Gina Watkins-SooHoo | Fic + Art

Supernatural fic first. Art second. Feelings always. I paint animals and write stories about people who are not okay.

[iamgwinchester]

Hi, I’m Gina Winchester,

I post Supernatural fic, fic snippets, and fandom nonsense. I also make art (sometimes related, sometimes not).

Fic is the main event. Art is a bonus feature.

Yes, my real maiden name is Winchester.

I❤️Comments! (& reblogs)

Joke like Dean * Think like Sam * Nerd like Charlie * Fly like Cas

The URL is a relic. The brainrot is current. Welcome. 🩷

👉 Read my SPN fanfic Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/series/5664826 No use of "Y/N"!

Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list

List of Sam x Reader Cute Little Fluffs https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/819080920363565056/sam-x-reader-cute-little-fluffs-list

[iamgwinchester]

New in the series: Sam's Girl

Part 29 in Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series

Summary: Dean Winchester does not have feelings. He's just been spending a lot of time in the garage lately. For reasons. Unfortunately, Dean Winchester has never been as subtle as he thinks he is.

Sam's Girl

Chapter 1: Too Much Bunker

The shared shower room is all steam and tile and bad planning. You turn the water off and grab a towel.

Mary has been gone for a couple of days and Dean said he was making a beer run so when you hear the doorknob start to turn you know it must be Sam.

You grin. On impulse, you step in front of the door and let the towel drop.

The door opens. "Hi, sexy," you say.

Only it isn't Sam.

It's Dean.

Dean freezes in the doorway. His eyes go wide. His mouth actually falls open for a second before he catches himself. "Sorry! Uh… I didn't know you were in here. My fault, I should've knocked."

You're already laughing as you bend down to grab the towel. "Oh my God. Sorry. I thought you were Sam. Oops."

He steps back and pulls the door shut.

On the other side of the door, he stands there a second longer than he should, hand still on the knob, staring at the wood grain for a couple of seconds before he retreats down the hall. He’s embarrassed. He’s also human.

From inside, you call out, "You were supposed to be gone!"

Dean, already starting to move down the hall, raises his voice. "I changed my mind. Thought I'd shower first. Sorry. Again. Sorry."

You laugh, because at this point what else are you supposed to do? "It's fine! It's nothing you haven't seen before!"

That’s not the problem. 

His footsteps keep moving, a little faster now. He stares straight ahead and keeps walking. Fantastic. He did not need that image in his head.

Sam's girl, he tells himself. Family. Like a sister. Hands off.

It doesn't entirely work.

Yeah. This place needs a lock, you think, still smiling to yourself as you reach for your clothes.

* * *

A couple of days later, Dean is heading down the hall when he passes your room.

The door is shut, but the vent at the bottom does nothing to block sound. 

He catches one breathy sound, then some moaning, then it starts getting louder. He stops dead for two seconds before his brain catches up.

Oh.

Oh, hell no.

That is definitely you. With Sam. That is… getting kind of loud.

His chest goes tight, his heartbeat kicks up fast. It's sharp enough to piss him off.

Dean starts moving again immediately, forcing himself not to speed up, not to slow down, not to react like a twelve-year-old who just walked into the wrong movie.

He gets well past the door before he lets himself react. Fantastic. First the shower thing, now this. He did not need that in his head. He did not need to know what you sound like when you're coming apart like that.

He turns the corner hard and keeps walking.

It's not even really about sex. Not just that. It's the closeness of it. The intimacy. The reminder that Sam has somebody and Dean, lately, very much does not.

It's too much bunker. Too little space. Too much information nobody asked for.

Still, the sound sticks to him in a way he hates.

* * *

You walk into the kitchen and Dean is sitting at the table with a beer, staring at it.

"Hey." You sit down next to him. "You look depressed."

"I'm fine."

"Wow. Convincing." You open the fridge, grab a drink, then glance back at him. "I thought you were going out."

"I did."

That gets your attention. You shut the fridge and lean against the counter. "Bad time?" 👉Read the rest on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86571271

👉 Read my SPN fanfic Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/series/5664826 No use of "Y/N"!

Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list

List of Sam x Reader Cute Little Fluffs https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/819080920363565056/sam-x-reader-cute-little-fluffs-list

[iamgwinchester]

New in the series: You Don't Have to Hide Alone

Part 28.5 in Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series

Summary: Angry cleaning. It's a thing. Apparently it's also a trigger. Who knew. Sam, as it turns out. Of course, he knows what to say.

You Don't Have to Hide Alone

You hear it before you see him.

It's not loud enough to be alarming. Just cabinet doors closing a little too hard, dishes set down with more force than necessary. The rhythm of someone who needs to keep moving.

You head toward the kitchen.

Sam is wiping down the counter in long aggressive strokes, jaw tight. He finishes and moves immediately to the next thing. There's a stack of dishes drying that wasn't there an hour ago.

You intended to check on him. Let him vent, listen to whatever was eating at him, maybe put your arms around him until the tension left his shoulders

He's never angry with you. And honestly, you don't know how he manages it. If he ever gets annoyed with you, he seems to work through it before you ever see it. Even when you're distracted. Even when you're forgetful. Even when you leave unfinished projects spread across three different rooms.

So you're not worried.

Until you see him.

You stop in the doorway. It's Sam. You know it's Sam. You know he's not angry at you.

Your stomach drops anyway.

The feeling hits so fast it steals your breath. It's sudden and total, like a wave you didn't see coming. Sadness, fear, and guilt, for reasons you can't locate. Your brain scrambles, looking for the source, and comes back with nothing. There's no thought attached to it. No memory you can point to. Just the feeling, enormous and immediate, and your body already moving before you've decided anything.

You back away before he notices you.

* * *

By the time you reach the bedroom, your chest hurts.

You don't think. You just need somewhere small. Somewhere out of the way. You drop to your knees and crawl under the desk, pull your legs in tight, wrap your arms around them, and lower your head. The chair is still slightly out and you leave it there. You can't make it fully dark, but it's close enough.

Sam's jacket is on the back of the chair above you. You pull it down and put it around your shoulders. It smells like him.

It's a ridiculous place to be. Some part of you knows that.

The tears arrive the way they do when they're not really about anything you can name. Quiet and steady, already there before you notice them. And you feel, absurdly and completely, like a small child waiting to be yelled at. Like if you're still enough, quiet enough, small enough... maybe nobody will come looking. Maybe they'll forget you're here. Maybe no one will scream at you.

* * *

Sam finishes the dishes.

He wipes out the sink. He straightens the books on the side table in the library. He carries three mugs back to the kitchen that had no business being in the library, and by the time he puts them away, most of the hard knot of it has worked itself loose. Not all of it but enough.

He thinks about you.

He's been thinking about you for the last twenty minutes, actually. In the background of everything else, a low steady pull. He wants to find you. Wants to feel you lean into him the way you do when you're comfortable and not thinking about it, that particular way you have of just... settling. It works every time. It works in some embarrassingly simple, animal way that he stopped questioning a long time ago.

He checks the art studio first. Then the library, the war room, the bedroom, and the kitchen again.

Nothing.

He's moving through the hall near the bedroom when he tries your phone. He hears it immediately. Buzzing from inside the room. He pushes the door open. The room is still empty, but your phone is lit up on the nightstand, his name on the screen. He picks it up and stands there holding it.

Your shoes are by the door.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, and looks around the room. The knot in his stomach tightens into something different. You wouldn't have gone far without your phone. You wouldn't have gone out without your shoes.

He's two seconds from going to get Dean when he hears a small sound, barely there.

A sniff.

He turns toward the desk. Moves the chair aside and crouches down, and there you are, curled into the corner underneath, knees to your chest, arms wrapped tight around them, his jacket around your shoulders, head down. For one terrible second he thinks you're hurt.

He sits down on the floor beside you.

"Hey," he says quietly. "What happened?"

You shake your head. "I don't know."

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"What's wrong?"

"I just got sad." You wipe your face with the back of your hand. "I wanted to hide."

He doesn't rush you. "Okay, well what was happening when it started?"

You take a shaky breath. "I heard you banging things around, so I came to see what was wrong. And when I saw you, I just..." You stop. Try again. "You were angry cleaning."

A small crease forms between his eyebrows. "Angry cleaning? I didn't know that was a thing."

"Yeah. It's a thing."

Your voice catches a little. "It wasn't a thought. It was like something my body decided before my brain got there. I felt guilty, like somebody was mad at me for not cleaning up and now they had to do it themselves, and it was all my fault, and I was going to get yelled at."

He's quiet for a moment. "I think something triggered you. Like a trauma response. I read something about it once. When you go through something as a kid, sometimes it doesn't store the way regular memories do. It just lives in your body. And when something looks like it, you react like it's happening again. And it doesn't matter if your brain knows better."

"So I hid under a desk because my nervous system thought you were a scary parent?"

"I think some part of your brain decided a long time ago that somebody being angry and cleaning meant you weren't safe." He pauses. "Did someone do that to you? Angry clean and make you feel like it was your fault?"

"I don't know, maybe….I think so." You lean your head back against the desk. "I don't really remember specifics. Just the feeling. It's like someone who was supposed to love me was very, very angry, and the best thing I could do was get small and stay out of the way."

He puts his hand gently on your arm. "You know, I'm here for you. You don't have to hide alone."

You nod head down, then look up at him.

"I'm sorry." He means it. "I wasn't mad at you, I was just..." he says.

"I know." You do know. You knew it even when your body was running. "That's the thing. I knew it wasn't you. It didn't matter."

"Well. Now I know, and you won't have to worry about it again." He squeezes your arm a little. "How can I help right now?"

"You're already doing it." A pause. "Actually... a hug would be good."

He stands first, takes your hand, and you uncurl and let him pull you up. When you're on your feet he doesn't let go. He just wraps both arms around you, and you press your face into his shoulder and breathe, and the thing in your chest that's been clenched since the kitchen slowly, finally starts to let go. It happens in stages. Like something unknotting.

"You know what made me stop?" he says into your hair.

"Finishing the dishes?"

"Thinking about you. I wanted to find you." He pauses. "I wanted a hug, actually."

