's side window.
"Alright, let's dust these fuckers, you comin'?"
"Right, yeah" you said, swinging the machete in your hand. Sam cleared his throat, eyeing your swinging before rounding the car and entering the passenger side. You sidled up to the trunk, tossing the weapon in with the others and swung around to the back, sat comfortably behind the brothers.
"How long you been huntin' again? Last I heard from Bobby you were hangin' around there," Dean asked as he sped off.
"Eh, year or so? I go back to Bobby's every coupla months though," you cracked your knuckles in the silence. Sam's head turned ever so slightly in your direction, you wouldn't have caught the motion if you weren't staring. He didn't say anything for the whole ride, but Dean did a whole lot of talking for the both of them, asking how you've been, commenting on the new machete, but never bringing up John.
When you got there, Dean assigned roles. You took the back entrance; he and Sam would take the front. You had a mean swing, and weren't worried, but Sam's eyebrows furrowed when Dean announced that you would be alone. He looked about to speak up, but you interrupted before he could say anything.
"I'm good. There's only like three of them in there, last I checked. I could do this alone if I wanted," you couldn't help the boast. Dean laughed and clapped his brother on the back.
"She ain't a little girl anymore," he strutted off (because yes Dean Winchester struts). Sam followed but not without a look of reluctance to you, "Be careful," he urged.
"I always am," you smiled before jogging to the back. You peered through the windows but saw nothing but shadows. It was pitch black out and there were no lights on inside. The back door opened without any force and you made your way inside, eyes scanning what looked to be the kitchen. You heard muffled footsteps to your right, but turned to see it was just Sam.
"Anything?"
"No, there's gotta be a basement," you replied. The two of you began searching for a door until you heard a grunt come from the room next to yours. There were a few more and what sounded like a punch landing. You and Sam ran to aid Dean in whatever he was dealing with when another vamp descended on you. You swung your machete around and nailed it in the arm. It hissed and swung its other arm at you, grabbing your shoulder.
In the mess of fighting, you caught a brief glance at Sam fighting his own vamp, it getting dangerously close to his neck at points.
You ripped from the vamp's grasp and kicked it down, knocking the wind out of it before swinging your machete around and slicing its head clean off. When you turned to see how the boys were doing, you were met with less success than yourself. Dean had gotten his weapon wrestled from him and thrown to the side.
You charged up to the vamp attacking him from behind and swung, but he moved at the last second and you cut through the air, nearly missing Dean's nose. His eyes widened before turning his attention back to the vampire, turning its attention on you, pissed.
Dean grabbed for his machete on the ground and charged, nicking its shoulder. You turned back to Sam who was far too preoccupied with watching your back that he was losing his battle. His arm was bleeding as he tried to fight off with his other good arm. As you made your way to help, the vamp kicked him across the floor, Sam slammed his head on the cabinets in the fall, and you winced. You turned back to Dean, who had his vamp cornered and was talking smack (because he always has to use that smart mouth). Seeing he was perfectly fine; you turned your attention back to your vampire.
Pissed, you took one swing to the unassuming man and his head thudded to the ground, rolling as you rushed over to Sam.
"Jesus," you said as you helped him up. He groaned. "Why the hell were you watching me?" you remarked, annoyed.
"I wasn't!" he defended, propped up against the cabinets behind him. Footsteps echoed behind you.
"Sammy what the hell!" Dean said behind you.
"He didn't bite you, did he?" you asked, brows furrowed and eyes scanning his body. You looked closer at the wound on his arm, and he hissed.
"No."
"No need to be pissy about it, c'mere," you hoisted yourself up and held out a hand for him to take. He grabbed it and used the leverage to pull himself up as well, not meeting your eyes.
"You could've gotten yourself killed," you scolded.
"Yeah, well I didn't," he mumbled, embarrassed.
"I dunno why you were so worried about me. I told you; I was fine. I can handle myself."
"Yeah, I gathered that," he replied with a huff as he walked through the back door.
"That was it right?" you turned to Dean who had been silent for the time being.
"Yeah, those assholes came from the basement. I checked after I wasted the other vamp."
"Wasted?" you teased.
