summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ a routine werewolf hunt turns brutal, leaving sam with blood on his hands and far less time than he thought he had to tell you the truth.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x hunter!oc ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 4880 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty with a very soft ending
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ canon-typical violence, werewolf attack, blood and injury, near-death scare, fear of dying, anxiety surrounding failure and abandonment, hurt/comfort, protective sam, platonic dean-and-reader friendship, soft confession, gentle first kiss
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ for the gorgeous @no-ordinary-girl!! 🤭 thank you for continuing to support my writing. you're the absolute best and all the coincidences in this?? we're connected on a whole deeper level baby 😚🩷
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ request your fanfic ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the thing about hunting, you have learned, is that there’s rarely any warning when a perfectly ordinary day decides to become the worst one of your life.
sometimes there’s a smell—sulfur, damp soil, the sour chemical sting of something that’s been dead long but refuses to stay that way. sometimes the lights flicker or the radio dissolves into static or sam gets that small crease between his eyebrows while reading through a stack of newspaper clippings; the one that makes you put down whatever you’re doing and pay attention.
this morning, there’s nothing.
there’s only a motel room with yellow curtains and a heater that clicks every few minutes without producing much warmth. there’s a half-empty cup of coffee cooling beside your elbow. there’s your paperback folded open across your knees, the pages crowded with underlined sentences and cramped notes in the margins because you can’t seem to read anything without arguing with it a little. there’s dean, standing beside the door with his jacket already on, staring at you as though you have personally offended him by occupying the only chair.
“you know books are supposed to be relaxing, right?” he asks.
you keep your eyes down on the page. “i am relaxed.”
“you wrote three paragraphs beside one sentence.”
“i’m taking notes.”
dean takes a drink from his coffee and glances across the room at sam, who’s sitting at the tiny table beneath the window with his laptop open and several printed maps spread around him. “she’s doing homework for fun again.”
sam doesn’t look up immediately. the corner of his mouth moves first, a quiet little smile he almost manages to hide behind the screen. “leave her alone.”
“i’m not bothering her—i’m concerned. there’s a difference.”
“you tried to take the book away from me ten minutes ago,” you remind him.
“because we have a job.”
“and because you wanted the chair.”
“well, two things can be true.”
you close the book around the receipt you’re using as a bookmark and stand, smoothing your palms over your jeans. dean immediately drops into the chair with the satisfied sigh of a man who has survived a significant hardship. you roll your eyes at him, gathering your hair over one shoulder while you lean closer to the maps. it's long enough now that the ends catch beneath the strap of your camera whenever you forget to move them, dark brown that turns almost black in the motel room’s poor lighting except where your grown-out highlights soften it near the ends. your bangs have reached the awkward stage where they refuse to behave properly, no matter how many times you push them away from your face.
sam reaches across the table without thinking and gently frees one strand caught against the chain of your necklace.
it’s such a small thing. barely anything at all. his fingers don’t even touch your skin, only the moss-green aquamarine pendant you wear every day and the loose piece of hair tangled around it. still, your body notices. horribly. instantly.
“sorry,” he murmurs.
“no, it’s okay.”
his eyes lift to yours for a second, warm and a little uncertain, before he lets the strand fall against your shoulder.
you’ve been in love with sam winchester long enough to recognize the exact shape of your own bad decisions. most of them are tall, soft-spoken, and currently wearing a faded brown hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
you look down at the map before your face can betray you. “so,” you say, forcing your attention toward the red circles sam has drawn around three separate areas of woodland. “we’re sure it’s a werewolf?”
“pretty sure,” sam says. his voice settles into that calmer register he slips into when he’s explaining something, patient without making you feel inexperienced. “three victims within six weeks. same general area, all killed overnight. the police reports blame an animal attack, but the injuries are too consistent. severe trauma to the chest, hearts missing.”
“romantic,” dean grumbles.
you glance toward him. “you eat while we talk about autopsy reports.”
“i contain multitudes.”
“it’s called diabetes and cholesterol. get it checked.”
dean gives you a flat look over the rim of his coffee cup. sam ducks his head, but not quickly enough to hide his laugh.
that sound still catches you off guard sometimes. not because it’s rare exactly, although it’s rarer than it should be. but because you remember how guarded sam was when you first met him. you remember the distance he kept between himself and the rest of the world, even while he’s polite, even while he’s kind. grief sat heavily on him in those first few weeks. guilt did too. you didn’t understand all of it at the time, and you knew better than to pry open wounds he was trying to carry quietly. you only made coffee when he had been staring at the laptop too long. you brought extra food when dean forgot that his brother doesn’t survive exclusively on gas-station snacks and spite. you listened when sam offered pieces of himself in careful increments.
somewhere along the way, you become part of the rhythm.
you’re not born into hunting. there’s no family journal waiting in a locked box beneath your childhood bed, no parent teaching you how to draw a devil’s trap before you know long division. before sam and dean, the most dangerous thing you regularly did was stand on your tiptoes to reach the top shelf in your kitchen rather than finding a chair.
then a spirit followed you home from an abandoned hotel, and sam and dean saved your life, and the world became much larger and stranger than it had any right to be.
you’re supposed to go back to normal afterward.
you tried. for almost two weeks when dean answered the phone at two in the morning and heard you say, “hypothetically, how much salt is too much salt to pour across a doorway?”
you’ve been with them ever since.
“the most recent victim worked at a summer camp,” sam continues, tapping the map. “josh miller. twenty-four. his body hasn’t been found, but his truck was abandoned near the service road.”
“which means he might not be a victim,” you say.
sam nods. “he could’ve been bitten during the first attack.”
“and now he’s hiding somewhere familiar,” dean adds. “isolated property, plenty of places to disappear until sundown. simple enough.”
simple enough. you should know better than to trust those words.
the camp looks harmless in daylight.
the main building sits beyond a cracked wooden sign painted with cheerful yellow letters, surrounded by bare trees and damp earth. a row of cabins stretches toward the edge of the woods, their windows dark, their doors locked. there are faded murals along the dining-hall wall. your camera rests against your chest as you walk, tapping softly against your pendant with every step.
dean notices you taking a picture of the sign.
“seriously?”
“what?”
“you making a scrapbook?”
“yes, dean. i’m going to title this page ‘possible werewolf murder camp.’ i’ll add glitter later.”
“make sure you get my good side.”
“that would require extensive editing.”
he points at you without looking back. “your attitude is getting worse.”