You laugh a little, still against his shoulder.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. He puts his hand on your cheek. His thumb brushes your cheek once, just checking. "It didn't have anything to do with you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah."

You look down. "Yeah. I guess I'm just afraid of angry cleaning." You look down. "It's embarrassing that I got scared enough to hide under a desk."

"Hey." He waits until you look up. "You know this isn't because you're not brave, right?"

You frown.

"I've watched you walk into a vampire nest armed with nothing but a syringe full of dead man's blood. After I specifically told you it was too dangerous. I've watched you put yourself between people you love and things that could kill you." He holds your gaze. "So I don't think you're afraid of angry cleaning. This is different. It's just somewhere your brain can't reach."

You're both quiet for a second.

"And I don't think hiding under the desk was stupid," he adds. "It was the best idea that a scared little kid had."

You don't say anything. There isn't anything to say to that.

"Maybe someday I'll remember what actually happened," you say finally. "Maybe I can figure out where it's coming from. It could have been a parent, or a step-parent. Maybe even an ex."

Something moves across his face. Not at you, but for you. Quick and gone. "Yeah," he says. "Maybe more than one of those."

"Until then, I won't angry clean." He says it like a promise. Small, but real.

"You always know what to say. You should retire from hunting and open a therapy practice."

"Oh yeah. Dean would never let me live that down."

"'Tell us about our feelings, Sam.'"

"'Point to where the ghost hurt you.'"

That makes you laugh for real, and the last of the fear, the guilt, the small-child feeling is finally gone.

For a moment neither of you says anything.

Then Sam cups your face in both hands, tilts it up, and kisses you softly. The kind of kiss that says you're okay, we're okay. You let it be that for exactly one second.

Then you pull him closer by the front of his shirt, and it's not that anymore.

He makes a low sound and pulls back just far enough to look at you. Whatever he sees there, makes him close the door.

Later, you'll probably feel a little embarrassed again about hiding under a desk because somebody was angry cleaning.

But right now, you're not thinking about the desk, or the dishes in the drying rack, or what set him off this afternoon. You're just thinking about him, about his mouth, his hands, about the fact that apparently this is who he is. The man who sits down next to you without being asked and knows what to say. The man who came looking for you.

You spend the rest of the afternoon in bed, but not sleeping.

👉 Read my SPN fanfic Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/series/5664826 No use of "Y/N"!

Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list

List of Sam x Reader Cute Little Fluffs https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/819080920363565056/sam-x-reader-cute-little-fluffs-list

[boyblogdog]

happy pride month to those in the closet. to those who went back into the closet. to those who have unsupportive families, friends and relationships. those who were bullied and harassed because of their identity. those who were killed because of who they truly were and loved.

you are loved and appreciated.

[iamgwinchester]

New in the Series: 28-Accent in a Pantsuit

Part 28 in Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series

Summary: Accidentally a Winchester alternate universe version of S11 E23 Alpha and Omega (End), S12 E01 Keep Calm and Carry On, and S12 E02 Mamma Mia.

Dean faces Amara in an attempt to end her. Sam is shot and captured by the Toni from the British Men of Letters. You, Castiel, Dean, and Mary find and then attempt to rescue him.

The cemetery grass is damp under your boots, dark with spring rain and scattered with white petals from the trees overhead. Sam and Dean are at Mary's grave.

Dean walks back first. You look away when Sam touches his fingers to his mouth, then presses them to the stone. That grief belongs to him.

Dean checks on Chuck and Rowena. Chuck looks pale and wrecked between Rowena's steady hands. "You cool with this?" Dean asks.

Chuck looks at him. "No," he says. "Even after everything she's done, Amara's still my sister. She's my family. I don't want to see her dead, but..." He pauses. "Yeah. I understand."

Sam comes back across the grass as Cas steps forward and hugs Dean. Dean lets him. Cas offers to go with him. Dean says no. Of course he says no. Then Dean looks past Cas, toward Sam and then at you. "They're both gonna be a wrecked," he says quietly. "Look out for them, okay?"

"Of course," Cas says.

Dean puts a hand on Cas's shoulder. "Thank you for everything."

Then, Dean turns back to the group and sees you. He doesn't say your name. He just gives you the smallest nod and crosses the few steps between you.

Up close you can see the sweat at his temple, the faint tremor in his jaw that he is absolutely not going to admit exists. There's a thing humming under his skin now. You know because Rowena told you. You know because you can feel it, a wrongness in the air around him, the way a storm makes your teeth ache before it breaks.

You open your mouth, close it and open it again. "Dean, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"It's my fault. I..."

"No. Stop."

"Yes. It's not supposed to go like this. If you... if... it has to be something I messed up, something I did, something I changed."

Because it does. You know how this is supposed to go. You knew how this was supposed to go, past tense, before you walked in, before you corrected a detail here and a detail there, before you let yourself think your presence was neutral. It was never neutral. Nothing ever is. And somewhere along the line the road forked off the map you half-remember and into this new country where the only solution to the Darkness is a man you love walking into a garden with a bomb sewn into his ribs.

"You don't know that." He shakes his head. "Come on, kiddo. Aren't you the one who gave us the lecture about blaming ourselves?"

"Oh. You're using my words against me now?"

"Yep."

"Well. That's very... on brand."

"Yeah. And aren't you the one that always says in the end it works out and we don't really know how?"

"Now you're being really annoying."

"That's my job."

"You're good at it."

"Thanks."

A pause. The kind that has weight. He looks at you, and the humor thins out of his face, and what's underneath is the thing Dean almost never lets anyone see directly. You catch it for maybe a second and a half before he sets his jaw and puts the armor back on. "Listen, Sam—he's gonna be a mess. So look out for him, okay? Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"Of course."

"Good. I think you're the only one that can."

You nod. You can't talk. There's a sound trying to climb out of your throat and if you let it out it's going to be a noise you can't take back, so you do the only thing left, which is step forward and grab him. You get your arms around him and you squeeze, hard, harder than is polite, hard enough that he grunts a little and shifts his weight to take it. He smells like gun oil and the inside of the Impala, and you press your face into his shoulder.

"I love you."

"I know." He pulls out of the hug, slow, and his hands come up to cup your face for just a second, callused thumbs at your cheekbones. He leans in and kisses your forehead. "Me too. Now quit with the chick flick moment."

You nod again. Tears are streaming. You don't wipe them. It feels important not to.

He lets you go and steps back and addresses everyone. "Okay, look. I want a big funeral. All right? I'm talking epic. Okay? Open bar, choir, Sabbath cover band, and Gary Busey reading the eulogy."

Sam nods and says "Done."

Dean continues, "And for my ashes, I like it here. Yeah. You know, as far as eternal resting places go."

Dean reaches into his pocket and takes out the keys to the Impala. He hesitates a moment, as if collecting himself and walks over to Sam. Sam is shaking his head with tears in his eyes.

Dean talks to Sam 👉Read the rest on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85981906

👉 Read the Series: Sam x fem!reader insert (no "Y/N") AU fanfic Series Accidentally a Winchester on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78191396

📃Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list

[iamgwinchester]

List of Sam x Reader Cute Little Fluffs

Sam x Reader fluff A little lap cuddling.

Sam x Reader Late Night Domestic Fluff You can't sleep. He gets up too and keeps you company

Sam x Reader Nightmare Comfort You have a horrible nightmare. Sam knows just what to say.

Sam x Reader Not Quite Smut But Not Not Smut You're wearing a skirt for once. Sam likes it. A lot.

Sam x Reader Early Morning Fluff You and Sam sleep in

Sam x Reader In Bed Before Sleep Fluff A sweet before sleep conversation

Domestic Fluff in the Bunker. Marshmallow Fluff. You show the boys how to make an easy treat

Sam x Reader Bar Fluff How Sam finally gets rid of the woman trying to hit on him

Sam x Reader Ergonomic Fluff Living with a Sasquatch

[iamgwinchester]

Sam x Reader Ergonomic Fluff

You drag a small step stool over to the shelves in the library because, once again, the Men of Letters apparently believed anyone under six feet tall should simply accept defeat.

Sam looks up from his laptop. "You know," he says, "you could ask for help."

You glance down at him. "I could. But I've been dealing with this my whole life. I'm used to step stools and tiptoes. I'm not actually used to living with a giant. Besides, I don't want you to have to follow me around all day just to reach stuff."

He smiles to himself and goes back to his research.

Dean looks up from his phone. "He follows you around all day anyway."

Sam ignores it.

"Don't worry Sammy, you make an adorable puppy," you say.

Sam ignores that.

You find the journal you're after, wedge it under your arm, and start looking through the shelf for another one.

A minute later Sam walks up.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey."

He leans in to kiss you.

"Wow, I just realized I always get up on my tiptoes when I kiss you. I guess it's just automatic. I never even thought about it. This height makes it easier to kiss you."

"It's easier for me too. I don't have to bend down so far."

He kisses you again.

And again.

"Wait, this is suspicious," you say.

"What?"

"I think you like me better this height."

"I like you every height."

"Mhm."

"I do… But this height is ..."

"Ergonomic?"

He laughs. "I was going to say nice."

You look at the little stool under your feet. "I could carry one around with me."

Sam's expression immediately says he is taking this possibility far more seriously than it deserves. "You are not carrying a step stool around on hunts."

"A folding one?"

"No."

"A travel stool?"

"No."

"Stilts?"

He laughs. Then he wraps an arm around your waist before you can continue the argument.

"You are not wearing stilts."

"What? You don't think I could walk in them, or fight in them?"

"Not safely, no, but more importantly, Dean would make fun of both of us for the rest of our lives."

You nod.

"I definitely would," Dean says.

Sam kisses you one last time.

"You know," he says, "you could still just ask me to get things off the top shelf."

You smile. "I know."

"But?"

"But now I know there are ergonomic benefits."

Dean doesn't even look up from his phone.

"For the record, that's what happens when you fall for a sasquatch."

👉 Read the Series: Sam x fem!reader insert (no "Y/N") AU fanfic Series Accidentally a Winchester on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78191396

📃Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list

[iamgwinchester]

New in the Series: 27.5-What He Needs to Think

Part 27.5 in Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series

Summary: You've come from here, a world where Supernatural is a TV Show. Now you're in their world. You meet Chuck and he knows he didn't create you. So you find out how he explains it.