"Shut up," he rolled his eyes with a smile. You turned your attention ahead of you again and saw that Sam was much further ahead than before, so you jogged to keep up with him.
"Are you okay?" you asked.
"Why wouldn't I be?" he grumbled.
"You have a huge gash on your arm, and you hit your head like a motherfucker," you deadpanned. Normally, this would crack at least a small smile from Sam, but he said nothing keeping his eyes trained ahead.
"Listen, I don't understand why you're upset with me," you tried again.
"I'm not upset with you," he reluctantly responded after a moment.
"Then what's up?" More silence. You saw him chewing on his cheek, contemplating what to say next. "C'mon, you're my best friend," you nudged his bad arm, and he winced. "Shit, sorry."
He turned to you with a look in his eye, scanning over your face before speaking, "I wasn't expecting you to be so close with Dean."
You almost laughed, but for Sam's sake you reeled it in. A smile creeps up on you, and you watch his face for a second before replying, "Are you jealous, Winchester?"
He shook his head in disbelief and a small laugh fell from his lips. You smiled, "I missed that laugh." Your cheeks flushed at the moment of vulnerability, and you hesitated to meet his gaze. He dipped his head, so you had no choice but to look up at the puppy dog look he was giving you as the two of you walked right up to the side of the Impala.
You both stopped, saying nothing. You weren't sure what to say. Sam didn't have anything to be jealous of. Dean was your family, sure, but Sam was this big, never ending, sense of warmth. You held on to that stupid crush for years. How could you explain that to him?
You looked at him and studied his face. His lips were pursed slightly and his eyes darted back and forth over your face. You wished so badly to reach out and touch him but refrained, reminding yourself for the umpteenth time that it wasn't your place. Sam still said nothing.
Dean finally reached the two of you, clearing his throat with raised eyebrows. Some sight the two of you must've been, Sam bloody and beaten, and you sheepish and wide eyed, turning from each other to look at Dean.
"Don't you two look cute," he remarked with a smirk, making Sam choke in surprise, his neck stiff with embarrassment. Your cheeks went red, and you squinted at Dean as if you could inflict physical pain through a look. He looked smug as he glanced between the two of you and the both of you took a step away from each other at the implication.
"I need a cigarette," you both said at the same time. Then, "You smoke?"
summary: dean and you are coming back from a bar after interrogating someone. sam has been left alone and the two of you find him drunk and stumbling over his words. takes place sometime around season 1, pre "playthings" drunken sam.
warnings: angst, grieving, self-loathing, pining, sort of drunken confession
words: 1,466
"Alright, we'll grab the shotgun inside, head over to the farm and gank the sonuvabitch," Dean says, one foot out of the door.
"Are you absolutely positive this needs to happen tonight?" you groan, feeling the soreness in your back from being up for so long.
"The quicker we kill this thing, the quicker we can get back and sleep," he patronizes you with a sugar-sweet tone.
"Whatever," you grumble, opening the passenger side as he begins to unlock the motel room door ahead.
It's well past midnight and you can't believe the days not over yet. All you want is to lay down.
"Are you drunk?" You hear Dean say as you get out of the car. He's ahead of you by several feet, so you don't hear what Sam said to provoke the question, but you hurry to his side to see what's happening. He side-steps out of the doorway to the motel room, and you're met with the sight of Sam slouched on the couch. His head is lolled back onto the cushions behind him, and his legs are spread. He looks half unconscious and your heart drops in worry.
"Dude," Dean trails off. You keep staring, unsure of what to do. Your eyes travel to the half empty bottle of unspecified amber liquor on the floor by his foot.
"What are you thinking, man. We're on a job!" Dean says. You shoot him a look to cut it out. Sam had been having a hard time lately with the loss of his girlfriend and the evasiveness of his father, he didn't need his brother on his case. His head produced enough guilt to last him a lifetime and then some.
He groans from the couch, his head dropping to his chest. You hear the hollow thud of his chin meeting sternum and wince. You step forward, close enough to snatch the bottle from between his legs so that he doesn't knock it down. Once the top is screwed on you hand it back to Dean.
