Hi, your writing is so goooood!!!!!! I love how u portray Steve.
I wanted to ask if u can do a Steve Harrington x reader fic, long one shot where they get in a real bad argument like I’m talking screaming, crying, everything!!!! Outside the house so everyone heard them screaming and yelling and it ends up in reader crying and walking away and then he regrets it and apologizes the next week idkkkk u do ur magic im just in a angst comfort mood😭
head over heels (steve harrington x henderson!reader)
.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃. now playing on WSQK the squawk .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.
summary: a few months after the gate is closed, steve has some concerns about the way you handled yourself
main masterlist | stranger things masterlist
pairing: steve harrington x henderson!reader
a/n: THANK YOUUUU!!!!! happy vol2 release !!! i binged it all and got four hours of sleep but it was WORTH IT! this req is so good and it literally grew legs and took off as i was writing it that's why its long af. hope y'all enjoy <3
w/c: 3.1k
c/w: set post s2, swearing, the kids being very sweet and willing to kill for you, dustin and max meddling in grown-up business, hurt/comfort, no use of y/n, proofread!!!
.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ requests are open (as always), likes, comments, & reblogs are much appreciated !
“You need to be more careful.”
The words shock you, providing no solace in the otherwise silent car ride.
You? Be more careful? That’s rich, coming from the man who puts himself in harm’s way on the daily and has gotten more concussions than he has A’s in school. Careful? You were the epitome of careful. Steve was one to talk.
“Why are we still talking about this?” You ask, hands running through your hair. The gate had been closed for months now, the Upside Down sealed away forever. Everything was over with. Why couldn’t Steve accept that?
“Because every time I ask you about it, you brush me off like it’s no big deal.” He replies, gesturing wildly with one hand, the other hand gripping the steering wheel. His knuckles turn white with force.
You don’t respond to his words. Truth is, it’s not a big deal— not to you, at least. You did what you needed to do to protect your friends. To protect your family.
Sure, you’d danced around the subject— those things are hard to confront. You did what was necessary, and if that included taking the lead and shielding the kids and Steve from imminent danger, then it had absolutely had to be done.
That night, you’d fought back. At first, you were content with being sidelined— it wasn’t your fight to fight. You didn’t have psychic powers, nor did any of the other five kids you and Steve had been tasked with babysitting.
Then, Billy showed up— and shit hit the fan. You weren’t content with being sidelined, especially not after the first punch was thrown. You sprung into motion, acting on instinct alone until everything was resolved in the tunnels later that night. Everything was fine. You were fine, save for a small concussion.
It was all over and had been for months. You weren’t sure why Steve kept bringing it up.
Finally, the car slows to a stop in front of the house. You open the door, wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed with your Walkman and turn your brain off for a while. As you move to exit, Steve calls your name again.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” You mumble, climbing out of the car and slamming it shut. Steve winces at the force and a tiny feeling of satisfaction blooms in your chest.
“So what? You’re just gonna leave?” Steve yells, climbing out of the driver’s side. You really didn’t want to have this argument outside the house, especially not when Dustin was probably listening from the front door.
“Yes, Steve! What else?” You shout, “Or is that not good enough for you, either?”
“What?” He responds, clearly taken aback. You can tell you’ve struck a nerve.
“Is that not good enough? Not careful enough?” You say, tone sharp.
Steve stands in silence, for a moment. He shakes his head. “Is that what you think of me? That just because I ask you to be careful and not get yourself fucking killed, you think that’s a bonkers thing to ask?”
Both of your voices continue to elevate, and at this point, you’re not sure if you care who’s listening. The silence falls again as Steve crosses around the back of the car. He says your name again— a quiet, pleading prayer that you’ll think about what he’s saying to you. His hands move to your shoulders. “You can’t just put yourself in harm’s way like you do—”
“What, like how you do?” You spit, tearing his arms from your shoulders. You immediately regret it, seeing the hurt in his eyes. He looks like a kicked puppy. “I can’t take the measures that I deem necessary to protect my family? To protect you?” You say, jabbing your finger at his chest.
You were protective by nature. Maybe it came with being an older sister— maybe it was in your bones. It wasn’t something you could deny, either way. There was no way Steve was winning this argument.
“I’m the protector!” He shouts, startling you slightly. Steve was never one to yell at you. “What part about that don’t you get?”
“I can be a protector! Is it because I’m a woman, or something—”
“God, you’re impossible!” Steve huffs, taking a few steps back, hands tugging at his hair.
At this point, tears start to well in your eyes. It’s embarrassing— arguing to the point of tears— but you didn’t care.
“It’s because you’re you!” He shouts, stepping close once again. “You can’t get hurt or get yourself killed in a dumb way like I would!”
“I am very much capable of protecting myself, Steve!” You reply, voice cracking when saying his name. The tears start to fall, hot and wet down your cheeks. “I just— I’m done with you treating me like I can’t protect myself. I’m a grown fucking woman, and it’s not like I can’t fend for myself.”
Steve watches you, eyes flicking between your teary ones. He shakes his head, then utters a final sentence— “You’re being stupid.”
“I can’t— I’m done. Leave me alone.” You hiccup, promptly marching away from the car and towards the house.
As you throw the front door open in frustration, more tears fall, to the point where you can barely see anymore. You close the door behind you, then slide down it slowly, hands covering your face as you hit the floor with a dull thud.
“Holy shit.” You hear. Though your eyes are covered, you know it’s Dustin. Footsteps echo to the front door and you can feel him kneel in front of you.
Finally, you uncover your eyes— and it isn’t just Dustin that’s there. It’s the entire party, all crowded around Dustin, around you. In your stupor, you had forgotten that they’d planned a movie night before Dustin goes off to science camp next week.
As usual, the entire universe was against you— and all of these kids who had gotten used to you as a protector, were now seeing you broken down. It’s not something that they’re used to, either.
Dustin, however, has seen you like this more times than he could count. It takes a few seconds of thinking for him to realize that Steve was the one who caused this. “I’m gonna kill that stupid, arrogant, hairy asshole—”
He moves to stand, but you put your hands on his shoulders to stop him from going anywhere. “It’s fine, Dustin.”
“Bullshit! Fine doesn’t leave you sitting against the door crying like this!”
The kids all shake their heads and offer their own opinions. You hear mixed interjections like asshole, mouth breather, and Nance’s got guns we can shoot him with.
“I’ll cut his dick off, I swear.” Max states.
“She’ll really do it, too.” Lucas adds, thumb pointing towards her.
You appreciated the fact that the kids would fight for you at any chance they got— you loved them for it. However, this wasn’t the kind of thing that they should be interfering with. Slowly, you stand on shaky legs.
“Don’t you worry about me, alright?” You say, attempting a smile, wiping the tears and mascara from your under eyes. “Go back to movie night. Let me know if you need anything.”
You start off towards your room, leaving the kids in your absence.
Three days had passed since the argument, and if Steve knew anything— he knew that he’d royally fucked up.
He shouldn’t have used that tone, those words— most of all, he should have never spoken to you the way he did. He hadn’t received a call from you nor Dustin— so, either Dustin hadn’t found out yet (unlikely), or he knew and was ultimately planning Steve’s murder (very likely).
The more the scenario replays in Steve’s mind, the worse it is. He sees you, crying and screaming that night outside the car and can’t help but feel a pang in his chest, knowing he’s responsible for it.
Maybe you were fine. Maybe you had moved on from it and were just being stubborn because by god you Henderson’s are stubborn. It doesn’t bring him any comfort in thinking that.
It also doesn’t bring him any comfort hearing a knock on the front door of his house at eleven pm on a Sunday night.
His parents were out of town again and he wasn’t expecting anyone, so who the hell could it be?
“I know you’re watching Cheers, dude—” a familiar voice, followed by another knock and a second voice, “Open up, asswipe!”
Steve’s hand settles on the cold doorknob, twisting it and opening the door. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
On the doorstep, stands Dustin and Max. They were here for you— no doubt. Dustin is your little brother, so that’s a given. Max just likes to fight and she’d go to bat for you over anyone at the drop of a hat.
“We’re here to talk.” Max states, arms crossed tight over her chest.
“You should be glad we’re only here to talk.” Dustin adds.
Wordlessly, Steve steps aside and gestures for the two younger teens to come in. Dustin plops himself down on the couch, Max following suit. Steve reluctantly sits on the recliner, wary as Max watches his every move— akin to an attack dog, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
“Talk.” Dustin barks.
Steve sighs, folding his hands in his lap. “We had a fight.”
“What did you do?” Max asks.
“Okay, why are you assuming that I did something?” Steve scoffs, shifting in his seat. After a moment, he continues. “I told her she was being… reckless.”
“This about the gate?” Dustin asks. How the hell does that twerp know everything? It was like he could read Steve’s mind, or something.
Steve nods. “She almost got herself killed. With the damn demodogs, and when your dickwad brother showed up—” He says, pointing to Max, “she’s lucky she isn’t dead right now.”
A beat passes. Dustin seems to be pondering the statement, conjuring hypothetical arguments in his head. Max’s eyes are fixated on the floor, gaze slightly softened at his explanation.
“I just want her to be careful, alright?” Steve adds quickly, hoping it’ll help his case.
Another beat. Dustin takes a deep breath, then looks at Steve again. “It’s a valid concern.”
“Thank you, I told her she was being unreasonable—”
Dustin puts a hand up, effectively silencing the older teen. “But, that doesn’t mean you should’ve yelled.” Max shakes her head in solidarity.
Steve hates to admit it— but Dustin’s right. It’s a justifiable argument, but the way he’d approached it had been less so. A moment passes, then he speaks. “How do I get her back?”
Four days had passed since the argument, and you’ve been in shambles.
