Call me Ash

Ma Kent snorted softly from across the table. “At this point, that baby’s probably ninety percent mashed potatoes.”

Clark looked entirely unashamed. “They will be a very healthy, growing baby.”

You bit back a smile.

That was the thing about Clark during your pregnancy, he hovered.

Did you need water? A pillow? Another blanket? Less blanket? A snack? Different snack? Did your back hurt? Were your feet swollen? Had you rested enough? Too much? Was the baby kicking enough? Too much?

The man treated your pregnancy like the world’s most important mission.

And it made him very, very easy to fluster.

And suddenly, sitting there at the table with Ma and Pa Kent, watching your husband lovingly shovel corn onto your plate like he was personally responsible for feeding both you and the baby, the idea struck.

You looked down at your half-full plate thoughtfully.

Then, very gently, you asked, “Clark… am I allowed to have some more?”

Clark didn’t even look up.

“Of course,” he said immediately, mouth still full, already spooning another helping onto your plate. “You barely ate any! Here, have more chicken too.”

You pressed your lips together. You continued carefully, in the smallest voice you could manage. “Are you sure?”

Clark blinked at you. “Sure about what?”

“That it’s okay for me to eat more?”

Clark stared at you for a long moment. Then looked at your plate. Then at you again.

“…Yes?” He sounded deeply confused.

You nodded solemnly, “Okay,” and resumed eating.

Clark reached for the biscuits.

“You want another one?”

“Yes please.”

“Here you go, my love.” He handed it over immediately.

You sighed as your prank failed, silently waiting for another opportunity.

-

Said opportunity was when Ma Kent brought out dessert.

Her specialty peach cobbler was still warm, the smell filling the kitchen instantly.

“Oh my goodness,” you sighed dramatically. “That smells amazing.”

Ma Kent smiled warmly. “Go on, honey, have some.”

You coached your face to look anxious, worried, then slowly turned toward Clark.

“…Am I allowed?”

The room went silent.

Clark froze with the serving spoon halfway in his hand.

Ma Kent blinked. Pa Kent’s expression changed immediately into a frown.

“Allowed?” Ma Kent repeated.

You looked down shyly. “Well… I just wanted to check first.”

Clark looked like his soul had briefly left his body.

“Why would you…what do you mean allowed?” 

You kept your face perfectly straight. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Upset me?” Clark nearly choked. “Why would it upset me?”

Ma Kent’s eyebrows shot up.

Pa Kent set down his fork, slowly and very carefully.

Clark turned toward you so quickly his chair squeaked against the floor.

“Honey, what are you talking about?”

You blinked innocently. “The cobbler.”

“The cobbler…”

“Yes.”

Ma Kent turned to Clark at the same time he looked at you incredulously.

“Clark,” she said carefully, “why would she need permission to eat dessert?”

“I—she doesn’t!” Clark’s brows were furrowed with concern, slowly feeling like he was unnecessarily put on the hot seat. “Why would you need my permission to eat cobbler?!”

You shrugged lightly. “Well, you may not want me to eat any more.”

Ma Kent slowly turned toward her son.

“Clark Joseph Kent.”

Clark’s eyes widened in immediate horror.

“No! No, no, no—Ma, I swear—”

Pa Kent crossed his arms.

Clark looked even more panicked.

“I have literally never stopped her from eating anything in her life! She eats whatever she wants, whenever she wants. I've actually been actively encouraging her to eat more because she sometimes forgets in the afternoon and the doctor said…" He caught himself, and looked back at you. "What is going on?”

You tilted your head. “But maybe you didn’t want me eating cobbler specifically?”

“Why would I not want you to?!”

Clark looked moments away from a full system shutdown.

“Honey,” he said frantically, stumbling over every word, “I have never, not once, told you what you can or can’t eat. Or do. Or wear. Or…anything!”

Ma Kent was now openly suspicious. “Clark…”

“No! Ma, listen to me—I swear, she does whatever she wants! Constantly! Happily! And I support her! Enthusiastically!”

You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s true.”

Clark pointed at you wildly. “See?!”

“But maybe secretly you don’t like how much I eat?”

Clark looked genuinely devastated.

“What?! No, Ma, Pa, listen to me. I’ve never told her not to do anything she wanted! Ever! If anything, she tells me what to do!”

He turned back to his parents, fully distressed now.

“I am not controlling! Right? I’m not controlling.”

Pa Kent finally spoke, voice low. “Son…”

Clark turned toward him in absolute panic. “Pa, I swear to God, I have never denied her anything in my entire life! I don't restrict her eating. I don't restrict ANYTHING! I don't tell her what to do. I would never." Clark's voice had taken on the slightly desperate quality of a man watching a small fire and patting his pockets for something to put it out with. "She has complete autonomy over everything. Every single thing. I've never once told her she couldn't eat or do or–"

"Clark," you said.

“--have anything she wanted, I mean she went through a period in the second trimester where she wanted a very specific brand of crackers at two in the morning and I flew forty minutes to three different stores to find them, I have the receipts, I can show you the receipts–”

“Clark.”

“--and I don't know what this is right now but I need everyone at this table to understand that I am not and have never been–”

“CLARK.”

He stopped his rambling.

He looked at you.

You were smiling. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Then suddenly you were laughing so hard you had to hold your stomach.

The entire table stared at you.

“Oh no,” Ma Kent whispered, already realizing.

You wheezed helplessly, tears gathering in your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry…I was joking.”

Silence.

Clark blinked.

“…What?”

You covered your face, laughing harder. “It was a prank, baby.”

Clark stared. Ma Kent burst into laughter instantly.

Pa Kent leaned back in his chair.

Clark remained frozen. “You…”

“I’m sorry,” you laughed again. “You were just so easy to fluster.”

Clark looked deeply betrayed.

“I thought Pa was about to kill me.”

You grinned at Pa, “He was in on it,” you confessed, remembering how Pa chuckled gruffly when you told him about your plan.

Clark dropped back into his chair dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.

“I cannot believe you.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek sweetly.

“I’m sorry I scared you, honey. You're a wonderful husband," you said. "Why do you still have the receipts?"

He put his arm around you, and you could feel him giving up on the wounded dignity, the whole structure of it just gently collapsing.

"Souvenirs," he said again, quieter, “I didn’t want to forget anything about your pregnancy. And so that I could show our baby that I would do anything for them.”

You smiled at him, cupping his cheek tenderly before giving him a kiss. Clark turned pink.

"Forty minutes,” he reminded you, “Three stores."

"I know."

"In the rain."

"It wasn't raining."

"It was drizzling." Clark sighed deeply. 

You laughed, then immediately reached for the cobbler.

Clark instinctively grabbed the serving spoon and loaded a giant portion onto your plate.

Everyone at the table burst into laughter again.

Clark looked around defensively.

“What? She’s eating for two.”

-

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Lake Michigan.

You couldn’t see it from here, but you could feel it. 

It was a short walk. This specific motel was marketed toward people who went fishing or just enjoyed having the lake nearby. 

But the ache in your muscles would not allow you to move yet. The pull sat deep beneath your ribs, ancient and aching, like a hook buried into your bones tugging steadily toward the shore. It had been getting worse for days now. Three nights without sleep. Three nights of cold sweats, restless pacing, the constant sound of water roaring in your ears no matter where you went.

Full moons always made it worse.

They woke things up.

Humans felt it too, albeit in a much lower degree than what they called “monsters”. They didn’t know the moon called to everything touched by old magic.

You swallowed hard and shut your eyes for a second.

The motel room door creaked open behind you. Then, bootsteps against gravel, walking toward you.

Sam leaned against the hood next to you, leaving enough space so you wouldn’t feel cornered. The metal dipped slightly under his weight.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The night air smelled like pine trees, motor oil, and wood. Along with the faint scent of freshwater that incited you to come closer.

“You okay?” Sam asked quietly.

I will be, you thought as you nodded your head.

Sam glanced toward the treeline, following your line of sight even though there was nothing there to see.

“You’re tired,” he said gently.

“Long hunt,” you replied, still not taking your eyes off of the horizon. Exhaustion clung to every inch of you just as much as you were sure it did to Sam. Your limbs felt heavy, your eyes dirty, and your skin wrong. Too dry. 

The lake was calling…louder each time. 

“You should come inside,” he murmured. “Get some sleep.”

Your fingers curled tighter against the edge of the hood.

Sleep.

You thought of Dean, who by now was probably having his third dream of the night. He’d barely made it through half a complaint about cheap motel pillows before collapsing face-first onto the bed with an unopened vodka bottle still in his hand.

The second you closed your eyes, you knew exactly what would happen. Dreams of dark water, waves crashing against your ribs. Drowning you, like a hug. 

You smiled subconsciously as you slowly shook your head. “You go ahead.”

Beside you, Sam exhaled softly rubbing a hand over his face, exhaustion finally slipping through the cracks in his composure.

The breeze shifted again, carrying the scent of the lake with it now. Your lungs seemed to expand on their own, big and bountiful.

Sam studied your profile carefully.

“You should get some rest too,” you murmured absentmindedly.

Sam was silent for a moment.

Then, softer this time, “I will.”

You frowned faintly, finally dragging your gaze away from the horizon to look at him.

Moonlight caught against the tired shadows beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted enough to collapse standing up. There was dried blood still smeared near his jaw from the hunt earlier, and his flannel hung open slightly at the throat, wet with sweat and dirt. Yet, he was still here.

“You don’t have to stay out here,” you said.

“I know.”

You knew what he meant. Gentle and caring Sam, always looking out for you. Had it been any other night, or sometime where your mind wasn’t occupied with thoughts of the lake and the moon, you might have argued. Tell him how you can take care of yourself, make it ten times harder for him. But tonight, you just looked away.

With the moon up, your inhibitions were down. 

She hung massive overhead now, pale and watchful, casting silver across the motel parking lot until everything looked drowned beneath it.

For a second, you could almost imagine the lake itself staring back at you. Crawling at you. Dragging itself up the forest, across the street and into the parking lot. Picking you up, and holding you down. 

Your breathing had started to change without you noticing—slower and deeper. Like waves.

Sam noticed immediately. “You okay?”

You swallowed, and honesty came in the shape of a whisper.

“No.”

Sam straightened slightly beside you, concern sharpening through the exhaustion. “What do you need?”

The question nearly undid you.

Because the terrifying thing was—you knew exactly what you needed. Its freezing depths wrapping around your body until the ache inside you finally stopped.

Your fingers trembled against the Impala’s hood.

“I don’t know if I can ignore it tonight,” you admitted quietly.

You felt Sam shift beside you.

Another gust of wind swept through the parking lot, colder this time, and your eyes fluttered shut involuntarily.

You could hear waves now.

When you opened your eyes again you were surrounded by the forest. The faint sound of Sam calling out your name a few steps behind you.

Your legs moved without your permission, as if they themselves couldn’t wait to turn into one. 

Branches clawed at your arms as you moved through the forest, slow and dreamlike beneath the silver wash of moonlight.

“Hey—hey, wait.”

Sam’s voice echoed somewhere behind you, though it was distant and muffled. Like hearing someone speak from the opposite side of deep water. 

Your bare feet sank into damp earth and dead leaves. Every step closer made the ache inside your body ease just a little more. The lake was near now. You could smell it fully—cold freshwater and stone and moonlit depth.

Your heartbeat slowed to match the rhythm of waves.

Your name being called barely registered.

Your bare feet sank into damp earth and dead leaves. Every step closer made the ache inside your body ease just a little more. The lake was near now. You could smell it fully—cold freshwater and stone and moonlit depth.

Your heartbeat slowed to match the rhythm of waves.

Your lips parted soundlessly.

You were so close. You could feel it, the moon, the lake and you, all singing in unison. Calling to each other.

Sam stepped directly into your path.

You stopped automatically.

His chest rose and fell hard from running, hair disheveled, flannel hanging open as he reached for your arms carefully but firmly.

“Hey,” he breathed, trying to catch your gaze. “Hey, look at me.”

His hands were warm. Too warm.

Your eyes dragged slowly from the lake to his face.

Everything about him looked blurred at the edges except his eyes.

Worried hazel fixed entirely on you.

“You need to stop,” he said softly. “Just—just breathe for a second, okay?”

You stared at him blankly.

His words were slipping past you like water through open fingers.

“Please don’t be mad,” you whispered.

Sam blinked, confusion flashing briefly across his face. “Mad? Why would I be mad?”

“You can’t come with me.”

His grip tightened slightly—not painful. Grounding.

“You’re not making any sense right now.” His voice stayed painfully gentle despite the fear creeping into it. “Come back to the motel with me.”

The lake called louder.

You could feel it against your skin now.

Inside your bones.

“Please,” Sam insisted quietly. “Just let me take you back.”

But his voice couldn’t compete with the water.

Your gaze drifted past his shoulder toward the shoreline again.

“Stay with me,” you murmured suddenly.

His brow furrowed as he leaned his head down, trying to catch your gaze again. “Please, just let me take you to—”

“You’ll hate me,” you whispered.

Sam’s expression softened instantly, confusion giving way to something wounded.