“you’re a bad influence.”
“you’re welcome.”
ahead of you, sam checks the lock on the main building and glances over his shoulder. his hair is falling into his eyes again, slightly too long even by his standards, and the mild exasperation on his face does absolutely nothing to disguise his affection.
“both of you,” he says quietly. “focus.”
“i am focused,” dean says. “i’m focused on how mean she’s gotten since we picked her up.”
you follow them onto the wooden steps. “you begged me to stay after the poltergeist case because i was the only one who remembered to bring a first-aid kit.”
“begged is a strong word.”
“you called me from a gas station and said sam was bleeding on the upholstery.”
“he was!”
sam opens the door after a few seconds with the lock pick, shaking his head. “i’m right here.”
your shoes squeak faintly against the linoleum as you step inside, letting your eyes adjust to the dimness. there are chairs stacked upside down on tables and boxes of craft supplies tucked beneath the serving counter. a bulletin board displays photographs from the previous summer: sunburnt teenagers in matching shirts, children grinning with missing front teeth, counselors posing beside a canoe.
“audry,” dean calls without turning around. “stay where we can see you.”
it shouldn’t bother you. it’s sensible. you’re newer than they are, and dean has a point even when he packages it inside that gruff older-brother tone he’s started using whenever you stray more than ten feet away from him in a dangerous place.
something in your chest tightens anyway. “i know.”
sam pauses in the office doorway and looks back at you. the glance lasts only a moment, but he reads you too easily. “you’re doing fine.”
you lower the camera slightly. “i didn’t say anything.”
“you didn’t have to.”
dean appears from behind the counter with a silver knife in his hand. “nobody thinks you’re doing a bad job, short stack.”
you narrow your eyes. “i’m going to let the werewolf eat you.”
“see? attitude problem.” his voice is teasing, but he waits until you roll your eyes before turning away again.
he knows too. neither of them ever says it directly, this quiet understanding that your fear is rarely about the monster in front of you. it’s about being useful enough to earn your place beside them. capable enough that no one has to regret trusting you. easy enough to keep around.
you look down at your camera, rubbing your thumb against the edge of the screen. your nails are painted a glossy dark green this week, although the polish on your index finger is chipped from forcing open a stubborn ammunition box yesterday. “i just don’t want to be the reason something goes wrong.”
for one second, sam looks as though he wants to say more. something larger than the moment has room for. instead, he reaches out and briefly squeezes your shoulder. “you’re not,” he says. “you won’t be.”
dean straightens near the kitchen door. “found blood.”
the conversation closes around those two words.
you move toward him. the stain is old enough to have darkened against the linoleum, smeared in a broken trail leading toward the back exit. sam crouches to inspect it while dean tests the door.
“lock’s busted,” dean says.
“something left in a hurry,” sam murmurs.
you take a picture of the blood, then another of the damaged frame. the flash briefly fills the room.
for a second, you see something reflected in the narrow glass panel beside the door. a shape. too tall. too close. “sam—”
the door slams inward hard enough to send dean stumbling back. the creature hits him first, a blur of torn clothing and bared teeth, driving him into the counter with enough force to scatter metal trays across the floor. sam’s already moving. he shoves you behind him with one arm, raises the gun in the other, and fires.
the silver bullet catches the werewolf high in the shoulder.
it howls, twisting toward him.
“dean!” sam shouts.
dean recovers before the creature can lunge again. he drives the silver knife upward beneath its ribs and holds on through the violent jerk of its body, his jaw clenched. his other hand braced against its chest. the werewolf shudders. then it collapses heavily against him.
for several seconds, the only sounds in the room are dean’s breathing and the faint metallic rattle of a serving tray still spinning against the floor.
“everyone good?” dean asks.
sam turns immediately. “audrynne?”
“i’m fine.”
your heart is hammering, but you are standing. nothing hurts. you lower the camera carefully, fighting the tremor in your fingers as dean eases the body onto the floor.
“josh miller,” he says after checking the dead man’s face. “guess we found our missing maintenance guy.”
sam keeps his attention on you for another second. “you sure you’re okay?”
you nod. “yeah.”
you want to feel relieved. you almost do. then you look at the camera screen. the photograph you took before the attack is blurred from your sudden movement, washed pale by the flash. dean is visible near the door. sam is partly caught in the edge of the frame. behind them, reflected faintly in the narrow strip of glass, there are two distorted shapes.
your stomach drops. “guys—”
sam hears it in your voice. he turns before you can explain.
the second werewolf comes through the kitchen window. glass explodes across the linoleum. sam reaches for you, but you’re already moving on instinct, shoving both hands hard against his chest as the creature lunges. he stumbles sideways. claws slice through the air where his throat had been.
then pain tears across your ribs. it’s so immediate that your body can’t make sense of it at first. there’s only the impact, sharp and brutal, lifting you partially off your feet before you hit the floor. your camera skids beneath one of the tables. the aquamarine pendant snaps against your collarbone.
somebody shouts your name.
the werewolf is above you for less than a second. its breath is hot and foul against your cheek, its teeth stained red, but then sam fires. once. twice. silver bullets drive it backward. it crashes through the broken window and disappears into the trees outside.
sam drops beside you. “hey—hey, look at me.”
you blink up at him. his face won’t stay clear. the ceiling shifts strangely behind his head. “i’m okay,” the words come out thin and uneven.
sam looks down at your side, and something in his expression changes. not panic. sam is too practiced at turning fear into action while there’s still something he can do. he pulls off his overshirt and presses it firmly against the wound. pain flares so hard that your vision blurs white.
you make a sound you do not mean to make.
“i know,” he says immediately. “i know. i’m sorry.”
dean’s beside him now, blood streaked across his cheek from a shallow cut near his hairline. he looks at your side and swears under his breath.
outside, something crashes through the undergrowth. the second werewolf is running. dean looks toward the broken window, then back at you. every part of him resists leaving. you see it happen in real time: the calculation, the fury, the sick understanding that if the creature gets far enough into the woods, it’ll disappear until the next body turns up.
sam sees it too. “go.”
dean’s eyes snap toward him. “sam—”
“i’ve got her. go.”