You spend most of the time in your room— re-reading books, staring at the wall in silence, wearing your Walkman for four plus hours at a time. You didn’t really know what to do with yourself.
You and Steve didn’t fight. You weren’t that couple— the ones that fight about stupid things every other minute, then make up, then fight again. The ones that harbor resentment for each other for every little detail. You didn’t want to be that couple.
You had Steve’s back just as much as he had yours. He understood you, and you understood him equally as well. You really miss him.
A knock sounds on your bedroom door. Immediately, you know it’s Dustin— he has a very distinct way of knocking. “Come in, Dust.”
He shuts the door softly behind him as he enters, then takes a seat at the end of your bed. “Penny for your thoughts?”
You snort. “Nerd.”
Dustin taps his pointer finger to his chin in mock thought. “Hmm, ungrateful sister, my offer rescinds in three, two—”
“Alright, alright.” You give in, rolling your eyes. A sigh escapes your lips. “I miss Steve.”
“Anyone with eyes can see that.”
You gasp, smacking Dustin with the nearest weaponizable object in a three-feet radius (or, your pillow). “Hey, no judging!”
He squeals, arms flying to his face to protect himself. “I’m not judging, I’m observing!”
You scoff, hugging aforementioned pillow to your chest. A moment passes. “He said I was being stupid. That I’d get myself killed because I was trying to protect you guys from the Upside Down bullshit.”
Dustin tilts his head back and forth, seemingly mulling over the statement. “He’s not totally wrong.”
You sigh. You knew that Steve and Dustin had grown remarkably close in the few months that they’d known each other. You should’ve known better than to think that he’d take your side a hundred-and-ten percent.
“I don’t think he should’ve yelled at you.” Dustin speaks again.
You squint your eyes. “How did you know he was yelling?”
Dustin gives you a knowing look. “Um, hello? The walls are thin? The argument happened two goddamn feet from the front door?”
Regardless, you still thought you were in the right. It’s common sense to you— that it’s your first instinct to protect people. It’s hard-wired into you.
“I wasn’t just gonna sit back and let you all get hurt, Dustin!” You say, gesturing wildly, “It was like I wasn’t even me anymore. Like I was a freakin’ army general, or something—”
“Hey.” Dustin says, hand on your arm, “I agree with you. He’s an asshole, and he totally fucked up, but I think he deserves a second chance.”
You sigh. He had a point, as much as you hated to admit it. Steve was an asshole, but you wanted to give him a second chance. It was one of the only things that made sense in this situation.
Dustin can barely hide his satisfaction, seeing the look on your face. It seems, almost… predetermined. Like he’d known of the situation beforehand and already knew what your response would be, and was confident in his prediction. Like he’d heard the story twice now.
A knowing look reflects on your features. “Dustin?”
“Yeah?”
“Steve’s not right outside my window, or at the front door with— oh, I don’t know…” You say, eyes flicking around in mock uncertainty, “flowers, or chocolate, or another stereotypical apology gift that a remorseful boyfriend would get his girlfriend?”
The look on Dustin’s face falls slightly. Busted.
Defeated, he brings the walkie to his lips and presses the button. “Eagle two?”
“Yeah, dude?”
Steve’s voice, crackled and faint through the walkie.
“The peacock is… privy to the plan.”
“’Privy’? What the hell does ‘privy’ mean?”
Your face scrunches up in confusion. “Peacock?”
“It means she knows, dumbass!” Dustin barks. “Just come in.”
“The window’s locked.”
Dustin shoots you a confused look. “Why the hell are your windows locked?”
You shake your head. “Are you aware of the world we live in?”
Head turning, you see Steve at the window— definitely remorseful looking, crouched in the bushes, standing there smiling like a deer in headlights. You stand, padding to the window and flipping the lock. “Speak of the devil.”
You take his hand, helping him climb through the window and fully into your room.
Steve stands to his full hight, shooting Dustin an exasperated look. “Scram, Henderson.”
Dustin stands, sheathing the receiver on the walkie, leaving Steve with the parting gift of a middle finger as he leaves the room.
Once Dustin exits, you look back at Steve. “No flowers or chocolates.”
“Max said girls hate that crap.” Steve shakes his head, “What the hell do I know? Listening to fourteen year olds—”
“Steve—” You interject, hand on his forearm, “calm down.”
The older teen does just that at your words. Maybe it’s something in your tone— the lack of edge seems to make him feel better about the situation. You sit down on your bed and pat the spot next to you. Steve follows your lead.
A few moments pass. You decide to let Steve take the lead— after all, he’s the one who should be apologizing. He clears his throat, turns to you, then speaks. “I love you.”
The words sweep you off your metaphorical feet, for a second— you’d never said the words to each other before. That was a hell of a statement to start out with.
“And you don’t have to say it back now, but god I love you.” He grabs both of your hands, bringing them to his lips. “I love you, and if anything were to hurt you, or— or take you away from me, I just— I’d be lost. So— so goddamn lost.”
You don’t speak. It seems that he’s got a lot to say, so you let him talk. He shakes his head, mouth agape, tears forming in his beautiful brown eyes. “That’s why I yelled. That’s why I told you you’re being stupid—which, in hindsight is insulting and deserves it’s own apology—because you could get yourself killed.”
He’s never rambled this much to you. Sure, he has his moments, but never of this emotional intensity. The tears roll hot and full down his cheeks. “I haven’t felt this— love— for anyone. It’s a new feeling, and it’s awesome and— and crazy and absolutely fucking terrifying sometimes, okay?”
Steve moves his hands to your face, cupping your jaw and brushing the stray hairs from your cheeks and forehead. “So when you throw yourself into danger like that— it physically hurts, because I should be keeping you safe.”
The urgency in his tone makes your heart clench. Steve is the kind of man to put up a hard front— he doesn’t really do emotions. He doesn’t do vulnerability. You figure it’s a trait he’s picked up from his parents, or maybe it was something that was hammered into him as a child. “So— I’m sorry for yelling. I’m sorry for saying you were acting stupid.” He says, brushing tears from your face that you didn’t even know were there. “I’m not sorry for wanting to protect you. And I’m sure as hell not sorry for loving you.”
A moment passes of Steve’s hands still on your face, your hands on his arms. It’s a lot to process— but it’s not foreign or hard to digest, because you feel the same way.
“I love you too.” You whisper, voice breaking. “I just want to keep you safe too, I’m sorry—”
Steve pulls you tightly to his chest, holding you firmly as you break down. He whispers comforting words into your ear, peppering kisses along the side and top of your head in between them.
A silent agreement had come from the quarrel— keep each other safe. It’s a tall ask, given the danger you’ve faced, but it can be done. It will be done.
Dick: Bruce, do you ever wish you weren't famous?
Bruce: After seeing how Oliver Queen lives, absolutely not.
Dick: Oliver Queen is also famous?
Bruce: To his local hospital, maybe.
There's a light that I can see (but only when there's darkness in me)
(Sam Winchester x female reader)
Summary It’s late in the evening when suddenly Sam Winchester is at your door. He says he needs your help. He’s relapsed on demon blood, so you let him in. Of course, you let him in. You’ve never been able to say no to Sam.
CWs Takes place somewhere in season 5. Sweet Sam on withdrawal. Childhood sweethearts turned almost-lovers turned strangers turned friends turned lovers? Hallucinations. Self-esteem issues. Unspoken feelings. Gentleness and a little bit of sexual content.
18+. 10.2k words.
Sam Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist
You’re sitting on your small couch, legs swung over the arm, TV on mute in the background, the window open but the screen closed to let in some of the cool night air. There’s a book in your hands and you’re just turning the page when you hear your phone buzz once.
You think about getting up but you’re a little bit too comfortable, plus the day has been warm and humid and made you tired. It can wait.
You begin reading again and you’re at the bottom of the next page when it buzzes again. Raising your head you can see it there on your night stand, plucked into the charger. Just as you’re about to turn back to your book, it starts buzzing repeatedly, a call coming in.
So with a sigh you swing your legs off the couch, deposit the book spine up where you were sitting and walk over, cross the length of your one bedroom bungalow that you’ve been in for near a year now. It’s one of the cozier places you’ve lived and any time you get an urge for the road, you hop into your little van that’s parked outside. It’s been a good combination and you’ve felt something like peace for the first time in a long time.
Life isn't missing much, and that's saying something.
You pick up your phone, which is lying face-down and turn it to look at the screen. What you see there makes your heart thump and a smile spread on your face. You accept the call and hold the phone up to your ear.
“It’s past eight pm in Kansas,” you say by way of greeting. “Isn’t that way past your bed time?”
Sam gives a weak sounding chuckle into the phone. “Isn’t it way past yours, short stuff?” Your grin widens at the old nickname.
“Nah,” you say, “parents are out. Gonna stay up past midnight, maybe watch a horror movie. You wanna come over?” It’s almost word for word a conversation you and Sam have had what feels like a million times. Of course you haven’t actually had it in years, but you used to all the time, when you were younger, when John would park his sons at Bobby Singer’s, run off to some case or another. You and your parents, who were friends and colleagues of Bobby, lived down the street, and you and the two boys quickly grew close, would spend any available minute together. Well, Sam and you would, Dean just at that age where he started being a little too cool for you, more interested in girls and being on his own, all lone wolf style.
But you and Sam. Every available minute.
“Funny you should say that,” Sam breaks you out of your thoughts. You frown, wonder what he means. “I’m actually outside your place,” he adds, sounding apologetic. You move to the window. And yes, there’s a car parked outside, just behind your van. It’s not a car you recognize. It’s not the Impala, because you’re pretty sure you would recognize the chortling sound of its engine anywhere. After all, it’s the car that would announce the arrival of your two favorite people, the car you fell asleep in a hundred times when John stayed at Bobby’s for a day, Dean old enough to drive it and he would load you and Sam and you would go downtown, watch a movie, Dean dropping you off at your parent’s house after, your head on Sam’s shoulder and the salty taste of popcorn in your mouth. The car in which you kissed Sam, the summer before everything went wrong, before you left and didn’t see him again for years.
