it’s the soft click of the door that brings you out of your thoughts. you have been there, waiting for dean for what felt like hours but in reality, he had just took a ten minutes shower. too long for you. you were laying on his bed, scrolling through social media when he came back in the room and a smile appeared on his face when he saw his hockey jersey on you, pajamas style.
“this might be the prettiest thing i’ve ever seen in my life.” he said while changing and you smiled at him. “you say that every time you see me, dummy.” the words leaving your mouth only made him shrug and he came closer, falling onto the bed next to you, making the wooden frame creak.
“yeah? probably because you are the prettiest thing ever.” his face leaned closer; a peck to your forehead, one to your cheek and the last one onto your lips. you couldn’t stop laughing before he kissed you properly, one hand moving to cup your cheek and tilt your head to the side. dean sighed against your mouth before pulling away. “you smell like my body wash.” his words were said quietly.
“i want to keep this shirt forever.” you only replied back to him, leaning your face closer to his own just to brush your nose against his jawline. his expression softened, all fond and warm before he hummed. “yeah, looks better on you anyway. keep it.” he nodded before kissing you again, suddenly rolling on his back and pulling you with him, bringing a loud laugh out of your mouth.
5.5k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: discussion of pregnancy; taking pregnancy test and waiting for and then getting the results; mention that reader had a rough first pregnancy with a few scary moments but no in depth discussion; mention that reader was borderline HG during her first pregnancy; mention that reader is nauseous; quickest second of angst again where Jack thinks about losing you during/after a pregnancy; softness; silliness; cuddling; snuggling; loving on each other; fluff; happy fluffy domestic dad!Jack; no use of y/n.
Summary: You and Jack find out if Baby Abbot # 2 is on the way.
AN: This is set in what I'm calling the Peep AU. 😂 You guys seemed to enjoy those two and their little girl and I had requests for more of them and asks like this one giving me ideas for more of them so here we are! I still feel like I'm in a bit of a writing funk and my writing is worse than usual but I'm trying to tell myself that's just my brain being a dick to me. This feels kind of meh, but I hope that it's fluffy and sweet and sappy and gooey and god I love Jack Abbot. 🫠 Thank you so much for your support and for reading! I hope it's alright and you enjoy! ♥️
You walk out of your en suite and shut the door behind you, let out a long breath as you look at Jack.
It's Saturday morning and your daughter is still sound asleep in her bed so it's just you and Jack right now. And it's perfect. It's perfect that you both woke up before she did and have time to do this together the way you did the first time.
"Come here," Jack murmurs. He opens his legs a little further where he's sitting at the edge of the bed and holds his arms open for you in invitation. He already has his prosthetic on for the day, knows your daughter will be up soon, and with her running around and wanting to play and being the busiest little girl he's ever seen he just prefers to have it on. You walk over and stand between his legs, rest your hands on his shoulders and look down at him. "You okay?" he asks softly with a slight raise of his brows as he looks up at you.
"I…" You shrug deeply and laugh a little. "I feel like I'm going to be sick."
Jack nods slowly, his hands wrapping the backs of your upper thighs. "Like for real or metaphorically?"
You squeeze his shoulders and swallow hard. He knows the answer immediately and you know he knows based on the slight frown that pulls onto his face and the little worried crease between his brows. "For real, unfortunately."
"You think it's morning sickness or just the kind of... nervous anticipation?" Jack leans forward and kisses your tummy a few times. He wishes he could take the nausea away with just a simple kiss, wishes he could transfer it to himself so that you didn't have to go through it. He knows how much you hate the feeling and how much you hate actually being sick. He hates that he can't just make it go away.
"I don't know." You move one of your hands from his shoulders to his curls, run your fingers through them as he kisses at your tummy. He's so sweet you don't know what to do with yourself. "Both, probably. The nausea is on par for last time. If I am pregnant it'll probably get worse in the next couple of weeks and turn into full fledged morning sickness. But there's a lot of nervous anticipation too," you laugh softly. "It's just, I don't know. We might be having another baby, Jack. I might be pregnant."
Jack looks up at you smiling and you can't help but smile back at him, especially when one of his hands rests on your hip and the other starts to rub soothing circles over your tummy. It always amazes you how much it truly does help you with your nausea. You're not sure if it's a psychosomatic thing but you don't really care. It helps. He helps. He always helps everything.
You got your IUD out a month and half or so after you and Jack first started talking about Baby Abbot #2 that night your daughter was up and down a lot and called you in just to change her pajamas. It hadn't happened immediately, not for your and Jack's lack of trying. You knew it wouldn't while your cycle regulated itself out, but there was still some piece of you that hoped it would be immediate. But you can’t complain. Three months after getting your IUD out here you are taking a pregnancy test.
It was kind of funny when you got home last night. Jack didn't work so you got a Friday night as a family. When you went into your room to change once you got home you had to laugh when you walked into the bathroom and saw that Jack, like you, had picked up a box of pregnancy tests. Neither of you wanted to wait until morning but you knew it was for the better so you did. You guys managed to find some incredibly fun and pleasing ways to distract yourself and get you both to sleep.
"But then, you know, I might not be. I might just be late. And that's… I don't know." You blow out a long breath and shake your head. "I'm nervous about both possibilities. Nervous in a good way about being pregnant, of course. It's just a, a, a…."
"A big life event? Bringing another life into the world? Another baby? Being nervous makes so much sense, Sweetheart and is normal." Jack can see you starting to spin and want to over-explain yourself and your feelings so he does his best to reassure you that you don't need to. "I promise I know that you being nervous about the fact that you might be pregnant doesn't mean you don't want to be or don't want this or them. All you being nervous about being pregnant tells me is that you are an incredible, amazing mother who cares and loves her baby and potential babies with her whole being."
He gives you a crooked smile. "And personally, I'd be concerned if you weren't nervous at all about having a second baby. I'm nervous. About all of it," Jack laughs, the sound so reassuring that some of the tension in your shoulders melts away.
"But here's what I know." Jack squeezes your hips and pushes just a little and you take a step back so that he can stand, his hands moving to your waist. "No matter what that test says, everything will be okay." He nods at you. "I fully believe you and I can get through anything together."
"I know," you murmur as you and Jack come together in a tight hug. "I fully believe that too, Jack."
"Good," he whispers back, holds you a little closer and rocks you gently. "Shit," he stills, tries to pull away but you won't let him.
You already know what he's worried about. "It's not making my nausea worse, I promise. I'd tell you if it was."
"You better," Jack laughs softly. He smiles to himself at the way you already knew, resumes holding you tight and rocking you, presses a kiss to the top of your head and breathes in your shampoo.
"I think my stomach would if I didn't," you mumble with a playfully self-pitying laugh.
Jack's smile to himself turns into a frown. It's not that he's not ready to take care of you while you suffer through morning sickness again, or that he resents having to or doesn't want to or anything like that, he'd take your entire pregnancy off from work if that's what you needed, god knows he has the time after all the years he's been at the Pitt and how little he used before he met you.
It's that he knows how much you hate being sick and he hates seeing you suffer and not feel well and it scares him. You were borderline hyperemesis gravidarum during your first pregnancy, luckily getting some relief around 15 weeks, and Jack knows way too much as a doctor about how dangerous HG and borderline HG can be, so you being that nauseous this early scares him, makes him somehow worry about you and your health and your well-being even more than he normally does, kicks his protectiveness over you into overdrive. "That bad already?"
You take in a deep breath through your nose and shrug in his arms. "Yes? No?… I don't really know. I think I need to know if I'm pregnant first. Though, I guess I don't really need to know once I say it out loud. I think either way it's worse right now from the anticipation."
"Alright Sweetheart," Jack murmurs. "But let me know if you want me to ask Robby to call in a script for some zofran."
"I will. Thank you for taking such good care of me." You settle into his arms further, rest one side of your head on his chest in the center and almost hunch into him a bit so it feels like you're tucked up against him as he holds and rocks you. "Also, tests."
"What?"
"You said no matter what that test says." You nuzzle your face into his chest because you realize how ridiculous and silly it seems and feels as you prepare to say it out loud, a little sheepishness in your voice. "It's tests. No matter what those tests say. I dipped six just to be sure."
"Oh." A beat passes and then Jack starts to laugh and you smile into his chest. "I love you," he laughs, the feeling infused into every word so purely it sinks into your bones even more. "I love you, do you know that? I love you so fucking much."
"Of course I know," you giggle along with his laughter. "And I love you that much too." You press a kiss to Jack's chest and continue to rest against him in his arms for another minute or so as his laughter dies down and you soak up a little more time being close like this.
Eventually he presses another lingering kiss to the top of your head and gives you a gentle squeeze. "Come here," he murmurs, loosening his arms around you a little.
You pull back just enough so that you can look up at him, share smiles that reflect the love and adoration you have for each other. Jack leans down and in and kisses you, starts with short, sweet kisses that melt into deeper, lingering kisses until finally you and Jack are standing in your bedroom making out with each other, one of his hands coming up to hold your face and keep you steady for him.
When you break apart for air you rest your foreheads against each other's, Jack's thumb brushing back and forth over your cheek. You both know it's time, that it's past time and the tests have been ready for a few minutes now as you've focused on each other and these moments together.
It hits you both at the same time. You guys have always talked about and seemingly more or less settled on two kids. So if these tests are positive, if you're pregnant, this could be the last time you ever do this, ever stand in your bedroom together and love on each other while pregnancy tests develop on the counter in your en suite bathroom and then find out you're pregnant. This likely would be the last time.
You and Jack nuzzle your noses together and then share a few last kisses before pulling your heads apart and looking at each other the way you did when he was proposing and when you were standing across each other on the altar and when you found out you were pregnant with your daughter and when she was being placed on your chest for the first time.
Jack smiles at you, unwavering and quietly reassuring even with his own nervous anticipation that shows in his smile. He slides his hand to your hips and squeezes softly. "You wanna look together or you wanna look and tell me?"
"I don't know." You think about it for a few seconds. "I'll look." As soon as you say it you change your mind, think you'll be sick if you go look and that's the last thing either of you need right now. "No, you look." And then a better idea hits you. "Okay, okay we'll look together." But then your mind settles on you and Jack finding out in the same exact way you found out about your daughter. "No, okay. I'm going to go look and tell you."
Jack wears a small amused smile as he waits a few seconds to see if you change your mind again. "Okay, Sweetheart," he nods. "No matter what those tests say everything will be okay," he repeats before leaning down and kissing your forehead. "I love you."
"I love you too," you murmur, voice surprisingly steady for as nervous and excited as you feel.
Jack's hands release your hips and you take a step back, look at him for one final encouraging and reassuring smile that he happily gives you and then turn around and walk towards your bathroom door. Once you've turned around Jack steps to the side a little so that he won't see your reaction and know before you're able to tell him.
You pause at the door and take in and let out a deep breath before opening it and walking over to the counter where the tests are laid out. You pause again a couple steps away from the counter, close your eyes and replay Jack's words in your head, no matter what those tests say everything will be okay. And finally you gather enough of whatever it is you need, open your eyes and finish walking to the counter.
Even though you knew it was a possibility you still have your breath taken away and tears still hit your eyes at the answer the first test gives you. As your eyes move over the remaining five tests and find the same answer tears start to stream down your cheeks. You cover your mouth with your hand to hide the way your breaths become shuddery as you keep running your eyes over all of the tests.
You know you need to pull it together so that you can go tell Jack, can go do this and go through these emotions with him. It isn't fair to keep him waiting.
So, you take in a few deep breaths and let them out slowly, wipe the tears from your face and blink back the ones that try to fall and replace them. A shaky hand reaches out and grabs one of the tests, one of the ones Jack bought because you know he trusts that brand the most. You look down at it in your hand and let out another breath before walking back toward your bedroom.
Just as Jack goes to call out for you to see if you're okay you step out of the bathroom. Normally Jack feels like he can read you incredibly well, easily almost, with how well he knows you, just like you with him. But like when you found out you were pregnant with your daughter, Jack can't seem to read you at all right now, doesn't know if he really can't or if his brain is just spinning too fast with the anticipatory nervousness flying through his system.
"Jack," you whisper just loud enough for him to hear you as you walk over until you're standing in front of him. You hold the test out for him and your other hand moves naturally and instinctively over your womb. "I'm pregnant."
"Oh my god," Jack whispers, his eyes stuck on yours, and then on your hand covering your womb and then to the test you're holding out from him. Jack's hand shakes just as much as yours did as he grabs the test from you and studies it, finds the same exact answer you did and that you just told him. "You're pregnant?" he asks in confirmation like he hasn't looked at and doesn't have the test in his hand. His free hand drops to cover yours where it rests against your lower abdomen, large enough that when he splays his fingers out they rest against you, protective and possessive and loving. Jack's eyes are wide and round and teary as he holds your gaze. "You're pregnant again? You're giving me, us, another baby?"
You laugh through a quiet sob and nod, tears of joy and happiness and love streaming down your cheeks. "I'm pregnant," you nod, beaming at your husband and stepping closer to him. "All six agree," you laugh, sniffling as another flood of tears wet your cheeks. "We're going to have another baby."
"You're pregnant," Jack laughs as tears start to stream from his eyes. "You're really pregnant. We're really having another baby." His chin trembles and he chokes back a small sob of sheer joy and happiness. "I love you. I love you so fucking much."
Jack blindly tosses the pregnancy test behind him onto the bed and has his arms open and ready to catch you as you finally nearly fling yourself at him.
You wrap your arms around his neck, one hand fisting his shirt at his shoulder and the other tangling in silvery curls you adore beyond reason. "I love you so fucking much too, Jack. I love you."
Jack beams at you as more tears slide down your face and then leans down and kisses you, your noses smushing against each other and tears mixing together as you exchange kiss after kiss and bask in the news and each other and how much you love each other and your family, your babies. After a particularly lingering kiss you nuzzle your nose against his and rest your forehead against his as you continue to hold each other close.
"Thank you," Jack sniffles, squeezing you a little tighter for a second. "Thank you so much. I'm so excited Sweetheart."
"I'm so excited too Jack," you laugh through some more tears. "I can't wait to get to see you with a newborn again. Watch you do the dad walk out of the hospital."
Jack laughs and rocks you both side to side like he did earlier, still crying just like you as the news fully sinks in. "Holy shit, we're having another baby." He shakes his head, overcome by some kind of wondrous awe just like he was the last time he held you like this when you told him you were pregnant.
"Another little human to love and take care of." Your voice is full of the same awe that Jack's has and that his eyes reflect when he pulls back to look at you. "Already growing away in there."
Something about that sends another heavy wave of emotion through Jack, his tears that he was starting to get under control suddenly back to blurring his vision before he blinks and they spill over and down his cheeks. "You're incredible," he murmurs, voice thick with tears and emotion and love and that same awe because he can't fucking believe how amazing you and your mind and your body are for doing this. Again. "Thank you," he tells you again. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," Jack whispers against your skin as he presses kisses all over your face in between his words.
You scrunch your nose under his lips when he presses a kiss there, smiling to yourself and sniffling. "Thank you Jack," you murmur back to him, fingers scratching at his scalp as you push your lips out for a kiss.
"Nothing to thank me for," he mumbles against your lips before giving you the kiss you seek. And then another and another and another until you're making out a little bit. He smiles down at you, watery but so incredibly genuine and loving. "I just get to do the fun part in making them."
You shake your head at him. "You do more than that. You're the best pregnancy and labor partner. I couldn't have done it without you last time." You release his shirt and let that hand come to his face and wipe away some of his tears. "You being the best is going to be even more important this time now that we have a little girl running around to take care of while this one is growing. And I feel and know that I am so lucky that I don't have to worry about whether my husband is going to help me and if I'll have his support during this pregnancy. I know you'll help me more than I could ever even ask for and that I'll have your support in every way I can think of and fifty I can't."
Jack laughs as another couple of tears escape his eyes, tilts his head at you in a silent thank you. "This isn't about me. This is about you and this amazing, incredible thing you're doing. Helping and supporting you is the fucking least I can do. I love you, Beautiful."
"I love you too, Handsome." You give him a watery smile of your own and adjust to hold his face in your hands before pulling his head down to yours so that you can kiss him again. You never want to stop.
At some point though, you do have to. You almost pout when Jack releases you from his arms and steps away but you stop when he tugs gently on your hand as he sits back on the edge of the bed, pulling you to stand between his legs again.
As your hands find their spot back on his shoulders Jack rests one of his hands over your womb where you held your hand earlier as you told him, his other hand on your hip. His lips tremble as he smiles at you and tilts his head, fingertips pressing lightly into your lower abdomen.
Jack tears his eyes from yours and looks at his hand for a few seconds before leaning closer to it. "Hi," he murmurs, brushing his thumb against you as a little way to feel connected to them. His eyes glance back up to yours. "I need a nickname for them."
"You do," you nod softly. "I'm not good at nicknames. I don't think other nuts work, though." You click your tongue and shrug. “Almond just doesn't quite have the same ring to it as Peanut does, you know?"
He laughs and shakes his head at you. "No, it's not quite the same." Jack looks back at his hand and pulls it off to one side so that he can lean into you all the way and press a kiss against you, as close to kissing them as he can get right now. He presses a few and then rests his forehead against you there for a few seconds as his hand finds your other hip. When he pulls his head off you he gives you one last lingering kiss there and then looks back up at you, wiggles so that he's sitting on the edge of the bed a little deeper. "I'll think of something when I see them for the first time just like I did with her."
You don't really need the invitation but Jack pats his thigh in one anyway. "You will, yeah." You climb onto his lap, adjust so that you're sitting on your butt on his thighs, your legs wrapping around his hips. "And it'll be perfect."
Jack nods and you're not sure what brought it on but you can see the way his thoughts turn down a darker alley of his brain, his eyes growing worried and anxious and scared, mouth pulling down just a touch at the corner of his lips. He swallows thickly before he speaks. "You're going to be okay, yeah?"
You know what he means, know he's thinking about what he voiced when you very first started talking seriously about Baby Abbot # 2. He's thinking about how rough your first pregnancy was at times, about the really scary moments, the moments where he thought he was going to lose you.
"I am, yeah," you nod at him with a gentle, reassuring smile, keep your voice light and confident, but serious enough to reflect how seriously you're taking his question and the thoughts you know he's having and that he knows you know he's having. "We've got this. I have the best OB and I live with the best emergency medicine physician who I know won't let anything happen to me. So I just have a strong feeling I'm going to be okay and we're going to grow old together watching our babies grow up and live the life of their dreams and maybe have babies of their own if that's what they want."
You cradle his face in your hands and wipe the remnants of his tears off his cheeks with your thumbs now that you've both stopped crying. "I'm not going to promise you because I can't and because I don't want to jinx anything, but I'm going to be okay, Jack."
Jack's quiet for a second as he holds your eye contact and lets your words sink in. "Thank you," he whispers. After a couple of seconds he takes in a deep breath and lets it out through his nose while shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to take away from the moment and please don't think this means I'm not excited or happy. I am, I promise. I'm so fucking happy and so excited I can barely fucking stand it. We're having another baby. You're pregnant."
