Sam: Please tell me this isn’t another trick.
Gabriel: Okay. This isn’t another trick.
Sam: Is that true?
Gabriel: You told me what to say, not what to mean.
Gabriel: Sam and I are having a mature adult conversation.
Sam: You opened with “would you still love me if I was soup?”
Gabriel: And you dodged the question.
Bobby: Why is Crowley here?
Crowley: Rude.
Dean: We needed help.
Bobby: So you called a demon?
Sam: We were out of good options.
Castiel: And several bad ones.
Dean slid into the booth across from you with two coffees, a piece of pie, and the smug expression of a man who had clearly decided the pie was also his dinner.
“You know,” you said, watching him pick up his fork, “normal people eat actual meals.”
Dean pointed the fork at you. “Pie is a meal.”
“It is not.”
“It’s got fruit.”
“Barely.”
He grinned, taking a bite anyway.
There was a bruise darkening along his jaw from the hunt, and his knuckles were split, but he looked happier here than he had all day. Neon lights in the window. Bad coffee. You sitting across from him.
He nudged the plate toward you. “Want some?”
“You’re sharing? Since when do you share pie?” You grinned at him.
Dean shrugged, trying too hard to look casual. “Don’t make it weird.”
Your smile soften ad you took a bite. Strawberry. Sweet and light.
Across the table, Dean watched you like that was the real treat.
John: I taught you boys everything you know.
Sam: You taught us weapon maintenance and emotional avoidance.
Dean: And how to fake a credit card.
John: Useful skills.
Dean: I don’t like this.
Crowley: You don’t like anything.
Dean: I like pie.
Castiel: And the Impala.
Sam: And making bad decisions.
Dean: That last one is slander.
Sam found the first note tucked inside a book on demonic omens.
It was not where a note belonged.
The book itself was ancient, leather-bound, and smelled like dust, smoke, and something faintly metallic. It had been sitting in the bunker library for two days while the three of you searched for anything that might explain the string of weird deaths in Nebraska.
Dean had given up after twenty minutes and declared the case “a Google problem.” You had lasted two hours. Sam, naturally, had lasted until sunrise.
That was when he opened the chapter on blood eclipses and found a folded piece of paper shaped, very badly, like a heart.
You were asleep at the table, cheek pressed against your forearm, a pen still loosely held in your fingers. Dean had vanished sometime after midnight. The bunker was quiet except for the hum of old lights and the soft turning of pages.
Sam unfolded the paper.
Inside, in your handwriting, it said:
You are allowed to take breaks, Winchester. This book smells evil. Go drink water.
Sam stared at it for longer than necessary. Then he smiled.
He didn’t take a break immediately, because he was Sam, and apparently stubbornness was part of his bone structure. But he did get up five minutes later, fill a glass with water, and drink the whole thing while standing at the kitchen sink.
When he came back, he carefully tucked the note into his laptop case.
The second note appeared in his jacket pocket three days later.
The case in Nebraska turned out not to be demonic. It was a cursed locket, because apparently jewelry was never just jewelry. By the time you got back to the bunker, everyone smelled like grave dirt and cheap diner coffee.
Sam didn’t find the note until he reached into his pocket for his phone.
This one was not shaped like a heart. It was shaped like a lopsided star.
Good job not getting strangled by cursed necklace lady. Proud of you.
He read it in the hallway outside his room. His face did something complicated.
You were coming out of the kitchen when you saw him standing there, note in hand.
You stopped. He looked up.
For one second, neither of you said anything.
Then you pointed at the paper. “That was supposed to be more star-like.”
“It has personality.”
“It has corners. That’s close enough.”
Sam looked down at the note again. “You’re proud of me?”
You suddenly became very interested in the floor. “It was a joke.”
“Was it?”
“Mostly.”
Sam’s voice softened. “Thanks.”
You shrugged, but your ears felt warm. “You looked like you needed to hear it.”
He folded the note carefully. Not crumpled. Not tossed aside. Folded. Like it mattered to him. That was the thing about Sam. He made small kindnesses feel enormous just by receiving them gently.
After that, the notes became a habit.
You didn’t plan it that way. At least, that was what you told yourself.
But Sam was easy to worry about. Too easy. He carried exhaustion like a second jacket, always present, always worn close. He pushed through pain, hunger, fear, grief, and every awful thing the world threw at him with a quiet determination that made you want to shake him and hug him in equal measure.
So you left notes.
In books.
In his duffel.
Under his coffee mug.
Once, inside the box of cereal Dean kept threatening to finish.
That one said:
Eat something with nutrients today. Coffee is not a vegetable.
Sam had found it at breakfast and laughed so suddenly that Dean nearly dropped his spoon.
“What?” Dean asked.
“Nothing.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “That was not a nothing laugh. That was a secret laugh.”
“There are no secret laughs.”
“There are absolutely secret laughs.”
You sat across from them, silently eating toast and refusing to look suspicious.
Dean’s gaze flicked to you, then to Sam, then back to you.
“Oh,” he said.
You pointed your toast at him. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said oh.”
Sam rubbed a hand over his face, but he was smiling.
The notes kept going.
Some were jokes. Some were reminders. Some were things you couldn’t say out loud because the bunker made emotions echo weirdly, and because Sam always looked too surprised by tenderness.
You did enough today.
Sleep before you start reading Latin sideways.
Your hair is doing the dramatic thing again. Very hunter chic.
You are not responsible for every bad thing that happens.
You thought maybe you had gone too far.
Sam didn’t mention it like he did others. He moved through the bunker quieter than usual, answering questions with half-smiles, spending more time in the library than his room. You tried not to hover. Hovering made him retreat, you had learned.
Then one night, long after Dean went to bed, you found Sam in the kitchen.