“Okay,” you say into the phone, a little confused. It’s not like Sam, surprise late night visits. Maybe he was in the area? But then why isn’t he with Dean? Since Sam has come back into the hunting life, he and his brother have been joined at the hip, and you haven’t seen them on their own even once. It’s weird, to say the least.
“Well, come on in,” you say to Sam. He’s quiet for a second.
“Are you sure?” he finally says. “I don’t mean to just spring this on you, I… I should have let you know I was coming.”
“Jeez, Sam,” you chuckle, “just come in.”
He gives another weak laugh, says: “Okay.”
Then you’re hanging up, and a second later you see the interior light of the car go on and yes, it is Sam, even though it’s dark out and the light is blinding and making it harder to see. Just like his brother's car, you would recognize him anywhere.
You take a quick look around. The place doesn’t look so bad, a couple of discarded clothes here and there that you quickly rush to, grab and throw in the laundry basket. You look down yourself. Cotton shorts and an old men’s work shirt that you’ve had for the better part of ten years. It’s not the outfit you’d chose to wear when Sam comes around, but it’ll have to do because just then he’s knocking on the door. You smooth your hands down your side, a weak attempt at getting the creases out from lounging on the couch, then walk towards the door, quickly open it.
It’s Sam alright. The broad shoulders. The hair that could always use a trim. The way he looks down at you, a lopsided, dimpled smile spreading on his lips. There’s something… different about him, but you can’t put your finger on it, because the next second you step back to give him room to walk in.
“I don’t usually let in strange men off the street,” you say, and it comes out a little half hearted. Sam still smiles at it. Usually you would hug him and you want to, want to wrap your arms around him, but his hands are deep in his pockets, and he doesn’t seem inclined to get them out, so you just stand there for a second, not sure what to do.
“Come on in,” you say, and he finally steps over the threshold. The bungalow is small but Sam makes it look tiny. You walk around him to close the door, use that second to scan how he’s holding himself. It’s not the usual, sweet awkwardness he has. There’s something fidgety about him, his body tensed. Weird, you think, and you can feel a tug of worry somewhere in your stomach. You walk back around him. He’s surveying the space, looking around, but he’s been here before, and it seems he’s just doing it to have something to do.
“So,” you say, trying to make your voice sound light and casual. “What’s the occasion? Not that I’m not happy to see you.” Sam focuses on you, and you see that his pupils are large. He did just come in from the dark, but it’s enough to make you notice.
“I’m sorry to just drop in on you like that,” he says, not answering your question. “I texted you, was gonna pretend I was in the area, but then I saw the light was on and I just called.”
“Hmm, stalkerish,” you joke and Sam smiles a little, looks down. “Where’s Dean?” You mean for it to be a normal question, simply inquiring where his brother is if he’s not here, but a look goes over Sam’s face that has your heart cringe in worry.
“Is he okay?” you quickly ask. Sam takes one hand out of his pocket, raises it.
“Yes!” he says, quickly, reassuring you. “Yes, he’s fine. All good.”
“Okay,” you say, letting out a small breath. But Sam doesn’t elaborate and slowly you’re starting to think that something is seriously wrong.
“Sam,” you say, making him look at you after he’s gone back to surveying the room. “Are you okay?” You see the second he tries to act like he is, the moment he wants to reassure you, wants you to know everything’s fine, even if it’s not. It’s always been his way. With a brother and father that have the tempers of a steam roller it’s always fallen to Sam to placate, to make things okay. It’s not in him to open himself up, to show his jagged corners. But you can read him like a book and then suddenly you know he’s not okay, that something really is very wrong.
“Sam,” you say again, and his attempt at playing over whatever’s going on falters. You see him grind his teeth, his eyebrows going down. He looks like a beautiful marble statue for a second.
“I…” he finally starts, but it’s taking him everything to push himself to continue. “I need your help.” You nod.
“Okay,” you say, “anything. What do you need?”
Sam doesn’t answer. He looks at you for a few seconds, and the intensity of it almost makes you blush. You swallow, want to say something to interrupt this moment, but Sam’s quicker.
“I messed up,” he says, and you think you hear a thickness in his voice, sadness. Involuntarily you take a step closer to him. His sadness has always drawn you in.
“What happened?” you ask, your face serious, showing him you’re listening. His eyes go over your face, he presses his lips together. You reach out your hand before you know you’re going to do it. It goes to the one he still has in his pocket, fishes it out. You hold it, your thumb running over the back of it. Sam looks down, looks at what your hand is doing. He takes another shuddering breath.
“Sam,” you say, also looking at your hands, because maybe it’s easier for him to say it without being looked at. “You can tell me.”
“I drank demon blood,” he says, his voice flat. Your thumb keeps stroking the back of his hand, runs over the scars on his knuckles. You nod.
“Okay,” you say, waiting for him to continue. He doesn’t, so you dare to look up at him. You know his history, know what a dark chapter of his life this is. “Tell me,” you say. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek, avoiding your gaze. You think his eyes might be glistening.
You tug on his hand, and without dropping it turn around, lead him to the couch. You move your book aside and sit, pull Sam down. He gives in, following you. All this time, you don’t let go of him. His other hand lies on the arm rest, his fingers tugging at a thread there while you watch him, wait for him to continue. He finally does.
“Dean and I were on a case,” he says, looking at where his hand is playing with the fabric. “Just a couple of demons, no big deal. We got separated and I tackled one of them, tried to stab him but he moved at the last second.” He stops, clenches his jaw. You bring your other hand to the one holding his, wrap it around him, hold him. You want him to know you’re there.
“I cut him and then he pinned me and…” Sam continues, cutting himself off again. “Some of it was dripping on me and I didn’t know what to do, I just needed to get out of there.” He lets go of the thread, realizing he’s pulling apart your couch. You couldn’t care less, but he lays his hand in his lap.
“Next thing I know I grabbed him, got my mouth on the wound…” he says, pauses. “Then I threw him off me, killed him.”
There’s shame in his face and it breaks your heart. “I ditched Dean as soon as I could. I don’t think he noticed.” Sam looks down. “He can’t know,” he adds.
That you understand. You love Dean with all your heart, but he can be judgmental. He’s a better man than John, far better, but one thing he inherited from his father is his disdain for weakness. Sam, gentle, kind, sweet, with an aversion for violence, might look weak to them. They have no idea that he’s the strongest person you know, because he hasn’t let everything that happened to him make him hard, make him cruel. He’s fought for that goodness tooth and nail.
“So I came here,” Sam says, motioning to the space around you, a weak smile on his face. “I… I didn’t know where else to go.” He dares a look at you and you nod at him.
“I’m glad you came,” you say. You see him almost twitch at the kindness. It’s not something you’ve ever been able to get him used to.
You’re both quiet for a while. A car passes by, somewhere a dog barks.
“So what can I do?” you ask finally. Sam sighs.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna want more soon,” he answers, carefully. “I know it. I can already feel it coming. And when I don’t get it there’s going to be… symptoms.” You nod.
“Okay,” you say, “so do you need me to tie you down or something?” You realize how it sounds the moment the words leave your lips, and Sam does too. You both grin a little, embarrassed.
“Inappropriate,” you scold him, as if you didn’t just imagine what that would be like. Sam grins, a little more earnestly this time.
“You might have to,” he says. “Are you… are you okay with that?”
You shrug. “You won’t be the first guy I’ve tied to my bed.”
Sam’s grin falters and you immediately regret saying it. Because Sam’s never been in your bed, not that way anyway, tied up or not tied up, even though you’ve always wanted him to be. Uncoordinated make-out sessions in the Impala when you were fifteen aside, you were in love with Sam from the moment you met him, and you were pretty sure he used to be in love with you too, at least until you messed it all up.
Your father had died when you were sixteen, just another hunter torn apart by something that goes bump in the night. You remember crying in Sam’s arms, so many tears coming out of you that you were shocked that you could keep going, and at the same time feeling like you would never be able to stop. Sam held you, stroked your hair. Made sure you ate, drank. Listened to all your burbling words, the fears, the sadness. He held your hand then.
Your mother soon couldn’t bear to be in that house anymore. Too much reminded her of your father, or of his absence. You hated her then, because losing the familiarity of your life felt like another death all over again. Now that you’re a little older you understand. Sometimes leaving is easier than staying. You would find that out soon enough yourself.
So that’s what she did, moved you halfway across the country. You and Sam swore to keep in touch, to call, to write. Swore to visit but you didn’t have a car and Sam and his family were always moving, always on the road. It made it difficult to stay in contact. Then Sam left for Stanford.
You still remember when he called to tell you, you sitting on the floor next to the phone in your grandparent’s house, knees to your chest. The excitement in his voice. It made your heart sing. Sam was smart, wanted out of the life for a long as you knew him. He called you again, once he got there, invited you to visit him at college.
You’d dropped out of high school the year before, since your grandmother had gotten sick, and your mother’s salary wasn’t nearly enough to pay the bills. Even with you pulling double shifts at the diner in town and baby sitting you were barely making ends meet. But when Sam said he wanted to see you, wanted to show you where he went to school, what his life was like, you had moved heaven and earth to make it possible. You got into your late grandfather’s beat-up truck and drove the eight hours in one stretch. And then there he was.