"I never thought that for a second, Jack. I understand, I promise." You lean in and kiss him, let your hands run down his neck and splay over his chest. "I'm so fucking happy too," you murmur against his lips. "We're having another baby. I'm pregnant."
Jack hums as you kiss him again, takes your face in his hands gently to keep you right where he wants you as he deepens the kiss a little and drinks down the contented sigh it pulls from you. When you have to break apart for air you exchange smiles that radiate your love for the other. Like you did for him Jack runs his thumbs over your cheeks to clean up the remnants of your tears.
"So," Jack starts, lightheartedness and wonder back in his voice after your reassurance. He rests his hands on your hips. "Based on your last period you're probably around four weeks right now, which means you're due…" He trails off, looking away from you slightly for a minute as he does mental math before they return to yours. "Sometime around November 5th." He tilts his head at you and pushes his lips together in a little smiled pout like he's thinking about something too adorable for him to process. "We'll have a little turkey for Thanksgiving."
"We will." You click your tongue behind your teeth and almost pout at him a little as you smile, melting at the cuteness just thinking about it and the silly little turkey outfit you already know Jack is going to buy for them. "We'll have a little turkey." Your mind thinks beyond them in an outfit and goes to a shirtless Jack with a newborn looking extra small against the broad, toned expanse of his chest, and Jack's big hands being so gentle with them as he bathes them and Jack with your daughter asleep on one half of his chest and your newborn on the other. "I love you," you murmur, laughing at yourself for being vaguely misty eyed again.
You lean in and share more kisses with him, soft and sweet and almost flirty as you steal them from each other and almost battle with each other to kiss the other's face. Your hands run a bit outward and then up so that your forearms rest on his shoulders and you can play with the curls at the nape of his neck.
"I'm glad I won't be in the third trimester during the summer for the most part," you sigh happily. "Hopefully it's a temperate fall."
Jack hums at you and gives you a little smirk. "I'll take you on a babymoon somewhere nice and cool, I promise." He leans forward and kisses the hollow of your throat and looks back up at you as he pulls back. "Wherever you want."
"Wherever I want, hm?" you smirk back at him, eyebrows raising just a touch. "Seems kind of dangerous to give me that power."
"Not at all." He shakes his head once and looks so matter of fact it’s adorable. "You deserve a nice vacation wherever you want and then a whole lot more."
You hum at him this time and lean in for another kiss. "You're the best," you murmur against his lips. "Don't argue."
He gives you a couple of little playful grumbles but doesn't argue and just takes a couple more kisses from you until you pull apart again. "Peanut's going to be a big sister. She's going to be so excited."
"She is," you nod at him, smiling. "She's going to be the best big sister." Talking about her makes you really think about this pregnancy and what it could look like in comparison to your first. "It's probably going to be harder to keep this pregnancy a secret," you laugh softly.
There are at least two reasons you can think of for it and Jack gives voice to one. "It's going to be impossible to keep it a secret once we tell her. She's going to want to tell everyone, her teachers and her classmates and random people at the grocery store and everyone she sees at the Pitt when she comes to visit."
"Exactly," you laugh. "She's going to want to tell everybody that she's going to be a big sister. I wonder where she gets that chatterbox quality from," you tease him with a wide smile.
Jack rolls his eyes at you playfully. "You love that quality about her and about the man she gets it from."
"Mm," you hum, "I do. I so very much do." You bring your lips to Jack's and kiss him, a little deeper than the previous ones you've shared. "I love my yapper husband and how much he loves to talk." You kiss the corner of one side of his jaw. "I love how vocal he is," you murmur, words sultry as they fall off your tongue. "I love how much he loves to talk me through it."
Jack's lips catch yours as you try to move to kiss the other side of his jaw. It's even deeper than the kiss you just gave him, and before you know it you and Jack are fully making out and pulling little sighs and moans of pleasure from each other.
You kiss until you both need more air and pull away, panting softly as you look at each other. You can't help the amused smile you give him. "We probably want to wait to tell her until the second trimester to tell her."
"Yeah," Jack laughs, nodding, "I think we probably want to wait to tell her until we're okay with people knowing."
You laugh along with him, trail off and tilt your head at him, smirking, because you already know how this is going to go over. "It's also going to be harder to keep a secret because I'm probably going to show earlier this time."
You watch Jack's jaw clench and his eyes widen and pupils dilate a little as he starts to think about it. He rolls his jaw as he takes in a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. "I'm so looking forward to seeing you with a bump in cute spring and summer dresses, and light sleep camisoles and my old shirts," he tells you quietly, voice all gravel and low and unreasonably hot.
You somehow manage to just keep yourself together at the sound of his voice and the way he looks at you, roll your eyes at him playfully and giggle. "You're ridiculous."
"Yeah, but you know what?" he smirks at you as you raise your eyebrows at him in a silent what? "You love that quality about me too."
"I do," you nod, smirking back at him as you repeat your words from earlier just like him. "I so very much do." You lean into your husband again and kiss his forehead as your fingers continue to play with his curls and scratch as his scalp. "I love you, Jack."
Jack does the same as you and kisses your forehead. "And I love you, Sweetheart."
You pull your fingers from his curls as much as it pains you, wrap your arms around his neck again and melt into him in another tight hug, your face nuzzled into his neck. Jack's arms wrap tightly around you and the two of you stay like that for a few minutes until it seems to hit you all over again and you pull out of the hug and look at him.
"We're having another baby, Jack." You let out a soft laugh of disbelief and beam at him. "I'm pregnant." You shrug shallowly as your forearms settle back against his shoulders and your fingers back in his hair. "I know we don't have blood test results, but…"
"You are," Jack beams at you, brings one hand to rest as far down your abdomen as possible. "You're pregnant. I know it. I can feel it." A teasing smirk pulls onto his face, or at least attempts to, his smile so wide that he really only gets a flash of a smirk at you and the lightest air of it to his smile. "Plus, all six agree."
"Yeah," you giggle, lean in and kiss him before murmuring against his lips. "All six agree."
I need him so badly!!!! 🫠😩 I would give him as many babies as he wanted!! I just know he would be the best pregnancy and labor partner and so supportive and amazed by you and would do everything he could for you. 🫠 What a man. Anyway lol, I hope it was okay and enjoyable and that we'd still like to see more of these two! Let me know! And thank you again for all of your support and for reading!! ♥️
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summary: the new nurse in the pitt has caught jacks attention.
content: fluff, hurt/comfort, yearning, protective jack, age gap, miscommunication, slow burn, he snaps at you, descriptions of reader injury/blood, mentions of abuse (patient)
wc: 10.5k
note: this is my first fic, enjoy :))
masterlists
You desperately wanted to make a good first impression on your first shift at PTMC.
The universe had a different idea, with your plan actively unravelling.
You’re new to Pittsburgh, and unfamiliar with the notorious unreliability of the public transport system, causing you to be 45 minutes late and frantically running from the nearest bus stop into the emergency department.
This is your worst nightmare. You picture everyone looking at you as you walk in, silently judging. Hating the feeling of eyes on you. You’re definitely flushed red in the face, your bag being packed to the brim with items you certainly do not need weighing you down, cursing yourself for packing so heavy.
While running through the entrance of the ER, you’re barely looking where you’re going and end up colliding with a chest, solid and unmoving you almost mistake him for a wall. You stumble a little, losing your footing and almost fall backwards over your own feet.
Warm hands on your shoulder steady you, preventing the horrific embarrassment.
“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry– I didn’t even see you,” your voice is frantic and apologetic, worried you’ve already made an enemy and you hadn’t even started your shift.
A deep, gravelly voice cuts through to you, grounding your panicked state.
“Hey, kid– easy, easy. You’re okay.” His voice is instantly calming. “You our new nurse?” he asks gently, while his hands slip to your arms, fully stabilising you.
You settle down quickly, gathering yourself and finally looking up at him, nodding after a while realising he asked you a question.
He’s incredibly attractive.
The first thing that you notice about him is how big he is. He’s taller than you and so broad, forming a literal wall between you and the ER in this moment, no wonder you crashed into him. He stands so close to you that you have to lift your head to look up at him as he towers over you with a gentle, concerned look. Butterflies twist in your stomach.
You swallow thickly, nerves returning as you realise you probably fucked this impression up by remaining silent and gawking at this man.
Collecting yourself, “Uh– yes! That’s me–” you stumble over your words internally cringing, “I’m so sorry about being late, it won't happen again.”
He chuckles quietly, finding your flustered state incredibly cute, and extends a hand to you.
You notice the size of his arms, his veins, his hands– oh, you’ve got to stop thinking like this. You’re so fucked.
“Dr. Abbot, nice to meet ya, kid.” His voice is low and gravelly, stirring your stomach. “But don’t let it happen again.” His voice is firm, making your insides flip and guilt rises within you.
“No, no of course not. I promise. I’ll be 45 minutes early every day!” Your voice is laced with guilt and you avoid his eyes, whilst shaking his hand, feeling like you’ve already failed before starting.
“Jesus, kid, breathe.” He chuckles, mouth twitching in amusement. “You’re apologising like you hit me with your car.” He soothes, smirking a little at how easily his teasing had gotten to you.
He watches your face fall in relief, and you let out a small, shy laugh. Still holding onto your hand a second longer, it's hard for him not to notice how incredibly soft your hands are in his, how untouched by cruelty, unlike his rough, calloused hands. Something protective stirs in Jack, confusing him, but a drive to keep you safe, keep you soft takes root in him. He needs to ensure this place doesn’t ruin you, doesn’t cause you to burn out like he's seen time-and-time again with nurses and doctors.
“I’m really not usually this much of a disaster– well, most of the time.” You laugh shakily.
You notice his intense stare, like he’s studying you, makes you squirm under his gaze. Your eyes flick down where your hands are still joined, you notice the sheer size difference, how his hand completely engulfs yours. You go to pull away, when he brings a second hand to cup your hand, completely engulfing it, before he pulls away entirely. Your breath hitches, trying to stave off any completely inappropriate thoughts,
Dr. Abbot tilts his head towards central, signalling to meet him there once you’re settled.
“Oh– and, kid?” He drawls, eying your bag as you head towards the lockers.
“We do have supplies here, I promise.” he teases, but his voice is soft and amused, referring to your massively overpacked bag, watching heat flood your face and you nod, completely embarrassed.
Jack watches you scuttle away, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, but his mind is elsewhere, how you were looking at him so shyly, your wide doe eyes ingrained in his mind. Imagining your eyes after kissing you, those eyes looking up at him when– Fuck. This is so unlike him.
Approaching central, he sees Lena and Shen talking in hushed voices. He chooses not to entertain their shenanigans, just crossing his arms and staring up at the patient board, but he catches Lena’s fierce stare in his periphery, alongside Shen’s smirk.
“Stay away from my nurses, Abbot. She’s clearly a good kid.” She scolds, her tone firm and motherly. He can feel her eyes shooting daggers at him.
Jack doesn’t look away from the board, smirking a little.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice is low and equally amused, shaking his head gently. “Just being friendly.”
Shen scoffs, “Yeah? Friendly? You look like you wanted to eat her.”
Jack tenses a little going to defend himself before Lena’s sweet voice interrupts him. She walks past Jack making her way towards you where you had emerged from the lockers and placing a protective hand on your shoulder.
“There ya are, honey. I’m Lena, your charge nurse. C’mon, let us give ya a tour, get a lay of the land, yeah?”
During the tour, you notice Abbot seems to never stray too far from you. Always directly behind you, his hand hovering over the small of your back whenever the halls get crowded, ready to move you if needed.
Surely it's just friendly, you tell yourself.
You hope otherwise.
───────
True to your words, you’re never late again.
Always early to every shift, settled down and working by the time Jack clocks in. But he notices since you’re starting to be early, you get closer and closer with Robby, and it wouldn’t bother him, if you’d at least show the same fondness for him.
Every shift, you avoid interacting with Dr. Abbot at all. You tell yourself it's necessary, you can’t let yourself fall for an attending, despite how flustered, frankly, just warm all over, he makes you feel. You love watching him work, his competency and confidence as he works allures you. Especially in trauma cases, when he barks orders to his residents, you imagine him telling you what to do, when to do it, how to do it, guiding you.
However, during a particular trauma, you were meant to be in the background, watching and learning. But you couldn’t stop watching Abbot’s hands work with such fine precision, the way they flex, the veins popping out. You get lost in your head staring at how big they are, how they’d feel cupping your face, your neck, inside you–
That’s when you decided, for your own well being, but most importantly your work, you couldn’t be around him.
From then on, if you needed anything, you went to anyone and everyone, to avoid speaking to Abbot. Even if he was right there, and asking if you needed anything, you’d go quiet, and your quiet, meek voice dismisses him, “Oh, uh, I’m okay, thank you.” Before you turn and scuttle off in the complete opposite direction, towards Shen.
It bugs him.
How you avoid him, how easily you laugh and joke with Robby, or how you always go to Shen for questions or help.
Jack watches right now, as you laugh freely with Robby, gazing up at him as if you’re hanging on to every word. Gazing at him like he hung the moon. He feels an ugly feeling crawling up his throat, and doesn't want to admit jealousy. He’s not jealous. He’s not. He simply wishes you'd talk to him, with those wide, round doe eyes, smiling shyly and getting you to fall apart with the simplest of words and touches.
He’s so lost in his own head, he doesn’t notice Robby walking by ready to leave for the day.
“You got a good one there, brother, might steal her from the dark side if you’re not careful.” Robby jokes in passing, leaving Jack completely stunned. His eye twitches and his breath stops.
No.
His gaze flickers up to you across the ER, your sweet laugh cutting through the air.
You’re his.
───────
Admittedly, you’re making it very hard to make you his.
You’re almost too polite with him. A small, “good evening,” greeting when he comes in, a simple, “see you tomorrow, boss,” whenever you head out. You’re impossible to get time alone with.
Every time he catches you walking down the hall, jogging to catch up to you, asking you how your night is, you get all quiet. You don’t even look at him beyond a polite glance, your smile is tight and professional. Nodding before dipping into the closest room to get away.
He sighs, thinking you could be so focused on your work you may not want to entertain small talk. But he knows that’s not it, seeing how you laugh every time Shen or Ellis make jokes as you walk with them in the hallway.
So he tries to talk to you when you’re not as busy, just charting.
Jack’s leaning against the counter at central, pretending to be looking at the patient board, but his eyes keep drifting over to you, thinking of ways to get you to talk to him.
He watches the way you pout while charting, your brows pulled tight in concentration, and has the sudden urge to smooth the crease between them with his thumb. He wants to gently scold you for mindlessly chewing at the tip of your pen whilst you work, to take his hand and brush the hair covering your face behind your ear–
His body takes him over to your desk before his mind catches up with him, a seemingly magnetic pull driving him to your side.
He slots himself beside you, a hand over the back of your chair, leaning down to look at your screen.
“Oh– Dr. Abbot!” you startle, being caught off guard.
Your mouth dries and your heart rate ticks like a rabbit, having him so close. His face is so close to yours, you don’t turn your head, you can’t. You can hear his breathing, can smell his cologne at this distance. Your mind reels.
He can smell you too. Caramel and vanilla.
The proximity alone has your stomach flipping, his hand behind you becoming an oddly domestic, claiming gesture. Placing a hand on your back, his voice is gentle, low when he speaks.
“This is good stuff, kid, keep it up.”
His praise sends a jolt down your spine and your face reddens instantly. He can feel you twitch under his hand.
You dip your head, hiding your red face and mumble a quick, breathless, “Uh– thank you, Dr. Abbot.”
He watches you fidget, uncomfortable from the praise. Laughing quietly, before removing his hand.
You’re so shy. Shy with him. Oh.
But then you flee, almost running in the opposite direction, and his mind reels. Maybe he’s read this all wrong.
───────
He concludes after a few more nights of avoidance that maybe you just want nothing to do with him at all.
He keeps his distance, returning your polite greetings, but he hates it. The night shift is supposed to flow, be light and less stressful. Jack's spent so long cultivating an environment where people feel free to laugh, ask questions, not be afraid of getting things wrong.
Now you’re here and he’s all confused. He wants you to enter the stream but it feels like wading against a river trying to figure out what to do differently for you.
He decides to just ask. He approaches you during your break one night.
You’re sat in the break room scrolling mindlessly whilst poking at your food.
His quiet, tired voice cuts through.
“S’alright if I join ya?”
You’d been too tired, too into your phone you hadn’t noticed him come in. Nodding fervently you allow him to sit opposite you, his tone of voice sounding different than it does most nights, almost resigned. You actually look at him properly, concerned.
“Listen, kid. I just wanna apologise if I’ve ever done anything to make ya uncomfortable, yeah?” His eyes meet yours, intense and serious.
You pause.
Uncomfortable?
Fuck.
You were avoiding him so much he thought you didn't like him, made you uncomfortable. Your eyes widen in panic, head shaking rapidly putting your phone and fork down immediately.
“No, god, no. You’ve never– that’s not it–” Stop rambling, you tell yourself. Swallowing, taking a deep breath, you realise you need to get over yourself. “M’sorry for the way I’ve been acting. It's not you.” Your voice is quiet, avoiding his eyes.
He tilts his head down to try and meet yours again, concern on his face. His voice is so soft, when he says,
“You sure, kid? You can tell me–”
You shake your head again, cutting him off.
“You make me nervous.” You blurt out in one panicked breath. You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment and literally bring your head to the table, groaning.
Abbot lets out a quiet chuckle, amused.
“Honey, hey, look at me.” He coaxes trying to get you to stop wallowing in embarrassment. “Please?”
You lift your head slightly, hands covering your face, peeking at him through your fingers. He’s smiling, like this is funny to him, like you didn’t completely ruin everything–
“S’okay.” His expression softens, voice gentler now. “You never gotta be nervous around me, you hear me?”
Oh.
He misunderstood, thinking you mean nervous of his authority. You can work with that, you haven’t entirely humiliated yourself.
Your hands drop from your face, blush still evident on your cheeks and a shy smile creeps up. You nod in affirmation to his words letting out a deep breath.
“I want you to come to me as well, for anything. Not just Shen, Lena, or Robby. Me.” His inflection on Robby’s name confuses you and makes you giggle a little.
The sound awakens something within Jack, without thinking, he leans over placing a hand over yours where it rests on the table.
“I mean it. Anything.”
───────
He notices how you don’t run from him anymore, don’t push him away, let him exist within your space.
You’re still nervous most of the time, but you push it away, and he’s proud. He wants you to come out of your shell with him.
One evening, Lena calls you into North 7 for a debridement, knowing how much you love mindless, repetitive tasks. It unwinds your brain, picking out thousands of tiny pieces of gravel and debris from a patient's leg, letting you let go and not have to worry about doing something wrong.
You’re about halfway through, the only thing heard in the room is the slow hum of the patient's monitor, and Lena tidying up a cart nearby, when you hear the door open.
You frown, not enjoying having been disturbed and the loud, chaos sound of the ER filters through the door. You keep your attention laser focused onto the patient, until you hear his familiar, gentle voice, checking in.