“I could never hate you.”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a second.

The moon pulsed white behind your eyelids. When you opened them again, your mouth opened along with them. A soft melody came pouring out of your lips as you gently pushed past Sam.

The sound wrapped around him instantly. Gently and tender, like a lullaby, inviting you to a sweet dream.

Your voice flowed through the trees like moonlight over water, low and aching and impossibly beautiful. Every note seemed to sink beneath Sam’s skin, pulling at something deep inside his chest. His hands loosened around your arms without him realizing it.

The lake answered you.

Waves rolled softly against the shoreline in perfect rhythm with your song.

You stepped onto the sand slowly, your movements graceful in a way that no longer looked entirely human. The moonlight clung to your skin, silver across your throat and shoulders.

Sam stood frozen several feet behind you. His exhaustion disappeared beneath the haze settling over his mind.

You reached for the hem of your shirt, and pulled it over your head slowly. 

Sam’s breath caught quietly.

Your jeans followed next, pushed down your legs with slow, absent movements until you stood in only your underwear at the edge of the lake, pale moonlight spilling across every inch of your skin.

The song grew softer then.

You lifted your hands toward the necklace resting against your collarbone. The silver chain trembled faintly between your fingers before you unclasped it.

Turning back toward Sam, you crossed the short distance between you both. His eyes would not leave you. He looked like he wanted to say something, but did not want to interrupt your song. 

You took his hand gently and placed the necklace into his palm.

His fingers curled around it automatically.

Warm skin against cold silver.

“Sweet Sam,” you whispered softly, the melody still woven through your voice. “Please don’t hate me.”

Sam opened his mouth slightly, but no words came out. He could only stare at you, and your eyes clouded over with moonlight.

Then you turned away again, and slowly began your descent into the lake.

The water embraced you instantly.

Your song echoed across the dark surface as waves climbed higher up your body; your thighs, your waist, your ribs.

Sam remained rooted to the shoreline, breathing slow and shallow, unable to look away.

Moonlight danced across the water around you like shattered glass.

The melody softened more and more as you moved deeper.

Your shoulders disappeared beneath the surface,then your throat, followed by your chin. Your lips were the last thing visible above the water, still singing softly toward the moon.

Then, silence covered the shoreline. Like a dream vanishing. The only proof of you having been there were the fading ripples on the surface of the water.

Instantly, the haze around Sam’s mind shattered.

His breath caught sharply.

For one disoriented second, he simply stared at the empty water.

Then panic crashed into him all at once.

“No—”

He stumbled forward immediately.

“Hey!”

Waves splashed violently around his legs as he rushed into the freezing lake fully clothed.

His heartbeat slammed painfully against his ribs now.

Your name tore from his throat raggedly.

Nothing answered him.

Only black water stretching endlessly beneath the moon.

Fear twisted sharply across his face.

You hadn’t resurfaced.

“Come on,” he breathed frantically, moving deeper into the lake. “Come on, come on—”

Water soaked through his jeans, his flannel, dragging heavily at his body as he pushed farther out.

“Don’t disturb the water, Sam,” your voice came from a few feet away. Only your head being visible from the depths. 

Sam froze completely.

Beneath the moonlight, your skin seemed almost pearlescent, glowing softly silver beneath droplets of water. Your hair floated around you in dark waves while the lake itself curled gently against your shoulders like it belonged to you. Or perhaps, like you belonged to it.

For a moment, Sam forgot how to breathe.

“What–” was his breathless response. He was sure the exhaustion had gotten to him. This must be a dream, one of the many he’s had with you.

You slowly got closer to him. Drifting slowly, as if the water was carrying you—making way for you.

“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” you said.  

Your voice sounded different now. Still yours, but fuller somehow. As if the lake carried the sound toward him.

Water rippled softly around you as you drifted closer, moonlight following your movements across the surface. He still couldn’t fully see beneath the waterline—only the outline of your shoulders, your collarbones glistening silver, strands of wet hair clinging to your skin.

His chest heaved unevenly.

“What… what are you?”

Pain flickered across your face instantly.

“I wanted to tell you,” you whispered. “I wanted to tell both of you so many times.”

You stopped a few feet away from him. Close enough now that Sam could see how your eyes reflected light strangely beneath the moon, almost luminous in the darkness.

“But I was scared.”

Your fingers disappeared beneath the surface briefly, disturbing the black water around you.

“Hunters don’t exactly react well to things like me.”

Sam opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You gave a tiny, trembling smile that broke his heart immediately.

“I tried so hard to hide it.”

The water shifted again, and this time Sam noticed it.

Something moved beneath the surface behind you.

His brow furrowed faintly as his eyes dropped lower.

The moonlight pierced through the dark water just enough for him to catch the shape of it. A long pearlescent tail, covered in shimmering scales that reflected silver and blue beneath the moonlight, moving slowly beneath the lake.

Sam staggered backward immediately, the motion happening before he could stop it.

Shock crashed visibly across his face as he stumbled toward the shallower water.

His boot slipped against a rock beneath the surface and suddenly he fell backward hard into the lake with a splash.

“Sam!”

You moved toward him instantly, panic flooding your face.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out quickly. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you, I just—”

Sam pushed himself up onto his elbows in the shallow water, breathing hard.

His soaked flannel clung heavily to his skin now as he stared at you like his mind couldn’t fully process what he was seeing.

You stayed several feet away from him now.

“I wanted you to know,” you kept saying softly, voice beginning to shake. “I did, I swear. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

Your tail curled beneath the water anxiously, sending ripples across the lake.

“I tried to be normal.”

The confession came out painfully small.

“I tried so hard.”

Sam’s eyes dropped again involuntarily as more of your tail caught beneath the moonlight.

His eyes scanned every inch of you. From the pearlescent scales to the translucent fins drifting like silk through the dark water. Beautiful enough to make something inside him ache. 

He stopped when he reached your eyes. There's so many things he could’ve said about your eyes, so many things hiding within them. But what stood out to him the most was the clear terror they reflected. You look terrified, not dangerous, and nothing close to monstrous.

“Please say something,” you whispered.

Your voice cracked softly at the edges now.

“I know this is bad, I know this is—”

“You’re beautiful.”

The words slipped out of Sam before he could think.

You froze completely.

Sam stared at you wide-eyed from where he sat half-submerged near the shore, breathing unevenly. 

God, it was true.

Moonlight turned your skin silver. Your eyes glowed softly against the darkness, and beneath the water your tail moved with slow graceful motions. Looking at you, he understood how men died at the hands of sirens. He would gladly do so now, if you’d just ask him to.

Your lips parted slightly.

“You’re not afraid of me?” you asked quietly

Sam swallowed hard, his fingers tightening unconsciously around the silver necklace still clutched in his hand.

Then slowly, carefully, he sat up straighter in the shallow water.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he said quietly.

Your eyes searched his face desperately, as if waiting for the lie hidden somewhere inside it.

Sam shook his head faintly.

“I could never—”

His voice caught slightly on the words.

You stared at him for another heartbeat.

Then suddenly a small, breathless laugh bubbled out of you.

The sound washed over the lake softer than your song had, and Sam felt something tight inside his chest loosen instantly at the sight of your smile.

You drifted closer without even seeming to realize it.

The water carried you gently toward him until you were only inches away, your hands resting carefully against the lakebed near his knees.

Your torso rose partially from the water now.

Moonlight slid across your skin in silver ribbons, droplets clinging to your collarbones and shoulders like scattered pearls. Up close, Sam could see the faint shimmer beneath your skin itself—not glitter, not scales, but something luminous buried underneath you.

Your tail moved slowly beneath the surface behind you, powerful enough that each subtle motion sent ripples through the water around both of you. Yet, you still looked at him like you were waiting to be abandoned.

“You really mean that?” you asked softly.

Sam looked at you for a long moment.

Then he lifted the necklace slightly between his fingers.

“You trusted me with this.”

Your gaze softened immediately.

“Bobby’s,” you admitted quietly. “He gave it to me when I was little. Got it on a hunt, or perhaps went to a witch about it. I forget, really. It helps me not turn whenever I touch water. As long as I have it on, I’m good.” 

You lifted your tail above the water to prove your point. 

A sharp sting passed through Sam’s chest. Of course Bobby knew, why wouldn’t he? But the knowledge of this being something that existed previous to this very moment somehow made something ugly stir in his chest. He wasn’t sure why just yet.

“—yeah! You would not believe the things those fuckers get up to!” your laughter ebbed over the sentence. You found Sam’s disbelief in the lack of dolphin’s good intent highly amusing.

“There is no way dolphins are evil.”

You chuckled and shook your head as your fingers played  with the wet gravel beneath you. “See? This is exactly why they keep getting away with it.”

A grin tugged helplessly at Sam’s mouth.

The two of you had shifted farther onto the shore now, where the wet sand turned cold and packed beneath your hands. Somewhere along the way, exhaustion had disappeared entirely. Your tail stretched behind you, only the translucent fin still submerged beneath the water. Tiny waves lapped softly against it every few seconds, making the pearlescent scales shimmer silver-blue beneath the moon.

Sam tried very hard not to stare. Still, he was failing pretty miserably.

“So you’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that dolphins just… attack other fish for fun?”

“Yes.”

“And they get high?”

“Yes.”

“That can’t be true.”

“It absolutely is true.”

“You’re lying.”

You pointed accusingly at him. “You land people have a wildly inaccurate understanding of marine life.”

Sam laughed quietly under his breath. Although the debate on dolphin morality was highly interesting, his true interest lied in you. He could not stop staring at you, as hard as he tried. He was sure you would be uncomfortable by it, but you had not given any sign of it. Instead, you were smiling and laughing—something he found entrancing. He had not heard you or seen you this happy for a while now. 

“Okay, but this explains a lot.”

Your eyes narrowed immediately. “Uh oh.”

“No, seriously.” He started counting off on his fingers. “You hiss when the water pressure is low. The fact that you always know when storms are coming before anyone else. The shower thing.”

You smiled faintly.

“Dean is always so pissed about that…” you said as you stared up at him.

“Oh god,” Sam chuckled. “Dean. He’s going to freak out.”

You huffed, “yeah probably.”

“He’s gonna ask if you know Aquaman.”

“I do know Aquaman.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

You burst out laughing. “I’m kidding. Though it is notable to mention that you were more willing to believe Aquaman is real than the whole dolphin thing. Also I don’t hiss.”

Sam huffed, a small laugh escaping him as he softly threw sand at you. “Shut up.”

You grinned, sharp and beautiful beneath the moonlight.

For a moment Sam just watched you quietly.

Your hair spilled damp over your shoulders. Your skin still carried that soft pearlescent glow from the lake, and every subtle flick of your tail sent silver ripples across the shoreline.

“Does it hurt?”

Your brows pulled together faintly.

“The transformation, I mean.”

Understanding softened your face immediately.

“Oh.” You glanced toward your tail. “Sometimes.”

Sam frowned.

“When I fight it, mostly.” Your voice quieted a little. “Keeping legs during full moons gets harder the older I get. It’s similar to the ache you feel after exercising, you know?”

He nodded, lost in thought.

“Your voice earlier,” he said carefully.

The change in you was immediate.

Your smile vanished.

Your fingers stopped moving through the gravel.

The lake itself seemed quieter somehow.

Sam noticed the way your shoulders tightened slightly.

“What about it?” you asked softly.

Sam frowned faintly at your tone. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

You looked away from him toward the dark water, moonlight reflecting strangely in your eyes.

“I hate it.”

The confession caught him off guard.

Your fingers curled tightly around the rocks in your palm.

“I love singing,” you admitted quietly. “I always have.”

Your voice softened further. “But I can’t.”

Sam stayed silent.

You swallowed hard before continuing, as a wave rolled gently against your tail. “You heard what it does to people.”

Sam remembered the haze that wrapped around his mind. The way your song had pulled at him like a tide he’d willingly drown inside.

“But it’s like an instinct. It’s something we’re born with, and it’s a part of who we are. Suppressing it…it feels wrong. I just wish I could do it freely.”

Sam stayed quiet for a moment after that. The teasing smile that had lingered on his face softened into something more thoughtful as he watched you absently drag your fingers through the wet gravel beside you. Tiny stones clinked softly against each other with every movement, mixing with the sound of waves rolling onto the shore.

The exhaustion from earlier felt impossibly far away now.

A few hours ago you had both looked wrecked. Sam could barely keep his eyes open back at the motel parking lot, and you had felt like your own skin was suffocating you. But here, beneath the moon and beside the lake, it felt like neither of you could even think about sleep.

Instead, there was this strange restless energy between you both. Something warm and buzzing.

Like being teenagers sneaking out after midnight.

Sam had not felt like this in years. Maybe ever.

There was something strangely intimate about sitting here half-soaked in the middle of the night, talking quietly while the rest of the world slept.

And maybe that was why Sam found himself staring again.

Not at your tail this time, though his eyes still drifted there occasionally with quiet fascination. He was staring at your face. At the way your expression changed when you talked about things you loved, and things you didn't. 

You had always smiled around him. You joked with Dean, rolled your eyes at their arguments, teased Sam whenever he got too serious.