He’d grown taller in the years you hadn’t seen him, really tall, his soft hair falling into his face, and you nearly cried right then and there. You were awarded a brilliant smile when you hopped out of the car, that smile that Sam barely ever showed. You felt tacky from the drive, you were tired. None of it mattered when he pulled you in, your cheek pressed against his chest, his chin on your head. It felt like all the late nights worrying over bills, your mother’s tears, all the stress just melted away. In Sam’s arms, the world made sense.
He brought you to his room, introduced you to his room mate, to other people on his floor. And while he did it, he held you hand. Showed people you belonged with him. You wondered suddenly if you would have sex and felt a rush of excitement go through you. You’d showered and Sam had shown you around. Showed you the campus, the library, the cafés he hung out in, and a feeling stared stirring in you, one you tried to push down.
Sam had gotten into Stanford on a scholarship. Otherwise he would have never been able to go, John not having any steady income and also not being supportive of Sam’s choices. But still somehow Sam fit into this place. He was smart, book-smart, and enough of a chameleon to make himself unnoticeable in a way.
You weren’t. You hadn’t made it through life by being malleable, quite the opposite. You’d needed to be hard, tough, ugly sometimes. The girls at Stanford weren’t. They didn’t have to accept some creep’s hand on their hip to get a better tip. They didn’t have to fix cars because they couldn’t afford a mechanic and scrubbed floors until their fingers hurt. They got to be soft, and you didn’t.
It had hit you right where you were most vulnerable, right in the part of you that hurt the most. You wanted to be sweet and soft and pretty for Sam, but you couldn’t. Sam hadn’t noticed the tears stinging your eyes, had kept talking, excitement in his voice. In the evening, he’d taken you out to a party, a bonfire by a nearby lake, warm beer and loud music. You’d brought the nicest outfit you had but it had made you feel worse instead of better. Sam stayed by your side, introducing you to people, chatting, asking about your family, about your work. He didn’t think there was anything sad about your life, but his kindness wasn’t enough to quiet the turmoil in you.
When he went off to get you both more beer, he had left you alone with a small group of people you had been talking to for a while. They had chatted amongst themselves, one beautiful girl turning to you. “So you and Sam know each other from when you were kids?” she asked. You nodded.
“Yeah,” you answered. “We kind of used to live next to each other.”
“Funny,” she said, scrunching up her pretty nose. “He’s never mentioned you before.”
Looking back now, you're a little embarrassed at the effect her words had on you. But then, young and confused and ashamed of everything you hadn’t achieved, it had stung you. You pressed your lips together, the tears you had felt at the back of your throat the whole day threatening to fall.
You’d left then, hadn’t even bothered to find Sam. It was clear to you that your lives had taken on completely different trajectories, and you felt like a fool thinking you could simply come back into his. Sam was going to be a big-shot lawyer, probably with a nice house and a nicer wife. You were going to be serving coffee until the day you died. There was nothing connecting you anymore.
Sam had called you when you were in his dorm room, packing your things. He had called you again when you were getting into your car. You didn’t answer. He called you, again and again. What were you supposed to tell him? How were you supposed to explain to him that you felt less than, would always feel less than?
Sam kept calling you, over the following weeks. You never answered. He called the house and you didn’t answer. Your mother did though, at some point, dark rings under her eyes, a sigh on her lips and generally done with your drama. She picked up the receiver, told Sam you were fine, that you’d gotten back safe and sound. She held the receiver out to you then.
“Jesus,” she said, exhaustion tinging her voice. “Just put that poor boy out of his misery.” But you had shaken your head, lips pressed together, shame burning you. So your mother had told Sam you couldn’t talk. He hadn’t called again after that.
You hadn’t seen each other for years. It wasn’t until the day of your mother’s funeral that you saw him again. She had worked herself into an early grave, never enough money for doctor’s visits, chain-smoking to stave off the stress and exhaustion. You stood at her grave, your last living family member gone, your grandmother having died years before, surrounded by your mother’s colleagues, some friends from school, her new boyfriend you had never liked, what were essentially strangers.
You were going to sell the small house your grandparents had owned, you had decided that morning. You were going to sell it, pay off the debts that were the only other thing your family had left you and then leave and never come back, never come back to this place, this town where everyone and everything was grey.
When everyone had left the cemetery you’d dropped behind, wanting a few minutes for yourself. You were looking down at the ground, and when you looked up you saw him. Sam.
He was standing by the gate leading out to the street, in a suit. You stopped dead, sure that this was some grief-induced hallucination. But then he walked towards you. You stood in front of each other and your arms had gone around your body at the rekindled shame you felt, remembering how you had parted ways. You wondered if Sam would be mad at you.
“I am so sorry,” he said then, and he didn’t seem mad at all. “I wanted to come earlier, but I only heard about the funeral today, so—”
You had hugged him then. Just stepped close to him, your arms going around his middle, your face buried against his shoulder. Even if he would push you away, even if you’d made him hate you – it would be fine, because he was here.
But instead of pushing you away, his arms went around you and he pulled you closer, one hand running over your back.
“I’m so sorry,” he said again. You’d gone for coffee then, more than happy to ditch the wake. You and Sam sat in a small café, catching each other up on your lives. Sam was back in the hunting life and when you found out why, that his girlfriend had been killed by the same thing that killed his mother, your heart broke for him. He’d tried so hard to get away but it all had caught up with him anyway. Your heart also broke for yourself when he talked about Jess, the jealousy, even though the poor girl was dead, making you feel ill. You knew you didn’t have a right to feel this way, but you still did.
Sam offered to stay with you, but you hadn’t accepted. You told him that this was something you needed to do on your own, and it was the truth. But from then on, you stayed in contact, never a week going by when you didn’t hear from him, or he from you. You would see each other whenever you were somewhat close to each other and just like that, it was like no time had passed between you. Nights were talked away until suddenly the sun was going up, and you’d look at each other, surprised and bleary-eyed, but you couldn’t help but grin. Sam told you everything that was going on in his life, the ups and downs, the horrors. So many times, he’d sat close to you, close enough to reach out to, to touch. But you’d never dared, until today.
You hugged when you said hello and goodbye but never touched more than that. You didn’t deserve it, you told yourself, not after shutting him out the way you had, but you never stopped wanting no, never stopped wanting him to hold your hand again, to kiss you like he had in the backseat of the Impala, hands awkward and shaky. And now he was here, had chosen you as the person to go to when things were falling apart around him. You didn’t know what to make of that.
To distract from your comment about tying people to your bed, you clear your throat.
“What are the symptoms?” you ask. “If you don’t have more, if you go into… withdrawal?” Sam nods at the word, it’s appropriate.
“I might see things,” he says. “That’s what happened last time. See and hear things that aren’t there. See… people.” You frown.
“What people?” you ask. Sam sighs.
“Myself, as a kid. Dean. My mother,” then he quickly looks at you. “You,” he adds. You have no idea what you are doing in that line-up and you feel it make you want to pull back, retreat into yourself. But you can’t, not now. Sam needs you.
“Okay then,” you stutter. “Do you need me to do it now? Or do we have time for coffee first?”
Thirty minutes later you’re caffeinated and you’ve gotten some rope out of your van. It should be just enough for Sam, and he’s showing you the knots, even though you already know them. It’s more of a refresher but it gives you something to do, something that means you don’t have to address how strange this situation is. It also gives you the chance to look at Sam, watch him move, listen to his voice. You feel like you could do that forever, like you’d never get sick of it.
He positions himself on the bed, because the headboard is the sturdiest thing you own, just in case in the throes of withdrawal he does try to make a run for it. You leave enough slack in the rope that he can sit against the headboard or lie down, maybe sleep. He’s fine with that, but when you start tying up his wrists he shakes his head.
“Tighter,” he says. You look at him.
“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” you say, but he shakes his head again.
“It’s not safe,” he says, and then: “Please.” So you do it, even though it feels all wrong.
When you’re done, Sam extends his legs on the bed. He asked you earlier if he should take off his shoes, but you told him to leave them on if he wants to. You’re not really worried about your comforter’s cleanliness right then.
You stand there, unsure what to do for a second. So you sit at the end of the bed, near Sam’s shoes. He’s adjusting his position, then leans his back against the headboard, his hands resting in his lap. You catch yourself thinking that he looks nice there, in your bed, amongst your things.
To distract yourself, you ask: “What does it feel like?” He grins a little.
“You never been tied up before?” he asks, purposefully a little suggestive. You roll your eyes.
“Ha ha,” you say and his grin goes just a little bit wider. You look down, smiling a little yourself. Sam and you usually don’t talk this way, sex and dating and love all topics you avoid like the plague, just like the touching. But whatever this night is, those rules seem to be abrogated. You wonder what that means.
“No, I mean… I mean the blood,” you ask, and immediately regret it, because Sam’s smile flies off his face. “I’m sorry,” you say. “If you don’t want to talk about it…” Sam inclines his head.
“I mean,” he says, “do you want to hear about it? It’s… It’s pretty disgusting.”
You look up at the ceiling. “I used to have this gig a few years ago,” you say, “at this catering place that had an oyster special. It wasn’t fancy, and one day the delivery guy comes, and he has no oysters that week.” You look down at Sam, and he looks very confused at why you’re telling him this.
“So my boss sends me to this guy he knows,” you continue, unperturbed. “I think they knew each other from prison. Anyway, he says this guy can get you anything, and we need oysters because we’re catering a retirement party that evening. So me and this other waitress, we go there, we get the oysters this weird, shady guy is selling us.” You purse your lips. “Have you ever been around when fifty people get violent food poisoning, all at the same time?” Sam makes a face.
“So yeah,” you conclude. “I have a pretty high tolerance for disgusting stuff.” Sam shakes his head at you.
“You’re tough, you know that?” he asks.
Yeah, you know. You don’t want to be tough, don’t want to have to be tough, but you know you are. Sam seems to collect his thoughts then, tries to find the right words.