“All good in here?”
You hesitate, stopping your motions for the first time since you started, before lifting your head up and looking at Dr. Abbot, leaning against the doorframe. Your breath hitches as you make eye contact, his focus entirely on you, not the patient. His head is tilted, and his eye contact is intense, making you nervous.
Lena scoffs to herself. Checking in, my ass.
“Mhm.” Your sweet voice hums in affirmation, the only thing you can manage to verbalise at the moment.
Lena pauses from tidying up the cart, turning raising an eyebrow at you, oh god not you too.
“Good. Can always count on ya to keep things moving smoothly, can’t I, sweetheart?” His voice is sweet, almost cooing.
You’re starstruck. Sweetheart.
You blink, unable to respond, but he’s already leaving with a smug, self-assured smile like he accomplished his goal. You swallow, unable to stop the smile spreading on your face, ducking your head to hide your flushed, red face from Lena.
Walking down the hall, he recalls how much the praise got to you when he complimented your charting, and watching you now?
The knowledge that praise gets to you so much?
Wrecks him.
He feels a sense of power, knowing how much he can get you to fall apart from a few words.
───────
The closer he gets, the more he observes your interactions with everyone else. You’re just as shy and nervous with everyone too. A quiet little thing.
During shift change over one morning, a few night shift and day shift nurses and doctors are gathered gossiping about a particularly rowdy patient you had that night.
You’re off to the side, included, but just about. He notices that's always the position you take, included just enough, but never in the centre, never leading, and never actively involved. He thinks maybe you just like to listen, observe, feeling more comfortable for you like that knowing how shy you are.
He frowns, because the rowdy patient they’re on about? You were the only nurse working with him. He wasn’t dangerous by any means, he was strapped to the bed. Jack would never let you in a room with a patient that’s a danger to your safety.
But the group were already feeding the rumour mill, exaggerating the patients words and actions. He watches you from the corner of his eye where he’s leaning against the counter with a pen in hand, stopping his writing to watch.
He wants you to speak up, correct them, and join in.
He watches your eyes dart around the group, you lick your lips, breathing becoming shallower. You’re assessing for the right time to jump in. You’re so nervous to speak up, his heart aches.
And when you try? You’re so quiet, no one even noticed. Immediately you were cut off.
He watches you blink, swallowing in embarrassment before collecting yourself as if you hadn’t even spoken, smiling along.
His heart breaks.
You’re used to this, being spoken over always happens, you’re just too quiet sometimes, better at one-on-one interactions, not groups. Though you’re a little stung, you push it away, familiar with the feeling. Sighing, you slip into your coat before silently taking your leave.
Just before you can head through the exit doors, he catches up with you.
“Hold up, kid.” You hear him jogging slowly behind you.
You turn, smiling at him, he can see the tiredness and hurt in your eyes even if you’re trying to hide it.
“You leaving without saying goodbye?” he teases lightly, his expression incredibly soft.
You dip your head shyly,
“Didn’t think anyone would notice.” You mumble, trying to laugh it off.
His brows scrunch, a displeased look on his face, almost offended.
“I notice.”
His words are so final, so real. You just stare at him with a vulnerable expression. His words heal something deep, knowing someone cares about your presence. You’re speechless.
He places a hand on your back guiding you outside, noticing your hesitance.
“C’mon. Let me walk ya to your bus stop, you can tell me about the rowdy patient, yeah?”
You nod shyly, trying not to let your eyes well up from his care. It’s a short distance, the sky brightening as you both walk. He’s silent and attentive, actively listening to every word you tell him, like they’re the most important words ever.
When you reach the stop you turn to thank him, but before you can he speaks first.
“Hey. M’proud of ya, for speaking up in there.”
You give him a little confused look shaking your head.
“It didn’t really feel like I did.” You laugh awkwardly, embarrassed to revisit the moment knowing he was watching.
“You did. I’ll always listen, whatever you wanna talk about, yeah?” Your chest tightens painfully at the sincerity in his voice. You can only nod, suddenly too affected to trust your own voice.
“G’night, sweetheart” He drapes an arm around your shoulder squeezing you before letting you board.
On the way home, your head mulls over his words, settling on one detail.
He’s proud.
───────
Being around Abbot so much recently is fucking with you, to say the least.
His constant praise at your actions, you begin expecting and waiting for it. Every time he’s within your vicinity, you wait for his gentle but ragged voice ushering praise.
“Good catch, sweetheart.”
“Don’t know what I’d do without ya.”
“Jesus, you really make my life easier, y’know that?”
And he always delivers.
Aside from the praise, he’s incredibly attentive and observant, knowing what you need exactly when you need it. Encouraging breaks any time he sees you get overwhelmed during the night, telling you to drink water, take a breather.
But he’s also so patient with you, like no one's ever been. With him, you begin to unlearn your fear of being judged for saying the wrong thing, acting the wrong way, because he never judges.
Tonight is no different.
You’re in central 7 with Dr. Ellis, with a very panicked, frantic mother and her daughter. Her child is only around 6 years old, clearly withdrawn and quiet. Her mother explains to Dr. Ellis how she’d been bathing her daughter that evening, when she found a large bruise on the daughter’s back and legs, suspecting her husband’s abusing her.
You immediately make eye contact with Ellis, silently signalling that you’ll call Kiara, the hospital social worker. But before you can step out to do so, a large, loud and drunk man barges through the door, angry.
He’s unsteady on his feet, eyes directly narrowing onto his wife, before pushing past you and immediately going to yell at her.
“You bitch! You have NO right bringing our daughter here without my permission–” He yells spit flying out of his mouth, alcohol clearly on his breath
“Sir–” Ellis tries to calm him down, placing a hand on his shoulder which he shrugs off.
“No!” He shrugs her off
“Your permission?” The mother yells back, cutting him off in disbelief. “You’re laying your fucking hands on my kid and you think I’m gonna let you be near her?” She’s defensive, shrill, adrenaline thrumming through her.
The yelling gets to you admittedly, you’re never good whenever patients of their families raise their voices. They carry on, Ellis begging for them to keep it civil or he will be removed by security
The door opens swiftly with Dr. Abbot and a night shift security guard filtering through to de-escalate.
Drowning it all out, trying to not let it affect you, you turn your attention to the little girl on the bed, all hunched up scared of her parents yelling. You turn her towards you telling her to focus on you. You just try to distract her in any way possible, asking her questions about school, her friends, her hobbies. It works a little, her tiny voice whispering over her parents yells.
The father is finally removed, and the air to the room returns, silence taking over.
“It’s alright, you’re okay.” You comfort the girl placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, testing it beforehand to see if she pulls away.
Jack turns to you then, really looking at you. The way you’re so gentle with the girl, how your focus was on her comfort during her parents screaming match. God, he admires you. But he also picks up on your tense shoulders, the way your breathing is unsettled, your face is tighter than normal.
You step back once the mother sits by the daughter’s side comforting her, you don't realise you walk back into Jack’s hand, which now rests on the small of your back. He leans closer to you dipping down to speak into your ear,
“Go take a breather, yeah?” His voice is soft, gentle.
You look up at him to convince him you’re fine, you don’t need a break. But the look in his eyes is stern, pleading: do not fight me on this.
───
Jack finds you around 5 minutes later in the stairwell, you seem to just be sitting there lost in your own head.
He approaches slowly, groaning as he sits next to you on the stairs, your shoulders touching. He speaks first,
“You did really well there – with the girl.” He nudges your leg with his as he praises you, trying to cheer you up. You can tell he’s looking at you from the corner of your eye but you keep your eyes on your lap. Pedes cases always got to you.
“She shouldn’t have had to hear that.” Your voice is quiet, unsteady. Swallowing down the lump in your throat, but the tears build in your eyes anyways. You dip your head down further trying to hide.
“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice softens, his hand settling on your knee. “Talk to me?” His voice is begging.
You lift your head to look at him, drying your eyes. “It’s stupid, really.” You shake your head quickly, trying to laugh through it. “I just don’t handle yelling very well.”
“Yeah. I thought so, honey.” His thumb rubs back and forth over your knee, comforting you. “That’s not on you.” His voice is gentler now.
“I feel ridiculous.” You wipe quickly under your eyes. “I should be able to handle it better by now.” Insecurity laces your words at breaking down like this in front of an attending.
“No.” His response is immediate, firm but gentle. “Don’t start thinkin’ the answer is makin’ yourself colder.” He aches at the prospect of you removing the brightest parts of yourself, to dim your light to handle the harshness of the world. Absolutely not. He wants to shield you, be the barrier between people's cruelty and your soft, gentle heart.
Your shiny eyes meet his, vulnerability flashing through them. Without even thinking he brings his thumb to brush a stray tear from your cheek. He watches your eyes flutter close and your breath hitching at the gesture, his heart leaping.
“Take as much time as ya need. Come find me at the end of the day, I’ll take you home, yeah?” His voice grumbles, sending a jolt through you.
Your eyes open ready to protest, you can’t possible accept a ride from him, thats asking too much–
“Ah, ah, I’m not taking no for an answer.” He smirks before standing and heading back out to the ER.
───
Before your shift ended that same day, you had asked Lena to show you how to work the medicine cabinet as you’d had trouble returning a vial earlier in your shift.
The day shift starts to filter through whilst Lena is describing the steps to take, making you distracted.
You see Dr. Abbot in your periphery down the hall, talking to another nurse, one you had never seen before, most likely on the day shift.
She’s gorgeous.
She stands tall, confident and makes him laugh. Nothing like you.
Your heart aches, as you stare unapologetically, completely drowning out Lena’s voice. You watch as he also dips his head to catch her eyes, how he touches her arm, how charming he is.
It feels like your heart gave out and fell into an endless pit. Eyes flickering away slowly, realising your hope that the way he treated you was special, is just his charm. His naturally flirtatious personality.
God you’re so stupid.
Lena sighs, shaking her head before closing the cabinet and turning to you, sensing your distraction and sadness.
“Hun, you don’t wanna go down that route.” Her voice is firm, but motherly. Like she’s truly trying to protect you, not wanting you to get hurt.
Your head snaps over to her wide eyed and panicked having been caught.
“Oh– no it’s not like that.” you laugh awkwardly, embarrassed but your excuse is weak and she sees through it instantly. Placing a hand on your back and directing you away from the hallway before you get in your head any longer.
“Trust me, hun. I’ve been around long enough to know, men like him don’t realise the effect they have on girls like you.”
Your brows furrow at her words, girls like me? You reach the lockers before she hits the final blow.
“You’re young, go on dates. Don’t pine over old men like him, you’ll only get hurt.”
She walks off, leaving you speechless. You gather your things, mulling over her words. Is she right? Have you been misreading everything, pining over a man who’s naturally charming and kind to everyone?
You’d completely forgotten Dr. Abbots offer to take you home by the time you’re walking out of the doors. Your mind is only repeating her words and reevaluating all of Abbot’s actions towards you, trying to search for when you’d started to misinterpret things.
Jack frowns watching your hunched up form walking out of the ER from where he stands and talks to Ruby. He excuses himself from the conversation, trying to catch up with you before you leave, but you’re already down the street by the time he’s at the door.
───────
Just as he thought he was making progress, the rug is pulled from under him, and you’re colder than ever.
You’re distant with everyone, clipped greetings and polite words the only things you mutter during your shifts. He watches how you avoid groups, but more importantly, how much harder you’ve been working.
You’ve doubled your workload, trying to forget your feelings by distracting yourself. Always with a patient, never sitting down and charting, avoiding your colleagues asking you what’s wrong. Or, avoiding where Dr. Abbot could find you and make you fall for him all over again.
He notices how you’re no longer early to your shifts, just right on time, jumping straight into cases. Whenever he tries to coax you into slowing down and taking breaks, you brush him off, refusing to admit you need them. But he notices the bags under your eyes, you’re pushing yourself too much and he hates it, he can’t help and it’s hurting him.
But he also notices how late you stay. As you no longer chart during the day, you spend 3 to 4 hours overtime during the day shift charting. Robby allows it, sensing something going on with you but doesn’t want to overstep. Occasionally, you ask to work doubles, staying to around 1-3pm during the day shifts. It’s completely wrecking your body, but you don’t want to think about anything else except work.
One evening, during shift change before you got to work, Robby pulls Jack aside.
“Hey, brother, I gotta ask.” Robby glances over his shoulder towards the door, checking you hadn’t arrived yet, before lowering his voice. “Somethin’ going on with her lately?”
Jack’s brows furrow instantly, worry clenching at his heart. “Why?”
“She’s running herself into the ground, to put it mildly.” Robby sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s working through till the afternoon, then coming back to do it all again at night. Girl can’t be getting more than a couple hours of sleep.” His expression tightens. “M’worried about her.”
Jack goes still, his stomach dropping.
He noticed, of course he noticed. He just hadn’t realised how bad it’d gotten.
His jaw tightens, hand dragging tiredly across it as he sighs.
“Fuck.” The word leaves him quietly.
“I’ll talk to her.”
───
Later that night, Jack came to find you during a particularly quiet lull around 11pm. He assumes you’d be with a patient, checking with Lena before heading towards south 16. He’s rehearsing his speech to you, over and over.
When he approaches the room, his body stops. He hears you laugh. It’s beautiful, and he doesn’t realise how much it hurt him not hearing you laugh recently.
Rounding the corner he sees you through the glass stitching up a man’s forehead, and you’re blushing. You have that bashed, shy smile as you work, the type that was reserved for Jack. You're standing close to the man from where he sits on the edge of the bed, and he’s looking up at you with desire in his eyes, clearly flirting with you.
He shouldn’t feel jealous, but he does, insecurity clawing at his heart. The man you’re stitching up, he’s definitely closer in age to you than Jack is. He hates the way that fact digs under his skin, the sudden awareness of the years between you two. You’re still soft, bright, and untouched by the world in ways he hasn’t been for too long. He can’t take his eyes off the easy smile you give the man, bitterness twisting low in his chest.
He knows he should leave, but he can’t bring himself to move. Which is why when you turn, putting down the sutures, you see him outside watching you, and your body stills. He watches your face fall, and it hurts him how you’re no longer happy to be around him.
Jack sighs ready to turn and leave, but you excuse yourself from your patient and head outside to catch him.
“Hey–” Your voice is gentle and cautious, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear nervously at Abbot’s expression. “Did you need something?”
Jack’s jaw tightens as he hears your voice, trying to steady himself. This is the first time you’ve chosen to speak to him in ages, and he hates how relieved and conflicted he is right now.
His eyes flicker behind you, to the man in the room sprawled out on the bed scrolling through his phone, and his chest tightens. Possessiveness and insecurity battle within his heart, and he doesn’t even think when he blurts out a cold comment to you.
“Didn’t realise we were entertainin’ patients now.” His voice is clipped, and he regrets it as soon as he says it.
He watches your face fall. Fuck.
Your head shakes rapidly, apologetically.
“I-I’m sorry–” Your voice is meek, he can’t bear that he caused this.
“Just don’t let it happen again.” Jack’s voice is firm, as he walks off. He needs to leave, clearly not in his right mind, he’s hurting you and he’s completely out of line.
───
The way he spoke to you eats him all night, distracting him. He’s completely unfocused during cases, Shen telling him to take a breather during a trauma, get his head right. How is he supposed to make sure you’re okay if he’s also driving you away.
He decides to start small. Around 1am he watches you exit a patient's room, pausing outside leaning against the wall. He can tell you’re exhausted by the way you hold yourself.
He slows as he approaches you, wanting to get you to slow down, take a break. Up close he can see the way your shoulders sag like the weight of the wall is the only thing keeping you together, your undereyes heavy with exhaustion. He can’t remember the last time you sat down.
“Hey– hold up.” His tone is softer, contrasting the way he spoke to you earlier. “You eaten yet?
Your eyes flick towards him briefly, before looking away again.
“M’fine.” You’re short, a little dismissive.
Jack nods awkwardly, he knows he doesn’t deserve your kindness right now.
“It’s quiet, you should take your break–” He tries but you cut him off.
“I said I’m okay.” Though your tone has little real bite behind it, it’s still harsher than he’s ever heard it.
He stills, letting out a deep sigh. The silence between you both hangs in the air thickly. You won’t look at him.
Jack nods, accepting his defeat watching you walk off.
What he doesn’t see is the guilt flooding your face.
───
You need to apologise. He’s your attending and it was extremely unprofessional of you, a nurse, to speak to him that way. Guilt is clawing at your throat and you can’t get rid of it.
You decide that after you finish organising the supply room with Lena, you’ll find him. Explain yourself.
You’re standing on a stepping stool as Lena passes you supplies to restock the shelves with.
“That guy– from earlier? He was a real hottie, hun.” She says while passing you a box of nitrile gloves. Your face scrunches in amusement as you let out a breathy laugh
“That guy who got his head smashed with a beer bottle? Yeah, right. Like I need that kind of trouble in my life right now.” You joke back with Lena about the flirty guy.
“C’mon, you’re young. Live a little! He’s insanely hot, god knows if I was 20 years younger I’d jump his bones–” you cut her off with a real, chesty laugh.
“Lena! You’re married!” You turn towards her with a wide smile.
“I can appreciate beauty when I see it, hun.” She smirks before continuing. “What’s the harm? He’s still here isn’t he? Go get his number, go on dates, have mind blowing sex– just do something to get you outta this slump, y’hear me?”
You sigh whilst organising the top shelf. You don’t want that guy. You want Abbot.
What you didn’t realise was Jack was walking past and heard snippets of the conversation, well, particularly Lena’s grand speech about having mind-blowing sex with the man. He falters in his steps, realising who she’s talking to, who she’s talking about. The ugly, possessive feeling rears within him again. He peeks through the door, watching your face. You’re smiling, like you’re considering it. He can’t handle it. He storms off, childishly slamming the door of the next room he enters, blaming it on the draft.
You jolt at the sudden noise and frown before continuing. “I dunno, Lena.” Your voice is almost sad. “He’s not who I want.”
“You’re still hung up on him, aren’t you, honey?” Her voice is soft, pitying. She watches your sad smile when you nod in affirmation. “M’sorry, hun. It’ll pass, I promise.”
You don’t want it to pass.
───
You can’t seem to find Abbot for the rest of the night, until a trauma comes in around 5:30am forcing you both into the room together.
The EMTs roll the patient in on a gurney as you jog over to Trauma 1, reading off his vitals. Fuck, it’s a kid.
“Pediatric MVC, eight-year-old male, unrestrained passenger. Vehicle rolled twice after being T-boned at a high speed. Drunk driver.” The EMT scoffs.
You begin to glove up as you walk alongside the stretcher, Jack on the other side, his eyes land on you as he actively listens to the EMT, his gaze feels as if he was assessing you.
“Initial GCS was 10 on scene, refrained from intubation. BP 80/52, heart rate 145, satting 92 percent on non-rebreather.”
You watch Abbot nod, cutting through the patient's clothes as Ellis and Shen check current vitals and assess internal injuries. You end up stationed directly behind him, ready to hand him what he needs. But him in action is making you nervous, like he doesn’t want you here.