"Let me handle this, just get some of our stuff ready for tomorrow," you nod your head to the duffle bag sitting on the table across from you.
"Tomorrow? We were supposed to do this tonight," Dean says through his teeth, anger rising.
"Yeah, well clearly that's not happening," you whisper shout, "he can't even stand up." Dean stares at you for another second stubbornly, before rolling his eyes and sticking his tongue in his cheek. He sighs before turning to the duffle without another word.
At least that was one battle won.
You turn your attention back to Sam who's looking up at you through his bangs with a remorseful look. You huff and step closer, putting a smile on your face to try and comfort him. His eyes are watery and your heart breaks.
"C'mon sugar," you whisper to him, grabbing his arms that hang uselessly by his sides to try and help him up.
You grunt with effort when he doesn't move to assist you.
"No..." he slurs in protest. You try again, this time crouching to try and use your legs in the effort. He still doesn't budge much, shifting his weight and letting his head roll.
"Sammy, you gotta help me out here," you say with a smile for his benefit.
"Don't deserve it," he mumbles and you furrow your brow. "You guys go without me, I can't help anyways."
"Don't say that, we need you." You remove your hands from him and stay crouched, studying him.
"I can't save anyone!" he raises his voice now, lifting his head and looking at you, pain swimming in his eyes.
"Sam..." you trail off, unsure what to say. You didn't know this was weighing on him this much.
"Where's this pity party comin' from?" Dean pipes in from behind you and you whip your head to him, shutting him up with a look.
"Don't listen to him. And what do you mean, you can't save anyone? You save plenty of people all the time," you point out, if only to take his mind off of whatever self-loathing was going on. You knew what he was getting at.
"Couldn't save Jess," his voice cracks when he says her name and you frown. There it is. Your hand itches to reach out and hold him, but he was so unpredictable sometimes, you aren't sure if that's what he needs.
"That's not your fault and you know it," you say, trying to meet his eye. You're speaking so gingerly, you're not even sure if he hears you.
"Dad was right, can't do anything right. Can't help anyone," he mumbles to himself, avoiding your gaze. Your ears strain to pick apart his slurred speech and you shift your position, about to lean closer. He senses this and in a moment of confusion, reaches out, grabbing your hand in urgency. His wild eyes meet yours and you hold your breath, waiting for the next thing, but nothing comes. He sits there, eyes darting between yours and breathing heavy.
"Don't listen to your dad, when have you ever listened to your dad?" you try, gripping his hand to tether him to your words, let them sink into his skull. His face looks like he's on the verge of tears, but he can't cry.
"We need you Sam," you say again to reassure him.
"Dad didn't need me."
"Well John is an idiot. We're not your father," your tone has a finality that he can't argue with, even drunk. His eyes search yours and you watch as he fights with himself. Over what, you're not sure. You catch him staring at your intertwined hands and feel him grip you harder, like you'll disappear.
"C'mon, let's get you to bed," you say softly, afraid to upset him again. This time he listens.
You help him off the couch with some effort and walk him to the bed a foot away. He sits and slumps into you, practically throwing his arms around your waist.
Your hands freeze just above his head, raised and unsure of what to do. He stays there for a moment, breathing you in as you stiffen under the sudden affection. It's quiet, your mind wanders, allowing yourself to selfishly bask in the comfort of Sam hugging you.
"Don't leave me," he says into the denim of your jeans.
"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper, relaxing into his touch and settling your hands on his shoulders. You wish desperately to be able to run your fingers through his hair, but you don't want to cross a line and break the spell.
It's quiet again, and you think Sam has fallen asleep, so you turn to Dean who is watching with a bewildered look in his eye coupled with mild amusement. You mouth, what do I do? to him and he shrugs, still watching the interaction.
You turn your attention back to Sam who is not asleep and is now looking up at you so reverently you feel an overwhelming sense of sadness well up in your throat.
"I love you," he says so quietly you can barely hear him. Your heart splinters and the words die in your throat. You wish so badly that everything was different. That he wasn't drunk and probably stretching the truth. That he wasn't grieving his girlfriend who he thought he'd marry. You wished that maybe in another life you had gotten Sam before Jessica did. That none of this ever happened and that you two were living a normal, apple-pie-life.