Chuck is God. At least in this universe. But, he didn't create you. A conversation about creation, existence, and Dean's emergency pie. Takes place during S11 E21 All in the Family between the canon scenes.

What He Needs to Think

Meeting God turns out to be a lot less majestic than expected.

Technically, you met Chuck earlier that day in Hope Springs, Idaho, after the Samulet started glowing in Dean’s hand and he revealed that he wasn’t just a prophet. He was God, or at least the closest thing this universe has to one.

He rewrote reality around you, Sam, and Dean like he was changing sets, then brought Kevin back just long enough to send him somewhere better.

You remembered some of what happens later, but not all of it. After this point, it gets blurrier. Amara. Casifer. Chuck making choices that leave Sam and Dean carrying the fallout.

Sam looked like someone had been handed every question he’d ever prayed over. Dean looked like someone had been handed the person who owed him answers and then dared him to ask.

And now God is in the bunker.

Using the bunker shower, wearing Dean’s robe, eating Dean’s food and wandering around like he owns the place.

Maybe he thinks he does.

You find him in the kitchen eating what appears to be leftover pie at the table. Dean’s pie, probably. You file that away as a separate problem.

He doesn’t look up when you come in.

“Chuck?”

"You have questions." He takes another bite.

You pull out a chair at the kitchen table and sit. “Yeah.”

"You want to know why you're here."

"Yes." You wrap your hands around your coffee mug. "That's one of them."

He sets down the fork and looks at you for the first time. That same half-second of assessment from the war room, except now there's no one else in the room to move on to.

"Are you sure you want to know?" he says. "It might be hard to hear."

"Why?"

"You might be disappointed."

Something in his tone is almost gentle. The gentleness of someone delivering bad news they've already made peace with on your behalf.

You look at him. At his robe, still Dean's. At the leftover pie and the expression of patient, preemptive sympathy.

“Oh, I can take it,” you say. “Please. Tell me all about myself.”

Chuck studies you for another second, then picks up his fork again. Your eyes drift to the pie tin. Then back to him. “Was that Dean’s?”

Chuck glances down at it. “Probably.”

“You ate Dean Winchester’s emergency pie?”

Chuck blinks once. “I wasn’t aware it was emergency pie.”

“You’re God.” There it is, something the supposed omniscient being didn't know. Just one thing of many.

“Yeah,” he says and takes another bite. “And this seemed like a survivable risk.” Something almost smiles at the corner of Chuck’s mouth.

Then he says, “I think your world was one of the side realities.”

"Side realities?" you ask.

He explains it the way someone explains something to a person who probably won't fully grasp it. Measured. Careful. You are, he tells you, downstream. A creation of a creation. He makes worlds, he says. Small ones, quiet ones. No magic, no supernatural forces, nothing cosmically significant. He makes them the way someone sets a stage. A backdrop. 

Sometimes a story needs a world that exists just long enough to brush up against the important one. A place for his Sam and Dean to land for a story, look around, go home. One of them, he says, was made for a story where they ended up somewhere without monsters, angels, or magic of any kind. Just people who thought they were acting out their lives A place where everyone thought this world was fictional.

You know exactly which one he means but you don't say so.

When the story moved on, he moved on with it. He didn't give those worlds another thought. But something in one of them kept going without him. It kept creating, the way a process continues after the one who started it has left the room. That created thing grew into something that made its own creations, developed its own will, its own judgments. Like a mind building another mind, which builds another. At some point that chain produced something that made you and then looked at you and decided you belonged here. It pushed you across.

He says it like he's explaining where a stray cat probably came from.

You sit with it. You keep your hands still on the table and listen to him tell you that you are a footnote in a footnote, a ripple from a stone he threw and forgot, and you think: 

He actually believes this.

Not as a cruelty. That's almost the funniest part. He's not trying to diminish you. He genuinely, completely, with the full weight of his considerable ego, has filed you into the only category his worldview has room for. 

Because the alternative is a door he doesn't have the architecture to open. The idea that the order of things runs in the opposite direction he's describing. That there is something above him so far beyond his understanding of godhood that he wouldn't even have the language for it. That the writers who made him live in a world completely outside of his creation. That he is the creation of someone else.

Anger moves through you, quiet and controlled. Underneath it sits something steadier.

Certainty.

Whatever the real reason is that you ended up here, in this bunker, in this world, it isn't because a lesser creation's lesser creation drifted over by accident. You don't know the reason. But you know it isn't that. You know the order of things isn’t what he thinks it is and the real creator of everything isn't the man eating Dean's pie in Dean's robe.

"How did I get here?" you say, when he's finished. "If I'm a creation of a creation, how does something like that end up in this world?"

Chuck considers this with the mild interest of someone who finds a question technically engaging but not particularly urgent.

"The thing that made you," he says, "was made from my creative force. And when it evolved enough to make its own choices, when it decided you were supposed to exist, it pushed you toward the story. The way a current moves things downstream. You were made adjacent to this world, aimed at it." He picks up the fork. "You just happened to arrive in person."

"Hmm," you say.

He looks faintly pleased with himself. Magnanimous. He has given you the gift of the truth and you are welcome for it.

"Most people find it difficult," he says, with great patience, "discovering they're not quite what they assumed."

You look at him.

You look at him for a long moment and it takes everything you have to keep your expression where it is. Because he just said that. Out loud. With complete sincerity. The god who forgot the worlds he made, who lost track of what his own creations built in the dark, who is standing in a borrowed robe after eating another man's pie, telling you that most people struggle to discover they aren't what they thought they were.

Buddy, you think. You have NO idea.

"Good talk," you say.

You get up, pour yourself another cup of coffee, and go.

* * *

You're barely out of the kitchen when you hear Sam behind you.

"Hey." He keeps his voice low. "Were you just talking to Chuck?"

You glance back toward the kitchen, then at him. "Let's talk in our room."

He follows you and closes the door.

You sit on the edge of the bed, coffee still in hand. You think that an omniscient God could hear it anyway. Sam turns his desk chair toward you and sits.

"What happened?"

You tell him what Chuck said. The throwaway worlds. The backdrop theory. The chain of creation that somehow ended with you here. You leave out the part where Chuck practically called you a cosmic clerical error. You keep your voice even. Just what he said, in order.

Sam sits quietly for a moment, turning the whole thing over. “So he thinks the world you’re from is one of his?”

“Yeah. Probably the same one Balthazar sent you to before.”

Something uncomfortable shifts across Sam’s face at that. “Do you think he’s right?”

“I think it’s the only answer he’s capable of coming up with.”

Sam looks at you steadily. “You don’t believe him.”

“No, I don't. He thinks what he needs to think,” you say.

He waits.

You look at your coffee and don’t say anything else, and he nods and lets it sit.

After a moment he says, “Did he really eat Dean’s pie?”

You look up at him and nod. “His emergency pie.”

That gets the smallest laugh out of him. “I’m not telling him.”

"Me neither." 

👉 Read the Series: Sam x fem!reader insert (no "Y/N") AU fanfic Series Accidentally a Winchester on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78191396

📃Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list

[iamgwinchester]

Sam x Reader Bar Fluff

The hunt ends before midnight.

Nobody gets injured badly. Nobody dies except the monster. Dean only gets thrown through one wall, which he insists barely counts, and by the time you're back in town he's declaring the universe owes all of you a beer.

So you go.

You and Sam claim two stools at the bar.

Then you excuse yourself to the restroom.

The bathroom at this particular dive is the kind that makes you wash your hands twice and not touch the door handle on the way out. You're gone maybe four minutes.

When you come back, you see her before Sam sees you.

She's beautiful. Tall, perfect hair, perfect makeup, leaning one elbow on the bar. Her whole body is angled toward him. She's smiling in that practiced way that says she already expects the answer to be yes.

You see it immediately. That's his polite-but-uncomfortable posture. He's nodding at something she's saying, giving her nothing to grab onto, the conversational equivalent of a closed door with the lights off. Still, because he's Sam, he hasn't been rude about it. He's just very carefully not encouraging her.

You almost stop just to watch.

You're almost back to your stool when he sees you. He sets his beer down, and when you're close enough he puts his arm around you and pulls you in, and then he's looking at you, just you, like she isn't there at all.

"Hi," he says.

You barely have time to smile before he kisses you.

It's not quick.

It's warm and slow and completely unconcerned with the rest of the bar. One hand cups your face while the other stays around your waist, pulling you close enough that you forget for a second why you walked over here.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn't look anywhere except at you.

Then he gestures vaguely in her direction

"Baby, this is, um..." He quickly glances at the woman. "What was your name again?" His eyes are already back on you before she can answer.

You bite back a laugh. You turn to her and offer your hand. "Nice to meet you."

She shakes your had quickly then says, "I...actually, I should get back to my friends." She retreats with as much dignity as she can manage.

From a couple stools down, Dean raises his beer. "Nine-point-five. Would've been a ten, but you forgot her name after the kiss."

Sam doesn't look at him. "Shut up, Dean."

You look at Sam and think that the thing about him is, he's kind to strangers. He'll listen when people talk. He'll let someone down gently if he can. But once he loves someone, the rest of the world seems to blur around the edges. You don't love that beautiful women flirt with your boyfriend. You do love that he never makes you wonder where his heart is.

👉 Read the Series: Sam x fem!reader insert (no "Y/N") AU fanfic Series Accidentally a Winchester on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78191396

📃Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list

[iamgwinchester]

New in the Series: Only Mostly Dead

Part 27 in Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series

Summary: Based on S11 E 17 Red Meat Sam and Dean battle a pair of werewolves while you rescue captured two victims. Just as they are about to win, one of the werewolves shoots Sam. Dean gets everyone out of the house but learns a pack of werewolves are hot on their tail, hoping to kill them all.

Only Mostly Dead

The cabin door hits the wall hard enough to splinter.

Sam is through it before the echo dies, Dean half a step behind him, and then you. You've been doing this long enough now that the three of you have a shape to it, a choreography that doesn't need words.