The EMT cuts in. “Father pronounced dead on scene, mother inbound, no obvious injuries.”
“Decreased breath sounds on the left side, significant bruising across the abdomen and chest. Patient increasingly lethargic.” Abbot begins his assessment. But is being drowned out by an increasingly loud scream from the floor outside the room, his mother arriving.
She rushes to the doors, doctors encourage her to wait outside but she barges in regardless. Her sobs and yells for the doctors to save her son cut through the room, loud and distracting. You take a deep breath at the sound trying to focus, remain unaffected by the scene, present.
Abbot’s jaw tightens as the room erupts around him. The mother’s wailing to his right, monitors beeping rapidly as the boy gets worse, the blood coating his gloves as he presses harder against the kid’s abdomen.
“Pressure’s dropping.”
“BP 78/40.”
“We’re losing him, Abbot.”
Fuck. Each sound and sensation cramming for dominance within his skull, overriding his focus.
And then he glances behind at you, where the station is set up ready for you to hand him things. But you’re spaced out, wide-eyed and pale, clearly overwhelmed by the sounds of the boy crying in pain and grief for his father, the mother’s wailing. Jack’s chest twitches violently. One thing at a time. Save the boy.
“Get her out!” He yells across the room, his voice loud and booming, a couple nurses urge for the mother to wait outside.
But he can’t focus with you standing there looking wrecked, your hands shaking. His focus should be on the boy, not you.
“Gauze.” He commands, a hand outstretched towards you.
Nothing.
The gauze finally hits his hand, a few seconds delayed.
His pulse spikes, the room suddenly feeling too loud. Your presence pressing against the back of his skull.
He snaps.
“I can’t afford hesitation right now.” Jack’s voice cuts sharply across the room, eyes snapping to yours. “If you can’t keep up, leave.”
You feel like you’ve stopped breathing. The room goes painfully quiet, heat rushing to your face instantly at the humiliation.
Your chest feels like it’s caving, shame burning beneath your skin. You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, staving off tears.
You nod once, unable to trust your voice, before stripping off your gloves with trembling fingers backing away from the table.
Another nurse takes over flawlessly, the room continuing like normal around you. You exit the room, tears burning your eyes and threatening to fall.
Lena sees your shaken state from across the room, beginning to make her way over to you. But you duck, scuttling away to lock yourself in the toilet. Needing to break down in private.
You sink against the wall, sliding down until your head rests on your knees.
You know he’s right, you shouldn’t have hesitated. Your throat tightens.
The boy could’ve died because you froze. He still might. For what? Because Abbot didn’t want you near him anymore? Because the sounds of the boys’ mother screaming cracked something open inside of you?
Abbot’s words replay over and over in your head as self-punishment, as you sob into your hands.
───
Jack regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.
He watches your face crumple in devastation and it almost knocks the breath from his lungs.
Your teary eyes flicker away, avoiding his fiery gaze. He hates that he’s the one who put those tears there, made you cry. He never wants to be the reason for your pain.
He watches you nod, so meekly it hurts his heart, the tremble in your hands when you pull off your gloves. Every instinct in him screams to go after you. He can’t. He turns back to the table, continuing to work on the boy even more distracted than he was before.
───
You manage to gather yourself not long after, exiting the bathroom and ignoring Lena’s concerned looks, just searching for a simple case to get your mind off what happened. You can hear the chaos continuing in Trauma 1, still working on the boy.
Lena assigns you to a wound debridement, a simple task to recalibrate and gather your thoughts.
You set up your tool table beside you, and you’re lucky your patient isn’t a chatty one. His arm rests on the bed, skin burnt red and white.
You’re utterly exhausted, emotionally spent. Too in your own head to notice how cramped your fingers get around the scalpel.
You try to reposition your grip, but the blade unexpectedly slips from your grasp, falling and slicing a clean gash from your hand down your arm. Pain slices hot and immediate.
“Shit–”
The scalpel clatters into the tray as blood begins to well. Your vision blurs for half a second, before you jerk back sharply, hissing from the sudden pain
“Oh shit you okay, lady?” You hear the patient ask, but you’re already halfway out the room, asking Matteo to finish your case before entering an empty room to sort yourself out.
“God fucking damn it, piece of shit–” You curse violently, voice breaking, trying to hold back tears yet again, whilst setting up the equipment you need to clean your cut.
Your heart beats violently, embarrassed at fucking up yet another thing. Abbot cannot know, he cannot have another thing to chew you out over.
You’re not that lucky.
“Hey, listen, I wanted to say that– what the fuck?” Jack’s voice is shocked when he glances down at your bleeding arm from where he stands at the door.
Your head whips around immediately, eyes wide and panicked but you don’t speak or move. Fear wraps around your heart knowing you’re going to get scolded for being distracted, getting yourself hurt, or creating unnecessary paperwork for the hospital.
The sight of your bleeding arm disturbs him. But what hurts more is the way you look at him, wrecked and terrified, like a child that just got caught for doing something wrong, more worried about his reaction than the fact you’re hurt. He shakes his head stepping inside fully making his way to you.
“Sit.” He commands, his voice tight, clipped.
Your breath hitches at his tone, interpreting it as annoyance for having to deal with this, but you do as he says, not wanting to make things worse.
“You don’t have to–” You attempt to say you’re fine, you don’t need help, it’s a small cut. But when you look into his eyes, you pause, there’s something softer behind them, concern.
“Yeah. I do.” His voice is gentle and strained like it pains him you’re trying to hide your hurt.
You watch his face as he washes out your cut and stops the bleeding. You can’t read him. He avoids your eyes, focusing solely on your injury, you watch as he clenches his jaw and swallows.
He can’t look into your eyes again, the broken teary look you’re adorning right now would completely break him. He feels your pulse thrumming from where he holds your wrist, shaky breaths like you’re trying not to cry in front of him.
“This’ll sting–” He warns gently before bringing a cold disinfectant wipe to your cut. He cleans it so gently, so carefully, you realise how much you’ve missed him. His touch, his care, his smell.
You hiss slightly at the alcohol stinging, and he quickly retracts, gaze flicking to meet yours worried.
“I’ve got you.” He coos, rubbing a thumb back and forth against your hand, avoiding your injury. “You’re alright, sweetheart.”
His soft tone breaks the flood gate, tears flowing freely and you sob. Hard.
“M’so sorry.” Your voice breaks, blurting out apologies, as you try to catch your breath. “I’m sorry, please–”
His heart shatters at the sound, immediately setting the wipes down and cupping your face.
“Hey– No. No, honey. Don’t.” His warm hands ground you, wiping the tears as they fall. He can’t stand the sight of you falling apart in front of him.
You shake your head. “I keep fucking up–” you whisper brokenly, your expression apologetic.
“God, c’mere.” He coos bringing your head to his chest rubbing his hand on your back. “You got nothin’ to apologise for, y’hear me?
His chest aches at your cries, knowing he led you to this, knowing he hurt such a sweet girl. His sweet girl.
“I shoulda never yelled at ya, it weren’t right.” His voice vibrates through your body against him, sniffling into his chest. “You get that? You did nothing wrong, baby.”
Baby.
He pulls back cupping your face again, eyes intense and searching. Searching for something in your eyes that tells him you understand him, that you know you didn’t do anything wrong.
“Is he– is the kid–” You choke out, genuinely terrified that your slip-up had cost the kid his life, and had cost the mother losing both loves of her lives on the same night.
Jack shakes his head quickly, dismissing your worry. “He’s good, he’s stable. Dontcha worry about that. I let shit get to me, yeah? Not on you.”
You sniffle, breathing jagged as you settle down. The kid will be okay. Abbot isn’t mad at you. His hand lifts from your cheek to smooth down your hair on your forehead, tucking it backwards. Looking at you like you're precious.
Unexpectedly, he brings his forehead to rest on yours, whispering:
“I never wanna make you feel like that.” His voice wavers slightly, but you notice. “Never again.”
You stop breathing at his proximity. Realisation crashing down at how stupid you’d been to avoid him all this time, to let insecurity overrun your thoughts. His lips are so close to yours.
“Jack–” You practically whimper his name.
His breath hitches, searching your eyes before leaning in slowly.
He presses a small kiss to the corner of your mouth, testing.
Instinctively, you turn your head towards his lips.
You both pause, staring at each other and breathing heavily. He watches as you dart your tongue out, licking your lips nervously, and he breaks.
He crashes his lips to yours.
It’s hungry, full of apology, and devotion. He brings a hand to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss. Electric sparks fly down your spine, your mind turning to mush. The emotional toll of the day mixing with the high of finally kissing Jack, you melt.
He finally pulls away, after needing to catch his breath, not because he wants to stop kissing you. He’d kiss you for the rest of the night, if he could.
He takes in your flushed state, catching your breath and looking at him with so much trust. Your red cheeks, dazed and glossy eyes, and plump red lips and he lets a sound akin to a growl out. The look wrecks him.
He shakes his head, pressing a short, quick kiss to your hair before physically stepping back before going too far with you.
“I didn’t– I convinced myself you didn’t want me like that.” Your whisper breaks the silence. “I couldn’t be around you, it hurt too much.”
Oh.
He swallows the lump in his throat before nodding. He understands. Why you avoided him all this time, you must have been going crazy. Hell, you’d affected him so much tonight he snapped. He can’t imagine what living like that for so long would do to you.
“You don’t gotta explain, sweetheart.” He brings the chair to sit in front of you on the bed, and he takes your hands in his, bringing a small kiss to your knuckles. “But you scared me, doll. You gotta take care of yourself.”
Your gaze flickers downwards a little embarrassed, nodding
He turns your injured hand over in his, nodding his head towards it before gently asking.
“How’d this happen?” He refocuses on cleaning and assessing if it’s deep enough for a bandage or stitches.
“Wasn’t–” You pause, recalling how he scolded you last time for being distracted, shaking off your fear, you continue. “Wasn’t paying attention, cutting off patients' dead skin. Hand cramped n’ tried to fix it, blade slipped.”
He takes in a deep breath hearing your shaky explanation.
“Why didn’t ya tell someone, hmm?” He speaks softly, his attention focused on placing small little butterfly bandages along the cut.
You shrug. “Wasn’t thinking straight. Was overwhelmed, on the verge of crying again. Just needed to be alone.”
Crying, again. He hates the recollection that he made you cry that night. That after you had left the trauma room, you’d broken down alone.
He places the last bandage on, setting down the equipment and turning to you once more, placing a hand on your thigh.
“You always come to me when you’re hurting, yeah? I hate that I didn’t know, baby. Hate you were hurt and you tried to deal with this alone.” He begs, squeezing your thigh.
He sighs in relief as he sees your small nod. “Good.”
He places a small, gentle kiss over your cut. “There we go, all fixed up, my sweet girl.”
You flush red, a shy smile taking over your face before you can stop it, letting out a small laugh of disbelief.
“There she is.” He coos at your smile.
───────
After a few months of dating, Jack took a sabbatical, and asked you to go with him.
It was his way of an apology, for snapping at his sweet girl, taking you away from the place that you’d been running yourself into the ground for.
He didn’t tell you much, just to pack your cutest dresses. You obeyed mindlessly, trusting him completely. Truthfully, he couldn’t get enough of seeing you in sundresses after one particular picnic date where he couldn’t keep his eyes off you, or hands. Needless to say, the date ended early, with Jack driving you back to his place to tear off the sundress.
You’re leaning against Jack in his truck as he drives through the country. He had specifically chosen to bring this truck due to its bench seats, needing a hand on you at all times.
The warm breeze filters through the truck windows, and you hum gently along to the faint country rock playing through the truck radio, Jack tapping his fingers against the wheel along with the beat.
Everything felt perfect, domestic, calm.
Until you get deeper into country backroads.
You frown the first time you drive by a small animal on the side of the road, clearly roadkill. It disturbs something in your stomach, seeing the bloody mangled animal alone. You try to push it down, focus on Jack, the trip.
Until you seem to keep passing more animals.
Deer.
Squirrels.
Rabbits.
Foxes.
Every animal seems to twist your heart more and more, saddening you so deeply, wishing you could protect the babies that died alone.
Jack, observant as he is, feels you go quiet against his shoulder. No longer humming or drumming your feet with the music, just looking straight ahead into the dashboard, stiff. Something had set his girl off. He brings his hand that rested on the gear stick onto your thigh, giving it a firm squeeze, checking in on you.
His hand is warm where it rests on your thigh, grounding, as he coos, “Talk to me, sweetheart.” He glances over briefly before looking back at the road. “What’s got my pretty girl all quiet, hmm?” he says, softly.
Your stomach flips, of course he notices. He’s so in tune with your tells by now, you couldn’t even hide it if you tried. You whine a little embarrassed, turning to hide your face into his side.
His heart aches at the small, sweet noise you make and his grip tightens protectively on your thigh. Sensing your shyness, his thumb starts rubbing back and forth on your leg.
“Don’t hide from me, my sweet girl,” his voice is gentle and sweet, the tone he uses when he knows something is bothering you. Gentle fingers tip your chin upwards to meet his eyes momentarily, your stomach twisting as he brushes the hair behind your ear, a silent plea: tell me.
Hesitating, feeling shy and not wanting to ruin the trip you tell him, “It’s nothing, really, It’s the animals–”, your breath hitches as Jack drives by another dead deer on the side of the road. Your voice breaks before continuing, “It hurts”, you whisper sadly whilst immediately ducking your head to not look out the window for too long, the scene disturbing you.
Oh. Realisation floods Jack’s face and his heart clenches, oh, his sweet, sensitive baby.
You hear Jack breathe out a small sigh, before dipping his head and placing a small gentle kiss to your forehead.
“Yeah? That’s what’s gotten my girl all upset?” his voice soothing and rubs his hand up and down your thigh in comfort. Your stomach twists at his sigh, unsure if he’s silently judging.
“They might have had family or friends waiting for them!’’ your voice is whiny, desperate for him to understand as deeply as you do why you’re upset. You sniffle a little, trying not to let tears fall.
Jack blinks, trying not to laugh at his sensitive girl, knowing it’ll upset you more. He doesn’t mean to find it amusing, but your true devastation over deer and squirrels having family and friends, he can’t help but let out a low chuckle.
“You’re right baby, m’sure they’re sat around the dinner table, waiting for ‘im to come home.” He teases gently a smirk playing at his lips.
“Jaaaaack! It’s not funny,” you pout petulantly, hurt. You shift away from his side, scooting over to the other side of the truck, feeling dismissed.
Jack shushes you quickly, grabbing you by your shoulders before you move away, hating the way you curl in on yourself so easily. He pulls you back into his side, coaxing an apology.
“M’sorry, baby, c’mere.” He’s still smirking a little, but knowing he may have teased too much in your sensitive state, he needs to calm you down.
You feel him pepper quick kisses to your forehead, whilst rubbing the back of your neck gently. Your body relaxes instantly at the touch.
You sniffle a little calming down, wrapping your arms around his middle.
“Shh, baby, I know, I know.” He says, his voice softer now, before continuing. “I was so mean for teasing my delicate girl, yeah?” His inflection rises at the end of his question, like he was comforting a small kitten.
Sniffling, you nod at his comfort. “You know I love how my sweet baby feels everything deeply.” he croons, and you feel him run his fingers at the nape of your neck into your hair, petting you.
“You just keep your eyes on me, yeah? Focus on me for the rest of the trip.” He commands gently, shielding you away from the hurt of the world.
The low music continues to hum in the car, yours and Jack’s breathing matching as you sit quietly soaking the evening breeze.
Gravel crunches as you pull up to the cabin, you notice he doesn’t make a move to exit the truck yet. You frown, worried, is something wrong? Before you can even ask him, Jack breaks the silence, with such a soft tone it's unexpected.
“S’why you’re my favourite nurse, baby”. You falter, his words stirring something in your stomach, his praise making you shy. You feel him draping his arm around your waist and tugging you into his lap, straddling him.
Unable to avoid his intense eye contact, you duck your head shyly, quietly asking, “What is?”
For the life of you, you can’t figure out what he means. He ducks his head following yours to look into your eyes, cupping your face.
His voice is low, serious, when he speaks. “Your sensitivity, compassion, empathy.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, uneasy by the intensity of his praise. Tucking your head into his neck to hide your shyness, you quip– “It’s not the sex?”
You hear him chuckle, the vibration running through your body.
“You were my favourite before the sex smartass– no, you have a big heart, biggest I’ve ever known, you care deeply.” You feel him guide your head out of his neck, needing to see your face, his thumbs brush against your cheeks as he watches your wide, doe eyes trying to accept the praise.
“Plenty of other nurses and doctors are empathetic.” You begin shyly, trying to brush the compliment off, uneasy by how seen he was making you feel. Always having been told your sensitivity is a curse, especially in this field, and it’ll wear you down.
Jack immediately interjects, not enjoying how quick you are to self deprecate, diminish yourself.
“Not like you, baby.” His voice is stern, as are his hands gripping your face. Desperate for you to see yourself the way he does.
Those three simple words cut deep, your eyes watering from so much care. He wipes the tears before they fall and watches a shy smile tugging at your lips, hitting him like a punch to the chest.
“You hear me, baby? Hmm?” he coos gently while pressing a kiss against your temple. You nod in his hold, cheeks flushed from receiving so much affection, never having been treated so carefully before.
“You’re m’favourite attending.” You mumble shyly fidgeting with your hands in your lap.
Jack laughs deeply, he knows, of course he knows. He just hadn’t expected that to be what you said. He finds your tone so cute, like you're too shy to admit it.
“Oh yeah? S’not Robby?” He teases, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, laughing again at your scrunched up face, like the idea is ridiculous to you.
“I know, sweetheart.” He calms you, presses a final, soft kiss to your temple and brings you closer to his embrace.
Outside, the sun sets as crickets chirp around you, the air gets cooler but neither of you rushes to leave the car yet, this moment meaning something so deep to the both of you.
─
Jack is setting down the last of the bags in the bedroom when he hears you yelp from the bathroom. Before he can even ask if you’re okay, you call out for him, your voice startled and afraid.
“Jack!”
His heart jumps, and his mind immediately rushes to the worst idea, that you’re hurt somehow.
Jack runs to the bathroom panicked, “Baby, what’s–” he calls out in fear, until he enters the room, and pauses, blinking.
You’re crouching on the toilet seat like the floor is lava, with one shoe off, in your hand, looking around the floor terrified. You meet his eyes, genuine fear behind them,
“I swear, it's taunting me! It looked me right in the eyes!” you whisper urgently pointing at the small bug in the corner of the room.
Jack laughs for real this time, tilting his head affectionately, “baby, what are you doing?”
You screech as you watch the tiny dark bug scuttle along the bathroom floor and chuck your shoe at it, completely missing it.
“Please– kill it, quick!” you beg him
He smirks at you from where he leans against the bathroom door frame, crossing his arms, and taunts you, “What if his family is waiting for him to come home, hmm?”
You groan as Jack points out your hypocrisy, squealing again as you watch it come towards you. “Jack, I swear to god–”
He hangs his head in, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face before he walks over and stomps on it. He picks you up into his arms and mumbles into your hair.