But none of that was real. Sam was drunk, and grieving his girlfriend, and feeling bad for himself. So, you took a deep breath and plastered a smile on your face.
"I know, sweetheart," you reply as if the words didn't feel like sandpaper in your throat. As if your heart wasn't plummeting with the jumbled rejection of his drunken affection. As if you weren't contemplating the meaning of all of this. He wouldn't remember this in the morning anyways.
His brow furrows and he pouts before throwing himself onto the bed behind him. He turns away from you and says nothing more, settling himself into the bed like a petulant child. You take a stabilizing breath to distract yourself from the last two minutes and watch as his breathing evens out.
After another quiet moment, you turn and pretend nothing out of the ordinary happened, which is bullshit because Dean was right there.
"Jesus," is all he says. His pistol is taken apart in front of him, lying on the surface of the table as he cleans the barrel.
"Yeah..." you trail off and take a seat next to him, your heart hammering in your chest as you begin to unpack the interaction.
⋆♱
part 2
this one is just kinda meh. was supposed to turn it into a loooooong plot with smut but.... kinda thought it was too depressing.
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summary: after the emotional rollercoaster that was the night before, you, Sam, and Dean have a ghoul to kill. the only problem is that you and Sam are both stubborn and too afraid to admit something that might upset the other. awkward breakfast aside, this creates a bigger problem on the hunt the three of you have to finish in the late summer heat.
warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, more stupid idiots in love, miscommunication trope (i'm sorry this will be resolved)
words: 4,013
You woke up without an appetite, something that rarely ever happened on the road.
Dean, on the other hand, hauled himself out of bed on account of his stomach growling louder than the motel alarm clock. The three of you had to skip dinner the night before and were left to eat stale chips from the vending machine, post Sam-meltdown.
Sam rolled over in his bed and groaned.
"Mornin' sunshine," Dean smirked at his brother, throwing on a t shirt and a pair of jeans. His mood a sour slap in the face, both because of Sam's apparent hangover and Dean's sudden fondness for the morning.
"Let him sleep a little longer," you said, nudging him on your way into the bathroom.
The half hour it took for the three of you to change and pack the car was spent in silence and felt like you were dragging yourself through molasses. You had tossed and turned all night on the couch, both because it was wildly uncomfortable and because you saw Sam’s eyes behind your lids every time you closed them.
By the time the you guys manage to make your way to the local diner, Sam's fully awake and you can't tell if he fully comprehends everything that happened the night before.
When you slide into the vinyl booth, he makes himself busy with reading the menu, which is weird because he gets eggs and toast at every diner. Dean reads the specials list out loud, seemingly just to torture you two.
“Bacon-Cheddar Waffle-wich,” he grins at Sam’s wince. You watch him in slight amusement, anything to ignore the tightness in your chest.
“Apple Pie French Toast, mmmm don’t mind if I do,” his eyes light up like he just won the lottery. Placing his menu down and folding his hands atop the table, he turns his attention on you and Sam with a glint in his eye.
“You’re awfully giddy this morning,” you point out. Normally a comment like this would invite Sam to join in on the fun of dogging on his brother, but he stays silent at the opportunity. His head is ducked in the fold of the menu like it's a century-old lore book.
Dean and you share a look, and you shrug, feigning a nonchalance about the whole situation you know he knows you don’t feel.
There's conversation at the counter and dishes clanking in the kitchen. Your waitress comes over to take your orders, and sure enough Sam gets eggs and rye toast, just like always. Dean gets a side of bacon and an extra side of corned beef hash with his French toast, and you’re left to order, not sure what to get.
“Uh, can I just get…” you glance at the menu and decide on the first thing you see: the number five, “the pancakes with fruit?”
“That all for you guys?” Says the waitress, pen still hovering over her notepad.
“That’s great, thanks,” Dean replies with a dazzling smile.
“Be right out,” she saunters off, but Dean can’t even be bothered to watch her go this morning, he’s so disturbed by the unnatural silence that’s settled between you and Sam.