“she needs—”
“dean.” sam’s voice is low and firm in a way that leaves no room for argument. one hand presses against your side. the other cradles the back of your head, keeping you still against his knee. “kill it before we lose it. i’ve got her.”
dean looks at you.
you attempt a smile because you know him. because he’s going to hate himself for leaving even when staying would be the wrong choice. “go.”
his jaw tightens. then he grabs the gun, checks the remaining ammunition, and runs through the broken door.
sam shifts carefully, sliding one arm beneath your shoulders. “we’re getting you out of here.”
“sam—”
“don’t talk yet.”
he lifts you into his arms.
you’re small enough that he manages it easily, one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, but every step sends a deep tearing ache through your side. you grab the front of his shirt, trying not to cry out. blood has already soaked through the fabric he’s holding against you. it’s warm against your skin, spreading too quickly beneath his hand.
outside, the air is cold and damp. sam lowers himself onto the wooden steps rather than risk carrying you across the uneven ground toward the car alone. he pulls you against his chest, adjusts the pressure on the wound, and looks toward the trees as though he can will dean to return faster.
“stay with me,” he says.
“i’m here.”
“keep looking at me.”
you try.
his face’s turned pale. there’s blood on his hands and along the cuff of his sweatshirt, caught in the lines of his knuckles. your blood. you want to tell him you’re sorry for that. you want to tell him you didn’t mean to make a routine hunt difficult. you should’ve noticed the reflection sooner. you should’ve moved faster. you should’ve listened more carefully instead of letting yourself get distracted by the familiar warmth of his hand on your shoulder.
the thoughts arrive in a frantic, useless rush. “i messed up,” you whisper.
sam’s expression hardens. “no.”
“i should’ve seen it.”
“you did see it.”
“too late.”
“audrynne, stop.” his voice softens almost immediately, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “you saved my life.”
you swallow. the motion hurts for reasons that don’t make sense. “sam—”
“you pushed me out of the way.” his hand tightens behind your shoulder. “so no—you don’t get to do that right now. you don’t get to lie here and convince yourself this happened because you failed some test nobody that didn’t exist.”
the steps beneath you are cold. the woods beyond his shoulder shift in and out of focus. you can hear sam breathing, too fast despite the calmness he’s trying to force into his voice.
you rest your head against his chest. it feels good there.
that’s the strange part. the pain is frightening, and the blood is worse, and somewhere in the distance you hear a gunshot echo between the trees. still, beneath all of it, there is sam. his heartbeat is loud against your ear. his arm holds you close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through both of your clothes. he keeps saying your name quietly, as though each repetition might anchor you inside your own body.
you’ve spent so much time being afraid of being left alone that you almost laugh at the unfairness of it. because you’re not alone. not now. not here.
“it’s perfect,” you murmur.
sam goes still. “what?”
your eyes are heavy. you let them close for one second, then force them open again because he asked you to keep looking at him. “i’m in the arms of my first love.”
his face changes. the fear he’s been holding back present, finally breaking through the careful control. “audrynne.”
“the first person i’ve ever loved,” you continue, the words slipping out softer than you intend. “the person i’ll always love.”
“no.” sam shakes his head immediately. “don’t say it that way.”
his voice cracks, and he looks angry about it, angry at himself, angry at the blood staining his hands, angry at the entire world for requiring this moment from either of you.
“you’re not saying goodbye to me. do you hear me?”
“i just wanted you to know.”
“you can tell me later.”
“sam—”
“later,” he repeats. his eyes shine, but he refuses to look away. “when you’re okay. when dean gets back. when we’re in another disgusting motel room and you’re complaining about the coffee and leaving your books everywhere. you can tell me then.”
your mouth trembles into something that almost becomes a smile. “you hate my books?”
“i don’t hate your books.”
“dean says they’re everywhere.”
“dean leaves socks on the floor. he doesn’t get an opinion.”
a laugh catches painfully in your ribs.
sam bends his head closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “stay with me.”
you want to. there’re so many things you want all at once. you want to see the relief on dean’s face when he returns and realizes you’re still breathing. you want to finish the book waiting on the motel nightstand. you want to repaint your chipped nail. you want to tell sam that you’ve loved him quietly through every late-night research session, every cup of coffee, every careful moment when his shoulder brushes yours in the impala and neither of you moves away. but mostly, you want to hear what he might say when he’s not terrified.
“i need more time,” sam says, and the words are so raw that they hurt worse than your side. “okay? i need more time with you. you don’t get to say always as if we’re out of it.”
the woods tilt behind him. you try to answer. you’re not sure whether any sound comes out.
the last thing you feel is sam pulling you closer, one bloodstained hand cupping the side of your face while he says your name again and again.
when you wake, the first thing you notice is the heater.
it clicks once. twice. then rattles with the sort of mechanical resentment only found in cheap motels across the continental united states.
the second thing you notice is pain.
it waits beneath the surface for a moment while your body gathers itself, then settles into a deep ache along your ribs. your mouth’s dry, and your limbs feel impossibly heavy, but you’re warm beneath several blankets. clean bandages wrap your side beneath an oversized shirt you recognize as dean’s.
the room is dim. the curtains are closed. the bedside lamp casts a soft yellow circle across the nightstand, illuminating a bottle of water, painkillers, gauze, and your aquamarine pendant laid carefully beside them. the chain is broken. someone has cleaned the stone until its cloudy green surface catches the light again.
your camera rests safely on the table across the room.
sam is on the floor beside the bed. for a second, you only look at him. he’s sitting with his back against the mattress, one arm folded beneath his head where it rests near your hand. at some point, exhaustion must have dragged him under without permission. his hair is mussed from sleep. there’s a dark smudge beneath one eye and a faint streak of dried blood near his wrist that he missed while washing his hands.
you move your fingers carefully. they brush his hair. sam wakes instantly.
his head lifts so fast that he nearly knocks against the edge of the mattress. his eyes find yours, unfocused for half a second, then suddenly clear.
the relief on his face is immediate.
it’s not subtle or guarded or shaped into something easier to survive. it moves through him so openly that you feel your chest tighten around it. he exhales your name and reaches for your hand, holding it between both of his as though he needs the solid proof of you.
“hey,” you whisper.
“hey.” his voice is rough with sleep. “how do you feel?”
“a little terrible.”
sam laughs once, quietly, and closes his eyes for a second. when he opens them again, they are bright. “yeah. that makes sense.”
“where’s dean?”
“getting food. and more bandages. and coffee.” sam rubs his thumb gently across your knuckles. “he killed the other werewolf. got back fast enough to help me get you here.”
you look down toward your side.