“Yeah, you’re not lasting ten minutes out here, sweetheart.”
When you request a fanfic, please make sure to specify the rating:
E = Smut; M = Mature (No sex but violence and sexual innuendos, for example); T = PG-13 (fluff fanfics with a tiny bit of more explicit kissing, for example); G = family friendly (no explicit content whatsoever).
Summary: You knew something was going on with Sam. That much was established. He was acting distant, angrier, and less human. So, as the weeks went by and your pain grew, you found yourself making a mistake. A terrible mistake driven by lust and bottled-up feelings. Now Sam was himself again, and you were faced with the consequences of your actions. How would that affect your friendship, and why couldn't you sleep at night, lying awake instead as you replayed cruel words inside your head and felt raw and pure shame?
14,506 words
!SMUT CONTENT!
Shame
Sam was alive. That’s one way of putting it. Sam was back and breathing, and that was supposed to be a good thing, right? He had come back from Hell and had started hunting again with you a few weeks ago. You still remember how shocked you felt when he appeared in the motel you were staying in.
You had lost everything. Dean was living with Lisa and Ben, trying to have a normal life, and you were happy for him; you truly were, but… Well, Sam was gone, and alongside him went a piece of you. You drank yourself stupid every day since then and screwed everybody who hit on you, and it still wasn’t enough to fill the void inside of you. And then… There he was. Alive and without a scratch. “You want to hunt?” he had simply said, like it was nothing and totally normal that he was back from Hell. Shortly after that, you met his grandfather, and two became three, who then became a fuckload more. Life was somewhat normal, and you had a purpose again, so why did something feel off about Sam? About that whole situation?
At first, it was something you could ignore, not too concerned to pay it any mind, but then it got worse. More noticeable. Sam had started making harsh decisions, doing things he had never done before. The worst of it was when he killed an innocent woman so he could kill the monster you were hunting. You tried to stop him, but he was quicker, and you were left speechless. Sam had barely batted an eye, justifying it by saying that it was necessary, easier that way.
Then there was the sleeping around and drinking, which was fine. Hell, you had lived with Dean for years, so it wasn’t like it was something new to you. Still, it bothered you. You hated how you felt when he went home with some random chick or when he left you at the bar without a word to fuck somebody in the bathroom. More often than not, you opened the motel room to find him with a girl. It played out the same every time it happened. Sam looked at you with a smug smirk and kept doing whatever the hell he was doing. The girl was too into it to hear the door open or notice you watching them. You always slammed the door shut and went to get a drink afterward. A strong drink. Then, later in the day, Sam didn’t even acknowledge what happened, like it was nothing. You tried to make conversation with him and crack a few jokes to lighten the mood, but he just looked at you with a cocky smirk, scanning you up and down and paying more attention to your cleavage than your face. You nearly felt flattered considering that the old Sam never showed much interest in you in that way, but... That was just it, wasn't it? Something was wrong with him. Terribly wrong.
So, as the weeks went by and things got worse and worse, the things he did on hunts were more and more unforgivable, and you were about to explode. You had called Bobby a few times in search of answers, but Bobby had none. He was as clueless as to why Sam was acting differently. More than once, he had suggested that it was the aftermath of being in the cage with Michael and Lucifer, and you almost believed him. You wanted to believe him because that was the easy answer. A terrifying one, yes, but at least it was an explanation. However, a part of you kept whispering in your head that there was something more to that whole situation. The other part of you called you a cold bitch for refusing to accept that maybe Sam was just never going to be the same again.
As your thoughts drifted away, your mind too busy to focus on the present, you began feeling a nudge on the shoulder. The push was hard enough to make you shake your head slightly, your ears now focusing on the conversation around you. "So, that´s everything we know. Any questions?"
You looked at Samuel, his eyes piercing yours as if he knew you hadn´t been listening to a word he had said, and shook your head. "No, got it."
"Good. Tomorrow we leave at dawn," he said, looking around the room. Everybody nodded and hurried off, leaving you alone with Sam, who stood beside you.
There was a moment of silence at first. Awkward silence. When has it ever been awkward with Sam?
"You are distracted," he said, his voice as cold as ice.
You cleared your throat and crossed your arms beneath your breasts, your back against a wall. "I am fine. Just tired."
"Then you should sleep. Or drink coffee. We need you focused tomorrow, or you will compromise the hunt." You looked at Sam, seeing his eyes looking down at you, the gaze distant. You searched for sympathy in them and found none. Lifeless, like a corpse´s.
"Jee, thanks, Sam. Glad I have your trust and support." Your voice was filled with sour sarcasm. Sam narrowed his eyes, confused by your reaction. "I feel like you are upset with me. Why?"
"It doesn´t matter. You don´t care anyway." You moved away from the wall, collecting your knife from the table in front of you and putting it on your boot. "Don´t you have a liquor cabinet to drink up or something, Sam?"
"I was thinking of going to a bar a few minutes from here. They have cheap and strong drinks." Sam moved behind you, and you turned around, stepping back as you realized how close he got to you. He had a dangerous gaze in his eyes, making your heart beat faster. "Do you want to join me?"
"Do you want my company? I thought you were more of a lone wolf now." You straightened your back and showed no signs of intimidation. You were too stubborn to give him that satisfaction. If he wanted to be an asshole, let him, but you were not going to cower before him.
"I am rarely alone these days..." A smirk appeared on his lips. "Thought you knew that considering you have walked in on my meetings more than once."
You snorted, shaking your head at his words. "Meetings? Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?"
Sam stepped closer, that plastic smirk still on his face, and then raised a hand. You flinched for a split second, and he noticed immediately, furrowing his eyebrows. You waited for something to happen- anything really- and wondered if he was going to hit you. A cold shiver ran down your body as you considered that he just might. Sam could very easily hit you. Sweet and caring, Sam. "If I didn´t know any better, I would say you are jealous... Are you jealous?" His hand reached for your face, and you flinched again, feeling his fingers on your cheek. Then, as if to mock you, he gently brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. It felt worse than a slap.
"No, I am not." You moved his hand away. "I am just getting tired of watching you get drunk every day and screwing every girl who looks at you funny. I thought you were more than that. Guess I was wrong."
Sam´s eyebrows furrowed, his eyes studying you. "Maybe I am just different now. Improved, you might say." He shrugged and leaned towards you, his right hand moving to the table. You kept eye contact, your fists clenched, as Sam grabbed a gun from the table and put it on his belt.
"Whatever makes you sleep at night, Sam, I stopped giving a shit a while ago."
"Did you now? You know what I think? I think you are full of shit," he said with a grin, his eyes dark with satisfaction. "I think that you hate that I have changed. Hate that I am no longer the sweet, submissive Sammy that you teased and flirted with."
His words shocked you, the cruelty of them mostly, and you pushed him away. He stumbled back gently and let out a chuckle at your reaction, as if it were funny to him. "How dare you? You have no right to speak to me like that. I don´t know what´s happening to you, Sam, but I can´t stand it anymore. I can´t stand this anymore." You breathed in, clenching your fists as emotions flooded your body. "Dean should be here, Sam. I know that he's living a normal life now, but I can't keep doing this bullshit without him. No offense, but your grandfather makes my skin crawl. There's something off with him."
"I don't see any reason why we shouldn't trust him. He has been nothing but helpful so far." Sam pointed out, shrugging like he didn't care the slightest about your agitated state.
"See?! That's why we need Dean, Sam! You have been acting weird ever since you came back from Hell...It's like I don't even recognize you anymore," you murmured, looking away from him.
Sam rolled his eyes and sighed, rubbing his temples before putting his hand on your shoulder. You flinched. "I get that you miss him and all that, but we are doing okay without him. Let Dean live his suburban life; we don't need him around."
The shock was clear on your face as you slowly raised your head, not believing what you had just heard. Treating you like shit and acting weird was bad enough, but saying that about his brother? That was going too far, even for him. You tried to see a speck of regret in his eyes, but there was nothing there, just emptiness. "How can you say that? He's your brother."
"Yeah, and he has decided to play housewife instead of being a hunter. Dean made his choice." Your eyes must have released some tears in the middle of the chaos because Sam tightened the grip on your shoulders. "Look, I understand that you are upset, okay? But you need to pull your fucking shit together. We don't have time for this bullshit!"
You immediately shoved his hand away, anger taking over your sadness. You stared him down. "Or what, Sam?! What are you going to do?!"
A dangerous grin spread on his lips as he stepped closer to you. You slowly stepped back again, your thighs hitting the table and trapping you in front of him. In front of that stranger.
"Is it that time of the month for you? Or perhaps you haven't been fucked in a while, and all that pent-up frustration is getting the best of you. It must be torture walking in on me fucking somebody all those times, yeah? Wishing that it was you instead... If that´s what you want, all you have to do is ask. I am not picky." His words were filled with venom, and, in a matter of a split second, your hand flew towards his face as you slapped him.
The sound echoed in the room as Sam's head snapped to the side from the impact. He slowly turned it, and you looked at him defiantly. "Now why did you have to do that?"
"You are fucking disgusting," you whispered, your voice shaking. "And you are not Sam."
There was a beat.
In that beat, you could hear your heart drumming in your chest, feel the blood running through your veins, and touch the sweat that formed on your hands. You had never felt like that because of Sam before. Never in your life has Sam made you feel that way. Yes, you two had arguments, but they always ended with one of you apologizing, and soon enough, everything was fine, and you were joining forces again to tease Dean about some stupid shit. Never in a million years had you imagined that Sam could be so cruel. Especially to you. You had always been there for him. You had always held him when he had no strength to stand up or listened to him talk about everything and nothing at the same time. It was among those late-night talks that you started falling in love with him. Falling in love with the ups and downs; the good and bad; the laughs and the tears; the waking up next to him in the car; the falling asleep on his shoulder after a hunt; the putting him back together when he fell apart. You remembered everything. Every second, every minute, every day, everything. You hated yourself for loving him, and you hated that he did not love you back. How could he? He had lost Jessica, and then Ruby had manipulated him for months... And then there was that auction girl whose name you barely remembered, and sweet-dead Madison, and a hundred more girls that had managed to hold a bit of his heart. Now what was left of it? What was left of Sam Winchester´s heart to hold?
Sam suddenly laughed loudly, a sinister laughter that made your bones shiver. He shook his head, clearly amused. "You know what´s the funniest part about all of this?" Sam cleaned a tear from your cheek, his finger going to your chin to lift your head. He leaned down, staying inches away from your lips. "No matter how different I am now, I still see the way you look at me. I still see how much you want me. Even now, even after everything that I did and the people I killed, you still want me. Isn´t that funny?"
"I don´t want you, Sam," you murmured.
"Again with the lies, sweetheart?" The nickname felt more like a mockery than anything else. "Why do you insist on fighting this off? Why delay the inevitable? What are you so scared of, huh? Too scared you might enjoy it a little bit too much?"
You began feeling his hand travel down your arm, and your breath caught in your throat. He noticed and smirked, moving his hand to the belt of your jeans. "Come on, I will be gentle... You want that, right? Or perhaps you want me to fuck you senseless until you can´t get enough. Tell me..." His fingers ran through the fabric of your jeans, and you moved your hips to him against your best efforts. "How do you want to get fucked? I am sure you have imagined it more than once. It´s okay; you can tell me."
"Fuck you," you said roughly, feeling a pulse appear between your thighs. Sam put his hand on your crotch and his fingers in the middle of your legs as he rubbed you through the fabric.
"Oh, sweetheart, I will." You wanted to push him away and leave, but you didn't. You knew something was wrong with him, but you did not stop him. Did not resist him. How could you? How could you resist the one thing you had ever wanted? Sam was broken beyond repair but he was still touching you. He still wanted you.
Maybe you were a selfish, cold bitch after all.
You leaned forward, going for a kiss, but he moved away. You frowned for a second, but Sam was faster as he pushed your body down on the table, your back hitting the hardwood with quite some strength. You weren't expecting it, so all you could do was gasp as he spread your thighs and put himself between them.
"That's more like it... See? Spread wide open for me," he murmured, fingers running down your body.
You looked at the door and sighed in relief at finding it closed. The last thing you wanted was for somebody to find you there like that. Maybe they would see you for who you are. A cold-hearted whore.
You did not say a word as Sam pushed your shirt up, exposing your bra to him. All you could do was close your eyes and imagine that the old Sam was there instead. You had always wondered how he would be during sex. Would he be gentle? Talk you through it? Get rough if you were into that?
"Are you clean?" Sam asked suddenly, his voice indifferent, breaking the spell.
You opened your eyes and saw that he was now shirtless, his jeans unbuttoned already, and his cock out. You took a moment to look at his naked skin, and a small spark appeared in your heart. He was still so beautiful... Still had the same face, the same body, and the same hair. That hadn't been taken away. That, nobody could take away from you. Not Michael, not Lucifer, not anybody.
Sam waited impatiently for your answer, and you cleared your throat, trying to make yourself sound calm. "Yeah. I am on the pill too."
His lips stretched into a smirk. "Good. Turn around."
You put your hands on the table and raised yourself. "Here? On the table? Somebody could walk in."
"So?" he asked, confused.
You opened your mouth to reply but nothing came out. After a moment of consideration, you slowly turned around, bringing your chest down as you arched your back. You closed your eyes again, feeling ashamed at how you had presented yourself to be taken. The shame only grew deeper when he hummed and grabbed your ass roughly, making a small moan escape from your lips.
Despite everything, you could still feel yourself getting wetter by the second, his hands making tingles of pleasure run through your system.
"You have such a perfect ass... You know how many times I have caught Dean looking at it?" He chuckled, pushing his hips towards it, making you feel his erection. "I used to tell him to knock it off, you know? What a fucking hypocrite that I was. Calling him out when I jerked off to the thought of you."
Your heart moved faster at his words. You pressed your cheek on the table, looking sideways at him with pure shock. He snorted when he noticed your reaction, his smugness growing. "Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you that. Old me wouldn't have dared to tell you his dirty little secret, but me. You see, I don't give two shits about shame anymore."
Sam grabbed the hem of your jeans and suddenly yanked them down, bringing your panties down too. You gasped at the feeling, your pussy clenching as the cold air hit it.
His fingers went to your folds as he went up and down, collecting your wetness. You bit your lip, trying to suppress the moans, not wanting to give him that satisfaction.
"Fucking hell, you are so fucking wet..." he whispered, massaging your folds gently.
"Just get this over with," you said.
Sam's fingers stopped at your entrance. "Still trying to deny me, huh? Let's see for how long you can keep it up."
He pushed two fingers inside of you, and you gasped, squinting your eyes shut and clenching your fists. Sam started pushing up, trying to find your G-spot, and soon enough, a jolt of pleasure rushed through you. You couldn't stop the moan from pushing past your lips.
Sam seemed to find that encouraging as he added another finger, stretching you wider. His other hand went to your back, and he pushed you down on the table, holding you like a horse for riding. It was humiliating, and it was exactly what he intended.
You bit your lip harder, feeling pain as you pierced your skin. Sam began a slow pace, surprisingly, his digits pushing against your G-spot with quite some force. It was excruciating, making your pleasure build very slowly. It was as if he wanted to drag this out and make you desperate to cum.
"You are so tight around my fingers- fucking hell. How long has it been since you got fucked? Feels like a virgin's pussy," he said with admiration.
You did not answer him. You did not want to feed his ego or whatever the fuck he was trying to do.
Suddenly, Sam’s hand that had been on your back went to your hair. He grabbed it roughly and pulled you up. You gasped in pain as you hit his chest. Sam put his mouth against your ear. "Are you giving me the silent treatment too? I am getting tired of this bitchy ass attitude, you know? I don't like brats."
"F-fuck you," you whispered. Sam suddenly hit your G-spot with more force, making you groan in pleasure.
You felt his smile against your ear. His hand went to your bra as he grabbed your breast. "If you don't behave, I might have to teach you a lesson."
The thought did sound appealing for a second. You would be lying to yourself if you hadn't fantasized for a long time about this very scenario, but now that it happened, it felt empty. Everything felt empty. The lust was there, alive and burning, but your hearts weren't there. It was as if Sam was just using your body for pleasure, and you were too.
But still, Sam was touching you, and it did feel good. Empty, but good. Another hookup on your list.
Sam pressed his fingers up again, his hand working its way under your bra as he finally found your nipple. He started massaging it, roughly and quite painfully. You hated how good it felt.
You pressed your ass against his crotch, feeling his erect cock, and sucked in a breath at the size of it. It felt long and wide, with the skin throbbing hot against you. You couldn't believe you were finally feeling him like this. It felt better than anything you had ever imagined.
Another needle of shame stabbed your heart.
"Your tits are better than I expected... Definitely worth remembering," he whispered against your ear, his hot breath filled with poison. You breathed in, intoxicating yourself.
Sam continued fucking you at a slow pace, squeezing your nipple on occasion as he held you up against his chest. The position was starting to hurt your legs, but you held firm, feeling your orgasm build. It was almost there, given the feeling in your lower stomach and the growing wet noises that came from below.
You pressed one hand on the table and the other on his forearm, guiding him inside of you. His skin was soft. Really soft.
"You hear that?" he asked, taking out his fingers and shoving them back, creating an obscene sound. "That's how wet you are for me... Somebody you called disgusting a few minutes ago." He laughed.
You closed your eyes, trying and failing to suppress your moans as he worked you up to a groundbreaking orgasm. The more he said vicious things about you, the more you believed him. Maybe there was nothing wrong with Sam. Maybe he was just tired of your bullshit.
Thoughts like this filled your brain as he bit your neck sharply, drawing blood and making you hiss in pain. You felt his muscles contract on his forearm as he moved his fingers faster, his thumb now on your clit. He licked the drops of blood from your neck and started circling your clit slowly. The mixture of feelings was too much for you. "Oh God...Sam..."
"She does speak, ladies and gentlemen!" He laughed again. "Tell me how good I am making you feel. Come on, whore."
The name felt like a slap, and you let out a pitiful whine of pleasure. Sam grabbed your bra and shirt and pulled them up to your collarbone. "Arms up."
You obeyed, and he removed your clothes with a quick movement. Your skin shivered with cold sweat, but your body was burning hot. The skin-on-skin contact added a new layer of pleasure.
"Tell me." He grabbed your neck. "How good." He squeezed it, cutting your air. "I am making you." He fingered you harder and quicker. "Feel."
You could feel yourself struggle for air, with the sensation making your head feel fuzzy and everything ten times more intense. You suddenly panicked. Could he actually choke you to death? He could.
"I..." you struggled to say, and he loosened his grip. You sucked in the air and moaned loudly, your orgasm almost there. "I feel so good, Sam. So fucking good... Oh God. I am gonna cum."
"Not yet. Tell me who's making you feel good. Fucking shout it, whore." He growled, working you at a brutal pace.
A tear fell on your face. "Y-you... you, Sam. It's all because of you."
He hummed with mockery, seeing how you submitted yourself to him. "Good. Now you have my permission to cum."