“It makes me feel… powerful,” he finally says, but then corrects himself: “No, it makes me feel in control. Like I can do things, not mess them up.” You frown at that, but let him continue. “It makes me feel that all those times I felt like there was something different about me, like I was a freak, that I was right, but in a good way, you know?” He looks at you, maybe trying to see if you understand at all.
“And then it goes away, and I’m… just me again,” he says, like being him isn’t the best thing you can imagine anyone to be.
“What’s so bad about you?” you ask. Sam scoffs, looks at you again. Then he sees it’s a genuine question.
“Well, for starters,” he explains then, “I have demon blood in me. I, I made a huge deal out of thinking I was too good for this life, only to go right back to it the moment things got tough. I’ve screwed up every relationship I’ve ever had.” He stops suddenly, throws you a look and you wish he didn’t. He’s all confusing tonight and you don’t know… You just don’t know.
“It’s not arrogant to want to do something different than what your family does,” you say. “And you know that.” Sam looks down, avoiding your gaze. You shake your head. “If I told you the exact same story you wouldn’t see anything bad about it. But it’s you, so for some reason the same doesn’t apply. Not for Sam frickin' Winchester.” Sam looks up at you, frowning.
“You’re kind and understanding and empathetic and sweet,” you say, “but you’re none of these things to yourself.” You shrug. “I don’t get it,” you conclude.
“Like you’re so much better?” Sam says, and now it’s your turn to frown. “Like you don’t get down on yourself harder than you would on anybody else? Like you don’t act like you deserve nothing while everyone else deserve everything?”
You open your mouth to protest, but you’re unsure what to say. So instead you mumble: “Damn, demon blood makes you kind of an asshole.”
Sam’s quiet for a second and you wonder if you’re gone too far. But then he grins, and then he actually laughs. You can’t help but chuckle along, both from relief that you didn’t go too far as well as the joy you get from his laughter. As Sam quiet down, he nods.
“Yeah, I guess it does.”
You’re both quiet for a while. “Do you wanna watch some TV?” you finally say. “Or, or try to sleep?”
Sam smiles a little. “Some TV sounds good."
You move the little TV stand you have around so it faces the bed. Then, and you clearly didn’t think this through, you climb on the bed next to Sam. The bed isn't huge so you can’t stay too far from him, but you make sure you don’t touch. There’s a Fawlty Towers rerun and you and Sam settle on that, remember watching it when you were younger but not really understanding all of the jokes. Now you chuckle at “Don’t mention the war!”, grin at each other a little. You feel fifteen all over again.
“I had the biggest crush on John Cleese,” you say after a long time of silence. Sam turns to you.
“Oh yeah?” he asks. You nod, then turn to him.
“Probably the height,” you say with a little wink. Sam huffs but his heart’s not in it. He looks pale, you notice.
“How do you feel?” you ask, feeling worry bloom in you. He takes a deep breath.
“I’m getting a headache. Little dizzy,” he answers.
“You sure those ropes aren’t too tight?” you ask, looking down at his hands. He shakes his head.
“All good,” he says, trying to smile at you. “Let’s just keep watching.”
You do, but now that you noticed it’s hard to miss the signs that Sam’s not doing well. He’s breathing heavier, he seems shaky. Like he’s coming down with a bad fever. The show ends, and something else comes on, but you’re barely paying attention. There’s a sheen of sweat on Sam’s forehead and his fingers are twitchy. For some reason, you didn’t think that it would be like this, like actual withdrawal, but it seems to be heading that way.
You get up, go to the sink, fill a glass with water and walk it over to him. “Here,” you say, and Sam nods in thanks. He takes the glass from you but his hands are shaking, he spills some of it, so you grab for it, not wanting him to pour it all over himself.
“Let me,” you say, and in response Sam turns his head to you a little bit. You raise the glass to his lips and he gulps it down, eyes closed, throat working. He empties it in one go, and you turn around to get some more.
“Wait,” Sam says and you stop, turn around. His voice sounds a little raspy and he’s looking up at you.
“Can you stay with me?” he asks. Now it’s your turn to take a deep breath.
“Of course,” you say, and you put the glass on the night stand, sit down next to him. The kitchen isle is only a few feet from the bed, you wouldn’t even have to leave the room to get to it, but Sam’s asking you to stay with him so you’re not going anywhere.
He’s looking down at his lap, his broad shoulders shaking on every exhale. His head snaps up, like he forgot you were there.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. He’s pressing his mouth into a line and his forehead is knotted.
“About what?” you ask.
“That I asked you for this, that I just showed—” He interrupts himself, looks off into the middle distance. “That I just came here to let you take care of this.”
“Sam,” you say, trying to catch his gaze. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m glad you came here. I’m glad you trust me that way.” I don’t deserve it, you don’t say, but think. You’re not sure Sam hears you. He seems distracted.
“Hey,” you say, and you do what you’re not supposed to do, take his hand. It’s the second time tonight and you wonder what would happen if you did it a third time. Three strikes and you’re out?
The touch makes Sam look a you. “Let’s try to get some sleep,” you say and you wonder if it’s possible to sleep through demon blood withdrawal. Sam nods.
“Yeah,” he says, seeming to calm down a little. “Sleep sounds good.” You get up, which unfortunately means you have to let go of Sam’s hand, and walk around the bed. Sam pushes himself down the bed, his legs hanging over the end a little but it doesn’t seem to bother him. You lie down, on your side to face him, pull up your legs and he’s right there, right in front of you. It makes your breath hitch. A small smile flashes across his tired face and he rolls towards you, with some difficulty, so he’s facing you too.
“Hey there,” he says, making you smile.
“Hi yourself,” you reply, and then you say: “Close your eyes.” He does. His hands are out in front of him, held there by the rope, and you dare to lay your hand over his. He flinches for a second, but doesn’t pull away.
“Just fall into it,” you say, and you stroke his hand with your thumb again.
Sam grins a little. “Like you did into that pile of hay when we were thirteen?” You chuckle.
“You mean the pile of hay that wasn’t as bouncy as I thought it was?” you ask.
Sam nods, eyes still closed. “Can you tell me about it?” he asks, voice careful. “About that day?”
Sam was there, he knows the story as well as you do. But yes, yes, of course you can tell him about it. It’s one of your favorite memories.
The boys were at Bobby’s again and Dean had promised to take you and Sam to the pumpkin patch outside of town. It was fall, the air crisp, dark clouds in the sky. It turned out though that Dean had a date, some girl from town and he was very much not interested in looking after his little brother and the girl from next door. He sent you into the Halloween-themed maze next to the patch, part of the farm the thing had been built on, and snuck off to enjoy the local delights.
Sam and you had gotten bored quickly and at your behest you had soon started exploring the rest of the grounds. There was a barn that had a rickety ladder leading up to a loft and what you assumed to be a deep pile of hay under it. You had dared Sam to jump down into the hay, thinking that was what boys liked, dares and jumping. Maybe some of them did, but not Sam. He’d tried to talk you out of it but your mind had been made up – you were going to impress him and maybe in return you would get to kiss him, just a quick peck like you’d seen the other girls at school do.
So you jumped and landed on your arm, breaking the bone, as it later turned out, in three places. Sam had climbed down to you, mewling there on the floor, the pain worse than anything you had ever felt. He had said that he was going to run and get help, but you had started crying, begged him to stay. You thought you were going to die if he left you.
So Sam had stayed, sat down on the floor next to you, held the hand of the arm that wasn’t broken. Two hours later Dean had found you, panicked when he realized you two weren’t where you were supposed to be. He’d carried you to the car, but Sam hadn’t left your side, not when you got to the emergency room and not when your parents showed up and not when Bobby picked the brothers up, saying it was time to go. He had simply refused.
The adults and even Dean had chuckled at that but the truth was every other act of love in your life has been measured against that one. You’re not sure if that makes you pathetic or a romantic.
You don’t say the last part when you tell Sam the story now, but it doesn’t matter. He’s fallen asleep, and at some point, he started holding your hand, instead of you his.
You must fall asleep too, because when you wake up you’re disoriented. You hear mumbling and you wonder if you left the TV on when you realize it’s Sam. He sounds distressed, scared. You blink your eyes open. He’s still lying next to you, but he’s leaning up against the headboard, staring into the room. His lips are moving but you can’t hear what he’s saying.
You sit up quickly, turn the way he’s looking. There’s nothing there so you turn back to him, say his name. He doesn’t seem to hear you. He looks terrified, or like he’s in pain. You say his name again, then again, voice raised and finally he hears you, turning to you with a snap of his head.
The rules are forgotten as you clutch his knee.
“Sam, there is nothing there,” you say, because this must be what he warned you about, seeing things. He doesn’t answer, but his eyes dart back to where he was looking before. “It’s not real,” you tell him, “it’s the demon blood.” Sam swallows.
“She’s saying the same thing about you,” he replies, his voice low and hoarse. You can’t help it. You know there’s nothing there, that it’s just you and Sam in this room, but you turn around anyway, and of course there’s no one there, but the way Sam is staring at that spot nearly had you convinced.
You look back at him, try a different approach. “Who is she?” you ask. “What’s she saying?” You wonder if it’s Mary, his mother, or his dead girlfriend or someone else you don’t even know about.
“She’s saying…” he starts, then listens before he begins again. “She’s saying I abandoned you. That I promised to stay with you and I didn’t. I didn’t try hard enough.” Your mouth drops open. What is he talking about? He must think you’re someone else, part of the hallucinations.
“Sam,” you say, getting his attention again. “Who did you abandon?”