“the cut looked worse than it was once we cleaned it,” he adds immediately, reading your worry. “it missed anything major. you lost blood, and you’re going to be sore for a while, but you’re okay. dean stitched it. he said if you start running a fever or the pain gets worse, we’re taking you to a hospital whether you argue with him or not.”
you smile weakly, then notice the folded piece of motel stationery beside the water bottle. the handwriting across it is large and slanted.
don’t do anything stupid while i’m gone!!!
you pick it up with your free hand. “sweet.”
“he was worried.”
“you were worried.”
sam looks down at your joined hands.
quiet stretches between you, gentle but uncertain. memory returns in fragments: the steps outside the camp, his hand pressed against your side, your cheek against his chest. the terrible honesty that slips loose when you think there won’t be time to regret it. heat rises slowly into your face.
“sam,” you say.
“you don’t have to talk about it right now.”
“i think i do.”
his fingers tighten around yours.
you glance toward the broken necklace on the nightstand because looking directly at him feels suddenly impossible. “i’m sorry.”
“for what?”
“for saying all of that while actively bleeding on you.”
a surprised laugh escapes him. it sounds exhausted and fond and a little painful. “you don’t have to apologize for that.”
“i probably could’ve chosen a better moment.”
“maybe.”
you finally look at him. “i meant it.”
the room stills around the words. sam doesn’t answer immediately. he takes his time with anything that matters. he doesn’t reach for the easiest version of the truth. he turns it over first, careful with the edges.
“i know,” he says.
your stomach twists. before the fear can grow teeth, he lifts your hand and presses his mouth gently against your knuckles.
“i meant it too,” he continues. “what i said.”
you watch him quietly.
“i need more time with you.” his gaze moves across your face, hesitant in a way that feels startling after seeing him so certain during the hunt. “not because i’m afraid you’re going to disappear. not only because of that.”
your breath catches.
sam swallows. “i’ve been trying not to want anything i can lose.”
the honesty of it lands softly and hurts anyway.
you know enough about sam’s life to understand what he means. you know the shape of the grief he carries even when he refuses to name it. jess. his mother. the dreams that wake him some nights and leave him staring toward the motel ceiling until morning. loving him has never made you feel entitled to an answer he’s not ready to give, but you understand now that the distance between you has not been empty.
he’s been afraid of crossing it too.
“that’s not really working for me anymore,” he admits.
a smile tugs weakly at your mouth. “because i almost died?”
his expression tightens. “i hated hearing you say goodbye.”
“i wasn’t trying to scare you.”
“you did.”
“i’m sorry.”
sam lowers his gaze. “i should’ve told you before you had to scare the hell out of me.”
you squeeze his hand. “you can tell me now.”
“i love you,” he says softly.
you feel your eyes burn. “i love you too.”
he smiles then, small and almost disbelieving. you’ve seen sam smile hundreds of times by now: reluctant smiles, tired smiles, brief flashes of amusement when dean says something ridiculous. this one feels different.
his eyes drop toward your mouth, then lift again. “can i kiss you?”
you nod.
sam rises carefully from the floor, moving slowly enough that the mattress barely dips when he sits beside you. one hand comes to rest near your shoulder, the other lifts toward your face and pauses for half a second before his fingertips brush your cheek.
the kiss is soft. softer than you expect after everything. his mouth touches yours with careful warmth, restrained by the bandages beneath your shirt and the knowledge that even breathing too deeply hurts. he doesn’t rush it. he kisses you once, then again when you lean toward him, his thumb tracing gently near your jaw.
your hand catches in the front of his shirt. you’ve imagined this too many times. in diner booths while dean flirts with waitresses to get free pie. in the impala with rain running down the windows. in motel rooms where sam sits beside you on the bed and reads your notes in the margins of whatever book you leave behind. none of those imagined kisses feel anything like this one.
this is quieter. better. real enough to frighten you a little.
when sam draws back, he doesn’t move far. his forehead rests carefully against yours, his breath warm near your mouth.
some part of him is still back on the camp steps, holding pressure against a wound and asking you not to leave. you can see it in the way his eyes search your face whenever you shift, checking for pain before you have the chance to hide it.
“sam,” you say gently. “i’m here.”
he nods. it takes him a second to believe you. then he leans forward and presses his mouth against your forehead, holding it there while your fingers close around his wrist.
the broken necklace still waits on the nightstand. your camera rests on the table, scratched but intact. dean’s note sits beside the water bottle in his messy handwriting, a small piece of proof that there will be teasing when he returns and coffee that tastes burned and an argument about whether you’re allowed to walk unassisted to the bathroom. ordinary things. the kind you almost lost before you realize how badly you want them.
sam shifts carefully onto the mattress beside you when you make room, still holding your hand between both of his. he doesn’t let go when the heater starts rattling again. he doesn’t let go when your eyes grow heavy. and this time, when you drift back toward sleep, you know exactly there’s still more time.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
author’s note : hey…its been a week im sorry, i wanted the series to be done in one part and honestly it’s better as a mini series because theres too many events i want to write so this is not the last part :) thank u so much for your patience <33
summary : you finally gave in to see michael
heads up : more dialogue at the end, you your and y/n used, flashbacks, i truly don’t know what i wrote, short asf i cannot believe i was stressing to give out this short writing, i didnt proofread
previous : pt 2
now reading : pt 3
proceed : pt 4 (coming soon)
era : bad x f!reader
“Right this way, Ms. L/n." The beautiful long-haired hostess started to escort you to the back of the empty restaurant that you were quite familiar with and that had been closed for this specific meeting, bringing you to a door that’s used for private events and parties. Kindly follow along, your heels echo in the quiet restaurant.
You couldn’t describe how or what you’re feeling, too busy trying to distract yourself from potentially throwing up; the tingles in your hands made you feel like you could drop your bag any second. Was any of this a good idea? How could you let yourself get convinced to do this?
“I think you should speak to him,” Janet suggested.
"Yeah, I agree," your friend pitched in. "He has done so much to contact you," she added.
The three of you are sitting in your work office, as this is the most appropriate spot to have this conversation. Though, you do have a Jackson in your building, the door to your office is locked and the blinds are shut to keep away some of your nosy coworkers. You stared at your two best friends with a straight facial expression, getting ready to respond, but you were flabbergasted by what you were hearing. Your index finger was slightly in the air as you sighed, trying to find words, but your head had no reply in mind.