But this was different. This version of you felt unguarded.

Sam leaned back slightly against the sand, arms resting over his bent knees. “So you’ve really never sung around anyone?”

You shook your head. “Not intentionally.”

The lake breeze pushed damp strands of hair across your shoulder. Absentmindedly, you tucked them back as your tail shifted beneath the water.

“When I was little, Bobby used to hum a lot,” you admitted with a small smile. “He figured out pretty quickly that I liked copying sounds.”

Sam’s brows pulled together slightly. “You accidentally sirened Bobby Singer?”

You nodded. At the time it had been a terrifying experience, but now what came to mind was the way Bobby had consoled you after the fact. You couldn’t help but smile. 

“He was working on fixing up a truck or something,” you explained. “And he wasn’t paying attention to me. I wanted to play dolls, so I made him.”

You sighed softly at the memory, though there was no humor in it now. The blankness that had overtaken Bobby’s expression all those years ago still sat wrong in your chest whenever you thought about it.

“I hated realizing what I had done.”

Sam’s smile faded completely.

You stared down at your hands as you spoke, absently brushing sand from your fingertips. “At first I thought he was joking around with me. He just dropped everything and sat down on the floor beside me.” A small crease formed between your brows. “He looked… wrong.”

The waves rolled quietly behind you.

“I remember asking him if he was okay, and he just kept looking at me.”

You let out a shaky breath through your nose. “I got scared and ran.”

Sam glanced toward you again.

“I hid in the utility closet beside the kitchen.” You laughed faintly, embarrassed by it now. “Which was stupid because it was literally the first place Bobby checked.”

Despite himself, Sam smiled a little.

“He found me a few minutes later after whatever effect I’d had on him wore off.” Your gaze softened at the memory. “I thought he was gonna kill me.”

Sam’s expression shifted immediately. “Hey.”

You shrugged lightly, though your shoulders still looked tense. “I didn’t know exactly what I was back then. I just knew I’d done something bad. And monsters were the only ones that did bad things.”

The moonlight painted silver across your skin as you spoke, and Sam found himself looking at you with an ache he couldn’t quite explain.

You had been a child.

A terrified little kid hiding in a closet because you thought the only person you trusted would see you as a monster.

“He didn’t,” Sam said quietly.

Your lips curved faintly. “Of course not.”

You smiled a little more at the memory now.

“He sat on the floor outside the closet door for like an hour trying to convince me to come out.” Your voice softened unconsciously as you mimicked Bobby’s gruff tone. “‘Kid, I ain’t mad. But if you keep hiding in there you’re gonna breathe in enough bleach to kill a horse.’”

Sam laughed softly under his breath.

He could practically hear it in Bobby’s voice already. Gruff and annoyed and unbearably kind beneath all of it.

Sam had spent years around Bobby Singer. He knew the man loved fiercely, even when he tried to hide it behind insults and beer bottles. But now, sitting beside you beneath the moonlight, Sam realized just how terrified Bobby must have been when he found a six-year-old mermaid child and decided to raise her in a world built to kill creatures like you.

And somehow, against all odds, Bobby had managed to teach you kindness instead of fear.

A yawn escaped Sam’s mouth, making you realize just how long you both had been lying there.

The moon had shifted higher in the sky while you talked. The night air had grown colder too, though neither of you seemed particularly bothered by it anymore. Sam’s clothes were still damp from charging into the lake after you, and your tail remained lazily submerged beneath the water, occasionally flicking with the movement of the waves.

You smiled faintly at the sight of his exhausted expression.

“Okay,” you murmured softly. “I think it’s probably best we turn in for the night.”

Sam looked over at you immediately, like the suggestion itself disappointed him.

You pushed yourself up slightly on your elbows. “You can go ahead. I’ll catch up in a moment.”

He was quiet for a second, then he shook his head.

“Not yet.”

Your brows pulled together faintly as you looked up at him.

Sam was already staring back at you.

The teasing expression he had worn earlier was gone now. There was something softer in its place, something almost hesitant.

“Please,” he said quietly. “Just a little longer.”

The sincerity in his voice made warmth spread through your chest before you could stop it.

You smiled. “Okay.”

Relief flickered visibly across his face, subtle enough that he probably did not even realize it himself.

So you stayed.

The shoreline settled back into silence around you both after that, filled only by the hush of waves against the sand and the distant rustle of trees behind you. Sam stretched his legs out in front of him while you leaned your cheek against your folded arms, half turned toward him.

Sleepiness had started creeping back in now that the adrenaline from earlier had faded.

You watched Sam’s profile quietly in the moonlight. The tired shadows beneath his eyes. Damp hair falling over his forehead. His hand still loosely wrapped around the silver necklace you had given him hours ago.

Your necklace.

The sight of it in his hand made something ache softly inside you.

After a moment, you spoke.

“Can you keep it a secret for a little longer?”

Sam glanced down at you. “What?”

“From Dean.” You huffed a quiet laugh through your nose. “I just… I don't want him to freak out yet.”

Sam smiled faintly at that.

Dean Winchester learning he had unknowingly been living with a mermaid for years would probably become the loudest day of everyone’s lives.

“Okay,” he said. “I can do that.”

You relaxed slightly.

“But,” he added.

Your eyes narrowed immediately. “Oh no.”

Sam laughed softly.

“I have one condition.”

You tilted your head. “What’s that?”

For a second he looked oddly nervous asking. “Would you sing to me?”

You stilled.

Sam’s expression shifted almost immediately when he saw your hesitation. “You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “Forget I asked if it makes you uncomfortable, I just—”

“No.” You shook your head gently. “It’s okay.”

He fell silent.

You looked out over the water for a moment, watching moonlight ripple across the surface. Your fingers absentmindedly traced circles into the damp sand while you gathered the courage for it.

Singing had always been complicated, something you loved enough to fear. But Sam was looking at you now with such quiet trust that it made your chest ache. Somehow, for the first time in years, the idea of singing did not feel wrong.

You nodded softly.

“Okay.”

Sam settled back against the sand slowly, his head resting near your side. Close enough that you could hear his breathing over the sound of the lake.

Your tail shifted beneath the water as you looked down at him.

“You sure?”

His eyes were already half closed with exhaustion.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

So you sang.

Barely above the sound of the waves.

Sam felt it immediately.

Warmth spread slowly through his chest as your voice wrapped around him, dissolving every remaining edge of tension inside his body. Exhaustion returned all at once, heavy and comforting now instead of painful.

His eyes slipped shut.

And still your voice continued, threading through the cold night air beneath the moon.

You watched his breathing even out gradually as sleep overtook him there on the shore beside you.

A small smile tugged at your mouth.

Then, carefully, you shifted closer until your shoulder brushed lightly against his.

Birdsong dragged Sam slowly out of sleep.

For a few disorienting seconds he had no idea where he was.

The ground beneath him was uneven and cold, his clothes damp with lake water and morning dew. Sunlight filtered weakly through the trees overhead, flickering gold against his closed eyelids while waves rolled softly nearby.

Then his phone started ringing.

Sam groaned quietly, blinking awake as he fumbled blindly through the sand beside him for the device. Every muscle in his body protested the movement, though nowhere near as badly as they should have after the week you’d had.

His hand finally closed around the phone.

DEAN flashed across the screen.

Sam rubbed a tired hand over his face before answering. “Hello?”

“Dude, where the hell are you?”

Dean’s voice exploded through the speaker loudly enough that Sam immediately pulled the phone away from his ear.

Sam squinted against the morning light and pushed himself up slightly on one elbow. “Good morning to you too.”

“I woke up and you guys were gone,” Dean snapped. “Do you have any idea how creepy it is waking up alone in a motel room?”

At that, Sam instinctively turned his head, and promptly forgot how to speak for a second.

You were curled asleep beside him in the sand, close enough that your arm brushed his side. Your fingers were wrapped softly around the necklace’s silver amulet, whilst the chain was still in Sam’s grasp.

Human again.

Your tail was gone entirely, replaced by bare legs tangled slightly beneath you. Sometime during the night you must have shifted back in your sleep. Your hair spilled across your shoulder in messy waves, still faintly damp from the lake, while morning sunlight painted soft gold across your skin.

You were only wearing your underwear.

Sam’s brain stalled completely for one deeply unfortunate moment.

“…Sam?” Dean’s voice cut back through the phone suspiciously. “Why’d you go quiet?”

Sam blinked hard and immediately looked away.

“Nothing,” he said far too quickly.

You shifted slightly in your sleep beside him, brow furrowing faintly before relaxing again.

Dean groaned through the phone. “There better not be any funny business happening in Baby.”

Despite himself, Sam snorted softly.

“There’s no funny business.”

“Sam.”

“There is zero funny business,” he insisted while quickly tugging off his flannel.

Still half distracted, he leaned over carefully and draped it across you. The oversized fabric settled over your shoulders and legs while you instinctively curled deeper into the warmth without waking.

Something about the sight made Sam’s chest ache strangely.

“And Baby’s fine,” he added distractedly into the phone.

Dean went quiet for a beat.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “There is absolutely funny business happening.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean.”

“I knew it. I leave you alone for one night—”

“We fell asleep outside.”

“Uh huh.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll be back in a minute.”

“You better. If you drown, I’m not salting your corpses—.”

Sam hung up before Dean could keep going.

The shoreline fell quiet again afterward except for the distant sound of birds and the gentle wash of water against the sand.

For a moment Sam simply sat there.

Watching you sleep.

You looked peaceful in a way he had rarely seen before. No tension in your face. No exhaustion dragging at your features. Just soft breathing and sunlight warming your skin beneath his flannel.

Sam smiled faintly to himself.

sleepy!sam who hugs you from behind and tucks his face into your shoulder when he's tired

sleepy!sam who is really freaking warm.. making him perfect to nap with! :D

sleepy!sam who loves it when you let him nap with his head on your chest and you play with his hair

sleepy!sam who chronically drools, and is self-conscious of the fact

sleepy!sam who is the most adorable guy when he wakes up

sleepy!sam who (despite being sleepy) either needs 900 mg of caffeine to stay awake or 900 mg of melatonin to stay asleep, there's no in between

when sam wasn't getting up you smacked his ass to get him up and moving and he was pissed at you for the rest of the week.. lol

when sam was sleeping you took a photo of him and when he found it he was so embarrassed :(

sleepy!sam who loves cuddling with you. loves it. he loves laying on you and spooning you especially, but he isn't picky when it comes to how you guys cuddle.

sleepy!sam who gets paranoid that he's just a bit too big for you, especially when he engulfs you with all 6'4 of him. "'m i getting too heavy, baby?" he'd look up at you and ask with his big puppy eyes, and even if he was, you'd shake your head no and tell him he wasn't because how could you say no to him?

sleepy!sam who sleeps face down typically which is so cute because.. because it is idk

What he hasn’t quite mastered yet, what still manages to catch him completely off guard every single time, is the tone you use right before you absolutely wreck him.

It starts on a quiet evening in his apartment.

The kind of evening Clark treasures more than anything. No emergencies. No rushing. No weight of the world pressing against his shoulders. Just you.

You’re curled up beside him on the couch, your legs draped lazily over his lap like they belong there. Like you belong there. The TV hums softly in the background, some show neither of you have been paying attention to for at least twenty minutes. Clark’s phone is in his hand, but he hasn’t really been reading anything for a while now.

He’s more focused on you.

On the warmth of your legs over his, the steady rise and fall of your breathing, the way your head tilts slightly when you’re comfortable. His hand rests against your calf, thumb brushing slow, absent strokes up and down your skin. It’s automatic, instinctive. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

Comfort. Peace. Domestic bliss.

The kind of quiet he never thought he’d get to have.

Then suddenly, you sit up.

Not casually. Not slowly.

Sharply.

“Oh my God.”

Clark’s entire body reacts before his mind even catches up. His head snaps up, phone forgotten instantly as his attention zeroes in on you.

“What?” he asks, already scanning your face, your posture, the room. “What happened?”

Your eyes are wide.

Too wide.

“You won’t believe this.”

Clark straightens, concern threading into his voice. “Is everything okay?”

He’s already running through possibilities. Did something happen to someone you know? Did you get bad news? Are you hurt? Are you upset?

You lean in closer, lowering your voice like you’re about to reveal something classified.

“Lois is on Tinder.”

Clark freezes.

Actually freezes.

“…what?”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding with absolute certainty. Not a hint of a smile. Not a crack in your composure. “I just saw her profile.”

Clark blinks once. Twice.

His brain tries to catch up.

“I didn’t expect that,” you continue, shaking your head slightly, like you’re genuinely disappointed. “Especially after how much she roasted Jimmy for being on it.”

Clark exhales slowly, leaning back a fraction as he processes this.

“Are you serious?” he asks, still trying to piece it together.

“Mhm.”

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly thrown off. “Wow. I mean… yeah, I didn’t expect that either.”

You hum softly, folding your hands in your lap like this is a completely normal conversation. “Right? Kind of hypocritical.”

“Yeah, I mean…” Clark trails off, brows knitting together.

Something isn’t sitting right.

He stares ahead for a moment, thinking.