“Alright, cut the shit. We have a ghoul to kill and you two can’t be all weird out there,” Dean says. Sam looks away, his cheeks reddening only slightly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say.
“Whatever, I need to piss,” Dean grumbles, and hauls himself out of the booth.
Sam’s sitting across from you, legs tucked in so as to not brush against yours.
“He’s right y’know,” you say, if only to break the silence.
“I’m just embarrassed,” he says quietly.
“About what?” You reply, unsure how much he remembered or wanted to reveal. He gives you a pointed look, meeting your eye for the first time this morning.
“Sam, you were drunk, it’s fine. Dean goes out and drinks every other night.”
“Yeah…” he trails off. There’s an awkward silence again, and you think you’ve said the wrong thing. Dean comes back before you can fix it.
“I’m starving. How long’s it take to make French toast?”
“You’re such a baby, drink your coffee,” you roll your eyes and look to Sam for a reaction. He sits there, stone faced, and you look away, dejected and annoyed.
You were sparing him the embarrassment of bringing up his love confession! Shouldn’t he have some gratitude? Especially after you took care of him yesterday?
You take a sip of your coffee and keep quiet for the rest of breakfast. You attempted to rectify the situation and Sam wouldn’t have any of it.
Nothing more to do, so be it.
It was noon and sweltering when the three of you step out of the Impala onto the dirt lot that the huge abandoned house stood in. Illinois heat was something you didn’t realize had vengeance.
Dean rounded the back of the car to dish out the weapons while you and Sam stood watching the house, a healthy distance apart from each other.
You hadn’t said anything the entire twenty minute car ride out of town. Just sat and stewed in your misery while Dean shot you strange looks in the rear view mirror.
“Alright c’mere,” he barks at you two now, his hunting face put on.
“Machete for you,” he says, as you take it from his hand. “Shotgun for you,” he holds the butt out to Sam who takes it without a word.
“Stick together. This one’s freakishly strong,” he stares at the way the two of you refuse to look at each other. Sam stalks off in the direction of the house and you huff, turning to follow.
“Hey! I mean it!” You hear him call as he shuts the trunk, heading in the other direction to the back of the house.
“Can you wait up?” You ask begrudgingly. He pauses his long stride, turning his head to watch you catch up.
The two of you walk up to the front door in silence, scuffing your boots in the dirt.
“Did I do something?” You ask when you get to the front door.
“What?” He turns to face you under the porch that looks like it’s about to cave in.
“You’ve been all weird and quiet this morning,” you shrug it off.
“I’m hungover,” he deadpans.
“Okay.”
Very productive talk.
Your hand reaches for the doorknob and surprisingly it twists. The door opens with a shudder and you step inside first.
There’s dust in the air, the sun filters in through the moth-eaten curtains, but you see fresh footsteps in the layer of dirt, so it’s not totally abandoned.
Following them, you don’t check to see if Sam is behind you. It’s eerily quiet and although your heart is beating faster than usual, your mind is in hunting mode. You can’t afford to think about Sam.
But you are thinking about him.
Stupid Sam and his stupid smile. Stupid Sam and his stupid, stubborn head. Stupid Sam and his pretty bloodshot eyes as he confesses his drunken love for you.
And now! He has the audacity to hardly look in your direction. Like you’re gum on his shoe.
You don’t look back, but you know he’s there. He’s always there. Sam was always your friend that you could count on. He was always going to be there. You figure maybe you should just drop it. He's embarrassed, like he said earlier. In a couple of days, he'll be back by your side, just like he is now, just like he always is.
Until he’s not.
Head cloudy with distraction, you walk into what must’ve been the living room (a million years ago when someone lived in this house). You didn’t check if there was anyone in there before hand.
The door shuts once you pass the threshold and the ghoul smiles at you when you whip around, machete in hand.
You swing, before you get a proper look at it, aiming for the general head area. It dodges you and pounces, knocking you to the floorboards.
The door creaks under Sam’s constant blows, attempting to bust it open. You glance and notice a bureau barricading the entrance and briefly scold yourself for falling for the oldest trick in the book.
Stupid Sam.
You punch up with your non-machete hand and meet its chest. It grunts before head butting you.