What you haven't gotten used to is how fast it can go wrong.

The couple is strung up against the far wall, arms pulled overhead and lashed tight, bodies sagging with the weight of however many days they've been hanging there. You see it in the first second. They're alive, conscious enough to register you're not another werewolf, but too far gone to do much else. The woman's head lifts. The man's eyes track you.

You go for them. That's your job. You grab a chair to stand on. 

The cabin erupts.

Sam takes the first werewolf high and fast. You hear the crash of the table before you see it, wood splintering under the impact of Sam's body, and you don't turn to look because you can't, because Dean is already in it with the second one and the room is nothing but sound and movement and the kind of violence that comes with a fight that was always going to happen.

You reach the couple. Their wrists are cuffed to an iron hook bolted into the overhead beam, not rope. Metal, and your lock picks go in by feel because they're way above your head, but more importantly because you can't stop tracking movement in your peripheral vision.

The woman's head lolls toward you. Her lips are cracked.

"Hey," you say quietly. "Hey, look at me. We've got you."

She doesn't answer. You keep working.

The fight is loud and close and every few seconds something crashes, the table, a body against the wall, Dean's grunt when he takes a fist, and you run through the lock by touch, feeling for the give, hands above your head and shoulders burning with it. The woman's cuffs release first. She crumples when the weight comes off and you catch her by the arm, lower her as fast as you can, and reach back up for the man.

That's when you hear it.

Just the crack of a gunshot and then, a beat later, the dull impact of knees on wood.

You turn.

Sam is on his knees four feet away from you, looking down at his own stomach with an expression that hasn't caught up to the situation yet, the way a person looks when the pain is still incoming and the body is still trying to decide what to do about it. His hands come up slow, pressing in. Dark and spreading.

"No!"

You're moving before you decide to move. Dean turns on the werewolf who pulled the trigger, drives the knife home, already turning toward Sam.

Sam's knees hit the floor. Then his back.

A small sound leaves him, more breath than voice. 

"Sam!"

* * *

48 HOURS EARLIER

The bar is the kind of place that's been exactly the same for thirty years... 👉Read the rest on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85981906

👉 Read the Series: Sam x fem!reader insert (no "Y/N") AU fanfic Series Accidentally a Winchester on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78191396

📃Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list

[aseafullofstars]

four things ☆ sam winchester

summary: sam winchester has only been sure of four things in his entire life. and all four of them are about you

pairing: sam x reader (gn) | genre: adorable fluff and a pinch of spicy | word count: 4.0k

warnings: proposals and marriage mentioned (wedding is lightly described, so imagine whatever you want for it !!), sam is so painfully in love it hurts, married fluff, a bit of lightly described smut (minors read with caution)

notes: requested !! i am a sucker for married!sam apparently, this turned out longer than i thought it would :] older married!sam, you will always be loved <3 i was going to find a picture of older sam for this but he just looks cute in this picture in his lil suit so...you get this one instead :]

taglist

Sam Winchester has only been completely sure of four things in his entire life.

He wasn’t sure when he left his family to go to Stanford, because that means leaving his entire life behind and starting over. A stranger in a city full of strangers who somehow would manage to look out of place. The new kid who never stopped being the new kid and never learned how not to be the new kid. He wasn’t sure when he came back into hunting, because that mean leaving his new life behind for the old one he’d worked so hard to forget. But he’d lost Jess, and that meant that there was nothing left for him in that old life. He wasn’t sure when he did all those things to save the world; saying yes to Lucifer, throwing himself in the pit, siding himself with the kinds of things he swore he’d never side with. Because it meant throwing away everything he knew about who he was and rebuilding himself into something with no instructions for what to do next.

He wasn’t sure when he asked you out either, because it meant putting himself on the line for love and hoping nothing would take it away from him. It meant throwing himself into the world and praying the target on his back had faded enough that nothing could see it. It meant taking your hand and holding it tight and hoping you never let go, because he can’t bear to see you walk away from him. It meant stolen dates in between hunts, sleepovers in his room in the bunker, shared drinks and spilt tears and promised confessions to never leave each other behind.

The first thing in his entire life that Sam Winchester was completely sure of was the day he realized he wanted to marry you.

Days have no meaning in the bunker, because every day is more or less the same for you. No calendar can tell you what is hidden by layers of stone walls and dirt over your head, obscuring the sunlight from you. Every morning, you wake safe in Sam’s arms, one of them tucked under your pillow and the other settling soft over your ribs, thumb twitching lightly against your side as he dreams. Every morning he kisses you when he wakes up, lips soft against the corner of your mouth and curving into a soft smile against your skin. Every morning that you’re not inundated in cases and work, he keeps you in bed as long as he can, mumbling about whatever is on his mind, warm arms keeping you against his side until something forces him up and out of bed. He makes you breakfast some days, other days you scavenge whatever Dean’s left behind, and some days, you hop in the Impala before Dean can and get breakfast from a diner or a coffee shop.

He sits with an arm around your shoulders in the library, watching you more than reading the pages in his lap. It always astonishes him how the lamplight glints off your outline; bright along the ridge of your nose, soft over your cheekbones and lips, bright again on your chin as it drips honey-gold down your chest. Soft shadows by your jaw that he kisses away when he sees them. Divots under your eyes that earn a soft smoothing of his thumb over the skin. A spot or two on your cheek that he nudges with his nose until you start laughing about them instead of crying over them. Your fingers tangled with his in his lap, his nails tapping rhythms over your knuckles. Back and forth, back and forth. Soothing, relentless, grounding. A song woven with the melody of you and Sam.

The night he realizes it, you’re covered in blood and filth. There’s dirt caked in your hair and covering your shoelaces until whatever colour was underneath is hidden entirely by blackish-brown mud. A leaf is trapped behind your ear, one that Sam carefully plucks out like he’s afraid to crunch the already-dead thing. Blood is smeared across your cheek from a cut on your eyebrow, knuckles red and raw and scabbed with something that might be yours and might not be. Fingers wrapped so tight around the handle of a knife they’re turning pale against your skin. Holes in your jeans at the knees from where you fell, and another further down your leg from where you caught it on a bush as you stood back up and took off after the vampire. Your eyes are hollow and dull, mirroring the light taken from the eyes of the vampire as you took his head off and watched it roll away into the bushes for someone else to deal with later; that someone being Dean.

Nothing about you is beautiful right now.

Except for the fact that Sam doesn’t seem to realize this.

All he sees when he looks at you is the picture of perfection, pristine and gorgeous even in the dark lighting. He doesn’t see the blood and the dirt and the death grip on the blade. He doesn’t see the cuts and the rawness of your skin in the places it scraped and bruised and knocked against. He doesn’t see the look in your eyes that makes you feel like you’re something they’re supposed to hunt. He catalogues it all, because that’s just what he does when it comes to you. He tucks those things away into the back of his brain with a silent promise to revisit them at the motel.

What Sam sees instead is the person underneath it all. The one who gave up a normal life to be with him, even if that meant living underground and out of trashy motel rooms and sharing leftover pizza over a movie for anniversary dinners on the road. The person who looked at Sam in all his broken glory and told him you’d hold the pieces of himself in place so he can glue them back together again, complete with a kiss from your soft lips on every shattered juncture. Sam sees you; beautiful, glorious, you. The you who looks like something fallen from heaven for him to cherish and adore. The person he vows to keep safe with his entire life, even if it kills him. The person who can take down a vampire and still look at him with the kind of eyes that say I love you in the cold silence of nighttime.

If he had any less self-control, he’d have proposed right then and there, even without a ring. The words are halfway to his mouth by the time he realizes what he’s about to say, swallowing them down for a later date and making a mental note to search for a ring at the next store he can find. He’ll probably take Dean with him if he’s being honest, because it’ll cost him more money than he knows what to do with, and he needs someone to push him into spending that much. Even though he wants to, because he’d spent everything on you if you’d let him, he still needs someone to promise him he’s making the right choice.

Instead of dropping to one knee amidst the tangled weeds in the front yard, he takes your hand and carefully pries your fingers off the handle of the machete, tucking it safely away in the trunk of the Impala. Sam takes both your hands in his, thumbs rubbing over the backs of them where they rest between your waists, squeezing each other soft and reassuring. He drops a kiss to your temple where there’s no blood, soft and sweet and everything that isn’t the hunt. At your wordless insistence, he drops another kiss to your lips, and one to the end of your nose that makes you scrunch your face up in that way he finds beyond adorable. His hand rests on your waist as he tucks you into the car, kissing your palm before sliding into the front seat to help navigate Dean back to the motel.

The entire time he washes you in the shower, he’s rehearsing the biggest speech of his life. He doesn’t even know when he’s going to give it, or what you’ll say in reply, but somehow, none of that matters. He’s still going to give it anyway, even if you do say no, because he needs to give the words life and love and the air they deserve. He’s certain of that much. The dirt swirls down the shower drain as his mind sifts over word choice, a thesaurus running in his head over what words work best for you, which one holds the most value, and which one means everything he’s trying to say. It’s hard to find the ones he likes, because what he feels is much too complicated for words alone, but he’ll give it his all, because for the first time, Sam is sure of something.

Maybe he’ll ask you over dinner in the bunker, because going to a restaurant and asking you in a public place sounds absolutely terrifying on both your parts. Maybe he’ll do it while you read him a book, your head on his chest and his legs tangled with yours. Maybe he’ll do it on a walk, sitting on the mound of earth that houses the bunker underneath it, sharing his jacket to keep the dirt off your pants. Whenever it happens, he’ll kiss you after like he needs you to breathe, because maybe he does. He’ll get you something small, like a cookie or a chocolate bar, for afterward, because just giving you precious metal doesn’t seem personal enough. He’ll probably find a flower and tuck it behind your ear, and you’ll probably smile at him all bright and shy, and he’ll have no regrets about asking you the most important question.

The second thing Sam Winchester was completely sure of was that you’re the only one he’ll willingly plan a wedding with.

Weddings sound unbearably complicated to plan. From the few friends Sam’s known or kept in touch with who’ve ever been married, he knows that there’s an uncomfortable amount of arguments involved. And he knows that there are things you’re going to have to think about that don’t seem like they’d even be there at a wedding. He’s slowly discovering it’s even harder to host a wedding when you’re a hunter and all your friends and family are dead.