Then his eyes narrow.

Slowly.

You see it happening. The exact moment the pieces start clicking into place.

“…hey,” he says carefully.

You remain perfectly still.

“Wait a minute.”

You blink at him, wide-eyed. Innocent. Completely composed.

Clark turns his head toward you fully now, suspicion blooming across his face.

“Why are you on Tinder?”

There it is.

A beat passes.

A single, fragile second where you almost hold it together.

Then you absolutely lose it.

Laughter bursts out of you, uncontrollable and bright as you collapse back into the couch, clutching your stomach. Your legs slide off his lap as you curl into yourself, giggling like you’ve just told the funniest joke in existence.

Clark stares at you in disbelief.

Then groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“You did not.”

“I had to!” you gasp between laughs, kicking your feet slightly as you try to breathe. “Oh my God, your face. You were so concerned!”

“I thought something was wrong!” he protests, though there’s no real bite to it.

“I mean, something is wrong,” you manage, wiping at your eyes. “Lois being on Tinder would be shocking.”

Clark points at you. “You committed to that way too well.”

“I know,” you grin proudly.

“You had the tone and everything. I didn’t even question it at first.”

“That’s because you trust me,” you say sweetly.

“I do trust you,” he says, narrowing his eyes again. “Which is exactly why this is a problem.”

You scoot closer to him again, still smiling, still glowing with satisfaction.

“You loved it.”

“I absolutely did not love it.”

“You loved it a little.”

“I did not love it at all.”

But his mouth betrays him, the corner of it twitching upward no matter how hard he tries to fight it.

You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder like nothing happened, like you didn’t just emotionally ambush him.

“I think you’re just impressed,” you murmur.

Clark huffs softly, shaking his head, but his arm comes around you anyway. Instinct. Always instinct.

“You’re impossible,” he says, quieter now.

“And yet,” you tilt your head up to look at him, eyes soft and fond, “you’re obsessed with me.”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

“Yeah,” he admits.

Your smile softens.

For a moment, it’s just that again. The quiet. The warmth. The easy, steady rhythm of being together.

Clark glances down at you, studying your face like he’s memorizing it all over again.

“I really thought you were serious,” he says after a moment.

“I know,” you grin.

“That’s concerning.”

“You’ll recover.”

He shakes his head, but his thumb starts tracing slow patterns against your arm now, mirroring what you always do to him.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You hum contentedly, closing your eyes as you settle deeper into him.

“I know.”

The next one happens at a restaurant.

Clark had been looking forward to this all week.

Not in a casual, passing way, but in the quiet, steady way he looks forward to things that matter. He’d circled the evening in his head days ago. No deadlines. No late nights at the office. No emergencies pulling him away mid-conversation. Just you, across from him, warm lighting, good food, and the kind of uninterrupted time he never seems to get enough of.

A simple date.

Something normal.

Something safe.

He should have known better.

The restaurant is cozy, softly lit, the low murmur of conversation blending with clinking glasses and distant laughter. You’re seated across from him in a booth, your foot nudging his lightly under the table every now and then just to remind him you’re there.

Not that he needs reminding.

He’s still smiling at something you said five minutes ago.

“You’re staring again,” you point out, not even looking up from the menu.

“I’m not staring,” Clark replies immediately.

“You are,” you say, flipping a page. “You’ve been staring.”

“I’m listening.”

“You can listen without staring like I just invented something.”

Clark huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but he doesn’t deny it again.

Because he is staring.

Because it’s you.

The waitress approaches, all polite smiles and practiced ease.

“Hi there, can I get you started with something to drink?”

Clark orders first, something simple. You follow, cheerful and easy, thanking her with that bright tone that always seems to make people soften around you.

Menus shift. Decisions are made.

Clark feels relaxed.

Grounded.

Happy.

The waitress returns with the drinks, pen poised over her notepad.

“Ready to order?”

Clark nods. “Yeah, I’ll have the grilled chicken with the—”

He finishes his order without issue. Smooth. Normal. Exactly how he imagined tonight would go.

Then she turns to you.

“And for you?”

You hesitate.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

Your eyes flick to Clark.

Then back to her.

“Um…”

Clark notices immediately.

There’s a slight shift in your posture, a softness in your voice that wasn’t there a second ago.

“…Clark, is it okay if I don’t get the salad this time?”

Clark blinks.

“…what?”

There’s a brief silence.

The kind that stretches just a little too long.

You fidget slightly with the edge of the menu. “I just… I want something else today.”

Your voice is quieter now. Almost unsure.

Clark’s brain short-circuits.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, completely thrown.

The waitress’s smile flickers. Not gone, but… altered.

“Sweetie,” she says gently, eyes shifting to you, “you can order whatever you want.”

Clark feels his stomach drop.

Oh no.

No, no, no, no.

His entire body goes rigid, posture snapping upright as panic sets in.

“No,” he says quickly, hands coming up like he’s physically trying to stop the situation from escalating. “No, I don’t— I never tell her what to eat. Ever.”

The waitress looks at him.

Not aggressively.

But not neutrally either.

Clark feels like he’s under a spotlight.

“She can get anything she wants,” he continues, voice slightly too fast now. “Literally anything. I have never once—”

You glance at him again, eyes soft, uncertain.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

Clark nearly chokes.

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Of course I’m sure. Please order whatever you want.”

There’s a beat.

You nod slowly, like you’re processing his permission.

Then you turn back to the waitress, your entire demeanor shifting in an instant.

“I’ll have the steak,” you say brightly.

Clark freezes.

The waitress nods. “Great choice, honey.”

But she gives Clark a look.

A look.

Clark wants to disappear.

Physically.

Instantly.

Evaporate into the booth.

“Thank you,” you add sweetly, handing the menu back like nothing just happened.

The waitress walks away.

Clark stays completely still.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t breathe.

You last exactly two seconds.

Then you break.

Laughter explodes out of you, uncontrollable and loud as you double over slightly, covering your mouth but not nearly enough to hide it.

Clark slowly turns his head toward you.

Betrayed.

Utterly betrayed.

“You set me up.”

“I’m sorry,” you wheeze, shaking your head as you try to breathe. “I’m so sorry, I couldn’t— your face—”

“My face?” he repeats, incredulous.

“You looked terrified!”

“I was terrified,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “She was about to call someone.”

“She was not going to call someone.”

“She gave me a look.”

You grin. “She did give you a look.”

“That was not a normal look.”

“It was such a good look,” you say, barely holding it together again.

Clark groans, leaning back against the booth, one hand covering his eyes.

“I thought I was about to be reported.”

“I really thought you were going to stand up and make a speech,” you admit, still laughing. “Like, ‘I would never control my girlfriend’s dietary choices—’”

“I was preparing one,” he says, dead serious.

That only makes you laugh harder.

“Oh my God, I love you.”

The words slip out between giggles, soft and genuine despite everything.

Clark exhales slowly, lowering his hand and looking at you.

Really looking at you.

Your eyes are bright. Your smile is wide. You’re still leaning toward him, warmth and mischief and affection all tangled together in one person.

He shakes his head, but there’s no real frustration left.

Just… fond exasperation.

“You are unbelievable.”

You reach across the table, sliding your hand into his.

His instinct kicks in immediately, fingers curling around yours without hesitation.

“I had to,” you say, softer now, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “You’re too easy.”

“I am not easy.”

“You are,” you insist. “You care too much.”

Clark pauses at that.

Because… he does.

About you especially.

“I just didn’t want her to think—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head.

“I know,” you say gently.

Your thumb keeps moving against his skin, slower now. Softer.

“I know you would never actually do that.”

Clark’s grip tightens slightly, grounding himself in the reassurance.

“I wouldn’t,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

There’s a small moment of stillness.

A reset.

Then you tilt your head, smile creeping back in.

“…but you have to admit, it was a really good prank.”

Clark stares at you.

Long and hard.

Then sighs.

“…it was effective.”

You beam.

“That’s not the same as good.”

“It is to me.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh despite himself.

“You’re a menace.”

You squeeze his hand, leaning forward just a little more.

“And you love me.”

Clark doesn’t even try to deny it.

“I do. So much.”

And somehow, even after being completely set up, mildly humiliated, and emotionally ambushed in the middle of a restaurant…

He still wouldn’t trade this.

Wouldn’t trade you.

Not for anything.

The drive-thru incident is… different.

This time, you’re quiet.

Too quiet.

And Clark, unfortunately for him, is relaxed.

It’s late. The city is calmer, the roads less crowded, streetlights stretching in long golden lines ahead of you. There’s something soft about the night, something that settles into his bones after a long day. He’s sunk comfortably into the passenger seat, one arm resting along the center console, his fingers just barely brushing yours.

You’re driving.

One hand on the wheel, the other occasionally tapping lightly against it in rhythm with whatever song is playing softly through the speakers. You look good like this. Focused, calm, completely at ease.

Clark glances at you, then away, then back again.

He does that a lot.

“You’re staring again,” you murmur, eyes still on the road.

“I’m not staring,” he replies automatically.

“You are.”

“I’m observing.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s worse.”

Clark smiles to himself, turning his head slightly toward the window, but his hand shifts just enough so his fingers can properly lace with yours.

Comfort.

Easy.

Safe.

You pull into the drive-thru, tires crunching softly over the pavement as you roll up to the menu board.

“Okay,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “What do you want?”

“Just a black coffee,” Clark answers. “You?”

“Caramel latte.”

“Good choice.”

“I know,” you grin.

There’s a brief pause as you scan the menu anyway, like you’re considering changing your mind, even though you both know you won’t.

Then you pull forward to the speaker.

A crackle.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

Your voice is bright. Effortless.

“Hi! Can I get a medium caramel latte, please?”

Clark listens, half-focused, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of your hand.

Then, without hesitation, without even a flicker of warning, you add:

“And my husband would like a black coffee.”

Clark stops breathing.

Not metaphorically.

Not dramatically.

Actually stops.

Everything in him just… halts.

His brain doesn’t process it right away. It just echoes.

My husband.

My husband.

The employee’s voice cuts through the silence like nothing happened.

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s all, thank you,” you reply sweetly.

“Alright, pull forward.”

“Thank you!”

You drive forward.

Calm. Composed. Completely normal.

Like you didn’t just drop something life-altering into the air between you.

Clark sits there.

Silent.

Still.

You don’t look at him.

Not yet.

You keep your eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, lips pressed together just enough to keep from smiling.

You don’t say anything.

You just wait.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

“…husband?” Clark finally says.

His voice is quieter than usual.

Not shocked.

Not panicked.

Just… careful.

You glance at him briefly, like you don’t understand the question. “Hm?”

“You said husband.”

You hum lightly, like you’re thinking about it.

“Oh,” you shrug, casual as anything. “Did I?”

Clark turns his head fully toward you now.

You can feel it. The weight of his gaze, steady and searching.

“…you did.”

There’s something in his voice.

Something softer than you expected.

You finally look at him properly.

And that’s when it hits you.

He’s not flustered.

He’s not embarrassed.

He’s not even trying to correct you.

He just looks… stunned.

Quietly.

Deeply.

Stunned.

Like you handed him something fragile and he’s still figuring out how to hold it.

“You didn’t seem to hate it,” you say, your tone gentler now, the teasing softened around the edges.

Clark lets out a small breath, almost like a laugh, shaking his head slightly as he looks down for a second.

“I didn’t,” he admits.

And he means it.

There’s no hesitation.

No deflection.

Just honesty.

Your chest warms instantly, something soft and blooming spreading through you in a way you didn’t fully anticipate when you started this.

You swallow slightly, fingers tightening just a bit around the steering wheel.

“Oh,” you murmur.

Clark glances back at you, something quieter settling into his expression now.

He doesn’t make a big deal out of it.

Doesn’t push.

Doesn’t tease you back.

He just reaches over.

Finds your hand again.

His fingers slide between yours, warm and steady, like they always are. But this time, his thumb presses a little more firmly against your skin. Not absentminded.

Intentional.

Grounding.

Like he’s holding onto the feeling.

Like he doesn’t want it to slip away.

Neither of you say anything else.

You pull up to the window, pay, take the drinks. Routine. Normal.

But something has shifted.

Not in a heavy way.

Not in a way that demands a conversation right now.

Just… something soft.

Something real.

As you pull back onto the road, Clark is still holding your hand.

Still tracing slow, thoughtful patterns against your skin.

You don’t prank him again for the rest of the drive.

Not because you couldn’t.

But because some moments aren’t meant to be laughed through.

Some moments are meant to be held onto.

And this one?

This one stays.

Of course, you make up for that later.

Not intentionally, at first.

It starts as a normal evening. Or at least, what counts as normal for the two of you. Clark is at your place this time, having shown up a little later than planned, tie slightly loosened, sleeves already rolled up like he belongs there. Like this is just as much his space as it is yours.

You hear the sink running before you see him, the quiet rush of water as he washes his hands. There’s something so domestic about it that it makes your chest ache a little if you think about it too long.

So you don’t.

Instead, you focus on the plates in front of you.

One noticeably fuller than the other.

You bite back a smile.