You see stars. The pounding continues but you don’t know if it’s in your head this time. Sam’s voice echoes in your head. Is he calling your name or Dean’s? You can’t tell.
You feel a searing pain in your left shoulder and try to focus your eyes in that direction. The ghoul is biting you.
You yelp, and swing your right arm, slicing into its side. It lets out an awful sound, rolling off of you and clutching its ribs.
You haul yourself up and eye it down. A minute ago, the ghoul looked like a random woman, now it was a near mirror image of you, save the gash in its torso.
“Dickhead,” you say before you charge, swinging.
It dodges you again, dancing to the chorus of banging and shouting from behind the door. Now you hear Dean with Sam, and you see the bureau inching away from the blows. You just need to hold the ghoul off for a few more minutes.
It watches you a few feet away as you catch your breath. Your shoulder throbs and you feel your shirt getting sticky with blood.
The ghoul eyes the window on the wall behind you. It knows it won’t survive if they get through that door. All you have to do is keep it in this room.
It lunges. You swing again, this time lodging the machete in its femur. The force trips it, and it tumbles to the ground, pulling the weapon out of your hand.
Scrambling, you reach out but it kicks you in the mouth. Pulling the machete out of its leg, it rises. You watch the perverse version of yourself towering above.
Blood pools in your mouth as you pull your weight up, ducking as the blade cuts through the air where your head was a second before. You tackle the ghoul before it can make it to the window as the final blow from the brothers pushes the furniture far enough away that the door can be leveraged open.
Sam comes in first, chest heaving and hair sticking to his forehead. You almost forget where you are, he looks so good.
Stupid Sam.
Dean follows, machete in hand. They both stop and stare. You’re wondering why they’re hesitating when the ghoul calls out, “Kill her!”
You widen your eyes and watch as Dean takes a step forward, still trying to figure out who is who.
“Dean! It’s me!” You try to get him to understand with some kind of hunter-mind-reading skill you know the both of you don’t have.
“No! I’m me! Kill her!”
“Okay, calm down!” Dean shouts, his brow furrowing and his blade lowering just an inch.
You watch Sam look between the two of you, studying, trying to decipher the fake.
“Sam?” Dean’s eyes don’t leave the scene in front of him as he questions his brother.
“Guys!” You start getting agitated. Are they this stupid? They'd known you practically your whole lives and they couldn't tell you from the bitch who was pretending to be you?
“Sam, please!” You see recognition flicker in the brothers’ eyes and they turn to the ghoul, weapons raised. Sam aims at the creature, but hesitates a second too long. It realizes it’s been caught and scurries for your machete on the ground.
Dean catches it, closing his eyes tight and swinging, lobbing its head off in one pass.
“What the hell?” You exclaim, holding your shoulder and watching your head roll on the wood floor.
“What!” Dean gets defensive.
“How’d you know you didn’t just kill me!”
“You never call Sam, ‘Sam’,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing.
“What the fuck are you talking about,” your arm is still throbbing and the agitation from a moment ago has morphed into agitation at the brashness of their kill.
“You call him Sammy, unless you’re mad or something.”
“That is not enough to go off of.”
“What the hell do you mean? How else were we supposed to know!”
“I don’t know! But that’s so small!”
“You’re impossible!” Dean groans.
“I can’t believe you could’ve just killed me,” you say more to yourself than either of them.
You and Dean bicker some more just to get rid of the gravity of the situation and try to return to normal. Sam makes a point of not looking at the decapitated ghoul wearing your face.
It’s almost two o'clock when you guys get back to the car. You sit on the hood while Dean cleans you up. Sam’s behind you in the passenger seat, his head in his hands. He hasn’t said anything since Dean killed the thing.
“That stings,” you wince.
“Well, Einstein, it’s peroxide.”
“Good thing you never went to medical school, you would’ve made a terrible doctor,” you reply just to fill the silence.
Dean grunts in acknowledgement but says nothing more. You’re hot with shame (and also shivering with pain) over getting caught with the monster.
“I told you two not to split up,” he grits through his teeth.
“We didn’t.”
“Then how’d you end up in there with Sam on the other side?”