You said nothing else as you let your orgasm explode inside of you. Sam kept fucking you through it, your body convulsing violently against his hold as you rolled your eyes back. You let out short moans, almost cries, as you drowned in pleasure. Even that felt tainted.
When you came back from your high, Sam’s fingers were already gone, and your pussy was empty again. You tried to catch your breath, but he pushed you down suddenly. You supported yourself on the table, trying to soften the fall.
"Now I am gonna fuck your tight little pussy until I cum inside of you. And you..." He lined himself with your entrance. "Are gonna be a good little whore and take my cock."
Sam pushed inside all at once, making the air leave your lungs. You cried out in pain and pleasure, feeling every inch of his big shaft. Sam showed no signs of caring, moving inside almost immediately at a brutal pace. He grabbed your shoulder and forced your thighs to spread wider.
You pressed your cheek against the table, your face twisted with pleasure. Your lips parted and your eyes squeezed shut as you let out shaky moans with every thrust.
Sam groaned above you, signaling he was also enjoying the feeling, and that made you feel something again. Your heart came alive again. It went away quickly when he dug his fingers into your shoulders. There was no love in that. No emotion. Just lust.
"Fuck, your pussy is so tight." You whined again, relishing how his cock stretched you. The pressure was so immense that you felt it on your clit somehow. You had never fucked a man that big before.
"C-can you... Oh God, can you slow down a bit?" you asked.
Sam groaned with annoyance. "Why? Can't take it? Thought you wanted this for a while."
The mockery in his voice hurts your ego, so you shut your mouth immediately. He was right. You hated that he was right. You had wanted this for a while, and now... Is it now too much for you? Pathetic. If you were gonna fuck this broken man, let it be like this. Harshly.
Maybe that's the only way Sam would ever fuck you.
Sam began moving faster, pushing your shoulders further down and making your belly hit the cold table. You could feel a second orgasm on the horizon, more intense than the first.
"Look at you, letting me fuck you like the whore you are. I should have done this a while ago. I thought about it a lot." He laughed with no emotion behind it. "Whenever you would walk in on me fucking somebody, I thought about pulling you in to join us... I thought about making you compete for my cock."
You let out a loud moan at the idea. It was surprisingly arousing. "Oh? You would have liked that, wouldn't you?" Sam dug his fingers into your hipbones, holding you steady. "You convince yourself that what you are doing right now is wrong, but the truth is, you are loving every second of it. You think you are so above this. Well, sweetheart, let me tell you something." His body leaned down on you. "You are right where you belong."
Another tear fell from your eyes as he whispered that into your ear. You closed your eyes, not wanting to show him your tears. You doubted he would have cared anyway.
Sam moved up again and sneaked the hand that was on your hip to your clitoris. The added feeling made you go insane as a wave of pleasure began building on you. You were almost there.
"I...I am gonna cum. Fuck," you warned with a shaky voice.
"Scream my name when you do. I want everybody to know what's happening here. I want everybody to know the whore you are."
Sam picked up his pace and rubbed your clit faster; the combination was too intense to process.
Your orgasm began silently. There was a moment of nothingness. You felt at peace then, like nothing mattered. Like nothing hurt. Then the void got ripped to shreds as a wave of immense pleasure washed through you. You let out a pornographic moan, a mixture of his name and inaudible sounds, as your back arched and your mouth opened. You squeezed around his cock, the fullness of it making your pleasure rise.
You barely heard Sam curse and fuck you with uneven thrusts, his own orgasm hitting him. You felt his cum spill inside of you, and you whined weakly. Sam groaned and moved a few more times before stopping inside of you.
You could feel the sweat drip down your forehead, the water mixing with your tears as you caught your breath. His cock was beginning to soften inside of you, so he pulled out, making his cum drip down your thighs. You felt it run down and shivered.
"Holy shit... You nearly cut off my dick with your pussy," Sam spoke with an amused voice from behind you. You heard him put on his belt and shirt.
You stayed down there, naked and against the table, which was growing colder by the minute. You could not move for the life of you. Now that the pleasure was gone, there was nothing left to muffle the pain.
What have you done...
"Clean yourself up and get some sleep. The hunt tomorrow is important," Sam said. You weakly nodded, your eyes still closed. "What are you doing? It's over. Get dressed."
"Okay," you simply murmured, finding a bit of strength to pull yourself up. You cleaned your tears as Sam looked at you with confusion.
"The fuck is your problem? You wanted me to fuck you. Hell, you came pretty hard."
"Just... leave, Sam," you whispered weakly, pulling your panties and jeans up. You covered your breasts with your arms.
Sam snorted and rolled his eyes, buttoning up his pants and checking to see if his gun was secured. "Feelings... What a waste of time. Whatever. Do your thing, I guess."
He left without a word, slamming the door shut with a loud bang. You collapsed on your knees shortly after, sobbing against your palms.
You had finally done what you had dreamed of for a while, and it meant nothing. You meant nothing because there was nothing to mean. Sam had no heart. No feelings. No soul.
You wondered if that was the answer to his behavior. And you wondered if that was the only way he would have ever had sex with you. When he didn't have a heart, that told him he did not want you.
Regret
You look down at your phone, mindlessly scrolling as you wait for Sam to get back from the grocery store. The radio inside the Impala is playing a 70s tune that brings back memories of the first years you were with the Winchester brothers. Back when everything was so simple… Just you three driving down the road, killing monsters, and putting up with Dean’s bad jokes and the same Led Zeppelin songs he insisted on putting on repeat. There were no angels, no prophecies, no apocalypse, just regular hunter bullshit that was just hard enough to beat your asses once in a while but not hard enough to make Dean go to hell or Sam be stuck with Lucifer in a cage.
You miss those days. Deeply... But you also know that there is no going back. Sam will never be the same; Dean is more fucked up than he leads on; and you… Well, you aren’t doing too peachy either. You had to watch Dean go to Hell. Ruby manipulated Sam while he pushed you away and drank demon blood. Lucifer used Sam's body. These past years have been crazy and very painful. You regret some things, appreciate others, miss people... Miss feeling somewhat happy, but...none of it matters anymore. Sam has his sanity back, and along with it, his memories. He is whole again. Things have been worse.
You think about those months when Sam didn’t have a soul and…Reminisce.
You never realized that he didn’t have a soul. Sure, he was acting strange. Cold… Cruel. But you had no idea why. Besides, he had returned from Hell, and that was good enough for you. Having Sam beside you, soul or no soul, was better than having none of him. So you did things that you now regret. Memories you could not erase, and he had said things that left a wound in your heart.
After what happened with him and you- that dreadful day where you let your lust take over your judgment- everything went to shit. More than it already was. You could barely look at Sam or be in the same space as him, so you did the only thing that you could think of. You went to look for Dean. Sam got there first. So, two became three, and then it was more bearable. Dean was miserable after what happened to Lisa and Ben. Sam was a soulless asshole, but at least you weren´t so alone. In the back of your head, you could hear Sam´s words, accusing you of being nothing but a cold-hearted whore.
You still believed some of it.
“What do you think of chicken sandwiches?” Sam’s voice interrupts your thoughts as he opens the car door and gets inside. "With extra mayo?"
You close your phone and look at him, seeing that he has a plastic bag of groceries in his hand. “What? Were they out of caviar?”
“Afraid so…” Sam shrugs and winces dramatically, making you laugh. He closes the door and gives you the bag.
You open it and take out a bottle of beer, feeling the cold glass against your palm. “Want one?”
“Sure. Let me just drive us to some place nice where we can eat.” Sam turns the key, making your seat tremble.
“The parking lot not fancy enough for you, Sammy?” you joke as he begins driving down the road. You glance at him and smile to yourself, seeing how the sunlight illuminates his features.
“Hey, only Dean gets to call me that." You chuckle, and Sam's lips turn into a soft smile. "And I am tired of eating in parking lots. Besides, the place is near the grocery store.” Sam glances at you. "It's pretty and quiet. Give it a chance."
“How romantic. Can’t wait to eat my chicken sandwich with...” You search the bag and pull out the wrapped sandwiches, reading the nutrition score. "Extra mayo... Ooohhhh, fancy, it's garlic mayo!"
Sam shakes his head slightly, amused. "You done?"
"Just messing with you, Sam," you reply with a grin, putting down the grocery bag. "Besides, you are right... After everything we have been through, we deserve to eat somewhere nice for a change."
"Yeah..." Sam replies faintly, and you can feel the tension in his words. You immediately notice that he's grabbing the steering wheel more tightly, his knuckles white.
The clench in your heart returns, making it harder for your smile to stay on your lips. "So...how have you been? Since you woke up and got your memories back?"
Sam is quiet for a few seconds, and you cringe mentally, thinking that maybe it's too soon to speak of that. The barrier was shattered a few weeks ago, and Sam has been seeing Lucifer, according to what Dean told you. Sam doesn't tell you much; you just know that he has found a mechanism that helps him stay stable, and it does seem to be working so far. Still, you notice the glances Sam makes to nowhere during hunts and the way he seems more alert than usual. It´s like he´s trying to fool himself and everybody around him into thinking that he´s doing good, but you can see right through him.
"I am not going to lie and say it has been rainbows and flowers, but... I got it under control." His eyes turn back to you, and you smile at him, trying to comfort him somehow. "I mean, I have my memories back after being kept in the dark for so long... At least there's that."
"Do you..." You clear your throat as he makes a turn. "Do you remember Hell? Like being in the cage and all that?"
Sam clenches his jaw, his eyebrows lowering. "Yes, I remember everything."
Now it's your turn to feel your body tense up. Your eyes widen a bit, and you slowly nod, looking ahead as Sam makes another turn. You begin seeing a lake at the end of the road, trees surrounding the area, and creating some sort of hidden magical place. It's breathtaking.
"It's beautiful..."
Sam hums in agreement and slows the Impala as you begin reaching the lake. You look around in awe at the sight, your heart fluttering at how everything looks. A few birds are flying over the lake, and the water is reflecting the sun's rays, making you squint your eyes a bit. Further ahead, you see a couple of houses and boats by the shore.
"I found this place a few weeks ago. Nice, isn't it?" Sam parks below a tree and turns off the car. You lean forward to get a better view. There´s nobody on this side of the lake, just you two and a 67 Chevy Impala.
"Nice doesn't begin to describe it... It kind of reminds me of Lake Manitoc." You look at Sam and visibly shudder. "Well, way less creepy, and hopefully with no vengeful spirits and all that."
Sam laughs, making you smile. You had missed his laugh so much... It´s still strange to hear it after so long without it. "Yeah, no scary ghosts for us today. We are supposed to be on our day off, remember?"
"Didn't know we had days off."
"Well, we do now." Sam shrugs, making you raise your eyebrows slightly. He notices your skepticism and snorts. "Oh, come on, Dean is with some random girl right now; there's no case in this town, and we are still pretty beaten up from the last one. I call that a day off."
"Touché, Winchester. Touché." You reach for the plastic bag and pull out a bottle of beer for him, yours still between your thighs, unopened.
"Thanks." Sam opens the bottle, as do you. "To our day off."
You raise your bottle and gently tap his before taking a sip. You swallow the alcohol and lean back on the seat, looking at the beautiful landscape. If you focus hard enough, you can picture yourself in a cabin by the shore. Just you and Sam, with nothing to bother you. The cabin would be small but perfect for you both. You would have a dog, a golden retriever that reminds you of Sam, and a small shed where you could lock away your hunting tools. On Sundays, you would go to town to meet with Dean and check on him to see if everything was okay. He would be happy, probably not married and with a horrible diet- but still happier than he is now. You would too, and so would Sam. Every morning, you would wake up to him next to you, kissing your neck and whispering sweet things in your ear, making your heart melt. In the afternoons, you would go for a swim with him. During the night, you would watch a shitty Tv show or be with Sam in every way possible. On the couch, against the wall, the floor, the bed, anywhere and everywhere. He would be gentle and caring, taking his time with you. And you... Well, you would be a better version of yourself.
"Look...I...I need to talk to you about something," Sam suddenly says, making your fantasy shatter. You bring your attention back to him and take another sip of beer. You don´t meet his eyes.
"What's up?"
Sam takes a deep breath, and you wait for what you know is coming- for what you have feared ever since he got his memories back. "I remember...everything... from the months we were working with my grandfather."
"I know," you simply say, trying to calm down.
"What happened between us...I...I wasn't myself, and I should have never done that. I know that now. That wasn't me. Not really. And..." He turns his body toward you, making you slowly meet his eyes. "I am so sorry."
You look into his pleading eyes for a while, searching them for anything other than pain and regret, and you can't find anything else. At least they aren´t empty like they had been.
"You have nothing to apologize for, Sam... You didn't force yourself on me or anything like that. I am afraid it was a two-man job." The joke dies in your throat, and you force yourself to continue. "I just had no idea you didn't have a soul. I didn't mean to make things awkward."
Sam furrows his eyebrows. "You didn't make things awkward, at all. I am the one in the wrong here, not you. We had nobody, and you were vulnerable, and I guess soulless me was a fucking idiot and decided to take advantage of that."
"Can you stop saying that shit?!" you snap at him. "It wasn't like you fucking took my virginity or anything like that. I was sad, yes, but I was fully aware of what I was doing, Sam. You didn't manipulate me or whatever bullshit you think you did! Have you ever considered that..."
You close your mouth, feeling anger build inside your chest. Why are you angry? "Never mind."
"Consider what?" Sam asks you, leaning forward and searching your eyes.
"Forget it, Sam. It doesn't matter anymore. You are right... It wasn't you. Not really," you whisper, looking away from him. You raise the bottle to your lips and take a bigger sip, hoping the alcohol makes the pain go away.
"Hey... I didn't mean it like that. I just... Fuck, I just thought that I took advantage of you, okay? That you think it was a mistake, and you regret it now."
You find yourself laughing- a sorrowful laugh that turns sour in your lungs. It had been a mistake, yes, but it was your mistake. He had an excuse for what he did, you didn´t. "It´s fine, Sam. I am over it. It´s all good." Your eyes struggle to fight back tears, and your brain, cruel as it often is, sends you back to that day- all those months ago.
You dive into those cursed memories again and your eyes heat up, your bottom lip trembling as you clench your fists against your thighs.
Sam stays silent for a while, looking at you, before speaking again. "You are clearly not fine, so stop saying that you are. Let´s talk about it. Please." You feel his hand on your hand, and you can't help but freeze against the touch. His skin still feels the same.
"What do you want me to say? That I regret it? That I am everything you said I was? Is that what you want to hear?!" you yell, and a tear falls down your cheek.
"Don´t say that...Please. You are not the horrible things I said to you! I didn´t mean any of what I said. You have to believe me." His voice is quieter than a whisper, and you can hear the pleading in it. "What I did to you is unforgivable. Everything that I did when I didn´t have a soul is fucking unforgivable, and I wish I could take it all back, but I can´t, so please... Let me fix this one thing and make things right for a change. I can´t stand seeing you like this anymore."
"Why do you care, Sam? What is done is done. I regret what I did, and you regret it too. If anybody took advantage of anybody, it was me. Not you." Shame fills your heart like a close friend.
Sam doesn´t say anything for a while, and you wonder if that´s it. If that´s the end of your friendship, then he speaks again. "You are right. I regret it, but not for the reasons you might think." Sam clears his throat. "I regret that soulless me got to have sex with you for the first time and not the real me. I regret not cuddling with you afterward or telling you just how much I care for you. I regret just using your body for pleasure instead of focusing on your feelings and pleasure. I regret that I said all those horrible things to you...And most of all, I regret that I treated you like a random hookup instead of taking my time with you."
You don't know what to say or think; your brain is overloaded with feelings and thoughts as you process his words. You try to understand if this is real or if all of this is just a dream or some angel bullshit. Surely it has to be. Surely Sam Winchester did not just confess his feelings for you in the middle of nowhere inside the Impala on a random fucking Wednesday after years of you denying your feelings for him and pushing them away.
"You don't mean that, Sam," you say in denial, shaking your head.
Sam puts the bottle down, grabbing your hands and pulling you closer. "I mean every word."
"W-why now... Why say those things now?! After years of being on the road together." You don't mean to sound angry at him, especially since he's staring at you with those puppy eyes of his.
"Because I am a coward, and I thought you didn't feel that way about me," he explains with a soft voice filled with guilt.
"Is that why you fucked Ruby for months? Oh, or perhaps that´s why you were with that doctor on the siren case? Oh, or maybe that´s why you made sure I had to watch you flirt and fuck every moving thing with a pair of nice tits for months back when you didn´t have a fucking soul?!" you yell, pulling away from his hands.
You know you shouldn´t be mad. You know that you are blaming him for things that you can't hold him accountable for. You know that he´s just trying to apologize. You know all those things, and yet you can´t stop the anger from bubbling inside your chest. You have loved him for years now. Years of having to push away your feelings because they were wrong, and surely Sam didn´t feel the same way. You were just friends and coworkers, not lovers. So you had sex with random people you met in bars, and he had sex with other people as well. Everything was manageable. The pain was manageable. Until... Now.
"Hey... Don´t cry. Please," he begs you.
You clean your cheeks and drink the rest of your beer, swallowing the liquid like poison. "I am being stupid, aren´t I?" you confess with a weak chuckle. "I knew something was wrong with you when we had sex, you know? I knew something was off. You were acting strange, and yet..." Another bitter chuckle. "I still couldn´t control myself. I am a selfish bitch who puts herself first and takes advantage of people."
"Don´t say that." He immediately cuts you off with a harsh voice. "I initiated it, remember? It isn´t your fault."
"And neither is yours, Sam." You meet his eyes. "None of it is... I don´t care what people say about you, Sam. You are the most loving and caring person I know. You have made mistakes, yes, but you have always tried to make things right afterward. I shouldn´t have blamed you for having sex with other people or for not telling me how you felt about me, and I surely can´t blame you for the time you didn´t have a soul."
Sam´s lips stretch into a weak smile, his dimples showing on each cheek. "You make it sound like I am a good person."
"There are no such things as good people, Sam... There are just people who suffer way more than they deserve and still push through. But if I had to define you..." You smile. "I would call you a good person, Sam."
Sam stares at you with surprise, his eyebrows low and heavy as he reaches for your hands again. You let him touch you this time, relishing the feeling of being near him. You feel him move closer, pressing your foreheads together, and you close your eyes. He smells good and feels warm. Why does he always feel so warm?
"I-Is this okay?" he whispers, and you slowly nod. Sam nudges your nose with his, holding your face like you are going to run away from him. His fingers are soft as he brushes your skin gently; the feeling is ten times more intimate than anything you have ever felt before. "Sam."
"Yeah?"
You nudge his nose too, ghosting your lips over his as if you are afraid of touching him or giving in. You swallow harshly, feeling your heart fasten in your chest. "Sam..." you whisper again, almost like a plea. Sam doesn´t say anything this time; instead, he parts his lips and breathes into your mouth, making you lean closer to him. You kiss him for a quick second, pulling away almost immediately as you test the waters. You had never kissed him before.
"What was that for?" Sam asks with a grin as you open your eyes, seeing how he´s staring at you with dilated pupils.