The list of guests he’s meticulously writing out for you is stopped at about five. There’s Dean, obviously, and Castiel and Jack, because you’d both agreed it would only be right for them to be there with you. Sam would love to invite Bobby, but he’s been dead a while and it’s improper to summon a spirit for a wedding. You’re hesitating on adding your living family, partly because there’s a few that are so far away, and partly because you’re not sure how they’d react to knowing what Sam does and knowing you’d married into it by choice.

Tossing the list aside, you concentrate on something else. You’re going to do it on the bunker’s hill, because having it inside a church feels a little too on the nose, given the whole angel-demon-spirit business you’ve dealt with for years. Other religious grounds seem too pointed, like an open invitation for something to come strike you down from above and make sure you’ll never draw another breath with each other. So, the bunker’s hill it is; on the grounds you call home, and the closest place you’ve ever felt to each other and to life.

You’re murmuring with Sam as you comb over pictures, Sam’s long fingers sorting them out in order of which you like the most to least. He’s keeping tabs on the little details you like; the blue flower in that picture is really nice, you say, but you also think that having too much blue would be boring. There’s an old tablecloth in the basement to the bunker that you adore, but Sam’s not sure how easy it’ll be to clean and have presentable, so there’s the discourse over whether or not you could find another one exactly like it. Sam is wisely keeping his mouth shut on anything regarding what he’s wearing, because you both know his taste in clothing is miserable. He’s quite content to let you hold up pictures to him and test colours against his skin, trusting you to choose one you like, that you’re certain won’t wash him out and make him look like a ghost.

He makes an off-hand comment about wanting something on him somewhere that matches the colour of your eyes. Your head pops up, face heating and mouth opening and closing slow, as if you’re forgetting the taste of words on your tongue. Sam grins soft, kissing your cheek until you’re laughing and falling against his chest, the ring on your finger catching the bunker light in just the right way. He kisses that too, because he can’t not do it. Dean wanders past muttering something about all the pictures you have printed out, but the words die on his tongue when he catches a glimpse of your enamoured smile in Sam’s direction, and his faint blush across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. As much as it pains him to admit it, there really is no better couple than the two of you.

Falling into bed that night is easy, because you’ve made substantial progress on colours. Sam has agreed to let you know if you’re leaning too far into the blue, and you’ve agreed to let him know that you’re not being strong enough with the blue. Maybe you’ll skip on the blue all together; Sam knows you could change your mind a hundred times before the actual day. Which, he reminds himself, is the next step; actually picking a day. Doing it on the day of your actual anniversary would be sweet, but Sam swears he remembers reading something about that being bad luck. He’ll have to revisit the lore before he agrees to it. You’ve decided you’re not going to do it in the summer, because according to you, Kansas summers are hell on earth, and I mean that literally, especially with the suffocating humidity. Sam is more than happy to not have to wear a suit in the summertime, and he knows you’re plenty thrilled about not dressing up nice in the heat either.

Discussing dates is tomorrow’s problem, though. Tonight’s problem is making sure the blankets are tucked soft around you and that your pillow isn’t getting sunken in from his head migrating to share it with you over the course of the night. It’s making sure his arm won’t fall asleep during the night, that his legs aren’t trapped in the sheets and in danger of pulling them off. It’s making sure you have water on your bedside table and a good book in arm’s reach if you can’t sleep, and it’s making sure he kisses you soft and sure before he turns out the light, and again after. One for the day when everything is joyful, and one for the night when everything is quiet and calm and making space for you and him.

The third thing Sam Winchester was completely sure of was marrying you for real.

If he’s being completely honest, he remembers everything and nothing from your actual wedding day. He remembers getting ready and getting the cuff of his shirt stuck on his pinky finger while he put it on, and he remembers Dean laughing way too hard about it. He remembers Cas setting up a complicated looking ward on the lawn of the bunker; allegedly, something about blessings and protecting the peace in the area. He remembers getting soft and mushy when Dean did his tie for him, because he insisted that as Sam’s brother, he had to do it. He remembers Dean putting the little square of fabric into his pocket too; the fabric that just so happens to be the colour of your eyes, because he’d begged you to let him do that, and you couldn’t help but agree to the puppy eyes.

He remembers walking outside and getting hit with a gust of wind that blew his hair into his mouth, and he remembers spitting it out disgruntled, because it tasted like hair gel and plain soap. He remembers the metaphorical ‘first look’. Because it wasn’t a real one, since you’d insisted he come with you on the search for something to wear, and you’d purposely picked something that was simple, because you could do whatever you wanted to it later on without him knowing. You just wanted to see what shape or style he liked best on you, and conveniently, you happen to have very similar tastes in what looks like beauty on your body. He remembers reciting his vows that he’d memorized on purpose, because he needed to memorize them so that you knew they came from his heart. He remembers the food and the drinks, and he remembers whatever song you chose to dance to making him cry a little. He remembers crawling into bed with you and indulging in the one traditional custom you’ve both wanted to have.

Now, he lies on his back in the bed, the sheets messy and warm with your body heat. You’re tucked against his side, hair splayed out on the pillow, eyes closed and breathing steady as you dream something he hopes is lovely. Even in the afterglow, sticky with sweat and pure love, you look like the prettiest thing he’s ever laid eyes on. And you’re his, officially in the eyes of the law that he thinks is stupid but sentimental nonetheless. The rings on the bedside table show that much. You’ve already mentioned to him no less than four times how you’re going to need him to remind you to take it off before going on hunts, because you never want to lose them. He’s decided that he’ll bring them with him on a chain around his neck, or tucked securely into a pocket, because if anything happens to you or him, he wants to make sure you go with your rings on.

Shaking his head to rid himself of those thoughts, he turns onto his side with a deep huff, nuzzling his face into your neck and breathing in your scent. You sigh a little in your sleep, something light and soft that he swears could never hurt him, shuffling backward into him until your bare back hits his bare chest, and you’re back to skin on skin. He gives a soft breath of a laugh, pressing a kiss to the juncture between your jaw and your neck, parting slow and soft like he can’t bear to be separate from you. He drifts off slow and soft, unwilling to tear his eyes away from your form in the dim light of the room, but unable to keep his eyes open any longer to look at you. He’ll look at you tomorrow, he decides, and the day after that, and every day that comes after them.

The fourth thing Sam Winchester was completely sure of in his life his decision to stay with you for every day of it.

It’s quiet on the river edge. There’s some crickets striking up a chorus in the grass a few yards behind him, making the kind of music that would normally put him straight to sleep but instead is keeping him wide awake and focused on you. You’re in the river, the water deep enough it comes up to your chest but shallow enough you can keep your feet on the ground, even if that means standing up on your toes a little to be extra safe. Sam’s sitting on the bank, hands in the grass and feet in the water, slowly kicking his legs back and forth as he watches you wander around, mumbling something to yourself about moths and fireflies.

He’s barely had a minute to look you in the eyes before you’re clambering to the edge and impatiently pulling his shirt over his head. It gets stuck on his chin, and you whine a little in mock complaint before yanking the rest of it off, listening to the sound of static in his hair from the collision with the shirt’s material. Your eyes drift shamelessly over his body, taking in all his curves and rough edges and everything that makes him Sammy instead of Sam Winchester. Sam Winchester is a hunter, rugged and rough and stronger than half the world combined. Sammy is huge and soft and completely, entirely, yours. Sammy right now has a pathetically soft smile on his face, the one that makes his dimples pop and his eyes shine and makes you remember exactly why you fell in love with him. A simple tug of your hand, and he’s letting himself fall off the riverbank and into the water; and consequently, into your arms.

His arms come around your waist, stroking up and down at your skin that’s bare to the water and the moonlight. Nobody can see you out here, he made sure of it. It’s just you and him and the entire world before you, the stars in the sky the only witness to whatever happens. Your hands come up to rest at the back of his neck, tangling in the hair there and stroking it softly, smooth raking motions making him sigh contentedly. A quick glance back assures him the towels he brought are still there, still waiting all pearly and white and almost glowing in the night air.

Sam barely has time to take a breath before your lips are on his, guiding his head to meet yours and keeping it there with your hands in his hair as he sighs into your kiss. His hands wander a little; down your back to your ass, then up again to between your shoulder blades where they rest and hold you as close against him as he can. Fingertips tracing scars, chapped lips meeting in unhurried kisses, over and over again until all that’s definable is the way you feel on each other and the night wind brushing over the river and fluttering the loose strands of Sam’s hair around until they’re tousled and pretty. There’s an owl call in the distance that fades away immediately, Sam’s soft whisper of your name, and your cautious breath of consent that he swallows up in the kiss, deepened by his tongue on your bottom lip that intrudes.

The water turns noticeably cold around you, goosebumps rising on your skin and Sam’s. He breaks the kiss much to his and your disagreement, but he takes you hand and helps you hop up onto the riverbank before heaving himself over the edge with you. The towels are spread out in the grass, and Sam lays you down delicate and gentle atop them, removing the last barriers of clothing and tossing them behind him into the grass that will be nourished with the river water dripping from them. His lips are hot, the night air is cool and gentle on your skin, and everything disappears except for the heated feeling of Sam around and inside you, pressing kisses everywhere he can reach. When it hits, your high is as soft and warm as laying in his arms afterward is, crashing over you in a kind wave that drags you into sunny warm depths with Sam holding your hand, the ring on your finger shining bright.

Sam Winchester has only been completely sure of four things in his entire life. And all four things are loving you.

tags : @sayras-blogg, @sweetbabygirlsworld, @spectralgalaxygauntlet, @violained, @vfwwm, @cloudsincalifornia, @bejeweledinterludes2, @castielscaplan, @spaghettiwoes, @winchesterheart, @miyasfatass, @legalmente-loca-blog, @deersammys, @alexxavicry, @lessiesimpala, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @theedaythatnevercomes, @rafs127, @fox-saturn, @s0ullesslullab1es, @fishfishcaterpillar

[iamgwinchester]

New in the Series: Apocalypse Library and the Unicorn 

Part 26.5 in Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series

Summary: A brilliant idea turns into an unfinished project, a disaster-zone, and a guilt spiral. Sam brings food, practical solutions, and a kinder perspective.