His eyes focus back on you. “You,” he says, and he doesn’t seem confused about that part. “In the barn. At Stanford. I, I abandoned you.” So he is talking about you, but it still doesn’t make sense. Sam didn’t abandon you in the barn, he stayed with you. And he didn’t abandon you at Stanford, you abandoned him. He’s looking at the spot behind you again.
You lean forward, not sure what overtakes you and you put your hands on both sides of his face, make him look at you and only you. “It’s not real, Sam,” you say, your voice clear and strong. “It’s not real. Look at me.”
He does, his eyes darting to whatever he’s seeing once more, but then he focuses on you. His eyes are like dark galaxies and you cannot believe how much you missed looking into them.
“I’m real,” you say, and you feel your voice fill with sadness. At him, at his demons. At the fact that of all the people in the world he is the one who has to suffer so. It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all.
“I’m here,” you say, “and you never abandoned me. You’re the only one who never has.” A tear spills down your face, and then another one, but Sam is focused on you now, is seeing you, hearing you. His hands go to your wrists, not to move your hands away but to hold on to you. It makes you sob deep in your chest.
“Please,” he says, and you’re not sure what he means but it feels like you do.
So you move your hands, just a little, to put them over his ears. You pull him close, so that your face must fill his entire vision. You pull him down a little, gently, so that he is lying back down, your face close to his.
“You’re real,” you say, and you think you see tears in Sam’s eyes too. “You’re the realest thing in the world.”
You say it over and over. You can’t see or hear what else Sam is seeing or hearing, but you keep saying it, like a chant, hoping that your voice, your words, are just a little bit louder than whatever else is screaming at him.
Sam’s brain is a storm and you try to make yourself the eye of it, the quiet and violent center where he is safe. You’ll kill anything that tries to get to him. You’ll stay with him on the floor of that barn the way he stayed with you, even if the barn is being torn away around you, even if the tornado takes wood and hay and pumpkins and goddamn cows and spins them up into the air.
You tell him that, that you'll stay with him no matter what, and you keep telling him that he is real and that you are real, say it until your voice cracks and then you say it some more.
Pale morning light breaks through the window. You crash into wakefulness like you’re diving into a cold body of water. Your hands are still on Sam, albeit not over his ears anymore. His hands are still around your wrists, but his grip isn’t as tight because, as you see with a wave of relief, he’s asleep. You don’t move, try to keep your breathing steady so he can stay in that peaceful place for just a little while longer.
So instead you study his face, because it’s all you see anyway. The cleft in his chin, his strong nose, the mole under his eye. How young he looks when he’s calm like this. Not for the first time you wonder what things would be like now if you had not left that night at the lake. If you would be rewarded with this sight every morning or if things would be exactly as they are now.
You could drive yourself crazy, wondering.
But then Sam stirs. You hold your breath, hoping it’s just a dream, but then he’s slowly blinking his eyes open. Maybe you should pretend to be asleep, that you haven’t been staring at him but you don’t have any energy for pretending.
Sam’s eyes focus and when he sees you he takes a deep breath, just looks at you. Neither of you is willing to break the silence, so you lie like this for a long time, just looking, still touching. Sam speaks first, eventually.
“Why did you leave that night when you visited me at Stanford?” he asks, his voice low like he’s reluctant to cut through the quiet. You sigh slowly and then you find your are rubbing one thumb along Sam’s cheek where it has moved again inexplicably.
“Because I was an idiot,” you answer, but Sam’s eyebrows twitch. It’s not the answer he wants.
“Because,” you say, taking more time to answer this time. “Because I saw that you were meant for great things and I wasn’t.” Sam frowns a little and you can see a reply form on his lips, but you’re faster. “Because I thought that if something… happened between us, you would eventually see how completely ordinary I am, and you wouldn’t like me anymore.” You push yourself to take the final plunge. It’s too late to back out now anyway. “Because the thought that you might not want me was the worst thing in the world, and I thought I could spare myself if I left first.”
It’s the truth, and it sounds even worse said out loud, but you owe Sam this. He seems to think about your words, turning them over in his head.
“I thought--,” he starts, but then closes his mouth. He takes another second and you wonder if this is the end, if whatever he says next will be the end of your relationship, whatever kind of relationship it might be.
“I thought,” he finally continues, “that you saw what a fake I was and it disgusted you.” Now you’re frowning.
“Fake?” you ask. Sam nods, just a little, your hands moving along with his head.
“Who I was trying to be at Stanford,” he explains. “Who I thought I could be.”
“There was nothing fake about it,” you say. But Sam makes a face like he doesn’t agree.
“I really thought I could leave it all behind. All the…” He thinks for a second, looking for the right word. “Darkness,” he finally settles on. “But I take it with me everywhere I go, because it’s me.”
You look at him for a long time. You don’t see any darkness in Sam. Sadness? Yes. Depression? Maybe. Trauma? Hell yes. But darkness?
“I don’t know it this makes sense,” you say, “but this darkness? What you’re feeling? It’s not what others see in you. It’s not what I see in you. For what it’s worth.”
Sam’s brow creases a little again. He’s quiet for a few seconds, and then he asks: “What do you see?”
You shake your head just a little. “I see you,” you say and you feel a smile tug at your lips. “I see someone who keeps getting knocked on the chin and still decides, every day, to be good and to believe in people. Someone who cares so much that it kills him, literally sometimes.” Sam gives an embarrassed, weak chuckle, but you’re not done.
“You came here last night,” you continue, “because you made a mistake. A stupid, human mistake. And the first thing you did was face up to it and try to fix it.” Sam scoffs a little.
“Yeah,” he replies, “and drag you into immediately.”
“God, Sam,” you say, and you’re actually a little annoyed. “Do you have any idea how happy it makes me that you would come to me? That I would be the person you trust in this?” You press your lips together, the emotion of the confession feeling a little overwhelming.
“And I know how messed up that is,” you add, “but it’s the truth.” Sam looks at you for a while, studies your face. You don’t think you’ve fully convinced him, but he seems to be thinking about something.
“They’re gone,” he says finally.
“Who’s gone?” you ask.
“The voices,” he says, “the… hallucinations.” You nod against the pillow.
“Good,” you say. You look at his hands for a second. “Do you want me to untie you?” you ask. Sam thinks, then shakes his head.
“No,” he says in a soft voice. “I don’t want to leave yet.” It feels like someone takes your heart in their hand and squeezes it.
“You can just stay,” you say, and now your voice is quiet. Sam nods.
You let go of him and it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done. You sit yourself up and start undoing the ropes. His wrists don’t look too bad, but it would still be better to get some ointment on them. You get some from your bathroom and then gently apply it to the red marks on Sam’s skin. While you do it, his fingers land on your hand and he keeps them there.
“That’s all done,” you say.
“Thank you,” you suddenly hear him mutter. You look up at his face. He’s looking into your eyes and you feel a pull inside yourself, a pull towards him. You almost do it then. Almost lean in and kiss him. But he's just come out of a night of sleepless withdrawal so maybe it’s not right to do it.
“I’m gonna freshen up,” you interrupt yourself and stand up. “Back in a sec.” You walk to the bathroom without looking back at Sam. You wash your face, brush your teeth. Comb your hair where it’s been pressed between your head and the pillow. You change your clothes, soft washed-out jeans and a loose blouse. You come back into the main room, and Sam’s sitting on the couch, going through the book you were reading.
“I left you a towel and a spare toothbrush if you want it,” you say, burying your hands in your pockets. “I’m gonna make some coffee.”
Sam fingers the edge of the page he has open before him. He looks like he’s about to say something, but then thinks better of it and gets up, walks past you into the bathroom, close enough that he touches you, that his arm brushes along yours. You slowly breathe out when he closes the door behind him.
Something’s different. You’re just casually touching now and you feel like your skin is on fire where Sam met it. You shake yourself and get started on the coffee. Sam comes back soon, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. You pour him a cup without speaking, hand it to him, and you both just stand there for a while.
“How are you feeling?” you finally ask.
“Okay,” Sam says slowly, like he’s checking in with himself to make sure he’s telling the truth. “Kind of chewed up and spat out,” he continues, “but no hallucinations. And no cravings. Well, at least not for demon blood.” You both smile at that, look down at the floor. You notice some dust collecting down there and hope Sam doesn’t see it. Like he has nothing else to worry about right now.
“You know I always trusted you, right?” he suddenly says.
“Huh?” you ask, confused.
“You said earlier,” he explains, “that you were happy that I came here, that I trusted you.” He puts his cup down on the counter. “And I just wanted to say that I always trusted you. That was never the issue. I just didn’t trust myself.” You’re not totally sure where he’s going with this, so you just let him talk.
“The version of you that I saw last night, the other version,” he continues, making it clear he is talking about the hallucination. “She kept telling me that I messed everything up when I stopped calling, when I stopped trying to reach you. Is that true?” You pass your coffee cup from one hand to the other because it gives you something to do. You shake your head, finally.
“You didn’t mess anything up,” you say. Sam studies your face.
“Why don’t you ever touch me?” he asks and you frown. “It’s like you’re purposefully avoiding it,” Sam continues. You put your cup down too, because it allows you to look away from him for a second. You notice the buzz in your fingertips you’ve been feeling since you woke up. Like there’s little magnets in them and Sam is the other pole. You look back at him.
“Because if I start touching you again,” you say, “I don’t think I’d be able to stop.” Sam takes a deep breath at your words, and then suddenly he is stepping closer. Your stomach drops and your heart beats faster when his hand goes to where yours is and he takes it, rubs his thumb over the back of it.
“Then don’t stop,” he says. You look up at him and there’s those pesky tears in your eyes again. But it feels like you’re in a trance, Sam so close, not just a fleeting hug but actual, real closeness that you can breathe in. You lift the hand he is holding and bring his fingers to your face. You don’t know what you’re doing until you’re doing it, and then you press your cheek against the back of his hand. You feel a stuttery sigh leave him at the contact and you look up at him the contact breaking but not for long, because Sam lifts his other hand, runs it over your exposed arm, so gently you think you could almost be imagining it.