“Dinner smells amazing,” Clark calls from the kitchen, voice warm and genuine in that way that always makes it sound like he means it more than anyone else could.

“Thank you,” you call back, unable to keep the brightness out of your voice.

There’s the sound of the faucet turning off, a pause, then footsteps. Familiar. Steady. Approaching.

Clark appears in the doorway a second later, hair slightly damp at the temples, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms. He looks relaxed. Comfortable. His eyes soften the second they land on you.

“Hey,” he says, quieter now.

“Hi,” you smile.

He doesn’t even think about it. Just crosses the space between you, one hand coming to rest lightly against the back of your chair as he leans down and presses a quick, soft kiss to your lips.

It lingers for half a second longer than necessary.

It always does.

“Thank you for cooking,” he murmurs against you.

“Of course.”

He pulls back, giving you one last look before moving to sit across from you.

Everything is easy.

Familiar.

Safe.

Then he looks at the plates.

And immediately frowns.

It’s subtle at first. Just a slight dip in his brows, a pause as his eyes move from his plate… to yours… and back again.

Then it deepens.

“Why is yours smaller?”

You blink, like you hadn’t noticed.

“Oh,” you say lightly, glancing down at your plate. “I accidentally didn’t make enough.”

Clark doesn’t even pause.

Doesn’t question it.

Doesn’t hesitate.

He reaches for his plate immediately, already pushing it toward you.

“Here, take mine.”

You put your hands up quickly, shaking your head. “No, no, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he says, matter-of-fact, already starting to divide the food between the two plates.

“Clark—”

“I’m not that hungry anyway.”

“You haven’t eaten all day,” you point out.

“I’ll be fine.”

There’s no drama in his voice. No performance. No attempt to make himself sound noble.

It’s just… simple.

Obvious to him.

You watch him as he carefully shifts portions from his plate to yours, making sure you have more. Not equal.

More.

He’s not even looking at you anymore, fully focused on the task like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like of course this is how it should be.

Like there was never another option.

Your chest tightens.

That soft, ridiculous feeling blooming again, the one that always sneaks up on you when he does things like this. Quiet things. Unnoticed things. The kind no one else sees.

But you do.

You see all of it.

“You’re too good,” you mumble before you can stop yourself.

Clark glances up, pausing mid-motion. “What?”

You shake your head quickly, looking down at your plate. “Nothing.”

He studies you for a second, like he’s trying to read something in your expression, but you keep your gaze carefully lowered, focusing on the food instead.

He doesn’t push.

He never pushes.

Instead, he just finishes adjusting the plates, then nudges yours a little closer to you.

“There,” he says softly. “That’s better.”

You swallow.

“Clark…”

“Yeah?”

You hesitate.

Because this was supposed to be a prank.

Another harmless moment to see how he’d react.

Something light.

Something funny.

But now it feels… different.

Now it feels like you’ve been handed something you didn’t quite prepare yourself for.

“I didn’t actually mess up the portions,” you admit quietly.

Clark blinks.

“What?”

“I made them like that on purpose,” you say, finally looking up at him. “I just wanted to see what you’d do.”

There’s a brief pause.

You brace yourself for it.

The realization. The mild exasperation. Maybe a sigh.

Instead, Clark just… leans back slightly.

Processes.

Then looks at you again.

“That’s what this was?” he asks.

You nod, a little sheepish now. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

Then, to your surprise, he slides his plate back toward himself.

Not all the way.

Just enough to even things out again.

“You could’ve just asked,” he says gently.

“I know,” you admit.

He tilts his head slightly. “You already know I’d share with you.”

“I do,” you say softly.

There’s something quiet in your voice now.

Something real.

Clark watches you for a moment longer, something warm settling into his expression.

Then he reaches across the table, his hand finding yours like it always does.

“You don’t have to test that,” he says.

It’s not a scolding.

Not even close.

Just… reassurance.

Steady. Certain.

“I’m always going to make sure you’re okay.”

Your throat tightens just a little.

“I know,” you whisper.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and grounding.

“Good.”

You let out a small breath, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of you.

Then, because you’re still you, you tilt your head slightly, a hint of your usual mischief returning.

“…so you’re saying the prank worked.”

Clark exhales, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself.

“You’re unbelievable.”

You smile, squeezing his hand.

“And you love me.”

“I do,” he says, without hesitation.

Then he nudges your plate toward you again, softer this time.

“Now eat,” he adds. “Before it gets cold.”

You laugh quietly, picking up your fork.

And even though this one didn’t end in loud laughter or dramatic reactions…

You don’t feel like you lost.

Not when it ends like this.

Not when it’s him.

You’re both in his bathroom, standing side by side in front of the mirror, soft yellow light spilling over both of you. It’s late. Later than either of you planned.

Clark looks like he should've been in bed 2 hours ago.

He’s half-asleep, leaning slightly against the counter, one hand braced beside the sink while the other lazily moves his toothbrush. His glasses are off, resting somewhere behind you, and without them, he looks even softer. Less guarded. More… yours.

You glance at him through the mirror.

He looks peaceful.

Relaxed.

Defenseless.

Perfect.

You rinse your mouth, spit, and wipe the corner of your lips with the back of your hand.

Then you tilt your head slightly.

“Clark?”

“Mm?” he hums around his toothbrush, not even looking at you yet.

There’s your opening.

You watch him for a second longer, just to really take in how unsuspecting he is.

“I think I might be in love with someone else.”

Clark freezes.

Completely.

The motion of his hand stops mid-brush.

Slowly, very slowly, he turns his head toward you.

Toothbrush still in his mouth.

“…what?” he mumbles, foam making the word clumsy and quiet.

You don’t laugh.

Not yet.

Instead, you turn slightly toward him, leaning your hip against the counter like you’re about to confess something serious.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you continue, voice softer now. Thoughtful. Careful.

Clark immediately pulls the toothbrush out of his mouth, staring at you like he’s trying to figure out if he misheard.

“What do you mean you didn’t mean for it to happen?” he asks, blinking rapidly, sleep completely gone now.

You shrug slightly, eyes dropping like you’re almost shy about it.

“It just… did.”

Clark stares at you.

You can see the exact moment his brain starts racing. Trying to stay calm. Trying not to jump to conclusions. Trying to be reasonable.

“Okay,” he says slowly, carefully setting his toothbrush down on the counter. “Who?”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

You’re really committing now.

“Well…” you start, dragging it out just enough.

Clark’s hands come to rest on the counter, gripping the edge slightly.

“You can tell me,” he says, voice steady but softer now. “I just… I want to understand.”

Your chest tightens just a little at that.

Because of course he says that.

Of course his first instinct is to understand.

You look back up at him.

“He’s…” you pause, like you’re searching for the right words.

Clark leans in just slightly.

“He’s kind,” you say.

Clark’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Kind,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Like… really kind. The kind of person who helps people without thinking twice about it.”

Clark swallows.

“Okay,” he says again, quieter this time.

“And he’s strong,” you continue, eyes drifting like you’re picturing it. “Stronger than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Clark lets out a small breath through his nose.

“…right.”

“And he’s always there when people need him,” you add. “Like… always. No matter what.”

Clark looks down for a second, then back up at you.

There’s something flickering in his expression now.

Confusion.

Hurt.

But also something else.

Something familiar.

“And he makes me feel safe,” you say softly.

That one lands.

You see it.

Clark’s shoulders drop just a fraction, like something in him is bracing.

“…does he?” he asks quietly.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

Clark looks at you, really looks at you, searching your face like he’s trying to find something he’s missing.

“Do I… know him?” he asks.

You hum, pretending to think.

“I mean… kind of.”

Clark huffs a quiet, disbelieving breath.

“Kind of?” he repeats.

“Well,” you shrug, fighting a smile now, “you see him around.”

Clark’s brows pull together.

“I see him around?”

“Mhm.”

Another pause.

Then, slowly…

very slowly…

something clicks.

Clark’s eyes narrow just slightly.

“You see him… around,” he repeats, more to himself this time.

You stay perfectly still.

Innocent.

Patient.

Waiting.

Clark studies you.

Then he studies your expression.

Then he leans back just a little, crossing his arms.

“…is he tall?” he asks.

You blink, like the question surprises you.

“Very.”

Clark exhales.

“Of course he is.”

“And handsome,” you add, completely unhelpful.

Clark lets out a quiet, humorless laugh.

“Right. Naturally.”

“And he wears this… blue suit,” you continue, unable to help the small smile tugging at your lips now. “With a cape.”

Clark closes his eyes.

Just for a second.

Then opens them again, looking at you with a mix of disbelief and something dangerously close to amusement.

“…a cape.”

“Mhm.”

“And let me guess,” he says, voice flattening slightly, “he flies.”

You light up.

“Yes!”

Clark stares at you.

Silence stretches between you for exactly half a second before realization fully settles in.

“…you’re talking about Superman.”

You break instantly.

Laughter spills out of you as you double over slightly, grabbing onto the counter for support.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp. “I tried to keep it together, I really did—”

Clark just looks at you.

Then shakes his head, reaching for his toothbrush again like he needs something to ground himself.

“You are unbelievable,” he mutters.

“I had you!” you insist between laughs.

“You did not have me.”

“I did for a second!” You grin, leaning closer to him again, resting your head lightly against his shoulder.

“To be fair,” you murmur, “you should be flattered. I have great taste.”

Clark exhales slowly, but you can feel the tension leaving him now, replaced by something softer.

Something fond.

“…you’re ridiculous,” he says.

“And you love me.”

He glances down at you, lips twitching despite himself.

“I do.”

You tilt your head up, smiling at him, the teasing fading into something gentler.

“With you,” you say quietly.

Clark blinks. “What?”

“I’m in love with you,” you clarify, softer now. “So much.”

The words land differently this time.

No trick.

No twist.

Just truth.

Clark studies your face for a moment, like he’s making sure there isn’t another layer to it.

When he realizes there isn’t, something in his expression shifts.

He pulls the toothbrush out of his mouth again, sighing as he sets it aside.

“One day,” he says, though there’s no real conviction behind it, “I’m going to stop reacting.”

You smile, already knowing the answer.

“You won’t.”

He shakes his head slightly.

“…no,” he admits.

You lean into him fully now, resting your head against his shoulder, your hand coming up to curl lightly into his shirt.

“I love you,” you say softly.

Clark doesn’t hesitate.

He presses a gentle kiss to your hair, lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

“I love you too.”

And even though he knows you better than anyone…

Knows your patterns, your tells, your tricks…

He still falls for it.

Every single time.

Just like you planned.

The bunker door didn't open so much as it ricocheted off the stone wall with a thunderous CRACK.

You flinched on the library couch, the ancient lore book in your lap forgotten. You’d been dozing off, waiting for the boys to come back from their "simple recon mission" that Dean had promised would take two hours. That was seven hours ago.

And losing.

"Sam, for the love of God, it's a doorframe, not a finishing line," Dean's voice drawled, equal parts exhausted and amused.

"I know it's not a finish line," came the slurred, deep rumble of Sam Winchester. "It's… wood. Vertical wood. Tall wood. Finish lines are like sashes or something..."

You set the book aside and padded toward the source of the noise. The sight that greeted you in the war room made you stop dead.

Dean was propping up his younger brother, who looked less like a formidable 6'4" hunter and more like a giraffe learning to roller-skate. Sam’s flannel was untucked and hanging off one shoulder, his hair was a wild, tangled mess, and his eyes were glassy, unfocused pools of hazel. He was smiling, a dopey, uncharacteristically loose grin that immediately made your stomach tighten.

"Oh, boy," you breathed.

Dean’s head snapped up. His eyes met yours, and a wave of relief washed over his features. "Thank God. Here." Without ceremony, he shoved Sam's weight toward you. "He's your problem now."

Sam stumbled, his large hands reaching out and landing heavily on your shoulders to steady himself. He blinked down at you, his smile widening. "Hey," he whispered, as if sharing a state secret. "You're real."

"I am," you confirmed, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him upright. He was a furnace, radiating whiskey heat.

"Dean, what happened? I thought it was a dry recon?"

Dean was already halfway to the kitchen, rubbing his own temples. "It was. Until the demon we were tracking decided to skip town and a waitress at the bar we were staking out decided Sam looked like a lost puppy she needed to buy a drink for. Then he bought her one back. Then three. Then a biker challenged him to a shot contest because he was 'too pretty.'" Dean grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. "Sam won. Mostly. He only puked once, behind the dumpster. Classy."

A low, pained groan rumbled from Sam’s chest. He pulled away from you slightly, only to lean his forehead against the top of your head. "She smelled like flowers," he mumbled into your hair.

Your heart did an annoying little flip-flop. "The waitress?"

"No," Sam said, his voice thick. "You. Always you." He pulled back just enough to squint at your face and hold it with both of his hands. "Are you mad? You look mad. Your nose is doing that thing."

"My nose doesn't do a thing."

"Does too. It scrunches." He brought a clumsy, giant finger up to tap the tip of your nose. "Boop."

Dean made a gagging noise from the kitchen. "I'm going to bed." He disappeared down the hall, leaving you alone with the human equivalent of a tipsy redwood.