“I don’t know,” you lie, twiddling your thumbs. Dean stops his cleaning and pins you with a stare that says he knows you better.
You look back and this time, the hunter telepathy works. He sighs.
“You two need to fix your shit,” he whispers so that his brother can’t hear him.
“It’s not my fault!” You hiss through your teeth.
“Don’t care. Fix your shit, it almost got you killed today,” his eyes say more that what’s being said.
“Okay.”
“Good.” The soft hum of the radio plays in the background while the sun beats down on the back of your neck. Dean finishes bandaging your shoulder up and you try to move it. It's stiff and you can barely lift it an inch without grunting in pain.
Shoving off the hood, you round the back of the car and slide into the backseat.
"Sammy, come help me get this body," he calls out and Sam gets out without a glance back to you. You're left by your lonesome, listening to the oldies station and picking at what's left of your old nail polish.
Ten minutes pass and you watch the shadows of the leaves on trees dance across the dirt path. In the distance, you see the brothers rounding the corner of the back of the house, dragging the body in a rust-stained sheet.
Sam's face is stoic while Dean's reflects the agitation you can now faintly hear in his voice. It starts to echo amongst the birdsong, and you go still, straining to hear what he's saying. Sam keeps walking, listening to what he's saying, but you're not sure if he's absorbing it.
"I said I was sorry!" he blows up. His face contorts as he turns to his brother, who has now shut up. Probably for the better, you think.
Your heart thaws a little in understanding. In the past 24 hours, Sam's has a rough go of it. It probably didn't help, Dean scolding him.
When they enter the car, it's awkward. Your body double is in the trunk. Dean tosses you the road map and tells you to find good enough woods to take it and burn it.
"I saw something yesterday," Sam says, holding his hand out, motioning for the map in your hand. You stare a moment, shocked. He motions again, glancing back at you and you hand it to him, mumbling a "sorry."
"Here," he points to a green area on the map, not far from where you guys are now.
"Kay, lead the way," Dean says, peeling out of the lot and onto the highway.
Sam gives directions every few minutes, and you watch the back of his head intently, wishing he would turn around and look at you. If he just saw the look on your face, maybe he wouldn't feel so bad. Maybe the two of you wouldn't even need to talk about it. It could be resolved right there in one look, and everything could go back to normal.
But Stupid Sam didn't look back and so you were left to grovel, with no one to witness, only the slight comfort of his body heat radiating back to you.
In the wooded area, it's dark. It's only seven, so the summer sun is still blazing above, but the trees block the sunlight, and the further you three walk, the darker it gets.
"Do we have to go this deep?" you ask. All it was, was a regular burning. No one was going to come back here anyway.
"This is fine," Dean says, stopping and dropping the lumpy sheet onto the ground. Sam follows and digs in his pockets for a matchbook. You begin dousing it in gasoline with your good arm.
"We're not gonna start a forest fire, are we?" you glance around the trees. You'd found an area amongst them that wasn't so crowded, bare enough that it wouldn't cling to the bark of an innocent tree-bystander.
"It rained the day before," Sam says, matches in hand and watching you at work. Dean keeps quiet, but you can see on his face that he's pleased that you and Sam are speaking, even if it's arbitrary half sentences.
Sam strikes a match and tosses it onto the bloodied sheet. You two watch as it goes up in flames.
"I'm gonna wait in the car, stay here and watch," Dean points to the burning ghoul. He turns and heads in the direction you came from, head up and searching the tree line.
"Stay here and watch," you mimic when he's far enough away that he can't hear. Sam snorts but says nothing else.
You turn to face him, and in doing so, invite flashes of memories from the night before. His watery eyes and the way his hair tickled your stomach where your shirt rode up. His never-ending guilt.
He's pretty like this, you think. The fire casts a glow on his cheekbones, and you want to reach out and hold him. Bask in the combined warmth of the unnatural fire and the steadiness of his heat. Make him know that it's going to be okay. You'll do whatever it takes just to have your best friend back.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, turning his face from the fire to you. His eyes are sad.
"Why?"
"Well, for one, you almost died," his eyes linger on your bandaged shoulder and you shrug despite your muscle's protest.