You look up at him, into those eyes you know so well, and you take a step closer to him. You break the eye contact only to lay the side of your head against his chest, wrap your arms around him, hands running over his back and you close your eyes. Sam’s hands find your back, run over it, warming it. A breath leaves you that might be a sob, because you are so full of love for him. Sam just holds you closer.
You stand like this for what could be years until you feel Sam move just a bit, and you pull your head back to look at him again. One hand of his lands on your cheek, the thumb running a line just below your eye. Your hand goes up, palm turned towards him, and you run your fingertips over his bottom lip. You’ve never touched him like this, not even during those fleeting times in the Impala, or when you went to the movies and he held your hand there or the one time you slow-danced to one of your dad’s records, Sam continuously stepping on your toes with his large, ungainly feet.
Sam leans forward, and his forehead meets yours. You rub yourself against him carefully, both of you moving closer, slowly, carefully. You’re not sure you know the exact moment your lips meet, that’s how slow you’re going. But then Sam leans that little bit more forward and you’re definitely touching now and it turns into a kiss at some point, Sam’s eyes falling shut and yours do too. His hand is on the small of your back and he’s pulling you closer and so you wrap your arms around his neck. You need the extra balance because without it you think you might pass out. He feels so familiar and yet completely new.
At some point Sam’s hand finds your face, and he pulls you even closer. The kiss takes on a different energy then, hungrier, needier, both of you pulling the other in, pushing yourself against each other. Before you know it, you are stumbling towards the bed, not sure who is leading who. Sam’s calves bump into it and your hands are going under his shirt while his are at the top button of your shirt. You’re both breathing heavily and Sam pulls away from you suddenly. He’s not going far, but he tilts your face so you’re looking at him.
“Are you sure?” he asks and you’ve never been so sure of anything in your life.
“Yes,” you say and then you’re pulling him back against you, Sam’s lips melting against yours, because in the few seconds you weren’t kissing him your heart was aching. You both fall back on the bed, Sam cushioning your fall and you’re tearing at each others clothes. They’re hard to take off with how close you are but you manage.
You touch Sam’s skin everywhere you can reach, and his hands are running over you like he’s trying to commit you to memory, like he’s mapping you. One of his hands wanders between your legs and he feels perfect, big and warm and he keeps kissing you while he touches you, only breaking his lips away from you when you press your head back into the pillow, whimpering, so he can watch you.
The moment you’ve regained your senses you’re reaching out to him. You just have the wherewithal to reach out your hand, grab into your night stand and pull out a condom. Sam takes it from you, carefully tears the foil with his teeth so that at least one hand can stay on you, and then he’s reaching down between you two, lifting himself up and a second later he’s on you again, kissing you, his hand in your hair. You drop your legs open and then he’s right there, and you cry out when he enters you because you cannot believe that this is the first time.
He rocks into you and you keep kissing and between pants and small noises, Sam says into your mouth: “Don’t leave me.”
You sob again, bring your head up so you can kiss him again, and say back into his mouth: “Never.”
Later, you lie together, not speaking but touching. Sam’s hand has found yours again and he is playing with your ring finger, absentmindedly.
“Do you have to go back soon?” you ask into the silence. Sam turns to you, pulls you closer to kiss your forehead and then the spot between your eyebrows. He shakes his head.
“I can tell Dean I’m staying here for a while,” he shrugs, then carefully adds: “Maybe another day? Or more, even. If— if you want that, I mean.” He looks at you, an unsure look in his eyes. You push yourself against him.
“Does forever fit into your schedule?” you ask. It’s supposed to sound like a joke but Sam looks at you in a way that tells you he knows it’s not. He smiles a little.
Tim: *walks into the room to see Jason and Dick hunched over Dick's phone*
Jason: -no a text won't do shit, you gotta call him or it isn't funny enough.
Tim: what are you guys doing?
Dick: oh, Bruce just finished a two week long undercover case where he got shot in three places and he's taking a nap upstairs for the first time in... six days. so we're fucking with him.
Tim:
Tim: he's so lucky to have you both as children.
Jason: hey we were the first ones he tried 'parenting'. we were the trial periods. we fuckin' earned this.
Dick: *nodding*
Tim, sighing: ok what are you gonna do?
Dick: Jason wants to prove that i'm B's favourite, because he's stupid.
Jason: you ARE-
Dick: I'M REALLY FUCKING NOT-
Tim: he's right, he isn't.
Dick: THANK YOU- also oi?
Jason: trust me. you call him now and tell him while he's half asleep and hopped up on pain medication that you've killed somebody and need his help hiding the body, he will be there in seconds. he wouldn't let his little golden boy down like that. he'll pay off anybody he needs to to make sure you get off scott-free.
Tim: Jesus Christ.
Dick, dialling on his phone: this is so stupid,
*phone rings*
Bruce, sounding 3 minutes from perishing, slurring his words and barely conscious: -guh, Dick? i-is this an emergency?
Dick, valiantly putting on the most over-dramatic panicked voice possible: *whimper* B- dad, dad i need help, please,
Bruce, instantly: DICK?
Dick: Bruce i killed somebody and i need help hiding the body. i don't know what to do. it was an accident but i have to hide it. help.
Bruce:
Bruce:
Dick: dad...?
Bruce, grunting: get Jason t' do it *hangs up*
*silence*
Jason: W H A T
Tim: does that count as letting Dick down? he did hang up, but like technically he gave him a referral first.
Dick: i'm honestly a little bit offended
Jason: HE'S PIMPING ME OUT FOR MURDER WORK? AFTER ALL THE SHIT HE GIVES ME ABOUT FATALITIES-,
Dick: like does he think i'd call him first? Bruce man, if i call you for help with a body, it's because i've already contacted Jason and he's unavailable. you are never going to be the first choice.
Jason: -THE SWITCHING TO RUBBER BULLETS, THE DISAPPROVAL, THE LECTURES ON RESPONSIBILITY, AND NOW HE'S SENDING PEOPLE TO ME WITH MURDERS?!?!?!?
Tim: i honestly don't know what we expected, when has B been anything other than a massive hypocrite.
Jason, grabbing a fire extinguisher off the wall: well his fuckin' nap's over now, i'll tell you that much-
Dick: Jay, Alfred is gonna get so mad if you do that-
Tim: why would Alfred care about us waking up B?
Dick, chasing after Jason: no he's gonna get mad about wasting the foam- jASON-
Damian and Jason have been playing a game of hot potato with being Ra's main heir because neither of them can be fucked to deal with the league responsibilities and then they get to Gotham and find out that the 'detective' nickname has been passed on from Bruce to Tim because Ra's likes Tim for some reason and they both perk up like rival stunt men about to team up to commit insurance fraud.
Tim: dude im so scared to tell Damian that i worked with his grandfather for a little bit. did you see how mad he was when he thought i'd stolen his 'birthright' by being Robin? he might kill me!
Dick: maybe we can find a way to break the news to him gently...
meanwhile, Damian, on the phone to Jason: THAT SUCKER. HE'S GOTTEN GRANDFATHER'S FAVOUR. WE'RE FREE.
Jason: FUCKING FINALLY-
Damian: WAR IS OVER TODD, NO MORE LEAGUE MEETINGS. WE FINALLY DISAPPOINTED HIM ENOUGH THAT HE'S MOVED ON TO A NEW TARGET.
Jason: this is the biggest accomplishment of our lives.
Damian: i truly can't comprehend how we lasted this long in the runnings anyway, but thank god it's over.
Jason: does Tim know what he's in for? did you tell him Ra's will be gunning for him now?
actually getting so into the idea of Talia giving Jason Damian and saying 'take him to his father' and Jason going straight-faced 'sure!' and then turning around and completely fucking off in the other direction.
like, he'll GET THERE EVENTUALLY, but for now this is literally the first time this child has been allowed to leave the grounds of the insane conditioning cult supervision that he's been under since birth and by GOD is he gonna get this kid to eat cookie pie and stand under a waterfall. for his mental health.
Damian is literally so chill about this. like it's insane to him that he's getting to experience all this shit, and he doesn't really know what to do about being in public for the first time in his life, but also he's with Jason who he trusts with his whole heart and also ?? he has literally never met Bruce before. as far as he knows that's just the bat-guy that his big brother consistently calls a 'creepy fuck not worth your time, Dami'. he is fine to postpone the family reunion.
Jason meanwhile is having the absolute time of his life going on a world trip of the best child-experiences he can think of, both healing Damian's inner child, indulging his own, AND ignoring Talia's enraged calls about why the fuck he's just been spotted at a spa in Iceland when he was supposed to be introducing Damian to his father like two months ago.
He laughs and hangs up. Damian got his first ever massage and laughed at one of Jason's jokes without even trying to muffle it. he ain't fuckin' goin' to Gotham and giving that shit up until he is good and READY. the league brothers' road trip has only just begun, as far as he's concerned.
what if Damian wasn’t sent to Bruce by Talia and instead decided to do a bit of early child-rebellion by running away to him himself. Talia, pissed off but too busy dealing with uprisings in the league to go track him down herself, calls up the person Damian is most likely to listen to other than her; his brother, who she trusts to keep him safe.
the thing is, Jason is 1: busy with his own missions atm 2: was also once a rebellious little asshole who liked to run away from home. he was Damian’s tutor once, he knows the kid can handle himself and he also knows if he CAN’T handle something he’ll contact Jason for help. he knows this because about a week before Talia called him, Damian called him.
Jason, phone balanced between his ear and shoulder: what do you want, i’m undercover
Damian: i require money for a fake passport.