“You two do know I had to lie, saying the flowers I received were for a promotion that never happened?” you questioned. Your friend and Janet exchanged glances as they didn’t know how to respond to that. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought that one home," you murmured quietly, throwing your head back and sighing once again. “Why can’t he just call like a normal person?"
“Y/n, you literally ignored all his calls," your friend answered. “That’s why we’re currently surrounded by five more bouquets.” Directing her hand towards the two floral arrangements that were on both sides of your desk, while the three were scattered around the office due to not having space for them.
Swaying in your chair out of habit as you pucker your lips, your gaze landed on the six small white cards lying on your desk that were attached to the arrangements. The messages were short and straight to the point, the last card displaying the words 'See me?’ on the white paper.
“I have bigger things to worry about," you stated. "The wedding is less than three months away, and the only thing I need iis getting a dress," leaning back in your chair as you crossed your arms.
“Then get this one thing out of the way," Janet encouraged. “Maybe Michael just wants closure."
Scoffing at the memory, you and the hostess approached the door, where a tall muscular male in a black suit was standing in front of it with his arms crossed. The hostess stepped to the side as she guided her hand at the door. “Mr. Jackson is inside," she announced. The male swings the door in for you; a quick "thank you" escapes your lips as you enter the room.
Michael is standing upright with his shoulders rolled back, feeling extremely confident and somewhat cocky about this reunion. Observing the way you strut in the room, your sunglasses blocking the eyes he hasn’t personally seen in years, your fingers grasping your medium-sized beige tote bag that you bring to work, and your buttoned light blue blouse along with your khaki pencil skirt that fits perfectly on you.
The door softly shut after, and there you were, standing directly in front of him; silence filled the room. If Michael could kiss you right now, he would.. to him this feels like a dream come true; he could break into a happy song or even a backflip. Hell, he would do everything if he possibly could.
“Just this one time," Michael begged. The siblings were in Janet’s room with Michael currently trying to convince his little sister to help him out with a favor. Janet rolled her eyes. “I won’t ask for anything else."
“Michael, you said that last time," Janet said. “You’re lucky I even gave you the work address."
“I just want to talk to her," he responded. Janet gave him a certain glare. Michael held his palms together in a pleading manner. "Okay, I know I asked for the address, but this will be the last thing. I need to see her."
Janet didn't know if she should give in; she understood you were getting married, and she understood Michael was hurt that you officially moved on. Janet never played both sides; if anything, she was there for both of you. Michael had her as a sister, and you had her as a best friend.
To the other Jackson siblings, it seemed like Michael caring for you now was out of the blue. They thought he had completely moved on, especially with the way things were going on with Diana, but Janet knew the truth. She hated Michael for even messing with Diana while being with you, as it didn’t make sense to her from the start.
Janet sighed, “I swear if you ask me for one more thing after this."
Removing the sunglasses from your face as your gaze instantly locked onto Michael’s dark brown doe eyes, your eyes softened at the sight of him. The transition from seeing him always and only in the media for the past couple of years to him being in the same room as you again, the very same room where your twenty-third birthday and your second anniversary with Michael were held, felt somewhat nostalgic yet uneasy, like it was wrong for this to happen.
"Hi, Y/n."
“Hello, Michael."
“No need to be formal."
Michael had the biggest grin on his face that you wanted to wipe off; he couldn’t contain his excitement, and it was very obvious. Watching him eye you from head to toe as his bottom lip was between his teeth, you couldn’t help but admire Michael as well, the same handsome man you fell in love with for years; you just keep that part to yourself.
The Lady In My Life started playing in your head, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you observed his outfit, a simple plain black button-up with black slacks. Very casual yet presentable.
Michael offered his hand, which you kindly accepted, assisting you to your seat at the table and helping scoot your chair in. You murmured a thank you under your breath, placing your tote bag on the chair next to you.
“Are you hungry?” Michael asked as he pulled his chair back to sit, "The kitchen can make something for you, or we can have a drink," he added as he shuffled his chair in.
“I already ate before I got here, but I appreciate the offer," you answered, giving him a soft smile. Michael nodded his head before clearing his throat.
“Thank you for meeting with me," he smirked. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while."
“To tell me to leave my relationship again or.." You drag the ‘r.' Michael shook his head as he let out a chuckle.
“I haven’t gotten to that part yet," Michael joked. “Can you let me follow my plan?” he continued, shrugging your shoulders sarcastically. “Or do you want me to go off script?”
“I want you to tell me why I’m here," you commented, already in a playful manner.
“I want to apologize,” Michael replied, the energy in the room got serious, “for everything,” he mumbled. Laid back in your chair, you crossed your arms, curious on where this conversation could go.
“I should’ve never called you like that, or even told you to cancel your engagement. It was completely selfish and inappropriate of me to do so," he continued, trying to find the words to add. “Seeing the invitation that Janet got, I felt hurt and I thought it was too late”
"Yeah, you waited until I was almost four months away from getting married," you spoke. You were starting to feel some type of way with the direction the conversation was going to go, but you wanted to go with the flow. “I have two months left considering that August started."
Michael gulped; he didn’t think the day you tie the knot would be coming soon. As much as his team is pushing him to prepare for the Bad album release along with the tour, he really lost track of time.
“If you weren't difficult, maybe I could’ve convinced you better," he sarcastically responded. You playfully rolled your eyes towards him. “I thought your song on the radio would seal the deal."
You paused as you looked at him, "You're the reason why the song played on the radio?" finally putting the pieces together. “I knew I wasn’t crazy."
“I had called your favorite radio station to play it; you must’ve caught it at a perfect time," he smirked. You sighed in relief to yourself as it was confirmed that you weren’t delusional.
“So how did you get my work address?”
Janet, Michael thought in his head. “I have connections,” he answered.
You raised an eyebrow, currently and quickly trying to figure out who could provide him information but then second-guessing since he is Michael Jackson and he can get any information he wants. Michael celebrated in his head once he realized you didn’t know who.
“Like how you had connections with Diana," you poked fun of.
Michael sighed, “I regret what I did with Diana, like you had said.. she was my childhood crush, and with her being there for me during all those years growing up, I wasn’t thinking twice." Your heart started beating a bit faster as you listened to what he said, staying silent so he could continue.
"In the short time of me and her exchanging those letters, I felt nothing but adrenaline. I was so hung up over something temporary that I had lost something that was going to be forever. Y/n, I want you to know that I never forgave myself for that mistake; to this day I still feel guilty," he confessed.