Apocalypse Library and the Unicorn 

The library looks like a tornado hit the bunker and specifically targeted research materials.

That's actually not far off from what happened. You had an idea. It was a good one, a really good one, about a cataloging system that would actually make sense, cross-referenced  symbols with everything logged in the computer with exact shelf locations and tags and…

So you'd started. Pulled everything out. Stacked it all to be resorted.

And then.

Nothing.

Now there are books on every table, books on the floor, books in precarious towers that lean at angles that probably violate several laws of physics. You're sitting in the middle of it all on the cold floor with your elbows on your knees and your face in your hands, and you've been sitting here long enough that your legs are starting to go numb and you still haven't moved a single book back to where it belongs.

You hear Sam before you see him. Footsteps in the hall, then a pause in the doorway.

"What happened?"

Then his footsteps again, crossing the room, stepping around something (the Sumerian texts, probably) before he crouches down in front of you.

"Hey. What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"No." Your voice comes out flat. "I'm not okay. There's something very wrong with me."

"What are you talking about?"

You drop your hands and gesture at the room. All of it. The evidence. "I was going to redo the whole system. “Everything in an order that actually makes sense, logged in the computer with shelf locations and cross-references…” You trail off. "I got started, and took everything out. And now..."

Sam looks around the library once, then clears a stack of books from the floor beside you and sits down. His arm comes around your shoulders, solid and unhurried.

"Okay," he says. "What happened?"

"It's gone." You shake your head. "I don't know. I just lost it. The motivation. I've been sitting here and I can't get myself to finish it and I can't do anything and I can't just leave it like this."

"All right. Take a deep breath."

"Sam."

"Just do it."

You do it.

"When's the last time you ate?"

You think about it. "I had a banana. This morning."

"That's it? All day?"

“Anything else?”

“…Coffee?”

Sam huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, that’s not food.”

“I was busy.”

"Okay." He's already starting to stand. "Let's get you some food."

You immediately shake your head. “No, I can’t leave it like this.”

“It’ll still be here in twenty minutes.”

"But what if I can't?" The words come out smaller than you meant them to. "What if I come back and I still can't?"

He looks at you for a moment. "Then we pile them up out of the way and leave them for a day when you can. But right now, food." He offers you a hand. "When's the last time you had water?"

"There's water in coffee."

He makes a face. "Come on."

* * *

You feel measurably better after eating, which is annoying, because it means Sam was right. You stand in the library doorway looking at the disaster and feeling better about it while also feeling a little stupid for not having eaten six hours ago.

"I still don't know where to start," you say. "Looking at all of it at once is..."

"Overwhelming?"

"Yeah."

Sam stands beside you with his arms crossed, surveying the damage like it's a case board. "Two options. We pick one small section and work on just that, get the new system going for whatever fits there. Or we can just make it less catastrophic for tonight and come back when you have more in the tank."

You look at him. "You'd actually help me with this?"

"Sure."

"Sam. I made this mess. That's not fair to you."

He laughs softly, uncrosses his arms, and folds them around you. “I don’t mind helping you.”

“Aw, Sam," you say. “You’re so understanding. But this is my mess.”

“Yeah, and?” he says simply. “You got overwhelmed. It happens. You just need some company and maybe a little encouragement." A pause. "Mostly I think you just need to stop feeling guilty about it. It's really not a big deal."

You tighten the hug and say something into his chest about how much that means to you. It comes out muffled and incomprehensible.

"What?"

You tip your head back and repeat yourself properly.

He smiles.

Dean appears in the doorway, takes in the full scope of the library, and says, "What's this, Apocalypse Library?"

"She's reorganizing," Sam says over your head.

"Huh." Dean steps in, turns slowly, genuinely surveying it. A long pause. "Uh... good job?"

"Thanks," you say dryly.

"You're welcome." He walks away. You and Sam stare after him for a second.

"Supportive," Sam says.

You shrug. "It's Dean."

You look up at Sam, smile, and kiss him, brief and warm.

Then you sigh dramatically. “Okay. Let me explain my incredibly brilliant organizational system that immediately collapsed under its own weight.”

“Sounds good,” Sam says. “Show me.”

* * *

That night, lying in bed beside him in the dark, you stare at the ceiling for a long moment before speaking.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

"I want to tell you something. It's kind of hard to admit."

"Okay." He shifts slightly, turning toward you without making it a whole production. "You know you can."

"Yeah." You take a breath. "I feel guilty."

"About the library?"

"About all of it." You keep your eyes on the ceiling. "I don't notice messes. I just don't. My brain is off somewhere else thinking about twelve other things and I'll walk past the same empty coffee mug for three days and never register it. And you deal with it. You deal with the mugs and glasses and the random projects everywhere and whatever Dean leaves lying around…" You trail off. "It's not fair to you."

“No, listen.” His hand settles against your side. “If you leave a mug out and it doesn’t bother you, but it bothers me, then I clean it because I’m the one who cares about it in that moment. That’s fair.”

You frown a little in the dark. “Except you do way more.”

“And that’s my choice.”

Then you sigh. “You know, you’re too good. You're like a unicorn.”

Sam laughs. “Pretty sure we haven’t hunted one of those.”

“Yet," you say with a soft chuckle.

You sigh. "I've tried, you know. My whole life I've tried to be better at it. It's just..." You pause, searching for the right word and not finding one better than the honest one. "Hard for me. In a way I don't totally understand."

You've never said it quite that plainly before. It sits there in the dark between you.

“Maybe you should just become messier,” you decide. “For balance.”

“You want me to become messy so you feel less guilty?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s your master plan?”

“It’s a strong plan.”

He laughs again, softer this time, and pulls you a little closer.

“How about this instead,” he says. "You let me clean up when I feel like it and you stop feeling guilty about being you. Keep doing your projects. Your art. Your great ideas. You don't have to turn yourself into somebody else for me.”

"You're very demanding."

"Yeah, that's me."

You look at him for a long moment.

“You’re really the best, you know that?”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“I do.”

You kiss him once more before settling against him. You know the guilt won't disappear just because someone said the right thing in the dark, it's too old and too worn-in for that. But somehow, tonight at least, it's a little easier to sleep.

👉 Read the Series: Sam x fem!reader insert (no "Y/N") AU fanfic Series Accidentally a Winchester on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78191396

📃Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list

[wendichester]

⋆｡ ˚ honey, hold still

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ a bee stings you, and sam turns impossibly gentle about it. pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x reader ( gn ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 551 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ extra fluff warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ bee sting, mild pain, soft caretaking, tiny bit of teasing

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ

you don’t mean to be dramatic. because when the bee stings you, right on the side of your finger while you’re reaching for a stupid motel vending machine soda, you gasp like you’ve been shot and immediately drop the can.

it hits the pavement with a sad little clunk.

sam turns so fast his hair almost smacks him in the face. “what happened?”

you hold your hand up, betrayed. “i’ve been attacked.”

his face shifts from alarm to confusion to something dangerously close to amusement. “attacked?”

“don’t laugh.”

“i’m not laughing.”

“your mouth is thinking about it.”

he presses his lips together, which is basically a confession.

you glare at him, but your finger is starting to throb, hot and sharp and annoying, and the offended little burn of it makes your eyes prickle more than you want to admit. not crying. absolutely not. just… your body being sensitive.

sam notices, and his teasing fades immediately. “hey,” he says, softer. “let me see.”

you hesitate for half a second, embarrassed by how badly you want the comfort. then you give him your hand.

he takes it carefully, like you’re something breakable and not someone who just declared war on an insect. his thumb rests under your palm, warm and steady, while he bends closer to check the sting.

“it left the stinger,” he murmurs.

“asshole.”

“a little.”

“sam.”

“sorry.” his mouth twitches again, but his hands stay gentle. “come on. i’ve got tweezers in the car.”

“you have bee tweezers?”

“i have regular tweezers.”

“for bee emergencies.”

“apparently.”

he guides you back to the impala, one hand hovering at your elbow though you’re perfectly capable of walking. it should feel ridiculous. it doesn’t. it feels sweet in a way that sneaks under your ribs and sits there.

sam sits you on the passenger seat with the door open, then crouches in front of you, knees nearly touching yours. “hold still,” he says.

“i am still.”

“you’re flinching.”

“it’s an emotionally scarring experience, sam.”

he looks up at you then, and the fondness on his face is so bare you almost forget your finger hurts. almost.

the stinger comes out quick. you hiss anyway, and sam instantly rubs his thumb over the uninjured part of your hand, slow and soothing. “sorry,” he says.

“i’m being pathetic.”

“no, you’re not.”

“i screamed over a bee.”

“you were startled.”

“i want compensation. weren’t you almost a lawyer? do something.”

“that’s fair.”

you laugh before you can stop it, and sam smiles, small and pleased, like he fixed more than the sting.

he cleans the spot with an alcohol wipe, then wraps your finger with a tiny bandage from the first-aid kit. it looks absurd. one little beige strip around the evidence of your near-death experience.

“there,” he says. “better?”

you look at your hand still resting in his. then at him. “maybe.”

his thumb hasn’t stopped moving. “want me to get you another soda?” he asks.

you lean back against the seat, trying very hard not to smile too much. “only if you protect me.”

sam’s eyes warm, soft and shy around the edges. “always,” he says, too seriously for a joke.

and your finger still aches, but now his hand is around yours, and you’re a little embarrassed by how much that helps.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.

[iamgwinchester]

New in the Series: You Heard Me

Part 26 in Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series

Summary: You get kidnapped by demons, signal Sam, and learn that the only way to stop Crowley might also kill you.

You Heard Me

The pharmacy smells like antiseptic and stale air conditioning. You're halfway down the headache medicine aisle, squinting at two nearly identical boxes, when someone steps up behind you, too close, too deliberate, and you feel the unmistakable pressure of a blade at your ribs.

"Don't." One word, low and even. The man to your left closes the gap before you can process moving. "Hands where I can see them. Walk."