You move closer again, licking your lips before pressing another quick kiss and then another and another until Sam puts his hand on the back of your head and deepens the last kiss, moving your lips together passionately. You melt into his touch, your hands gripping his shoulders as you let him take control of the kiss.
You want to climb on top of him and sink into his flesh if it were possible, but you satisfy yourself by exploring his mouth and feeling him against you.
After a few more seconds, he pulls away, his lips glistening from your saliva and the flesh a burning pink. You chuckle slightly, and he frowns. "What?"
"Nothing, it's just... You kiss exactly like I have always thought you would," you confess to him, embarrassed.
"So you have been imagining kissing me a lot, huh?" Sam's voice is dripping with teasing, and you snort, bringing your mouth up to his and giving his top lip a slight lick before you bite it. Sam breathes out as you pull away.
"Amongst other things..." you whisper shyly.
"Is that so? Funny..." Sam's hands travel down your back, and you let yourself feel him. He gently pushes you forward, his hand on your lower back, and you gasp as your chest hits him, your thighs slightly lifted from the car seat. "Considering I have been thinking about how you would taste...or how you would feel..."
"S-sam..." you call, not knowing what you are calling him for. You think back at what he had said about jerking off to the thought of you, and your heart beats faster. Sam shuts down your thoughts by kissing you again. "Can I pull you to my lap?" he asks as he pulls away from your lips. You nod immediately, and he lifts your body by your hips and brings you towards his lap. You immediately parted your thighs and straddled him; the movement was a lot smoother than you had expected.
"Is this okay?" he asks between kisses as you put your hands on his hair and run your fingers through it.
"Yes." You grind your hips against his crotch, feeling a pull between your legs, and he grunts. "Was that okay?"
"Yes," Sam answers, his voice breathless. "Can I touch you?"
"You are touching me," you say between kisses.
"More than this. Like, can I touch your body?" You love that he asks. Love that he cares about things like that.
You cup his jaw, holding his face firmly, as you smile widely at the sight of him. You feel like crying again. "Yes, Sam. Touch me. Please."
You see his eyes turn dark with want, and his hands move to your ass as he pushes you forward more, making your body rock on his lap. Every movement makes the ache between your thighs rise.
"Sam... Fuck. Your hands feel so good," you murmur with slightly parted lips as he squeezes your ass through your jeans and then moves up to your lower back.
"Yeah?" he whispers against your mouth, making you smile. Sam sneaks his hand under your blouse, and you shiver as his fingers touch your bare back. "You are so warm... Your skin is so soft too."
You hum in agreement and rock yourself on his crotch harder, making his head hit the seat as he sucks in a breath. You smile at the reaction and move your head closer to his stretched neck as you lick a stripe from bottom to top on his throat. You have no idea what made you do that, but Sam seems to enjoy the feeling as he swallows dryly and lets out a ragged breath.
You nuzzle his neck, smelling his intoxicating perfume- a strong pinecone scent- and then start applying open-mouthed kisses to his throat. Sam's hands are still on your back, his fingers tracing the strap of your bra before he unclasped it, making your breasts feel less confined but still somewhat secured.
"You have no idea how long I have wanted this..." Sam suddenly whispers as you suck a hickey on his neck. "Every time you went home with somebody, I got so angry... It was so frustrating knowing that a random stranger got to have you and make you feel good. I know that sounds crazy, but..." His words come to a halt as you travel your hands down his chest, feeling his muscles on top of his shirt. He looks down at you as you pull away from his neck and start unbuttoning his pants.
"You were saying?" you say with an innocent smile, meeting his eyes.
"I..." You finally pop the last button and sneak your hand inside his pants, your fingers pulling the boxers down as you finally find his shaft. "Fuck..."
"What, Sam? Finish your sentence, baby," you encourage with a cocky voice as you pull out his cock. Your hand wraps around it, and you feel how heavy and warm it is as you start slowly moving up and down. His face twists in pleasure, and you admire it, seeing that his eyes show more than just pleasure in them. Crazy how different everything feels and looks from before... He looks more beautiful than ever. More human.
"Holy fucking shit... L-let me focus...Hum... I know it's not my right to get jealous of you having sex with other people, but..." Your thumb swipes his slit, collecting pre-cum as his eyes flutter shut. "Shit...But I can't stand the idea of you doing this to anybody else... I just want you to fuck me... To moan for me... To cum for me..."
His words are enough to drive you insane, and you start stroking him faster, adoring the way his face twists in pleasure as he lets out heavy breaths. Your arousal is starting to hurt a bit, but you try to focus on him and how beautiful he looks.
"I had no idea I made you so angry, Sam," you confess, twisting your wrist in a way that made him buck his hips. "I am sorry, baby."
He chuckles, shaking his head and capturing your lips in a kiss before pulling away. "I wasn't angry at you. Not really...I was angry that somebody else got to have you."
"I know... It's okay. I am yours. I am here." You have no idea what made you say those words, but you can't take them back, so you fasten the pace on his cock and sneak your other hand under his shirt.
"Y-you have to slow down, please...I...Fuck, I don't want to cum just yet." You trace his muscles, relishing the feeling.
"But I want to see you cum for me, Sam." You collect his pre-cum again and spread it on his shaft, the wet sounds coming from your movements fill the car, making the whole thing pornographic. "Don't you wanna cum for me, Sam?"
"F-fuck...Yes, baby, I really do...You have no idea," he says between heavy breaths, his hips moving with your strokes. You smile at the way he's losing control under you. "But you will have to wait."
You frown as he stops your hand by grabbing your wrist gently. You let out a whine, and he laughs warmly as he puts a strand of hair behind your ear. "Patience, beautiful... I want to make you feel good, too. Do you want that?" His words feel like a million fireworks.
Before you can answer, you start feeling his other hand move to the hem of your jeans as he sneaks his hand inside. "Is this okay?" You nod, and he slides his hand down further, his fingers on top of your panties, before he finds your clit. The moment his fingers touch it, it's like you have been electrocuted, every nerve in your body bursting with pleasure. You moan loudly, closing your eyes, as he starts slowly tracing his fingers up and down your clothed core.
"Fuck, you are soaked...It must hurt so badly. You poor thing," Sam says, looking at you with pity. "Let me take care of that for you. Would you like that, baby?"
"Yes. Please," you beg with a whiney voice as he gently presses your panties against your folds.
"You sound so pretty like this... Do it again." There´s no poison in his voice, no mockery, just pure emotion. His fingers gently pull your panties to the side.
"Please, Sam. Touch me. Make me feel good." Sam groans at your words and then nods slowly before finding your clit and rubbing small circles on it.
The feeling is ten times more intense now, and you let out a loud moan, your head resting on his chest as he continues stroking you. "S-shit..."
"You are wearing too much right now," Sam says as he kisses your shoulder softly.
You swallow dryly and nod, straightening your body and removing your blouse and bra in a quick movement. You throw the clothes on your empty seat. "Better?"
Sam lets his eyes fall to your breasts, and he licks his lips. "Much better." He grins, and you feel a blush creep on your cheeks. You remember what he had said about your breasts and find yourself comparing his reaction then with now. There are almost no similarities to find.
You grab the hem of his shirt and start pulling it up, your hands shaking as Sam picks up the pace on your clit. You try to lift it, but the angle is awkward as Sam's hand is down your pants. "Sam, I want to see you too, baby."
He stops his fingers, and you whine slightly at the loss. Sam gives you an apologetic kiss before pulling his hand out of your pants and grabbing his shirt. You watch as he pulls it up and then throws it behind him. Your eyes immediately scan his chest, taking in every single detail. You have seen him without a shirt countless times, but you have always made sure not to stare at him like a creep. Now he's right here... For your viewing pleasure.
"What?" Sam asks with a laugh as you place your hands on his chest and run your fingers down his skin.
"Do you realize how hot you are? Like, for real? You are just so..." Words aren't enough to quantify your thoughts, so you simply move your hands up and down his abdomen. "Jesus Christ, Sam. Making a girl go crazy over here."
"I am sorry?"he says with a questioning tone, making you laugh at his silliness.
"Take the compliment," you tease him before placing your hands on his cock again. You run your fingers down his shaft.
"Never been too good at taking those... But thank you," he confesses. "You are also so beautiful. Your lips are so perfect, and your eyes have this amazing shade in the sunlight... And your hair, don't even get me started."
"And my ass? My boobs?" you tease with a smirk, making him laugh with a slight eye roll.
He sneaks a hand inside your pants again, his other hand moving to your ass as he squeezes it. You let out a heavy sigh as his fingers found your entrance, his digits circling it. "I was trying to be a gentleman...But for the record, your ass and boobs are perfect too. So fucking perfect."
"Yeah? Tell me how much, Sam," you lead him on, relishing the way he's teasing your entrance. You slightly lift your body so his fingers can find a better angle.
"Your ass is just so good to grab, and these jeans are driving me nuts... I also love how your boobs look in that red shirt you have. One time." Sam puts a finger inside of you, entering slowly so he does not hurt you. "We were working on a case, and you leaned down in front of me, just enough so I could get a perfect view of them, and... Let's just say I thought about that for a while."
You moan as his finger enters you. "Do...Fuck... Do you think about me like that often?"
"Well..." He adds another finger, making your mouth open. "I don't want to sound weird, but..." Sam arches his fingers towards him, making him hit your G-spot, and you let out a louder moan. "That's it, baby... As I was saying, I do think about you often. Yeah, I can't help it. You drive me insane, you do realize that, right?"
"Oh God, you are going to be the death of me." Sam hums, and you start slowly rocking your hips on his fingers, fucking yourself as best as you can. Sam groans at the sight and sinks his fingers deeper, moving them more rapidly, or as fast as he can, in the tight space between your entrance and jeans.
"You feel so tight around my fingers... So wet too. Fuck..." he whispers, moving your ass with your hips as he guides you. His words are familiar to you for a split second, but the warmth behind them is new.
"All because of you, Sam... It has always been you," you murmur, your eyes meeting his.
"I can't wait to be inside of you. I want to fuck you in every way possible inside the Impala. Is that okay with you, beautiful?"
You move your hands to his face and cup it, tangling your fingers with his soft hair. "Sam...Fuck...You are driving me insane."
"Now you know how you make me feel almost every day," he admits, and his fingers start moving faster as he presses his palm against your clit.
"I am sorry," you manage to say between soft moans. You can feel your nipples harden as pleasure builds in your lower stomach.
Sam reaches for your lips, but you pull away, making him frown. "Uh-uh. Make me cum first."
He arches an eyebrow at your boldness, a smirk on his lips. Sam picks up his pace, making your whole body jolt up, and you gasp, seeing how his biceps flex with his movements. You look at how his chest glistens with sweat, and you nearly cum just at the sight.
"You are quite the tease, aren't you?" Sam asks, and you weakly nod, your chest heaving as you flutter your eyes shut.
He reaches for your neck and starts kissing it, not roughly like he had done months ago, but gently... Lovingly... And you whine his name. You grab onto his shoulders for support as your thighs ache from moving up and down on his fingers.
The windows on the Impala start fogging up a bit, the temperature of your breathing contrasting with the cold of the air outside. You throw your head back, letting your hips thrust against him as your orgasm starts spilling over you.
It starts with a small tingle, and then it builds and builds until electricity runs through your veins. "Sam...Oh, Sam...Harder...I am cumming."
He groans against your neck and detaches his lips, looking at you as you let out a loud moan, a mixture of sounds that come from deep within your chest. Your walls clench around his fingers, and your body starts trembling. You gasp for air, trying not to pass out.
"Just like that..." he whispers, guiding you through it, and you collapse against his chest, breathing roughly.
You lick your dry lips, and Sam stops moving his fingers, letting you come down from your high. You kiss his collarbone, and his hand moves to your back as he brushes your sweaty skin. You feel him take out his fingers slowly. His arm moves up, and you open your eyes to see him lick his fingers clean.
"Sam!" you say in surprise, seeing what he's doing.
"What? It tastes good." He shrugs, and you laugh.
You look at him for a second before kissing him deeply, your tongues dancing with each other before you pull away. "You smell nice."
"You taste nice," he replies, his lips ghosting over yours.
"Yeah?" You rock your hips against, his boner and he almost winces. "You want to fuck me now before your dick explodes?"
Sam laughs, shaking his head to himself. "Charming."
"Always..." You move your hips again and he sucks in a breath, holding your waist in place.
"How do you want it?" His voice is rough and low against your lips.
You consider his question for a second. There are too many options to choose from, one sounding better than the other, but your brain decides the one thing you have always dreamed of.
"I... I want to see you. Be close to you," you explain with a blush on your cheeks. Sam smiles, his dimples showing on his face. "I can do that. We have to move to the backseat, though. There´s no space here."
"Good idea." You start getting up from his lap, but he grabs your waist, pulling you down for a passionate kiss. Afterward, you are left breathless. "What was that for?"
"Just making it up for all the times I thought about kissing you and I didn´t." Sam brushes your hair from your face. "Hey... Is this okay so far? Are you okay with this?"
"Sam..." you say, your voice sweet. "I have wanted this for years... I have wanted you for years."
Sam stares at you in awe for a few seconds, and you think that you might have ruined everything. Perhaps that had been too forward... Too much. Maybe he doesn´t feel that way about you. Maybe this is just his apology and nothing more.
"I think I am in love with you," he says instead.
Now it´s your turn to be surprised. A burst of happiness takes over your heart. "Confessing your love for me on the first date? A bit Ted Mosby, no?", you joke, trying to calm down your nerves. You had never been good at feelings.
"I am going to take that as an "I love you too"." He laughs, making you grin.
You reach for his face and kiss him before pulling away. "I think I am in love with you too, Sam Winchester... Now," You push against his chest, straightening your back. "Are you gonna fuck me in the backseat of the Impala or what?
Sam´s lips stretch into a grin, his cheeks slightly pink, and you can´t help but feel proud of his reaction. The way he could be so shy at times was one of the reasons why you loved him so much. "Yes, ma'am," he says, joking, and the nickname makes your pupils dilate. Sam notices immediately.
"Shut up." You try to cover it up with an embarrassed voice, but he's already grinning at you.
"That was hot...Didn't know you were into that," he says, stroking your back.
"What can I say? I am full of surprises." You wink, and his grin deepens. "Can you maneuver yourself to the backseat? I think I am going to have to get out of the car," Sam says.
You look at the space behind you and nod, figuring that you could slide towards it. "Ah... the boring part of sex... Trying to get to places. Gotta love to hate it."
Sam raises his eyebrows, giving you a "tell me about it" look. You pat his chest gently before pushing yourself to the backseat, your body struggling to fit through the two front seats. Sam´s hands help you, and then you feel a tap on your ass, making you laugh. "Okay, I think I got it. Your turn."
You find the time to kick off your shoes and start sliding off your jeans and panties while he opens the door. When you remove the last piece of clothing, breathless already from the struggle, you see Sam open the car door in front of you. You look up at him, elbows on the seat and feet spread apart. Sam´s eyes take your body in, his actions stopping as he sees you spread wide open for him, your naked body ready for him.
"Shit... You are...Perfect," he whispers, crawling on top of you. You feel like weeping from joy.
Just as he´s coming inside the car, you raise your back and stop him. Sam immediately freezes, and you see worry on his face. "Get rid of those pants and boxers first, tiger... It´s only fair."
"Oh. Right," he says, laughing. You bite your lip as he removes his clothes, glancing around to check if anybody is watching, but the place is empty. After a few more seconds, he throws his shoes and clothes inside the car, climbing on top of you as he closes the car door. "Better?"
"Much better," you murmur and grab the back of his neck, your thighs wrapped around his waist. You can now feel his cock against your folds; the sensation makes you shiver. You just want him to be as close to you as possible.
Sam starts kissing your neck, his hair falling on top of your shoulders as he goes lower and lower. You arch your back when his mouth reaches your nipple, his lips wrapping themselves around the hardened bud. He licks it gently, sucking a bit and making your head feel fuzzy. You are more than ready for him, and yet he´s still making sure you are dripping before he fucks you. That is what you expected of him. That is why you love him.
"Sam... That feels so good. Don´t stop," you encourage him between heavy breaths, your hands going to his hair.
Sam breathes in, and you feel his breath hit your chest, making you tingle. He moves to your other breast and does the same thing with his mouth. You can feel yourself drowning in pleasure, your thighs shaking as your entrance contracts with want. He stays there for a good few minutes before pulling away and kissing your stomach. You open your eyes and look down, seeing him position his head between your thighs. "You...Shit..." You can barely speak, but try your best to focus. "You don´t have to do that. It´s okay."
"But...Do you want me to?" he asks, brushing your thighs with his fingers. You bite your lip and feel your cheeks heat up. "I mean... I wouldn´t mind, but you must want to fuck me, no? I mean, you have already made me cum once."
Sam chuckles and shakes his head with amusement. "I don´t know what type of people you have had sex with, but... I don´t plan on just making you cum twice. I want to make you feel as good as possible... Besides," Sam lowers his mouth on your clit, hovering above it. "I want to taste you."
"Oh God...", is all you can say. Sam laughs softly, not breaking eye contact, before wrapping his lips around your clit. Your mouth opens in an "o", and your eyes flutter shut, feeling how his tongue lapses over your clit. "Oh, fucking God."
You grab his hair more firmly, holding yourself on his head as he licks and sucks on your clitoris, making your body shiver with pleasure. He finds an amazing pace right away, his mouth eating you out like his life depends on it. Never in a million years have you thought that this man was this good at giving oral. You expected him to be good, but this was better than anything you had ever imagined. He wasn´t too aggressive but not too gentle either, just the perfect amount of pressure and speed to slowly build you up to an orgasm.
"Fucks sake, Sam. You are so good at this." Sam moans against you, clearly liking your confession, and you let out a soft sob of pleasure. You feel his arms pull you against him, making his nose hit your pussy, and you arch your back, pressing yourself on him. The sounds coming from his tongue are filling up the Impala, the windows fully fogged as you try to suck in blessed oxygen.
You are about to cum. Hard.
"S-Sam... I am gonna cum. Oh god. I am almost there. Baby... just like that." You moan louder, yanking his hair by accident as a wave of pleasure starts crashing down on you. It starts in your lower belly and then expands to your entire body. It´s somehow stronger than the first one, and all you can do is moan his name and shake violently against his hold.
Sam only stops his mouth when he sees your back hit the car seat again, your chest heaving as you begin to calm down. He kisses your clit one last time before placing open-mouthed kisses on your thighs. You can feel his fingers caressing the back of your thighs, shooting you. "Are you okay?"
You open your eyes and clean the sweat from your forehead. "Yeah... Fuck, let me just catch my breath. I am exhausted."
"Of course, baby. Take your time," he replies, and you look down at him. You smile and put your hands on his face, brushing his jawline.
"Your cock must be ready to explode by now... I kinda feel bad," you confess with a chuckle.
"Don´t worry about me; seeing you cum like that was worth it." Sam smirks.
"Next time, I will make it up to you. I promise."
"And how..." Sam moves up, towering over your body. "Would you do that?"