Your arms fell to the sides of your body; you didn’t know how to feel at the exact moment, but you felt some kind of relief. Did Michael unintentionally reassure you, or were you feeling satisfied that he spent all these years in regret?
“I thought I was doing something by leaving you alone; I didn’t think I had the chance to make it up to you. The few times I did spend with Diana, she was on my mind. All this time, I have been thinking of you," he continued.
“Where are you going with this?” You spoke with a little hurt in your tone. "You can’t come back four years later thinking sending me bouquets will make it better" you bickered. “What do you want from me?”
You were playing with your fingers on your lap as you felt torn inside. The moment you were waiting for years is finally happening, just at the very wrong time. You knew the love you had for Michael would never fully go away; if anything, it went into hiding, but the love you have for your fiancé is genuine as well.
“I miss you," Michael professed. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat as you glanced over to the side before your gaze landed back on Michael’s eyes. “I didn’t know you were engaged until Janet had gotten the invitation. Out of respect, she told me no updates about you ever since the relationship ended besides you getting with your boyfriend—"
“My fiancé," you corrected him.
“Your boyfriend,” he repeated.
"Look, Michael, I’m here to give you closure, and I’m going to give it to you." You leaned forward. “I’m not leaving my fiance." You gave him a fake smile, and Michael bit his lip as he was thinking of a response back.
“Do you love him?”
“Of course."
“Do you love me?”
“It’s somewhere," you answered as you shrugged your shoulders.
“You can’t love two people at once," Michael theorized, leaning forward as his eyes never left yours. “Someday you have to choose."
You let out a laugh, “I choose—" interrupted by your nokia cell block phone ringing. “Excuse me," you said politely as you went through your tote bag to get ahold of your phone. Pulling the device out, you read the contact name.
Your body tensed, glancing up from the device to Michael before your eyes shifted to the phone again. Taking a deep breath as your finger hovers over the answer button, it’s either pick up or ignore. Michael caught on; he knew who was calling.
Clicking the answer button and putting the phone to your ear. "Hi, babe!” you greeted, looking off to the side wall. “What’s up?” you asked.
“I had called your office number, but it took me to voicemail," your fiancé answered. "Are you on your lunch?” he questioned.
"Sorry, but I’m having lunch with my client," you lied as you stared at Michael, who smirked at you. “We’re just discussing a few more things about the contract," lying once again. "Did you need something?”
“No—no, actually, I just wanted to talk to you about something for the wedding," he answered. “I’ll tell you when you get home; it’s nothing bad," he reassured. “I love you. I’ll see you at home."
You softly smiled. “I’ll see you at home; love you," you said before hanging up and placing your phone on the table.
“I’m honored to be your client," Michael joked. You rolled your eyes as if you two were joking like you were never separated.
The room is bathed in the dim, golden glow of the salt lamp Dean insists on keeping in every motel room “for vibes, Sammy”, but right now, the only vibe is the slow, heavy drag of Sam’s cock inside you, his body a warm, solid weight pressed against your back. He’s half-asleep, his movements sluggish, like he’s fucking you in a dream. One he never wants to wake up from.
A pillow’s wedged under your hips, tilting you just enough that every time he sinks in, he stays there, buried to the hilt, his pubic bone grinding against your ass with a lazy, circular roll. You can feel everything—the stretch, the heat, the way his cock twitches inside you when you clench around him, like he’s surprised by how good it feels, even now.
His arm is a band around your waist, his fingers splayed over your stomach, pulling you back onto him with every slow, deep thrust. His other hand is clamped over your mouth, but there’s no real force behind it. Just the quiet understanding that Dean’s in the next room, and if he hears anything—even the wet, obscene sounds of Sam fucking you—he’ll never let either of you live it down.
“Mmm, fuck,” Sam mumbles into the crook of your neck, his voice thick with sleep, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re so tight like this.” His hips rock forward, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, and you whimper against his palm, the sound muffled but desperate. He smiles, you can feel it against your shoulder—because he knows what he’s doing to you.
His hand on your stomach slides further down beneath you, his fingers finding your clit with the kind of lazy precision that comes from knowing your body. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t need to. His thumb circles you in slow, maddening little swirls, his touch feather-light at first, then firmer when you buck back against him, begging without words.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a sleepy purr. “Take me. All of me.” And you do. You do, because how could you not? When he’s like this—warm, heavy, his cock throbbing inside you with every shallow breath—there’s nothing else in the world but the two of you, the slick slide of skin, the way his chest rises and falls against your back.
His thrusts are lazy, almost drowsy, but no less deep. Every time he bottoms out, he stays there, his hips pressed flush against your ass, his cock pulsing like he’s savoring the way you clench around him. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he whispers, his voice breaking just a little, and the sound of it has you squeezing around him harder, earning a broken groan from his chest.
His thumb presses down on your clit, and your body shudders, your orgasm building slow and deep, like a tide pulling you under. You can feel him everywhere—his chest against your back, his cock buried inside you, his fingers working you over, his breath hot against your neck. “Sam—” His name is a plea, a whine, and he swallows it, his hand pressing harder over your mouth as his own rhythm stutters, his hips losing their careful pace.
“I can’t—fuck—I can’t last,” he admits, and the admission is raw, so Sam it hurts. His thrusts turn erratic, his fingers digging into your hip, his cock twitching inside you as he chases his own release.
And then his thumb presses down, hard, and the world tilts. Your orgasm rips through you, slow and deep, your body clamping down around him so tightly he groans, his own release following with a shuddering, broken cry against your shoulder. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing, his whole body trembling.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the thud of his heartbeat against your back, the way his grip on you loosens just enough to let you drag in a lungful of air. His hand slides from your mouth, his fingers lingering against your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them.
Then, because he’s Sam, because he can’t not say it—“You okay?” His voice is rough, worried, even now. Even after.
And you laugh, breathless, because of course he’d ask that. Of course he’d still be checking on you when he’s the one who just got fucked senseless.
You turn your head just enough to catch his mouth in a slow, sleepy kiss, tasting the salt on his skin, the faint hint of coffee from the diner down the road. “I will be,” you murmur against his lips, “when you do that again.”