"Sam," you sighed, guiding him toward the bathroom hallway. "Let's get you some water and then to bed."

But Sam dug his heels in, the rubber soles of his boots squeaking on the metal floor. "No. No, no, no. I have to say something first."

"You can say it sitting down."

"I have to say it standing," he insisted, trying to straighten up to his full height, which only made him wobble more. He grabbed the edge of the war room table for support. "I'm sorry."

You blinked. "For what?"

"For…" He gestured vaguely at himself, then at you, then at the door. "For the bar. For the waitress." His face crumpled into an expression of pure, tragic guilt. "I looked at her."

This again. You fought a smile. "Sam, you were undercover. It's okay to look at people."

"It's not!" he cried, his voice cracking. "Her eyes were…blue. Like water. But they weren't brown like yours." He leaned forward conspiratorially, almost toppling you both over. "I tried to find the brown. In hers. She didn't have any. Yours are brown. Did you know that? They're like… tiny little chocolate chips. It's yummy."

Your heart was officially mush. "That's… really sweet, Sam. But you're drunk."

"I'm sorry!" he repeated, louder this time. He fumbled for your hands, engulfing them in his clammy, warm palms. "I'm sorry I looked at her. I'm sorry I drank her whiskey. It was cheap. Canadian. Not as smooth as your…" he paused, searching for the word, "…essence."

"My essence?"

"It's smooth," he confirmed with a solemn nod. "And I'm sorry I puked. Dean said it was 'unprofessional.' But the biker had a shaved head and he was mean. He called Dean a 'salted pretzel.' I couldn't let that stand."

A laugh finally escaped you. "That's right, because he's NOT a pretzel. You defended Dean's honor."

"I would die for Dean's honor," Sam said, dead serious. Then his face shifted again, this time into something softer, more vulnerable. He squeezed your hands. "But I'd live for yours 'cause I'd miss you."

The air between you thinned. He was swaying, but his gaze, despite the blur of alcohol, was locked on yours with an intensity that stole your breath.

"Okay, Romeo," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "Shower first. Confessions later."

Getting Sam Winchester into the shower was a logistical nightmare comparable to planning a bank heist. He was all long limbs, uncoordinated apologies, and clothing that seemed to have multiplied.

"I can do it," he mumbled, fumbling with the buttons on his flannel. His fingers kept missing. "See? Fine. Totally… captain of this ship."

"You're the Titanic," you said, batting his hands away and undoing the buttons yourself. "And you're hitting the iceberg."

His chest was bare underneath, all smooth, warm skin and freckles. He shivered when your knuckles brushed his stomach as you pushed the flannel off his shoulders.

"Cold," he murmured, but he didn't pull away. He just watched you, his head tilted.

You turned on the water, letting it heat up. "Pants next, Winchester. Can you manage, or do you need a permission slip?"

He huffed a laugh that turned into a yawn. "You're funny when you're bossy." He unbuckled his belt, but his movements were jerky. You turned your back to give him privacy, listening to the clink of the belt buckle, the rustle of denim, and then a loud thump as he apparently fell against the wall.

"Sam?"

"I'm okay!" came the muffled reply. "The wall just… moved."

You sighed, grabbed a towel, and turned back around. He was down to his boxers, leaning against the tiled wall with his eyes closed. You took his elbow and guided him toward the steaming spray.

"Get in."

"Come with me."

The words were soft, slurred, and utterly devoid of his usual guarded hesitation. Your breath caught.

"Sam…"

"Please?" He opened one eye, a sliver of pleading hazel. "I'm sorry. I know that's… but I'm cold. And you're warm. And I won't do anything. I just… I want you there. So I don't float away."

You should have said no. You should have shoved him in, thrown a towel at him, and gone to bed. But the look on his face—so open, so honest, so desperately lonely beneath the drunken haze—undid you.

"Fine," you whispered. "But if you throw up on me, I'm telling Dean you cried during The Notebook."

"I didn't cry," he lied, as you toed off your shoes and stepped out of your sweatpants and shirt, leaving you in a tank top and underwear. "I had an allergic reaction to the… romance."

You stepped into the shower first, pulling him in after you. The hot water immediately soaked your tank top, plastering it to your skin. Sam groaned, a low, appreciative sound, as the heat hit his shoulders. He sagged, his hands coming up to brace himself on the tile on either side of your head, caging you in.

His body was a wall of wet heat, and you were suddenly, acutely aware of every inch of space between you. Which was none.

"See?" he mumbled, his chin coming to rest on top of your head. "Better. You're a genius. Have I told you you're a genius?"

"Once or twice."

"I'm sorry I didn't say it more."

You reached for the shampoo, squirting a dollop into your palm. "Head down, Sasquatch."

He obeyed, bowing his head so you could reach. You worked the suds through his long, damp hair, your fingernails gently scraping his scalp. He made a sound that was practically a purr, his whole body relaxing against yours.

"You didn't have to wear your shirt." Sam mumbled. "I wasn't going to stare and now it's ruined." You rolled your eyes as you washed his hair. "You're a man. I doubt, sober or not, you'd stare."

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, his breath warm against your wet hair.

"For what now? Being a man?"

"For not telling you." His voice was quieter, the slur fading a little, replaced by a raw, aching sincerity. "For all the times I looked but didn't say. For the waitress. For every woman who wasn't you. I'm sorry I'm such a coward when I'm sober."

Your hands stilled in his hair. "Sam…"

"I love you," he said, the words tumbling out like water over rocks. "I think I've loved you since you stole the last piece of pie from Dean's plate and didn't even flinch when he yelled. You have no survival instinct. It's adorable. And terrifying. And I love you."

You pulled back, tilting his face down so you could look at him. Water streamed down his face, clinging to his lashes. He looked like a drowned, lovesick angel.

"You're drunk," you said, but this time it came out like a prayer.

He shook his head, a small, decisive movement. "I'm honest. There's a difference." He lifted one hand from the wall, his wet fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "You don't have to say it back. Just… don't go. Stay here. In the water. With me. Please?"

You hesitated and moved your hands away from his hair.

"Okay," you whispered, as if the rest of the world was eavesdropping and you had an important secret. "I'll stay."

An hour later, the bunker was silent. You’d managed to wrangle him out of the shower, dry him off, and stuff him into a pair of soft gray sweatpants and a worn cotton t-shirt. He was a boneless, sleepy giant, sprawled across his bed, his hair still damp and curling at the ends.

You were trying to leave. You really were. You'd tucked the blanket around him, placed a glass of water and two aspirins on the nightstand, and had one foot on the floor when his arm snaked out and wrapped around your waist.

"No," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "Contract says cuddles."

"There was no contract."

okay but sam in high school is that kid. oversized flannel over a faded band tee (probably nirvana or metallica something dad-approved but secretly emo), perpetually messy hair he keeps pushing back when he’s nervous, always carrying like three textbooks too many because he actually reads the assigned chapters

he’s the weird nerd who sits in the back corner of every class taking insane notes in tiny handwriting, but he’s not quiet-quiet. he’ll debate the teacher on historical accuracy or physics problems with this soft earnest voice that makes half the room turn around

and then there’s you. the cool girl. leather jacket over your school hoodie, always got the best playlist blasting through your headphones in the halls, people just kinda orbit you without trying. you laugh loud, you talk back to jerks, teachers lowkey fear/respect you

sam’s had the biggest, most hopeless crush on you since like… sophomore year biology when you defended him from some jock who called him sasquatch for being tall and skinny. you just went “leave him alone, he’s smarter than all of you combined” and went back to doodling in your notebook like it was nothing

he still thinks about that moment at 2 a.m. when he can’t sleep. replays it like a movie scene. hates himself for it

you guys become best friends almost by accident. you needed a lab partner who wouldn’t slack, he was the only one who didn’t stare at you like you were an alien. now you share earbuds in study hall, you steal his fries at lunch, he explains calculus to you in that patient soft voice while you pretend to hate math but secretly love when he gets excited and starts gesturing with his hands

he’s so obvious it hurts. the way his ears go pink when you lean over his shoulder to look at his notes. how he stutters for half a second when you call him “sammy” (even though he pretends to hate it). the little smile he can’t hide when you wait for him after class so you can walk out together

dean teases him mercilessly over the phone. “you still mooning over miss too-cool-for-school? dude just ask her out already” “shut up dean i’m not— it’s not like that” (it’s exactly like that)

sam doodles your initials in the margins of his history notebook then immediately blacks them out like he committed a crime. he’s terrified you’ll see

you borrow his hoodie once when it’s freezing in the library and never give it back. he doesn’t ask for it. he just sees you wearing it in the hallway one day and nearly walks into a locker. it smells like your perfume for weeks and he hates/la secretly loves it

movie nights at your place because his dad’s always gone and the motel tv sucks. you fall asleep on his shoulder during some dumb romcom and he freezes like a statue for forty minutes not daring to move. heart hammering so loud he’s sure you can hear it

he writes entire mental essays about how you deserve someone better. someone who isn’t dragging around family baggage and a duffel bag ready to leave town any second. someone who can stay

but then you look at him sometimes—like really look—and say stuff like “you’re the only person who actually gets me, sammy” and he has to physically stop himself from blurting out “i’ve been in love with you since the tenth grade”

prom is coming up and he’s dying inside because you keep mentioning this guy from the soccer team who’s “kinda cute” and sam just nods like an idiot while internally screaming

he practices asking you in the mirror. “hey uh would you maybe wanna go to prom? with me? as friends. or not. whatever you want” and then he chickens out every single time

one day you just grab his hand in the parking lot after school, lace your fingers like it’s nothing, and go “you’re coming to prom with me right? i’m not asking anyone else” and sam’s brain blue-screens. he just nods. can’t speak. thinks he might pass out

he spends the next three weeks panicking about how to tell you he’s in love with you without ruining everything.

but every time you smile at him across the classroom, or bump his shoulder in the hall, or steal his coffee and make a face because it’s black, he thinks maybe—just maybe—you might feel it too

maybe one of these days he’s gonna get the guts to say it.

It was a crosscountry drive, quite literally. You were driving across the fucking country for hours. Days actually, this was day two in the car.

You were used to being in the car for long stretches, but one thing certainly made it much better.

Sam.

He was big and soft and cuddly as hell.

He was perfect.

He was stretched out as far as he could get, legs taking up more space than the backseat could give, and you were sprawled across him, curling your own legs up to fit in the cramped space. You rested your cheek against Sam's shoulder, one of his hands resting on your waist, the other intertwining with yours. His thumb brushed purposefully along your side, resulting in a soft little smile from you, nuzzling closer.

"Oh c'mon guys, don't do that in front of me" Dean cringed, avoiding glancing in the rearview mirror again.

"Does our love bother you?" You asked, barely turning to look at him, too comfy to move any more.

"Yeah actually, a lot. It's sickening. You're makin' me wanna throw up"

"That's a little dramatic" Sam commented.

"Not really. You two, you're worse than tofu"

"Damn" You muttered, shifting into an overexaggerated voice, faking tears "That- that really hurts Dean"

"Yeah?" His voice cracked "Well it hurts me too. Y-your love-"

"Alright theatre kids, y'had enough yet?" Sam rolled his eyes with a little grin.

"We're theatre kids?" Dean practically gawked at Sam, eyes still half on the road "You forgetting something, Lucentio?"

"Dean"

"What?!" You squaked, half sitting up, looking at Sam "You did Shakespeare?!"

"I-it was tenth grade"

"Shakespeare. My Sammy, Shakespearean. Now I gotta hear that"

"I-I don't remember it!"

"No need" Dean grinned "I got a tape"

"You did not"

"Did too"

"Oh my God, gimme!" You exclaimed, far too excited.

"No way in Hell" Sam replied through gritted teeth, glaring so hard at Dean through the mirror you thought it might crack.

"Dude, I never filmed it, c'mon, I'm not a soccer mom"

Sam let out a sigh of relief and you flopped back against his chest, defeated.

Soon after, Dean pulled off the road, stopping at a Gas 'n Sip.

"Alright, everybody out, no stopping 'til morning" Dean announced.

You clambered off Sam, hopping out of the car and leaning up against the side.

"Baby, are you okay?" Sam asked, immediately coming to your aid, ever your white knight.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. My foot went to sleep, just need a minute"

"Oh okay, I'll wait for you" He smiled softly, slipping an arm around your shoulders, never getting enough of you.

"It's okay, you should go for a walk, it's pretty cramped in there"

"You sure?"

"C'mon Sam, it's a walk around the store, you're not goin' off to war" Dean grumbed.

"Jerk"

"Bitch" He grinned proudly, to which Sam rolled his eyes.

"I'll be back in a sec, okay honey?" He turned to you, looking so sweet you'd get a cavatiy.

"Yes Sammy, I'll be fine" You reassured him with a quick kiss to the cheek.

You watching him grinning like a lovesick puppy as he walked away.

The second Sam disappeared behind the building, Dean stopped pumping gas, hurrying to the trunk. He rummaged around for a moment before finding what he was looking for, pocketing it before you could catch a glimpse, already back at the pump before Sam rounded the corner.