"That's nothing and you know it. We almost die all the time."
"Sure... maybe it wouldn't have happened if I just manned up and talked to you," his eyes dart between yours, waiting to see if you'll take the bait this time.
"Sam..."
"Can I just say," he interrupts, holding a hand out and stepping closer, "If you want to forget everything I said last night, fine. But can you spare my dignity and just acknowledge what I said?"
"But I was trying to spare your dignity!" you jump in now. "I thought you wouldn't want to talk about Jess and..." you trail off still unsure.
"And my mopey little love admission?" there's a hint of a smile under his blush as he adverts his eyes to his shoes.
"Well, I wasn't going to call it that, but..." you smile and wait for him to look at you again. The fire is washing him in a warm light and his hair is almost amber.
"If you want to forget about it, I get it. I'm sorry. I- I crossed a line because I was drunk and then- I mean, you weren't even looking at me so I thought I made you upset. And you brushed me off at breakfast so I was annoyed and then you almost died-"
"Sam. It's fine. Seriously," your heart is in your stomach as you watch your boots toeing the dirt. He was leaving it up to you to decide if you two should forget about it. But what did he mean by saying 'I love you'? Was it in a you're-my-best-friend-I appreciate-you-taking-care-of-my-drunk-ass way? Or a I've-been-in-love-with-you-for-just-about-as-long-as-I've-known-you-but-I'm-a-stupid-idiot way?
One of those options is wishful thinking.
You look up from your shoes and find him staring. Your heart beats faster and your stomach flips. When did he get that close? There's stillness in the air as the fire cracks next to you, the smell of burning ghoul flesh turns in your stomach alongside the aching to reach out and touch him.
"So-" he starts, unsure. You cut him off with a hug. You bury your face in his chest and wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He raises them to encircle you, holding tightly. Part of you shoves your nose into his shirt because you love the smell, part of you does it to hide the disgusting smell coming from the fire beside you.
He rests his chin on the crown of your head and you sigh.
"Your heart is beating really fast," he whispers. You don't say anything, hoping he can use his big law school brain to put two and two together.
"I don't know what to do," you confess into the cotton of his t shirt. It comes out garbled, your face is practically melded with his chest.
"Well, then let's just forget about it," Sam whispers back. You feel sick with want.
"But-"
"It's okay," he soothes. He raises a hand from your back. You think the hug is over, the moment done with and your heart plummets further. Instead, you feel it hesitate before gently brushing your hair down. You feel like crying.
But it wasn't ever going to work. The both of you knew that. He needed more time to process his grief. You wouldn't be able to function on hunts if you entertained the idea any more than you already were. Today was proof enough.
His breathing slows and you feel his heartbeat steadying. You two stand there embracing, for longer than two people who just agreed to stay friends should.
Your chest is tight when you pull away. The fire is dying and the embers surrounding the body are the only things glowing in the late afternoon haze. You look back at Sam and he lets out a long breath, staring at the dead and burnt ghoul.
You wish you knew what he was thinking.
You two walk back, side by side in comfortable silence. Similar to earlier, but not quite the same. Your shoulder bumps into his arm as the light gets brighter around the edge of the woods. Finally, you see the Impala, and Dean leaning against the side of it, eyes closed.
They open when he hears the crunch of your combined footsteps. He smiles when he sees your relaxed shoulders and the soft smile on your face.
But he's not stupid. He sees his brother's eyes and the way your eyes linger on Sam's hands in his pockets. When you slide into the familiarity of the backseat, he turns and raises an eyebrow at you.
"All good," you cheer up for his sake. Sam opens the passenger door and Dean rights himself, putting the key in the ignition and turning the engine.
"Glad that's done," he says with stupid bravado. Sam shakes his head, "I need lunch," Dean pats his stomach and you laugh. He pulls off the shoulder of the road and begins driving, meeting your eye in the rear view mirror.
You're not sure you feel any better, but it's been resolved. Nothing more to do about that.
yay! part 2! right before I start my semester! sorry this took so long, but hopefully I'll be bale to write the third (and final part) within the week to resolve this mess. I did not proofread this so my apologies for any mistakes...