They look human. At least close enough that the knife still matters. You don't see any  black or other unnatural colored eyes. At least not yet.

You ran the math and it doesn't help. You're immune to possession, hex bags, monster super-strength, demon powers, and angel powers, but a knife is a knife is a knife. Physics doesn't care what universe you came from.

You walk.

They've got a car around the back, a nothing-colored sedan, and by the time you're in the rear seat with your wrists zip-tied in your lap you've counted three of them. Two up front. The leader in the back beside you, knife resting against your ribs like an afterthought. Demons, almost certainly, but wearing their meat suits like professionals, keeping it mundane. They know about your immunity. They went around it entirely. You're not sure if that's flattering or just efficient.

* * *

They take you to what used to be a restaurant. You can tell from the gutted service counter along one wall, the ghost of a deep fryer smell that never quite left the walls. Two more are already inside when you arrive, waiting, which means they were confident enough to set this up in advance. They walk you through what was the kitchen and into the dining room and tie you to a support beam that's seen better decades, zip ties swapped for actual rope. The other four spread out through the building. The leader stays.

Your phone buzzes twenty minutes later.

Sam.

"You answer normal. Make it weird, and you get the knife. Understand?" the leader says.

"Yeah," you say. "I understand."

The knife presses a little closer. The leader nods once, takes your phone, and puts it on speaker.

"Hey." Your voice comes out steady. Small miracle.

"Hey." His, easy, warm, that particular tone he uses when he's not working. "You almost done? Dean's been making noises about dinner for the last forty minutes."

👉Read the rest on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85609241

👉 Read the Series: Sam x fem!reader insert (no "Y/N") AU fanfic Series Accidentally a Winchester on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78191396

📃Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list

[iamgwinchester]

New in the Series: At Least She Didn't Say Spike

Part 25.5 in Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series

Summary: Sam and Dean go to a wrestler's funeral and find a case. You have some thoughts about who Sam ran into there. From S11 E15 Beyond the Mat

Reader is from this universe (reality) where she was a fan of the Supernatural TV series. She now lives in the bunker with Sam and Dean and is Sam's girlfriend.

At Least She Didn't Say Spike

After Dean finds Larry "The Hangman" Lee’s obituary, he and Sam get caught in the old memory of John taking them to wrestling shows when they were kids. Larry was John’s favorite, one of the few things that made him genuinely happy. Dean wants to go to the funeral. Sam pushes back at first because of Amara and Lucifer wearing Cas, but Dean says they need to stretch their legs before they lose their minds.

Then Dean looks over at you.

"You coming?"

You hesitate a second, then shake your head.

"I don’t think so."

Dean frowns. "Why not?"

"I think I’m almost finished with that painting in the studio." You glance toward the hallway. "I was gonna work on it tonight, and I kind of want to keep going while I’m on a roll."

Sam nods immediately like that makes perfect sense.

Dean sighs dramatically. "Wow. Abandoning us for a painting."

You shrug. "And I never really understood the appeal of overly dramatic fake fighting."

Dean stares at you. "You live with us."

You let out a small laugh. "True. But at least you don’t wear costumes like theirs."

You pause.

"…Not that I would mind."

Sam looks down at his coffee.

Dean groans. "And on that disturbing note, I’m leaving. Come on, Sammy."

You grin slightly. "Have fun at your emotionally complicated childhood nostalgia funeral."

"Thanks." Sam says and gives you a kiss before he grabs his duffle and heads out the door.

* * *

A couple of days later, the bunker door opens and you immediately go to Sam, wrapping him in a quick hug. "Hi, guys. How was the funeral?" you say.

"Sad and weird," Dean says. "Turns out it was a demon."

"Of course it was." You pull back slightly and look at Sam. "And how was Rio?"

Sam freezes. "Uh…"

Dean laughs immediately. "Oh, you remembered."

You smile at Sam. "Was she as good-looking in person as she was on her poster?"

He puts his a hand over his face. "I never said there was a poster."

"No," you say. "But Dean did." You glance at Dean. "And Sam didn’t tell her about the poster even though she asked."

Dean laughs harder.

Sam groans, fighting a smile. "What? Are you jealous?"

"Well, I did have a Sam Winchester poster over my bed."

Dean furrows his brow. "Really?"

"No." You grin. "I’m kidding. He wasn’t even on TV yet."

Sam narrows his eyes. "Then who was your first crush?"

"Um…" You think. "I don’t remember."

Dean snorts. "Convenient."

"Oh, wait. Maybe Angel. David Boreanaz."

Dean laughs. "Ha. You definitely have a type. Brooding brunettes."

"Extremely handsome tall brooding brunettes," you correct.

Dean rolls his eyes.

You pause.  "Oh my God. They both went to hell and came back!"

Dean laughs. "Okay, that’s weird."

"And they both died."

Sam sighs. "Please stop."

"And they were both soulless for a while."

Dean completely loses it.

You stare at Sam for a second longer, then slowly look at Dean.

"Wait," you say sweetly. "Dean, does that make you Buffy?"

Dean looks personally attacked. Sam starts laughing.

"Okay," Sam says through a grin, "are we done profiling me yet?"

You tilt your head. "Isn’t it more like profiling me?"

Sam considers that. "I guess it is."

"One more," you say quickly. "You both fell in love with an awesome monster-fighting woman."

Sam smiles now. "Okay, yeah, you can have that one."

He heads for the kitchen.

You lean toward Dean and whisper, "And they both drank blood."

Dean bursts out laughing.

From the kitchen: "What?"

You and Dean both answer immediately:

"Nothing."

👉This story on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85416391

👉 Read the Series: Sam x fem!reader insert (no "Y/N") AU fanfic Series Accidentally a Winchester on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78191396

📃Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list

[iamgwinchester]

Domestic Fluff in the Bunker. Marshmallow Fluff.

The movie is fine. A few of the jokes make you laugh but the rest are the kind of stupid that only works if you turn your brain off completely.

Dean loves it.

It was your turn to pick, technically, but you're not cruel, you only pick chick flicks every other time, and you have a personal policy about not being a tyrant about it.

That said, you do regularly win bets with Dean, and your prize is always his turn. Last time it was whether dogs have belly buttons. They do, sort of, where the umbilical cord connects, same as humans. Dean had been so sure he was right that he'd put his next three turns on the line. You'd used two of them on back-to-back romantic comedies and saved this one for something dumb enough that he'd enjoy it.

You're generous like that.

"I have a craving for something sweet," you announce, to no one in particular.

"Are you going to the store?" Dean doesn't look away from the screen. "Because there's nothing in the bunker."

Of course there isn't. You glance at him sideways. He has the decency to look mildly guilty for about half a second before a new joke makes him snort.

"I'm going to make something. Anyone want to help?"

"I don't do baking," Dean says.

"It's not baking. It's the easiest dessert in existence."

"I'll probably screw it up."

"Dean." You wait until he looks at you. "It's so easy my mom could make it. And the only other thing she made was TV dinners."

He opens his mouth. Then closes it.

You let the silence sit there.

"It's so easy your mom could make it," you add.

That gets him. "Okay, what is it?"

"Rice Krispie treats."

"Like the ones from the store?"

You make a noise that communicates exactly how you feel about that. "Those things should be illegal. The homemade version is a completely different food group."

From the other end of the couch, Sam shifts. He's been pretending not to listen for the last thirty seconds. "...How different?"

"Significantly."

Dean mutes the movie. Which tells you everything. "How long does it take?"

"Fifteen minutes, maybe."

He looks at Sam. Sam looks at him. Some wordless brother calculus happens.

"We're just watching," Dean says, standing up. "Not helping."

"Sure."

"I'm serious. I'm not touching anything."

"Totally fine with me." You're already headed for the kitchen. "You can just stand there and be amazed."

Dean hovers from the moment the marshmallows hit the butter, watching the whole thing with the focus he usually reserves for things that might kill him. You melt, you stir. He watches like the pot might demand something from him if he gets too close.

"That's it?" he asks when you add the cereal.

"That's it."

"No oven?"

"Nope."

"No eggs?"

"Nope."

"Huh."

You press the mixture into the pan and slide it into one of the refrigerator compartments. Dean watches the door close with the expression of someone being personally wronged.

"How long?"

"Faster than room temperature. That's why it's in there."

"How long is that?"

"Dean."

He lasts about two minutes before opening the compartment and picking at the edge with two fingers. It doesn't come out in any kind of shape. He  just gets a few sticky pieces of rice trailing tiny strings of marshmallow. He closes the door, eats it anyway, and looks entirely too pleased with himself.

"They're not ready."

"I just wanted to check." He scrapes another sticky strand off his finger with his teeth. "Checking's important."

Sam, from a safe distance, looks like he's reconsidering his level of involvement.

Eventually you cut them. Dean eats two before you've finished cutting the rest.

"You've been hiding this from me," he says.

"I have not."

"You have. This is betrayal."

"You didn't even know what they were ten minutes ago."

"Yeah, that's worse."

Sam takes one with the energy of someone trying to be casual about it and fails completely. "These are good."

"Maybe next time I'll even put melted chocolate on top," you say.

Dean stops chewing. Looks at you. Looks at the pan. Then slowly points at you with the half-eaten treat in his hand. "Don't even joke about that."

You look him dead in the eye. "I never joke about chocolate."

👉 Read the Series: Sam x fem!reader insert (no "Y/N") AU fanfic Series Accidentally a Winchester on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78191396

📃Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list

[iamgwinchester]

New in the Series: Try Living With Them

Part 25 in Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series

Summary: Reader's first time meeting Jody Mills. Awkward introduction, followed by an awkward dinner conversation. Based on "Don't You Forget About Me" S11 E12.

You've been sitting in Jody Mills' living room for twenty minutes and you still aren't sure what to do with your hands.

Claire had let you in. Easy, breezy, like inviting three people over without telling anyone is completely normal, and now you're on the couch with Sam while Claire and Dean occupy the one perpendicular to it, and the house just sits around you being a house. A real one. Dark wood paneling, lamps throwing warm amber light, a stone fireplace, family photos on the mantle. The kind of ordinary that feels almost foreign after living in the bunker between cases.