"Hey" Dean interrupted before Sam could make it back to you "Y'mind paying?" Dean threw his wallet to his brother "Gotta take a leak"

"Sure" Sam said suspiciously, sensing the same strangeness from Dean that you did.

As the doors closed behind Sam, Dean 'casually' came up to you, leaning against Baby like you were, inching just a little too close.

"Dean, what're-"

"Shh"

Before you could get mad at him for actually shushing you, his hand slipped into your back pocket.

"Dean! What the f-"

His hand clamped down over your mouth, looking you in the eyes, as serious as you'd ever seen him.

"Go to the bathroom, don't tell Sam"

You were confused, but you did as he said, feeling something in your pocket. You didn't expect Dean to go too far with you in any way, so you decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Cautiously.

You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind you. You reached into your pocket, pulling out what looked to be one of Dean's cassettes, the same kind he played in Baby.

Only, scrawled on the front in blue ink was "TOTS '99"

TOTS, what the hell could that mea-

You grinned, pulling out your phone, clicking on Dean's name, typing immediately.

You son of a bitch

I love you

This is incredible

You're welcome

Baby's rules apply

I know, I know

Be careful

Don't take it anywhere dangerous

It comes back in perfect condition!

Got it Dean

What, exactly, is TOTS? One might ask…

Taming

Of

The

Shrew

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@fallenangowl

A groan that scraped from the very bottom of your soul left your chapped lips. Every muscle in your body felt tight and sore as you stretched. Between your thighs was a distinct, sticky, intimate dampness that told you exactly what had happened, and was still happening, hours after the fact.

Memories of your eventful Valentine’s Day came in a hazy, sensual montage. 

Clark’s large, warm, and gentle hands caressing the back of your head as you sucked him impossibly deep. His mouth, worshipful and demanding, left a trail of tingling skin and a constellation of tender marks blooming. His enthusiastic praises, words that made you blush even now, complimented every thrust. The feeling of being utterly, thoroughly loved, stretched to a breathtaking limit that only he could reach.

And the bed. The stupid, beautiful, now-broken bed.

Realization cut through the pleasant fog of afterglow. You shifted, and the mattress sank. Not the usual give of memory foam, but a structural, groaning wrong. A small, distressed sound of wood complaining followed your movements. A metallic tink as a loose bolt gave up its post.

You faintly remembered the headboard splitting sometime around round three. Or was it round four? You weren't sure…time got slippery right when Clark had your ankles almost to your ears and held you still while he filled you. Again.

A slow, simmering irritation began to heat your blood, chasing away the last vestiges of sleep. There were no words profound enough to convey how much you loved him, but you were so damn tired of Superman-strength defeating human engineering!

You took a slow, deliberate breath, preparing to turn and deliver the glare of the century to your sleeping husband, but the space beside you was already empty, the sheets cool.

Then you heard it.

From the kitchen.

The sounds of someone moving, given from the soft clink of a mug, the gentle scrape of a pan, topped off with carefree whistling.

Plus the unmistakable smell of bacon, eggs, and something sweet. Pancakes?

Oh, he already knew!

Of course, he knew. He probably heard the wood splinter in real time last night and had spent every second mentally drafting his excuses right after.

Footsteps approached the bedroom door with quite a pep.

The door creaked slowly, and Clark appeared, a vision of domestic bliss.

He was shirtless (damn him), his sleep pants slung low on his hips (damn him again), and he raven hair was a glorious, chaotic mess (no comment). He looked less like an icon and more like your husband, rumpled and warm from sleep. 

You finally pushed yourself up on your elbows, letting the sheet pool to your waist. The cool air kissed your bare skin, raising goosebumps. You didn’t bother to cover yourself.

Let him see. Let him witness the consequences (if he cared).

His brilliant blue eyes, so full of a love, flickered over your face first. They lingered on your mouth, where he’d kissed you there, slow and deep, for what felt like hours. His gaze traveled down, tracing the love bites on your neck, over the slope of your bare breasts, then lower, to the space between your covered thighs, and his expression softened with a possessiveness that made your stomach flutter.

Then his eyes found the bedframe.

His face changed. The softness evaporated, replaced by pure, unadulterated amusement. Like he’d taken one look at the split slat and thought, Yeah. That tracks. Like the evidence didn’t horrify him so much as… satisfy him.

His mouth twitched. His shoulders lifted in the barest shrug.

He looked like a man being shown photographic proof of his own crime and deciding the prosecution had a point, but the defendant also had excellent taste.

"Good morning, my love," he greeted (oh, he's laying it thick), pitched a tad higher than his usual morning rumble. eyes bright with that sunshine-dimples softness that always got him in trouble. "I was, uh…making breakfast. For you!"

A beat, like he was testing the waters. "How was your sleep?"

You just looked at him. Let the silence stretch.

He cleared his throat, clapped his hands once like he could reset the morning, and pointed vaguely in your direction as if you were a problem he could solve with enthusiasm.

"So. I—" he started, then stopped, eyes flicking back to the broken slat. The grin tried to come back, smaller now. "I heard a noise last night. Felt it. And I’m sure you did too. I was going to…" He trailed off, then rushed in with the only coping mechanism he trusted: fixing. "Hon, I can fix it. Right now. Two minutes. I’ll get my tools."

He took a step back, already turning, already reaching for problem-solving.

"Clark Joseph Kent."

Your voice stopped him cleanly. You kept it calm. The kind of calm that suggested you were being very generous—so far.

"I am sore," you said evenly. "I am… leaking." A small pause, just long enough to be a warning. "I am not supervising carpentry while you try to redeem yourself."

You gestured vaguely to yourself, to the sheets, to the bedframe that had sacrificed itself in the name of your marriage.

Clark turned back, and the amusement flickered. His eyes went wide with that devastating, boyish sincerity like he’d rather take a kryptonite-laced bullet than have you upset with him.

He crossed the room in three strides with long-legged urgency, and knelt on the floor, bringing his eyes level with yours.

It was such a deliberately humble posture, your heart gave a treacherous squeeze.

No! Be strong, woman!

"I’m sorry," he said, but there was a warmth in it that betrayed him. "I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I got carried away. I didn’t mean to—" He exhaled, helpless, honest. "I should’ve been more careful. Especially the last round."

The smugness faded the moment he saw your expression hold. Like a switch flipped. Like your irritation mattered more than his pride ever could.

His hand hovered under the sheet over your knee. "Can I?"

Polite. Devout. Still hints of smugness underneath.

You narrowed your eyes, letting the silence linger a beat too long on purpose, but eventually gave a tiny nod.

His hand settled on your knee, his thumb beginning those slow, circular strokes. His touch was warm, gentle. It was the kind of touch that said I’m sorry in a language he trusted more than words. 

His eyes scanned you, not with his x-ray vision, but with a hyper-focused, husbandly concern that was somehow more intense. He was taking inventory, checking for any reason to blame himself harder than necessary.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. His other hand came up, his fingers tracing the edge of a love bite on your shoulder with a feather-light touch. "Here? Does this hurt?"

"No," you murmured. "It’s just a mark."

His fingers drifted to another on your collarbone. "Here?"

"Clark, I’m not broken." You caught his hand gently, holding it still. "I’m tender. And I’m a little annoyed. And I’m also absurdly in love with you, which is honestly making the annoyance worse."

That flicker of smugness tried to rise again—hopeful, delighted—before guilt drowned it, immediate and sincere.

"I’ll take care of this," he said quickly, like he could undo inconvenience with effort."I’ll buy a commercial-grade one. Like… hotel level. From a supplier. Or I’ll build one." His voice picked up speed as his brain launched into problem-solving golden retriever. "Gary and I can come up with something. Reinforced frame, steel supports, center beam, and I’ll sleep on the couch until it’s done."

Of course, his solution included exile.

"No!" you hissed, sharper than you meant to be.

Clark blinked, and because he was still, deep down, a farm boy with a martyr complex, slapped his forehead dramatically. "Geez. How careless of me." He pointed at the couch like it was a dungeon. "You take the couch, I’ll take the floor."

The idea of him banished anywhere was unbearable. You weren’t punishing him. You weren’t trying to prove a point. You wanted him close. Always.

"Oh my God, Clark! That’s not—" you cut yourself off, half-laughing, half-exasperated, because he was already trying to make himself smaller in the face of your inconvenience.

He paused, trying to look contrite, but his mouth kept threatening a smile.

"I’m making a sacrifice here!" he exclaimed.

"You’re being ridiculous."

He softened instantly, because you were laughing and exasperated and he hated that more than he liked being smug. "I’m trying to make it right."

"You can make it right by staying next to me," you said, half-laughing, half-commandeering. "You’re not sleeping anywhere that isn’t next to me." Then you added: "I’ll be mad for real."

His face crumpled in relief so profound it made something warm twist under your ribs.

"We only have one bed," you explained, edge leaving your voice entirely.

"Yeah, I know," he whispered, bringing his forehead to your knee, and he sounded so wistful it almost made you laugh. You stroked the back of his head.

"So maybe," you continued, drawling it out, "we stop treating it like a… like a launchpad."

You saw the struggle in his face. The way his cheek muscle twitched as he fought another laugh. He bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He failed. A small, helpless chuckle broke through. 

"It’s not my fault you make it really hard to control myself," he mumbled, ducking his head.

You couldn’t help it. A snort of laughter escaped you. It broke the remaining tension in the room like a sunbeam through cloud cover. 

"Ohhh, so it’s my fault?"

"Wait, no, that’s not what I—" he was thoroughly horrified by his implication. "No, of course not. It’s the bed’s fault. It’s shoddy craftsmanship. It’s…" He looked at the broken slat again and grimaced. "It’s me. I got carried away, because I always underestimate how much I love my wife." 

He said it so simply, so earnestly, that your breath caught in a way that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with the sheer magnitude of your husband’s heart.

You reached out then, your fingers tugging into the soft cotton at his hip. "Oh, come here, you."

He moved carefully, bracing his weight on his arms, knees sinking into the mattress at your side, making the frame groan another soft protest. You slid your hand up, over the warm, solid plane of his stomach, to his chest. You could feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart under your palm.

"I’m not mad about the mind-blowing, toe-curling sex," you whispered. "Obviously."

"Obviously," he echoed, also agreeing with a pleased shrug.

"I’m kind of—" you rolled your eyes at yourself, because it was ridiculous to admit, but he deserved to hear it, "I’m kind of obsessed with it. That you can’t help but still get carried away with me because you’re you, and God, it drives me crazy sometimes."

"I’m mad at the adulting," you continued, tipping your chin toward the broken frame. "The calls, the measuring, the delivery window, the money. The whole production. That’s what I don’t want to deal with."

"Then I will," he promised, like it was nothing. "All of it. I just want you comfortable."

You sighed, instantly melting. "God, you’re such a good man," you blurted, pouting a little. "It’s actually unfair. Do you know how hard it is to stay annoyed at you when you’re like this?"

His thumb brushed your cheek tenderly, another wide grin already forming. "Okay. Well, I’m not sorry about that."

"Better not be, mister!"

You tilted your face up and kissed him. It was a slow, press of lips that was more reassurance than passion. The I’m-so-in love-and-I’m-just-dramatic kiss. He melted into it, his body easing against yours, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw.

When you pulled back, you shifted slightly, and the movement sent a fresh, warm reminder of last night’s activities sliding through you. A small, involuntary sound escaped your throat, a soft, breathy oh, Clark.

He paused. His eyes, which had been bright with relief, darkened instantly. The blue seemed to deepen, to focus. His gaze dropped to your mouth. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

"Hon," he whispered, a little husky from restraint, "I’m trying to be good."

"I know you are." You brushed your thumb over his lower lip, gentle and taunting, and watched his lashes flutter. "But there are… other ways to be close."

The look he gave you was one of pure, undiluted worship. 

"Tell me," he breathed. "Tell me what you need."

You bit your lip and nudged his shoulder lightly, guiding him enough to lean away. You kept your eyes locked with his as you slowly pushed the rest of the sheet away, baring your body fully to the cool morning air and his heated gaze. The sunlight painted your skin in gold, highlighting every curve, every mark and claim he’d left. You saw his chest expand with a sharp inhale.

"You’re so beautiful," he praised. "Every time. It still… it takes my breath away."

"Careful," you teased, breathy. "Flattery gets you in trouble."

His mouth twitched. "I think I'm already there."

You reached for him, your hand sliding down his chest, over the ridges of his stomach, to the waistband of his pants. You hooked your fingers in them. 

"These," you drawled. "Want ‘em off."

He didn’t need to be told twice. He stood, just for a moment, and pushed the pants down his legs, kicking them aside. He stood before you, fully revealed, and the sight of him—all that powerful, sculpted muscle, the sheer size and strength of him, hardened by his need for you—made a fresh wave of warmth pool low in your belly. The contrast never failed to thrill you: his immense, capable form, so completely at the service of your pleasure.

"Don’t look at me like that," he scolded lightly.

You smiled, sweet and smug. "Like what, baby?"

"Like you’re… proud of yourself."

"I am," you admitted simply.

He snorted. "Yeah. I figured."