He was standing by the counter with a mug of tea between his hands. The room was dim, lit only by the stove light. He looked tired in a way sleep wouldn’t fix.
Your note was on the counter beside him.
“You found that one,” you said softly.
Sam nodded.
You stepped inside but stayed near the doorway. “Too much?”
“No.” His thumb brushed the edge of the paper. “Just… accurate.”
Your chest tightened.
“That’s allowed, you know,” you said.
He looked at you.
“Needing to be reminded.”
For a moment, he didn’t answer.
Then he said, “I don’t think I know how to believe it.”
You walked farther into the kitchen. “That’s okay. You don’t have to believe it all at once.”
Sam huffed a quiet laugh. “Sounds like something you’d write on a note.”
“I can make one right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He looked down into his mug, then back at you. “Why do you do it?”
You leaned against the counter, leaving a careful space between you. “The notes?”
“Yeah.”
There were easy answers.
Because you’re my friend.
Because you worry me.
Because someone should.
Because I don’t know what else to do with how much I care about you.
You chose something close to the truth.
“Because you notice everyone else,” you said. “And sometimes I think someone should notice you back.”
Sam’s eyes changed, his expression softening in a way that made your breath catch.
“You notice me?” he asked.
“Sam.”
His name came out almost too tender. You both heard it. The kitchen seemed to shrink around you.
Sam set his mug down slowly. “I notice you too.”
Your heart gave one hard, stupid thump.
“Yeah?”
He nodded. “When you pretend you’re not limping after hunts. When you refill Dean’s coffee even if you’re mad at him. When you read the last page of a book first because you say surprises are overrated.”
“That is a valid reading strategy.”
“It’s chaos.”
“It’s preparation.”
“It’s cheating.”
“You fight monsters for a living and this is where you draw the moral line?”
He laughed, and the tension loosened just enough for you to breathe again. But then his smile faded into something quieter.
“I notice when you leave notes,” he said. “And I keep them.”
You blinked. “You keep them?”
Sam looked almost embarrassed. “Most of them.”
“Most?”
“One got coffee spilled on it,” He smiled faintly. “It was the one about coffee not being a vegetable.”
Of course it was. Something warm bloomed in your chest, bright and terrifying.
“You really kept them?”
Sam nodded. “They help.”
The words settled between you.
You reached for the notepad on the counter, the one Dean used for grocery lists that mostly said beer, burgers, and pie. You tore off a corner and picked up a pen.
Sam watched you write.
You folded the paper once, then slid it across the counter to him.
He opened it.
I notice you. I’m not going anywhere.
Sam read it. Then he read it again. And for good measure, once more. When he looked up, his eyes were bright and his smile was steady.
“Can I keep this one too?” he asked.
Your throat felt tight.
“Yeah,” you said. “Especially that one.”
Sam folded it carefully and slipped it into the pocket of his flannel, right over his heart. For a second, you thought he might say something else. Instead, he reached across the small space between you and gently took your hand. His fingers were warm. You looked down at your joined hands, then back up at him.
You squeezed his hand.
He squeezed back.
In the morning, Dean found a new note stuck to the coffee maker.
Sam Winchester
A first kiss with Sam would be gentle and almost hesitant, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away even though his eyes have already given him away. It would probably happen in a quiet moment after a long day, when the bunker is still and the world finally stops asking so much of him. His hand would brush yours first, warm and careful, and when he leans in, the kiss is soft, steady, and full of everything he’s too afraid to say out loud.
Dean Winchester
A first kiss with Dean would come after too much tension and not enough honesty. He’d probably make some half-joking comment to cover how nervous he actually is, but his voice would go quieter when he realizes the moment is real. The kiss would be warm and sudden, but not careless, more like he’s been holding himself back for ages and finally let the wall crack just enough to let you in.
Castiel
A first kiss with Castiel would be slow, curious, and deeply sincere. He’d watch your expression with that intense, searching look of his, trying to understand not just what the kiss means, but what it feels like. When it happens, it’s careful and almost reverent, his hand hovering before finally settling lightly against your cheek, like he’s afraid of doing it wrong but wants so badly to get it right.
Jack Kline
A first kiss with Jack would be sweet, nervous, and full of wonder. He’d probably ask something honest and slightly awkward beforehand, wanting to make sure it’s okay because feelings still feel so big and new to him. The kiss itself would be soft and brief, but the smile afterward would be the real thing - bright, shy, and amazed, like he’s just discovered another small, beautiful part of being human.
Gabriel
A first kiss with Gabriel would probably start with teasing, because of course it would. He’d grin and make some dramatic little comment, pretending he’s completely confident, but there’d be a softness in his eyes that gives him away. When the kiss finally happens, it’s warmer than expected, playful at first and then unexpectedly tender, like beneath all the jokes he’s been quietly hoping for this moment too.
Crowley
A first kiss with Crowley would be sharp with tension and wrapped in sarcasm. He’d act like it was no big deal, probably say something smug just to keep control of the moment, but his eyes would linger too long. The kiss itself would be surprisingly careful. It wouldn't be sweet in an obvious way, but more deliberate, like he wants you to know that for once, he isn’t playing a game.
Hiiiiiii, Hon!
I just came to stop by to say that I absolutely love love LOVE your blog. Seriously it has some of the funniest shit on here. Your incorrect quotes have to be my favorite, and I love your fics and headcanons just as much.
Please never stop writing or posting. I will very likely be lost without you and the humor you bring to mine and others lives will be lost as well. Have a lovely day/night! Because I am willing it for you through the power of delusion! And make sure to take care of yourself, heehee (Micheal Jackson Hee Hee)! <3
Thank youuuuuuuuuu!
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