You know who lives here. You know the whole story. Jody Mills, sheriff, surrogate mother to two girls the world chewed up and spat out, one of the most genuinely good people in a universe that doesn't hand those out freely. She's going to be great. You know that. You remember watching her and really liking her. Only this isn't a character. This is the real thing, in person, and none of that is making you any less nervous.

"That'll be her," Dean says, nodding toward the window as a truck slows into the driveway.

Sam's hand finds your leg and pats it once, reassuringly.

Outside, Jody's truck pulls into the driveway. She spots the Impala.

"Winchesters."

"Why would they be here?" Alex says from the passenger seat.

"I didn't put up the bat signal." The truck doors open and footsteps cross the front walk.

When the door opens, all three of you are on your feet. Jody takes in the living room. Sam, Dean, you. She doesn't look surprised. She probably stopped being surprised by strange things in her house a long time ago. Then she smiles.

"Well, there goes the neighborhood. Hi."

"Jody." Sam crosses to her and she pulls him into a hug, while he takes the grocery bags from her arms in the same motion.

"Oh, thank you." She lets him, then turns to Dean with her arms open. "Come here."

"It has been too long," Dean says, and he means it. You can hear it underneath the easy grin.

"Hey." Jody hugs him.

Sam is already looking past her at Alex. "Clearly it's been too long. Alex, that is you, right?"

Alex looks mildly offended. "I don't look that different!"

"It's amazing what you can accomplish," Claire says, "when you spend two hours in the bathroom every morning."

"Since when are you even up in the morning? I'm surprised you're awake now."

"Hey." Jody cuts across both of them without raising her voice, which is somehow more effective than if she had. "I'm pretty sure the guys didn't come here to watch you two kill each other." She looks at the boys. "Is everything okay? I didn't accidentally butt dial you or anything, did I?"

"I called," Claire says as she stands. "About the monsters. That you refuse to believe are monsters."

The silence that follows is brief and very specific. Then Jody's attention swings back to you, standing off to the side of all this, and she does a quick, clean assessment with cop's eyes, warm but sharp, and waits.

Sam opens his mouth. Dean gets there first.

"Yeah, uh, we told you about her." He gestures vaguely in your direction. "She's our, uh. Bunker-mate." A beat. "Hunting partner." Another beat. "She's a… friend. She's…"

"My girlfriend," Sam says.

Just like that. No fumbling, no qualifier. Like it's the simplest thing in the world, because to him it apparently is.

Dean points at him. "That."

Jody's mouth curves. She looks at Sam for just a moment, something warm and a little knowing in it, then back to you.

"Well. That was painful to watch." She sticks out her hand. "Nice to meet you."

You shake it. The last of the nerves dissolve somewhere around girlfriend. "Really good to meet you. I've heard a lot about you."

"Should I be worried?" She nods toward the boys.

"All good things."

"Hm." The corner of her mouth lifts. "I like you already."

Jody turns back to the grocery bags. "I'm putting another chicken on. You settle in."

"You might want to make it two," Dean says, then quieter, mostly to himself: "I'm starving."

* * *

You offer to set the table mostly to give your hands something to do. Sam has the same idea, apparently, and the two of you fall into a quiet rhythm around each other, plates, glasses, silverware, while Jody moves back and forth from the kitchen and the sounds of Claire and Alex establishing their battle lines drift down the hall.

His hand finds the small of your back when he reaches past you for the glasses. Brief, easy, like he's been doing it for years. You glance up at him and he's already looking back, and for a second neither of you says anything, which is exactly the kind of thing that's been happening ever since the first kiss.

"Sam," Jody says from the doorway. "Napkins are in the second drawer."

"Got it." He goes to find them. You go back to the silverware. When you look up, Jody is standing next to Dean in the doorway, watching the two of you with an expression you can't quite read.

She leans slightly toward Dean. "They've got it bad. Don't they." It isn't a question.

Dean follows her gaze. Sam is coming back, and when he passes you he says something low that makes you laugh, then goes to fold napkins like that's a completely normal thing he just did.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Definitely."

"They're cute together."

"Cute." He says it like the word has done something to personally offend him. "Try living with them twenty-four seven. It is nauseatingly cute. Do you know what it's like to be the third wheel in your own car?"

Jody presses her lips together against a smile. "Ah, I can imagine."

"And that's them toning it down in front of people. It's… " He stops. Looks back. "But I mean, I'm happy for them. I am. Sam's lucky to have her, and she's…" He glances at you, and something in his expression settles into something quieter and more real. "She's pretty cool."

Jody nods, like that's exactly what she expected him to say.

* * *

Dinner, once everyone is seated, takes approximately four minutes to go sideways.

It starts with Sam and Dean, which, honestly, you should have expected. They eat like two men who have been surviving on gas station food and motel vending machines for longer than either of them wants to admit, and the sight of an actual home-cooked meal in front of them seems to short-circuit whatever part of their brain handles social norms.

Sam's knee is warm against yours under the table. You're pretty sure he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

Claire and Alex watch from across the table with the barely-contained amusement of people observing a nature documentary.

"Guys." You set your fork down. "Slow down. You're going to accidentally eat the plates in a second."

Dean looks up, unbothered. "It's good."

"It is good," Sam agrees, already reaching for more mashed potatoes. His arm brushes yours on the way back.

"Sorry," you say to Jody. "None of us cook, so we don't get home-cooked food very often. Well, ever. They lose all sense of decorum when it happens. And they didn't really have someone to teach them table manners growing up…" 

Dean points at you with his fork. "That is both true and unfair."

"Eat your chicken, Dean."

He does.

The case comes up. Claire lays it out with the focused intensity of someone who's been waiting all day for an audience that might actually take her seriously, and Jody counters each point with the practiced patience of someone who has heard it before. Sam and Dean listen and eat in a way that somehow doesn't seem rude when they do it. You stay quiet, watching the dynamic, filing it away.

Dean gestures at Claire with his fork. "What else you got?"

"Uh, I'm working on it," Claire says, quieter.

Alex seizes the opening. "Claire did catch a werewolf. Oh right, turned out to be a German shepherd with rabies."

Jody adds the vampire story. The councilwoman. The erotic cosplay. By the end of it Dean is smothering a grin and even Sam has stopped pretending to focus on his food. Claire sits through the retelling like she has already decided not to react, which is its own kind of reaction.

Then Alex picks up Jody's wine glass and brings it toward her mouth.

"Hey." Jody says it without even looking up. "Put it back."

Alex puts it back.

You press your lips together.

"Can we stop talking about monsters and hunting?" Alex says. "What about real life?"

And then Claire, with the precision of someone who has been sitting on ammunition and waiting for exactly the right moment, says, "Real life? Okay. Yeah, sure. Let's get real. You and Henry set on a weekend yet?"

"What?"

"When you sneaking off to Jody's cabin to screw yourself silly?"

“Ohhh. Here we go.” Dean says under his breath.

Alex's eyes go wide. She looks cornered. "Um, we're not…" She turns to Claire. "You're completely insane!"

"You might wanna clear your g-chats before you commit to that."

The three of you go appropriately awkward. Jody's mouth drops open, taking a second to absorb both the information and the fact that it just got aired at the dinner table in front of everyone. Probably both things equally.

"This seems like, uh — family business," Sam says, already pushing back from the table with the energy of a man who has located an exit.

"Sit." Jody hits the table once. "Stay."

Sam sits. His shoulder bumps yours as he settles back in and you catch the look he gives you, somewhere between help and please don't laugh. And you look very deliberately back at Jody.

"Alex." Jody's voice is measured. "Anything you want to say?"

"Nope."

A breath. "'Kay, uh, well — I may have — I've…definitely seen birth control pills in your backpack."

"Oh, we're going there," Sam mutters.

"Okay," Dean says, to no one in particular.

Claire finds this whole situation deeply amusing. Alex says, "Oh my god."

"Hey," Jody says. "If we can't talk about it we shouldn't be doing it, right?" She looks at the table. At you, Sam, Dean. "Right?"

"Yep," you say. "And Alex, that was actually being responsible. It was the right call."

Jody points at you. "Yes." Then back to Sam and Dean. "Right?"

Sam stutters something that doesn't quite become a word.

"What?" Dean says.

Jody looks at Alex. "Okay. I'm not going to tell you that you are too young to be having sex, or you." She points at Claire.

"Who's she going to have sex with?" Alex says, glancing at Claire. "She doesn't talk to anybody."

"Hey." Jody's tone settles that. "What I will tell you is that birth control pills are useless against STDs. Whoever you are with needs to suit up. Every time. Always. No pulling up the drawbridge early."

You nod.

"I know, I get it!" Alex clearly just wants this to end.

"And don't expect the guy — as much as I love Henry — to always show up packing." Jody gestures at Sam and Dean. "Am I right?"

Sam looks down at his plate and takes a large bite to avoid answering. Dean stares at her blankly.

"She's right," you say. "Right, Sam?"

"We're not…" Sam finally looks up. "This is… I'm not part of this."

"You're part of this," you say.

"Stop! We haven't done anything yet." Alex's voice pitches up slightly. "I'm just… trying to be prepared."

You and Jody look at Sam and Dean, who are both doing their best impressions of men who are not currently at this table. Dean smiles awkwardly and raises his wine glass in front of his face. You shake your head at both of them.

"Seriously?" Jody says.

"Guys," you add.

Jody stands up like a woman who has made a decision, and that decision is more wine. "Great, um, we need some more mashed potatoes. I'm just gonna… " She drains her glass in one clean motion. " … I'm gonna get some more potatoes. Potatoes."

She disappears into the kitchen.

Dean watches her go. Turns to Claire. "This is fun."

Claire puts a bite in her mouth, nodding, sarcastically delighted.

You look at Sam. He looks like a man reconsidering several recent life choices, which is fair. You smile at him anyway.

He shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth gives him away.

The rest of dinner passes in extremely awkward silence.

👉This story on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85168076

👉 Read the Series: Accidentally a Winchester: A Supernatural Reader Series on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/series/5664826

📃Master List of Fan Fiction: https://www.tumblr.com/iamgwinchester/812636749500137472/master-list