His chuckle is quiet, low, and full of promises. “Oh, we’re definitely doing that again.”
summary ﹏ History professor Sam Winchester and his sweet, soft-hearted student have perfected the art of loving each other in secret—hidden in stolen office kisses, quiet afternoon visits, and tender moments between classes. What starts as quick check-ins slowly becomes the favorite part of Sam’s day: listening to you ramble while holding you close in the privacy of his office.
cw ﹏ fluff / slice-of-life fic. fem!reader. college au & professor!sam. established secret relationship. age gap (20s & late 30s). soft intimacy. praise. soft petnames (sweetheart, baby). lovesick behavior. gentle touches.
reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!
By the middle of October, you’ve developed a routine so dangerous in its softness that Sam sometimes catches himself thinking about it during lectures.
It starts after your morning classes, usually sometime between eleven and noon, when the history building fills with the sound of students shuffling through hallways carrying coffee cups and half-finished assignments. The campus always feels busiest then, voices echoing off old brick walls, backpacks bumping into doorframes, professors trying to navigate crowds with stacks of papers balanced in their arms.
And somewhere in the middle of all of it is you—moving through the chaos in oversized knit sweaters and soft skirts that brush your knees, your bag slipping down your shoulder because it’s always too full of notebooks, lip balm, pens with little flowers glued onto them.
Sam notices you before you even reach his office most days. He hears your laugh in the hallway or catches the soft sound of your voice drifting through the partially opened door while he’s pretending to grade papers.
The first time you stopped by his office just to see him, he thought it would be quick.
A hello, maybe a kiss; a few stolen minutes before one of you had to leave again.
But then you sat cross-legged in the chair across from his desk while telling him about a girl in your literature class who cried because she spilled coffee on her laptop, and Sam found himself listening so carefully that he completely forgot he was supposed to be answering emails. After that, it became routine. Yours.
Now you show up between classes with sleepy smiles and stories about your day, and Sam—despite being a respected history professor with a terrifying amount of grading to do—starts unconsciously waiting for it.
“You’re late,” he says one afternoon, though his voice carries none of the sharpness the words should have. You pause in the doorway dramatically, one hand clutching your chest. “I was gone for six minutes longer than usual.”
Sam leans back slightly in his chair, trying and failing to suppress the smile tugging at his mouth. “Exactly. I was beginning to think you found another history professor.” You gasp softly, scandalized in the prettiest way possible. “Never. You’re my favorite one.”
His eyes flick briefly toward the open office door at that, instinctively cautious, before settling back on you again. “Careful,” he murmurs, lowering his voice slightly. “You keep saying things like that out loud, people are gonna start getting suspicious.”
You soften immediately at his tone, stepping fully inside before gently nudging the office door mostly shut behind you; not closed enough to look strange, but enough to give you a little privacy. “Sorry,” you murmur automatically, moving closer to his desk. “I forgot.” Sam’s expression changes instantly at the apology, warmth replacing the teasing almost immediately. “Hey.” His voice drops softer. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“That.” He sets his pen down fully now, attention completely shifting to you. “Apologizing every time you say something sweet.”
Your cheeks warm up faintly at that, and God, he loves when you do that. Loves how easy it is to make you fuzzy, how your softness never feels performative or calculated. You’re just… genuinely sweet. Warm in a way that catches him off guard even now.
“I can’t help it,” you admit quietly, coming around the side of his desk until you’re standing close enough for his knee to brush your thigh. “You make me nervous sometimes.” Sam lets out a quiet breath through his nose, amused and fond all at once. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, tilting his head up to look at you properly, “you’ve been dating me for six months.”
“I know.” Your voice turns smaller somehow, shy despite yourself. “You still make me nervous.”
That does something unfair to him.
Sam reaches for you instinctively then, one hand settling gently around your wrist before sliding down until his fingers lace loosely through yours. “C’mere,” he says softly.
You go immediately, stepping between his knees without hesitation, your skirt brushing lightly against his legs. Sam’s hands settle carefully at your waist, familiar and warm, and the second he pulls you just slightly closer, your whole body relaxes. He notices that every single time; that unconscious softening whenever he touches you, like your body trusts him before your mind can even think about it.
“You have class in ten minutes,” he murmurs, though he makes absolutely no move to let you go. “Mhm.” You nod at his words.
“And you walked all the way over here just to see me.”
“Mhm.” His mouth twitches. “You’re clingy.” You blink down at him innocently, a ghost of a smile on your face. “You like it.” Sam actually laughs quietly at that, low and warm enough to make your chest tighten pleasantly. “Yeah,” he admits, fingers pressing slightly against your waist. “Yeah, I do.”
The relationship is ridiculous, honestly. Not the feelings: ever the feelings but just… the logistics of it.
The sneaking around, the stolen moments, the way Sam has to carefully school his expression during lectures whenever you walk in wearing soft pink sweaters and glossy lips and looking entirely too pretty for his own sanity or the way you have to pretend you aren’t completely in love with the man discussing nineteenth-century warfare while students around you struggle to stay awake.
And God, the office visits; those are the worst or the best part.
Sam still hasn’t decided.
Because every time you wander into his office between classes, carrying iced coffee or pastries or some tiny story you absolutely need to tell him, he forgets how to act normal for a few minutes. He stops being Professor Winchester and just becomes Sam again—your Sam, the one who kisses your forehead while reading essays, who keeps strawberry candies in his desk drawer because you like them, who listens with complete seriousness when you ramble about café playlists or pretty bookstores you found downtown.
Today, you’re talking animatedly about a tiny bakery near campus while perched on the edge of his desk, your legs swinging lightly as Sam pretends to organize papers beside you. “And they put little heart shapes in the whipped cream,” you’re saying earnestly. “Like actual little hearts. It was so cute.”
Sam hums like this is the most important information he’s heard all day. “Sounds life-changing.”
“It kind of was.”
“There she is,” he murmurs dryly. “The dramatic side finally comes out.” You nudge his shoulder lightly with your knee. “You’re mean.”
“I’m realistic.”
“You kissed me goodbye this morning and said my sweater made me look ‘dangerously adorable.’” Sam freezes for half a second, then slowly looks up at you. “You remember everything I say, huh?”
“Yes.” Your answer comes instantly, soft and honest. “Especially the sweet things.” Something in his chest pulls tight. You do that to him constantly without even realizing.
Sam steps closer before he can think too hard about it, one hand settling automatically against your thigh where it rests near the edge of the desk. There’s nothing sexual about it, no; it’s warm and lovely and sweet. His thumb strokes once through the soft fabric there, absentminded and affectionate, and your voice falters immediately.