He climbed back onto the bed with exaggerated care, distributing his weight, avoiding the broken spots. He stretched out beside you, propped on one elbow, his other hand coming to rest on your hip.

"Now, kiss me," you whispered with a smile, turnibg onto your side to face him, closing the small gap between you.

The kiss started tenderly. A soft meeting of lips, a gentle exploration. You sighed into it, your hand coming up to slide into his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft, thick strands. He made a low, approving sound in the back of his throat, his arm sliding under your neck to pull you closer.

"Wow," he murmured against your mouth, as if praising you for breathing.

"Stop that," you whispered, laughing quietly between pecks. "You’re making it worse."

"I’m not doing anything," he lied softly, resumed his affections.

The tenderness gradually bled into something more urgent. His lips parted, and your tongue met his in a slow, languid dance. The kiss deepened, grew wetter, hotter. You lost yourself in the feel of him, in the familiar taste and scent that was uniquely your Clark. His hand on your neck slid down to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. You could feel the hard, thick length of him against your thigh, a persistent, heated pressure.

You broke the kiss, gasping for air. "Clark…"

"I know, sweetheart," he murmured, his lips trailing down your jaw to your neck, over your breasts. He didn’t suck, didn’t leave new marks. He just pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin, his breath hot against you.

"Just kissing. Just touching. Making my wife, my beautiful, perfect wife feel better."

Your chest tightened. Because he meant it. Because he always meant it.

"Such a saint," you purred, breathy with teasing.

He huffed a laugh against your throat. "I’m not a saint."

"No?" you whispered, smug. "Could’ve fooled me."

His hand, which had been resting on your back, began to move. It slid down, over the curve of your ass, then around, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, which you swore was egging you to misbehave.

He stopped short, his fingertips brushing along the outer swollen lip, not entering, just resting there, a teasing, coaxing, maddening presence as he toyed with the slick evidence of his last visit.

"Okay?" he asked, a rough whisper against your ear.

Nodding, whimpering as your hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk towards his touch.

"Need to hear you," he insisted, his fingers stilling. "After I broke our bed. After I made you so sore you can barely move. Need to hear what you want from me now."

He was offering you control, even as he held you utterly in his thrall. It was a delicious, maddening contradiction. 

"Touch me," you pleaded, the command urgent and clear. "Please, it’s okay. Just… touch me again."

That was all the permission he needed. His touch was exquisite in its gentleness. He knew your body, every fold, every secret place that made you tremble. His fingers moved with a slow, deliberate expertise, circling, stroking, applying just the right amount of pressure along your well-adored clit and still-slicked cunt.

"Oh, hon," he breathed, more to himself than to you. "You’re still so full. I did that to you, huh?"

Your body arched into his touch, gasps of pleasure escaping your lips as your eyes locked with his, sharing the moment's intensity. His other hand slid under your thigh opening you wider.

"That’s it," he whispered, his own breathing growing uneven. He watched your face, his eyes tracking every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every beat of your pulse. "You feel so good. Look so beautiful lying here for me."

His praise washed over you, amplifying every sensation. You craned your head, seeking his mouth again, and he met you in another searing kiss, swallowing your moans. His fingers continued their work, the rhythm building, coiling a tight, sweet tension low in your core. Your thighs trembled in his hand, your fingers clutching at his shoulders.

"Oh, s-shit... I’m… I’m close," you gasped against his mouth.

"I feel you," he murmured, pulling back just enough to lock his eyes with yours, a blue blaze through his dark lashes. "Eyes on me, yeah? Wanna watch you."

Your eyelids fluttered open, pleasure blurring your vision as you locked eyes with him. The intensity in his blue gaze—love, lust, devotion—felt like a tidal wave pulling you under. You clung to it, to him, your body shaking as his fingers worked their magic. 

"C-Clark!" you gasped, your voice breaking, "I love you, fuck—I love you!" the words spilling out in desperate, breathless chants as the tension coiled tighter. 

You held his stare, refusing to look away, even as your body arched, even as the first wave of your orgasm crashed over you and tore a series of moans and cries from your lips. Your eyes squeezed shut for a fraction of a second before you forced them open again, determined to let him see you, feel you, as you came apart. 

The pleasure crashed through you, hot and endless, and you watched his face soften with awe, his lips parting as he whispered, "I love you too."

As the tremors subsided, you collapsed back onto the ruined mattress, boneless and gasping. He slowly, carefully withdrew his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth, his eyes still held yours with rapt fascination, and cleaned them with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue. 

"Taste so good. Taste like us. Like last night."

You let out a shaky laugh, still dazed. "You’re...you're ridiculous!" 

Then you tugged him by his bicep, guiding him completely over you. The bed creaked as he went willingly, bracing his weight on his forearms, his body caging you fully. The hard, hot length of him pressed against your stomach. You wrapped your jello-like legs around his hips, locking your ankles at the small of his back. 

"I want you, I—" you swallowed, at a loss for words. "Need you."

"Yeah?" he whispered against your lips. "Tell me how. I’ll be good. I’ll—" a swallow. "I’ll be gentle."

"Just stay still," you whispered, "Inside."

Clark understood, shifting carefully, a controlled power that made your heart race. He positioned himself, buckling lightly at the press of his cock, and then he was pushing in, so slowly, so incredibly slowly. There was a faint, slick shhh of wetness.

You were still sensitive from your climax, still stretched and tender from last night, and the feeling of him filling you, inch by delicious inch, made a fresh wave of slick form. A sharp, sweet ache bloomed into a deep, full pressure below your navel. You gasped, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulder and biceps.

"Still alight?" he breathed, his forehead damp with sweat, his entire body tense with restraint as you adjusted.

"Y-yes," you managed. "Move, baby."

He sank the rest of the way in, until he was fully sheathed, until you could feel him everywhere. He collapsed onto his forearms, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in hot, ragged gusts against your skin. He didn’t move, as you requested. He just held himself there, deep inside you, letting you adjust, letting the feeling of connection settle over you both.

This wasn’t about taking. This was about being. About closeness. About aftercare in its most primal form. You could feel every throb of his pulse within you, a steady, insistent rhythm. You slid your arms around his broad back, holding him as tightly as he was holding you.

"I-I love you," Clark said through gritted teeth, the words muffled but fervent. "I love—If I loved you less I might be able to—"

"—talk about it more," you finished with a helpless grin, turning your head to press a kiss to his temple.

Despite your own rules, you rocked your hips, just a tiny, subtle shift, and felt him shudder against you. "God, Clark. You romantic dork. You’re gonna kill me."

"Think you're gonna kill me first," he groaned, but he didn’t pull away. He pressed closer, if that was possible.

You both floated there, suspended in the quiet morning. The only sounds were your mingled breathing and the occasional, soft groan of the compromised bedframe beneath you. Sunlight warmed your tangled legs. You could still smell the coffee from the kitchen.

After a long, peaceful while, he stirred. He lifted his head, his eyes searching yours. "How do you feel?"

"Never better," you managed a weak nod, your body humming, every nerve alight. The annoyance was a distant memory, burned away by the warmth of his body and the depth of his care.

He smiled, that soft, boyish one with twin dimples. He began to move then, not with the driving, bed-breaking force of last night, but with slow, shallow rolls of his hips. It was barely movement at all, just a gentle, rocking connection that sparked fresh tendrils of pleasure, coiling around the deep, satiated ache. You met his rhythm, moving with him in a lazy, effortless sync.

His eyes never left yours. The eye contact was more intimate than before, a silent conversation that flowed between you with each slow thrust. You could see the love there, the devotion, the faintest shadow of guilt, and the blazing heat of his desire. 

You could also see the moment his control began to fray. His breathing hitched, his movements growing slightly less measured.

"I can’t think when you—look at me like that," he confessed, voice strained with brutal honesty. "Sweetheart, I’m losing it."

Your smile turned slow and wicked, even as your breath came faster.

"Thought you wanted to see me," you panted. "S-say it again. Tell me you’re losing it."

His lashes fluttered, jaw tightening. "I’m—" a shaky exhale, "—I’m losing it. Your fault, definitely."

"Oh, I know," you breathed, and the praise was a match to gasoline. "You’re doing so good for me."

"I-I’m close—can’t—You’re making me lose it," he warned, his voice strained. "G-gosh, hon—I—where–where do you—?"

You tightened your legs around him, walls fluttering as you drew him in even deeper. 

"I-Inside, always," you moaned urgently, raking your nails across his back as if coaxing him. "Come for me, baby. Come for your wife again."

It was all the encouragement he needed. His rhythm broke, his hips stuttering against yours. His eyes widened, his pupils swallowing the blue, and you watched, mesmerized, as pleasure overtook him. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat. He was beautiful in his release, his face a mask of vulnerable ecstasy. 

You felt the hot, sudden, familiar rush of him inside you, a profound, flooding warmth that seemed to go on and on, a testament to the unique biology of the man you married. You clenched around him repeatedly, milking every last pulse, holding him through the waves.

Clark was careful, even in his exhaustion, to keep most of his weight off you as he collapsed, utterly spent. He nuzzled into your neck, pressing soft, damp kisses to your skin. He mumbled sweet nothings between uneven breaths, the words slurred with satisfaction and devotion. Your fingers combed through his damp hair with each kiss, soothing, indulgent.

Eventually, he lifted his head. His eyes were lovestruck and lazy, that gooey, boyish look that always made you want to be insufferable about it.

"Y’know," he murmured, "Valentine’s didn’t end at midnight for me."

You made a sound that might’ve been a disbelieving scoff. "Oh?"

"It’s still happening," he said, and the corner of his mouth quirked. "As long as I get to be here next to you."

You snorted, muttered ‘Geez, you big ol’ mush’ under your breath, and caught him in a final slow, sweet kiss. When you parted, you nodded towards the kitchen, then blinked up at him sweetly. 

"So, I believe there was talk of breakfast, Mr. Kent?"

His laugh vibrated through his chest into yours. 

"Right! Stay put, hon. I got you!" 

He withdrew from you slowly, both of you wincing at the loss and the fresh, slick evidence of your joining that followed. He fetched a warm, damp washcloth from the connected bathroom quickly, and tended to you with utmost tenderness, listening carefully to your every sigh and sharp breath.

Only once he was satisfied with the way the sheets covered you, did he tug on his sweats and vanish into the kitchen.

You lay there, alone in the broken bed, surrounded by sunlight and the smell of sex and, still, coffee.

Proof of a marriage that was shamelessly, wonderfully alive.

Clark returned minutes later with a tray meticulously arranged like a peace offering and a love letter.

Fluffy waffles covered with exactly the right amount of syrup, scrambled eggs, a bowl of yogurt with honey, a small pile of strawberries, coffee in your favorite mug, and a tall glass of water.

He even brought a bottle of ibuprofen and your heating pad.

He set the tray aside for a moment, helped you sit up, propping pillows behind you. His hands were checking without hovering—here, there, too much pressure?— making sure you were comfortable. 

You let him fuss, because watching your Clark —your Superman—go soft and domestic with caretaking was its own kind of seduction.

Once you were settled, he placed the tray across your lap and gingerly climbed onto the bed beside you.

The bed creaked once more.

Clark paused mid-motion.

You lifted a brow.

He gave you the smallest, most unapologetic smirk (still worth it) and then immediately sobered, sliding closer with the gentleness of a man who worshipped your comfort more than his pride.

He watched you take the first bite of waffles, his eyes scanning your face.

"Well?" he asked.

"To die for," you complimented was an exaggerated moan, mouth muffled full of food. "As always, Chef Kent. Thank you."

He nodded and picked up a strawberry, holding it to your lips. You took a bite, the sweet juice bursting on your tongue.

"At this point," you said after swallowing, leaning your head against his shoulder, "we should just get a mattress on the floor."

Clark paused, his coffee mug halfway to his lips. He peered down at you, a mischievous look spread across his face. 

"That’s actually not a bad idea," he said slowly, all serious. "You’re brilliant!"

You laughed, bright and happy in the sunlit bedroom. "I was joking."

"Well, I’m not." You could see the gears turning in his head, the plans formulating. "Sturdy foundation. Low center of gravity. No frame to break." He nodded once like he’d solved world hunger. "I mean, it’s the perfect solution."

"Ah, so the great Man of Steel admits defeat not by kryptonite, but by a bedframe," you teased, nudging him with your elbow. 

He set his mug down slowly and turned to you, his expression soft and earnest again. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.

"Defeated by the thought of you being uncomfortable," he corrected gently. "Conquered, completely, by you."

He kissed you then, a sweet, lingering kiss that tasted of coffee and strawberries. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead pressed to yours. 

"We only had one bed," he whispered.

"Just this one," you agreed. "We'll be slumming it like broke college kids for a while."

"And somehow," he started, pursing his lips, "you still choose it. You still choose me."

"Every day, baby," you promised, smiliing against him.

"Every day," he echoed, words filled with a wonder that never grew old.

The coffee cooled on the tray. The broken bed leaned on, a silent, ridiculous witness. In the warm pool of sunlight, wrapped in the careful, protective embrace of the man you loved—your sweet, prideful, impossible husband—you knew there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

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