Jason:
Jason, letting go of the guy he was beating up: alright you have my attention.
Damian: i am running away from home. i wish to do something ‘for the lore’ like the stories you used to tell me as a child.
Jason:
Jason ‘i’m going to ethiopia’ Todd: there’s some stuff in the fake panel under my bed. don’t tell me where you’re going, i don’t want to be complicit when Talia calls. also don’t die, because if you do i’m gonna make you eat dirt once you get out of the pit.
Damian: understood. if i am about to die, i shall call again.
Jason: have fun kiddo.
so Jason tells Talia he’ll ‘keep an eye out for any leads’ and then goes back to his normal business. league missions, his own missions, some outlaw shit, and eventually he ends up crime lording it up in Gotham. he’s a little confused when Tim Drake is seen swinging around as Red Robin rather than just Robin, but he got over his obsession with the Robin shit a while ago, so he ignores it.
until he runs into Batman and Robin. and there isn’t a mask in the fucking world that could hide his kid brother’s face from him.
Red Hood:
Robin:
Red Hood:
Robin:
Batman: why are you two staring at each other like that. what’s happening.
Robin:
Red Hood: *deep sigh*
Robin: are you going to tell mother-
Red Hood: -when you said ‘like the stories i used to tell you’.
Robin: *looks at the floor*
Red Hood: i did NOT think you meant running to a different country to find your birth parent. you fucking COPIER.
Robin:
Robin: …but you made being Robin sound so cool…
Batman: what the fuck are you two talking about?
Red Hood, pointing: you stay out of this, this is family business.
AU where Jason gets over his theatre-kid need for dramatics and heat never reveals his identity to the batfam. In fact, he HIDES his identity so well that no one ever finds it out. It’s been years since Red Hood popped up and at this point he’s an unofficial vigilante with crime lord tendencies than anything else
then people start getting suspect . . . But not the right thing
Red hood: *sitting, legs crossed, on a roof ledge* scare me and make me drop my book and l don’t care if you helped me with Penguin last night, I’ll throw you off this roof and I won’t give a shit
Nightwing: *slowly jacks away* um. What book?
Red hood: pride and prejudice.
Nightwing: pride and . . . You know, my brother liked that book.
Red hood: I know he did
Nightwing:
Damian: *feeling uncertain with his title as Robin*
Red Hood: you know, a wise kid once said Robin is magic
Batman: *eyes narrow* what kid?
Red Hood: eh, just someone I used to know
Batman:
Spoiler: so why did ya decide to protect the alley?
Red Hood: I lived there as a kid. I . . . Uh, it just means a lot to me.
Spoiler: *frowning* I assumed you’d lived there.
Red Hood: yeah it um . . . *thinking of Bruce* I met someone important there. He changed my life. And when . . . I, uh, lost him, I decided to clean it up.
Spoiler:
Later, in the bat cave:
Spoiler: so Red Hood . . .
Batman: *gravely* dated Jason.
Nightwing: but he was only fifteen!
Robin: *crossing his arms* people date at fifteen, Richard.
Red Robin: . . . The crime lord dated the second Robin.
Batman: I’m going to kill him. Nightwing: wait, no! You can’t! Jason wouldn’t have wanted it!
Black Bat: he’s family.
Spoiler: *jazz hands* NEW BROTHER
Red Hood: *listening in through their comms* what the fuck
Give me Bruce and Jason, who are not on the war path anymore, but they are still awkward and absolutely clueless on how to make things up, so they pretend that they need something from each other in order to spend some time together. Even if these things are absolutely simple, and both of them could handle it themselves, if they wanted to.
Bruce, calling Jason in the random Friday night: So, Alfred left for a week. And I promised kids to do a homemade cake for them. And you know how useless I am in the kitchen. So.
Jason, who knows that Bruce is, in fact, not useless in the kitchen, but low-key misses cooking with him, because the last time they did it, it was Alfred's birthday before his death, and they did the cake together: Theoretically, I agree.
Bruce, sighing in relief: Theoretically, I will need you in Manor tomorrow in the morning. And I theoretically will pay for that.
Jason: Theoretically, see you tomorrow.
Bruce: Theoretically, thank you.
Jason, dealing Bruce in the middle of the night: Old man. Bail me out of the prison. I am in CGDP's building.
Bruce, knowing well that Jason wouldn't be caught in the first place, if he didn't want all of this to happen, and even if he did, he would easily escape without him, getting involved, but also knowing that today is anniversary of the day Bruce adopted Jason, and it is his way to spend time together: ...Okay. May I ask what did you do?
Jason: ...Stole Gordon's tires.
Bruce, stifling his laughter: I see. I will be here in a few minutes.
Bruce and Jason, who accidentally fix their relationship in a relative secret and distance from the rest of the family (Alfred excluded, of course), and decide to keep this fact as a secret from the rest of the family, just for fun. Because, let's be honest, Bruce is no less a brat than Jason is, he is just better at hiding it the older he gets.
Dick, sighing: Listen, I am about to invite Jason to this family dinner. And I don't care if you want it or not! And if you try to sabotage this day by your moral code lectures, I'll have a word with you!
Bruce, indifferent, while messaging Jason at the same time: Mhm.
(On the other part of Manor)
Tim: Honestly, I am not giving you a choice here. You will come to this dinner, Jason. Just... just ignore Bruce, alright?
Jason, dramatically huffing, while liking Bruce's messages: Yeah, yeah, WHATEVER!
Alfred: ...My circus. My monkey. I shall stay collected, nevertheless.
Damian: Father had been disappearing after patrols lately. I can't track him... What do we think is going on? Is he found himself a new child he plans to adopt soon? We can't get another sibling.
Tim: Relax. He is probably into a new woman. Or a man. Whatever.
Dick, worried: Guys, what if it is another villain or rogue?
Jason, with whom Bruce spends time after patrol by munching fast food on the skirts of town: ...Lol
Damian: That's not funny, Todd.
Barbara, who knows everything: ...It is funny.
Dick: Babs!
Tim: You know, Jason had been surprisingly chill lately. I knew he was doing better, but he stopped avoiding Manor that much.
Bruce, arching his eyebrows: Alright?
Tim: Do you think... maybe you two can finally talk? And fix your mess?
Bruce, who just came to the cave after reading session with Jason, hiding his smile behind a sad face: I don't know, chump. It is complicated.
Dick, calling Jason randomly: Urgh, B is such a bitch!
Jason, gasping: Right? Tell me about it!
Bruce, sighing from his side of the couch as Jason puts The Crown show on his television: ...
Jason, being a semi-canonic common hallucination in the family after his death, could lead to the stupidest AU ever.
Imagine everyone seeing him — Bruce, half of the time, Dick non-stop, Tim more often than not, and eventually even Alfred starts seeing little boy's silhouette in the corner of his eye, but he never admits it, because someone needs to stay sane in this family.
It is a lot like real-life cases when cult families start to see collective hallucination, and it somehow syncronises in their minds, so they hear and see the same things, you know?
So, yeah, everyone sees Jaybin around.
Everyone but Damian. Damian is a normal one. He also knows his Akhi is alive and well, so whatever. And it takes him some time to figure out that his family is bat-shit insane, but when he does, he decides to use it on his advantage.
Damian, calling Jason: Akhi, you should visit me. It is getting awfully boring here.
Jason, frowning: You know I can't. They think I am dead, and I can't risk my plan, especially now, when Red Hood is gaining-
Damian: We will pretend you are a hallucination.
Jason: ...What?
Damian: So, there is a plan...
So, a few days after this call, Jason arrives at the Wayne Manor. He still thinks his brother's plan sucks, but gaslighting is one of his many talents, so surely, they will figure something out. He can lie his way through this meeting.
Expect, he doesn't even need to lie. His family is actually insane.
Bruce, bumping in Jason:
Jason, staring back: Uh-
Bruce: Wow. You look so grown-up. And we look so alike. Nice one, brain.
Bruce: Right? I guess his ghost just grows up with us now.
Jason: ????
Alfred, nodding along, out of nowhere: Master Dick will hate it. He looks taller now.
All of them: (peacefully leave the room)
Jason: What. The. Fuck.
Jason waits for the moment of clarity to happen as he chats with Damian in the kitchen, but... nothing changes. They really, really think he is a hallucination. So... he starts hanging out around more. Both because Damian is getting angsty, and because it is kinda... amusing.
Tim, stuck on the same case for a few nights, non-stop: Oh, it is really just me and you in this, Jason.
Jason, playing Mario Cart on the table by his side: Maybe take a nap, dude.
Tim: No, I need to figure out this case with-
Jason, rolling his eyes: Red Hood had already dealt with it. Go to sleep.
Tim: ...You are such a good self-care kind of hallucination.
Jason: ...
Damian: Your bets, when will they realise that you are a real person?
Jason: At this point, I am not sure that they will, even if I start screaming that I am real.
Damian: Fair. I bet a year would do.
Jason: ...A year and a half.
Dick visits the Manor. He cooes at Jason, muttering something about "of course, he would have grown up in a punk," and Jason almost breaks his role to hit him on the head.
Jason, arms folded on his chest: You know, you need serious help, dad.
Bruce, blinking at him slowly: Probably. You know what else I need?
Jason: Sleep? Retirement? To stop adopting strays? The list is endless, man.
Bruce: ...Coffee. I need more coffee.
Jason, groaning: What the fuck!!!
Alfred figures out that Jason is real, eventually. Solely because he catches him sneaking a few extra cookies, and hallucinations are not supposed to eat. He plays along with him and Damian until the very end, anyway.
(Damian ends up winning the bet because Jason loses it once and pushes Bruce down the stairs, when he starts reciting some precautionary tale about him. Everyone is flabbergasted.)