His eyes flick up to yours, catching the way your lashes lower slightly, the way your fingers tighten faintly around the edge of the desk.
“You okay there, baby?” he asks quietly. You nod too quickly. “Mhm.” Sam smiles a little because you always do that when he affects you more than you expect. “You sure?” Your cheeks warm. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like…” You trail off helplessly, your expression growing more flustered under his attention. “Like you know things.”
“Oh, lovely.” His voice lowers, gentler now. “I do know things.” You duck your head slightly at that, and Sam feels unbearably fond all at once. He steps between your knees carefully, his hand sliding from your thigh to your waist instead. “You’re cute when you get shy,” he murmurs.
“You make me shy.”
“Good.” Your eyes widen slightly. “Sam!”
“What?” he asks innocently, though his hands are pulling you closer now, guiding you carefully toward the edge of the desk. “I like knowing I can still do that to you.” You let out the softest little laugh then, warm and breathy and embarrassed all at once, and Sam swears he could live inside that sound. “You’re impossible,” you whisper.
“And you still came all the way over here just to kiss me and tell me about your day.”
“…Maybe.”
“Maybe?” His eyebrows lift. You try to hold onto your dignity for approximately three seconds before failing completely. “Okay, yes,” you admit softly. “I missed you.”
God. Sam’s entire expression softens instantly. There’s something almost unfair about how openly you love him sometimes. How easily you say things like that. No games, no hesitation, just warmth offered so freely it leaves him a little stunned every time.
“C’mere,” he murmurs again, quieter this time. His hand slides gently up your side before settling against your jaw, thumb brushing softly along your cheek, and then he kisses you. It’s slowly and carefully like he’s savoring it.
You melt immediately, your hands finding his shoulders without thinking, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his button-up shirt. Sam kisses like he does most things—with intention. Just steady warmth and quiet affection that builds slowly until your heart feels too full to hold it all. You sigh softly against his mouth, and Sam feels it everywhere.
“Missed you too,” he murmurs when he finally pulls back slightly, his forehead resting briefly against yours. Your eyes stay half-lidded for a second longer before you smile, small and dreamy. “You’re supposed to be grading papers.”
“You’re distracting me.”
“You let me.”
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, brushing another kiss against the corner of your mouth, “I practically encourage it.”
You laugh quietly then, your hands smoothing absentmindedly over his shoulders while he keeps you tucked close between his arms. Outside the office, students continue moving through the hallways, voices drifting faintly past the door, the normal rhythm of campus life carrying on around your secret little world.
But in here, tucked into the warm quiet of Sam’s office with his hands steady on your waist and his mouth still lingering close enough to kiss again, everything feels softer somehow.
Safer.
Like love folded carefully into stolen afternoons between classes.
It has been a year since, a long time really but not long enough to not make it hurt. It still lingers in his head, the last time he saw Sam. How it ended, the stinging sensation sometimes returns, he remembers his face bloody as he looked up at Sam. His sweet baby brother, that had now grown with so much anger in him. The thought lingers in his mind every time he wakes up, eats, sleeps, see his picture.
Every fucking second.
In fact right now, his fingers grasp the picture frame tightly, knuckles going white from the tight tension. Eyes almost welling up with tears as he stares at Sammy’s sweet face, the picture frayed at the edges, time making its mark on the image. But Dean didn’t have it in him to throw it away try to preserve it, the imperfections remind him really. Remind him how they used to be innocent but how much time has passed since they were like that. The times where they were forced to hole up in shitty motel rooms waiting for John to get back. Those days were over
That day was different though, Sam had just gotten this new fancy camera for his birthday and wanted to test it out, he forced Dean into the frame and clicked the button. Even in the photo you can see Dean trying to push the camera, but yet you can still see the playfulness in him, he chuckles at the memory. Caught in his own world he doesn’t notice the sweet aroma of sweet cheery pie dancing in the air. With a heavy heart he places the frame back on the cabinet, setting in place before walking off into the kitchen.
The tears were still collected in his eyes some strayed down his face, he tries to mask it with a smile, his arms swing forward to wrap around your waist. You giggles fill the air as you cut the pie in delicate slices, you reach back to softly scratch his hair. Dean closed his eyes he could finally ground himself;
Your fingers on his scalp
Fingers clasped around your waist
This was real, you were real. And was Sam was no longer that.
It has been a year since, a long time really but not long enough to not make it hurt. It still lingers in his head, the last time he saw Sam. How it ended, the stinging sensation sometimes returns, he remembers his face bloody as he looked up at Sam. His sweet baby brother, that had now grown with so much anger in him. The thought lingers in his mind every time he wakes up, eats, sleeps, see his picture.
Every fucking second.
In fact right now, his fingers grasp the picture frame tightly, knuckles going white from the tight tension. Eyes almost welling up with tears as he stares at Sammy’s sweet face, the picture frayed at the edges, time making its mark on the image. But Dean didn’t have it in him to throw it away try to preserve it, the imperfections remind him really. Remind him how they used to be innocent but how much time has passed since they were like that. The times where they were forced to hole up in shitty motel rooms waiting for John to get back. Those days were over
That day was different though, Sam had just gotten this new fancy camera for his birthday and wanted to test it out, he forced Dean into the frame and clicked the button. Even in the photo you can see Dean trying to push the camera, but yet you can still see the playfulness in him, he chuckles at the memory. Caught in his own world he doesn’t notice the sweet aroma of sweet cheery pie dancing in the air. With a heavy heart he places the frame back on the cabinet, setting in place before walking off into the kitchen.
The tears were still collected in his eyes some strayed down his face, he tries to mask it with a smile, his arms swing forward to wrap around your waist. You giggles fill the air as you cut the pie in delicate slices, you reach back to softly scratch his hair. Dean closed his eyes he could finally ground himself;
Your fingers on his scalp
Fingers clasped around your waist
This was real, you were real. And was Sam was no longer that.
Summary - when Dean is on a hunt and is on a case about mysterious disappearances of couples in the area. He is made to try and date you as you fit the profile, to lure the being out. The only thing you are the thing he is looking for.
The Notebook 📒💐
Summary- the love story between you and Dean, that struggled but prevailed despite John’s effort, that comes to an end after a bad hunt
I know what you did last summer🦇🩸
Summary - when you and Dean stupidly decide to go on a hunt in your teenage years, with a group of other people. But when you guys underestimate the entity and ends in one death. On a hunt years later the past comes back to hunt you