You smirk, giving him "fuck me" eyes as you wrap your thighs around his waist again, pulling your hips up to find his cock. He immediately clenches his jaw, and you see how sensitive he is. "I have many ideas, but the one that sticks out to me the most is my mouth around your cock as I make you cum...Then..." Your hand travels down his body, finding his shaft. Sam groans as your fingers bump him gently. "I would swallow every single drop until there was nothing left. Would you like that?"
Sam´s eyes darken, and you see something shift inside of him. "You are so fucking sexy. Jesus fucking Christ, I can´t wait to be inside of you."
"Yeah?" You trace his cock up and down your folds, wetting it with your arousal. "Then fuck me, Sam. Fuck me with your big cock."
Sam´s jaw clenches as you guide him to your entrance. You bite your lip and raise your hips, feeling him slowly slip inside of you. You are already so wet and stretched open that there´s almost no resistance or pain, unlike the first time you two had sex. Of course, back then, things had been different... Much different. "S-shit... Are you okay? Am I hurting you?" he asks.
"I am fine, Sam. Everything is perfect. Keep going, baby." He nods before moving again. You let out a heavy breath as he fully entered you, the size of him making you feel so full. "Oh fuck. You are so tight. Shit." He groans.
Sam stops moving, breathing in and out slowly as you adjust your legs around his waist. His eyebrows are squeezed together, and he almost looks like he is in pain. You can feel his pulse around your walls; the feeling is driving you nuts. "I...I don´t think I can last too long... S-sorry," he whispers with an apologetic smile, looking at you.
"It´s okay. I want you to cum for me. It´s your turn to feel good," you say with a gentle voice.
"O-okay...Fuck." Sam starts moving inside of you, and his mouth opens as he groans. You think it's the most beautiful sound you have ever heard.
You place your hands on his back and feel his muscles move with his thrusts. You are still extremely sensitive, so every thrust is like pouring hot water on your skin: shooting but also burning.
"Am I making you feel good, Sam?" you murmur, your voice dripping with seduction.
"So good... I feel so good. You feel better than I imagined..." Sam gives you a cheap smile. "And I imagined a lot of things."
"Yeah, baby?" You can't believe how honest he's being. How boundless. It's like he's not afraid of saying the wrong thing anymore. Maybe it's just the heat of the moment, but you cherish every word.
"Oh yeah... You, fuck, you are always on my mind... Oh fuck, just like that..." Sam says as you clench around him.
"Me too, baby... You are always on my mind, too. Your eyes, your lips, the faces you make when you don't like something, or the way you laugh when I tell a joke." He gives you a particularly hard thrust, his cock changing angles and hitting your G-Spot suddenly. "Oh fuck...Right there."
Sam thrusts there again, harder, and you clench around him again, making him let out a soft whine. The sound makes you go insane.
"I am so close...I am trying to hold it, but...Fuck, you feel so warm and tight around me," Sam justifies himself.
"It's okay, Sam. I want you to cum inside of me. I want to feel your cum fill me up, baby," you whisper, leaning toward his lips. You lick his top lip softly, tasting yourself on him.
Sam just moans your name, breathing into your mouth, and you feel one hand sneak down your stomach. He reaches for your clit and starts circling it, trying to make you cum.
"Sam... Focus on cumming. This is about you."
"Uh-uh. I want to feel you cum on my cock. I want to see your beautiful face scream my name." His thrusts become harder, and his fingers become quicker.
You begin feeling something different- strange even. It's too much, and it begins inside of you. Deep inside of you. You are scared for a second, but quickly arch your back as you feel how hard Sam is working you up to a third orgasm.
"I...I am gonna cum, baby...Are you close?" Sam asks, almost begging you to cum.
"I...I think so... I feel... Oh, God. I feel weird. It's so intense." Sam smirks a bit, looking at you.
"That's normal... It's a good thing. Believe me." You trust him, and you let yourself succumb to the feeling. Your body feels like a supernova as you begin feeling every muscle shake, and your ears start ringing.
"I am gonna cum. Oh fuck. I am cumming. Fuck!" Sam warns you with a broken voice, and then you feel him thrust more unevenly. His fingers on your clit come to a halt as he spills inside of you, and his eyes shut as his mouth releases loud moans. You think you hear your name among them.
The feeling of his cum inside of you is enough to make you tip over the edge, and you arch your back, throwing your head back as you feel yourself float. Sam sees this and moves his fingers on your clit again, helping you cum.
Your third orgasm is nothing like something you have ever experienced before. For once, you feel something come out of your entrance, dripping down his cock and making you cry out. Secondly, your soul feels like it's floating above your body, with nothing but pleasure around you. You think you are gonna die for a few seconds. Hell, you think you are already dead. Sam's voice guides you back to reality as he whispers praiseful words against your ear.
"You are so beautiful. So pretty for me." You manage to pick up those last words, your ears working again as you come crashing down.
You gasp in a breath, breathing life into your body again. Your muscles are on fire, and every nerve you have is on edge. It's like you have run a marathon.
"What...was that?" you ask between breaths.
You open your eyes to find Sam kissing your neck softly, his cock softening inside of you. "You just squirted."
"I what?!" you ask, shocked. Never in your life had you done that... You honestly thought that it was something pornstars faked for videos until now.
"Yup...You looked really hot too," Sam says with a smirk, making you blush.
"But...the car...Dean is gonna kill us," you immediately say, feeling your wetness drip down your ass. Your muscles begin to ache.
"Probably...I say it was worth it. Wouldn't you agree?" Sam smiles at you with raised eyebrows, doing that face you love.
"Yeah..." You bring him for a slow kiss. "I think so too."
You kiss for a little bit before Sam pulls out of you gently, making you hiss with overstimulation. You see him kneel in front of you, his eyes on your pussy. "I wish I could carve this view into my brain."
"I will see if Cas can do that. He probably could, you know?" you say, joking.
"Oh God, please don't. I don't want anybody to see you like this...Like ever."
You raise yourself to a sitting position, reaching for his body. You wrap your arms around his torso, pulling him closer. "So... does that mean we are exclusive?"
"Exclusive? You are spending too much time with Dean." He brushes your back softly, his arms holding you. "But yes, I want you to be with me. Like...Officially."
"Sam Winchester... Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?" you ask, grinning.
Sam's cheeks heat up, and he looks embarrassed. "I mean, I know now is probably not the right time... You are still pretty hurt with me, and it's perhaps too soon and-"
You shut him up with a strong kiss, your tongues dancing together. Sam hums in your mouth, and you break the kiss, pressing your foreheads together. "I accept the offer."
He laughs at your choice of words. "Okay then...I don't have any flowers, but I can get you that chicken sandwich right now if you want."
You chuckle. "Sounds good, baby."
You hold each other for a few more minutes, feeling how warm and soft your bodies are, pressed against one another. It's crazy how something you have dreamed of, something you had thought impossible, was finally real. After everything. After all the pain and suffering, after you had given up, after you had lost a piece of yourself, there it was...
Things weren't perfect yet. Sam was still dealing with years of torture, and you still had your own issues, but it was good enough for you. It was more than good because, for the first time in years, you actually felt at peace.
Having a soul has pros and cons. You feel immense pain, but without it, you could never feel the pure love you have for Sam. That was what made humans human.
(being a supe with powerful regeneration isn't great. Being a breeding vessel for Vought isn't so great either)
Being a supe wasn't as amazing as everyone thought it was. At least not for you. You were a regenerative supe, one that could regenerate faster then any other supe. Eventually Vought realised you were the perfect opportunity to breed supes. You couldn't die, age and you would heal straight after childbirth. You'd forgotten about escaping a long time ago and now you were treated quite well. You had a nice apartment, food, money and all the clothes and designer bags you could ask for. Maybe it didn't matter if you had to be constantly pregnant. You were about 7 months along in this pregnancy. You'd lost count how many babies you'd had, you didn't even see them as living beings anymore. It was easier that way. You'd began popping out babies around the 70s, even having a few of soldier boys children. The one you were carrying now was Homelanders. They often used his sperm considering he was the most powerful in the seven. Only thing you hated was that Homelander became possessive over you once he learned you would carry most of his children. You made your way down to the labs in the morning. They needed to check how the baby was going, you were used to it by now. You made it to the lab and saw Homelander waiting. You groaned and rubbed your head. 'You're absolutely glowing, my darling. Your breasts are looking...full,' he said as he licked his lips. You rolled your eyes and laid down on one of the beds.
'You don't need to be here for this,' you said. He chuckled and began to rub your stomach as you relaxed on the hospital bed.
'I'm not busy and I want to be there for you, mommy,' he said. You groaned and rubbed your face again.
'No! What did I say about that goddamn name?' you said as his hand stopped.
'Fine, fine. I won't use it,' he said. You rolled your eyes as the doctor entered.
'Looking glowing like usual, my dear,' she said as you closed your eyes and let her start the ultrasound. Homelander stood beside you and watched as the image of the baby showed up. 'Still a perfectly healthy little girl. She's going to be a big girl, too.'
'Definitely my kid then,' Homelander said with a smirk. You rolled your eyes again and looked at him.
'Don't you have that podcast thing to do today?' you asked.
'Yes, it's not for another hour,' he said. You wanted to face palm, another hour with him around wasn't ideal.
After the doctor told you the baby was still nice and healthy you wanted to go back to your apartment and enjoy a bath, but of course Homelander had other ideas. You were preparing to leave when he grabbed you from behind and buried his face in the crook of your neck. 'You're so big and swollen,' he whispered.
'Why do you make everything sound so gross?' you asked as he began kissing your neck. You pulled away and looked at him. 'What's the one rule?'
'Not to have sex. I'm not going to have sex, I just want to touch you. Is that a crime?' he asked.
'Sweetheart, this whole thing is just a business transaction. We won't even know the child, it'll get shipped off to God knows where like usual.'
'I know, but you're still carrying my child. That gives me the right to touch you,' he said as he moved closer.
'You do realise I've given birth to your siblings? And that I've fucked your father?' you asked. His jaw clenched a little before he smirked.
'I'm very aware. I wish you had given birth to me,' he said as he licked his lips again. You groaned and shoved past him.
'Nope! Not dealing with your gross shit today!' you shouted as you left him alone in the lab.
--
After some relaxing time alone you headed to the gym to do some light exercise, it usually helped when you felt uncomfortable because of the baby. You were walking on the treadmill when Firecracker entered. You groaned and continued walking. You couldn't stand her one bit and often had to stop yourself from throwing her out the window.
'The amazing mother to be! Shouldn't you be taking it easy, darling?' she said. You rolled your eyes like you did almost 100 times a day.
'Exercise is good for my body and also for the baby,' you said without looking at her.
'You and homelander spend a lot of time together.'
'Yes, well I would rather it be the opposite and he stop bothering me,' you said as she chuckled.
'You're quite hold, aren't you? I bet you wouldn't say that if he were here.'
'I would, and I have. He doesn't scare me, he actually listens to me,' you said. She stepped closer and stood beside the treadmill.
'Do you love him?' she asked. You looked at her in disgust.
'God, no. He's like a goddamn annoying puppy. Our relationship is just business.'
'And that's why he's always touching you? For business?' she asked.
'Homelander is possessive. Especially when I'm carrying his child. You know what he's like,' you said. Firecracker reached up and turned off the treadmill. You turned to her and smiled. 'Have you ever been slapped by an eighty year old pregnant woman?' you asked as she looked at you in confusion.
'You're eighty? I knew you didn't age, but that's quite the wisdom you must have.' You stepped off the treadmill and wiped some of the sweat off your forehead.
'What do you want? I'm not in the mood.'
'I just want to understand why homelander likes you so much.'
'And I told you, I'm carrying his baby. Plus, I knew him when he was a child. I met him a few times and being without a family he probably had a small obsession with the pregnant women,' you said. She crossed her arms and looked at you.
'You knew him as a child and now you're having his child? It's a little sick isn't it?'
'You're apart of vought and you're surprised they would do something like that? Open your eyes, sweetheart,' you said as you pushed past her. 'Don't bother me again.'
--
You made it back to your apartment and fell asleep on the couch. When you awoke again you felt groggy and like you’d been asleep for years. You groaned and opened your eyes to see you weren’t in your apartment anymore.
‘As beautiful as the day we met,’ a voice said as you glanced up to see Soldier boy. You groaned and collapsed back against the bed.
‘Why couldn’t you stay dead?’
‘That’s really what you want to say to me right now, huh? Did you even notice I was missing?’ He asked. You looked at him and rolled your eyes.
‘Yes, and I prayed every night your death was brutal,’ you said before he slapped you across the face. Just as he did so two other man walked in.
‘Woah! Let’s not hit the pregnant woman!’ The younger man said as he rushed forward. You looked at him and held your hands out.
‘Help me sit up,’ you said. He carefully pulled you into a sitting position and your hand rested on your pregnant stomach.
‘This is the slut I was talking about,’ Soldier Boy said as you rolled your eyes.
‘Alright, let’s not go shoutin’ slurs at the lady,’ the older man said as you looked at him. You took a moment before realisation dawned on you.
‘Butcher…’
‘So, you do know me, luv. I’m flattered,’ he said. You sighed and looked around trying to find something to tie your hair up with. You groaned and reached behind to tie your hair into a knot instead. ‘You seem quite casual for someone who’s been kidnapped.’
‘Yeah well, not much shocks me these days,’ you said. You looked at Ben and he looked like he wanted to slap you again. ‘What, Ben? You want me to run into your arms? Want me to cry and say thank god you’re alive?’
‘It would be nice. I didn’t realise I mattered to little to you,’ he grumbled.
‘Forgive me for not forming a connection with the man I was forced to spread my legs for every nine months,’ you said. Hughie’s face went red as he quickly looked away.
‘Heard your having my son’s baby now. That’s a bit sick, isn’t it?’ He said. You rolled your eyes and felt like punching him.
‘Well, thankfully now they just inseminate me instead of making me get fucked,’ you said. Soldier boy stepped forward and Hughie moved to your side just in case.
‘I bet you’d still love it, huh? You miss my cum between,’ you quickly cut him off by kicking him in the nuts. You looked at Billy.
‘British man, slap him for me.’
‘Well, I’m tryna get the bloke on my side,’ he said. You raised an eyebrow before Hughie helped you stand up.
‘Fine, I’ll do it.’ As Ben stood up you slapped him hard against the face. He went to grab you but Butcher quickly stepped in and used a tranquiliser on him. Ben fell to the ground as you sighed and placed your hands on your hips. ‘So, why have you kidnapped me?’
‘We’re aware you…breed supes for Vought. We need to put a stop to that. It was soldier boy who told us about you and wanted you out of Vought,’ Hughie said.
‘I bet he said I was this gorgeous babe with a great pair of tits?’ You said.
‘Along those lines, yes,’ Hughie muttered.
‘Yes, well I’m sure he didn’t bring up the part where he used to request I be sedated when he would have sex with me because he “didn’t enjoy my sounds of pain when he was too rough” or something,’ you said. Hughie stared at you in shock. Billy stepped forward and looked at you.
‘I’m gonna take one guess and say you haven’t had a say in any of these pregnancies?’ He asked.
‘You’re smarter than you look. No, none were my choice. I can’t even remember how many babies I’ve had by now. After the first four I stopped caring about the children so I wouldn’t get hurt,’ you said. Hughie looked at you sadly.
‘I’m guessing they take the children away from you?’
‘Yeah, but it’s not like I want them anyway. Not when they’re a product of…you know,’ you said. The two men nodded and were glad you weren’t as brainwashed as they thought you would be.
‘So, the one you’re carrying now is Homelander’s?’ Billy asked.
‘Yeah, this is the third one that’s his. I’m just glad I don’t have to have sex with the fucking creep,’ you said. Billy chuckled and led you out of the room where Ben still laid unconscious. You groaned and sat on the crappy couch as Hughie went to fetch you some water.
‘You hate the bastard, then?’
‘Yep, he’s always touching me and being weird around me. At least he actually listens to me,’ you said. Billy sat across from you.
‘He bloody listens to you?’
‘Yeah, he’s a fucking man child with mommy issues. I’m the closest thing to a mother figure he’s ever had,’ you said. Billy looked at you in disgust.
‘He sees you as a mother figure and still wants to touch you in that way?’
‘Yes, are you surprised?’ You asked as Billy scoffed.
‘No, I know he’s a deranged freak.’
Hughie returned with some water and you smiled. ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ you said as you noticed him blushing a little. Billy chuckled and looked at you again.
‘Are you this maternal with everyone?’
‘I’m well and truly old enough to be your mother, Billy.’
‘Bloody hell, when were you born?’ He asked.
‘1946, in September to be exact,’ you said as they stared at you in shock.
‘You’re bloody eighty!?’ Billy said as you laughed.
‘Hey, I’m seventy nine.’
Hughie chuckled and sat down next to Billy.
‘Well, you look bloody good for your age,’ Billy said. You smiled and took some small sips of water.
‘What’s the plan then, boys? Can’t exactly kill me,’ you said.
‘We’re gonna keep you away from Vought,’ Billy said.
‘And what about the baby?’
‘We plan to…use it to our advantage,’ Hughie said. You sat forward more and looked at them.
‘How do you plan on using a baby to your advantage?’
‘Well, the kid will have powers. Plus, it’ll be a good bargaining tool for Vought and Homelander,’ Billy said. You thought for a moment.
‘I don’t know… Do you really want a baby around?’
‘Well, we’re going to set up a hide out. Somewhere Vought won’t find you. Somewhere you can take care of the child,’ Hughie said.
‘And I’m guessing I don’t get a say in this?’ You asked.
‘We could try abortion, luv. But considering the baby is a supe we don’t know what would happen,’ Billy said. You sighed and nodded, knowing he was right. You placed your hand on your stomach.
‘I don’t want to get my hopes up,’ you whispered.
‘What do you mean?’ Hughie asked.
‘I don’t want to be excited about finally getting to keep my own baby just for someone to take her from me,’ you whispered. Hughie sat beside you and offered you a smile.
‘We’re going to do everything we can to protect you and the baby. We won’t even let soldier boy know the location. He’s useful, but we won’t let him near you,’ Hughie said. You smiled and took his hand.
‘You’re a good kid… Thank you. I guess it’s worth a shot. I’ve been nothing but a damn breeding machine since the 80s, may as well risk whatever I have left,’ you said. Hughie smiled and you felt the baby start to kick, you guided Hughie’s hand to your stomach so he could feel it. He chuckled when he felt the movement against his hand.
‘So, it’s a girl?’ He asked.
‘Yeah, she’s healthy. The doctor says she’s gonna be a damn big baby too,’ you said. Billy looked at you with a fond smile. He knew he couldn’t protect Becca when she was pregnant, so he was going to do everything he could to protect you. You heard a noise coming from the room and Billy groaned and stood up.
‘That’ll be soldier boy waking up. I’ll handle it.’
Summary- Postponing his original sabbatical plans, Robby finds a quaint town at one of the most northern points of the country. He's quickly taken aback by a waitress at the first diner he walks into.
Contains- 18+ SMUT MDNI. p in v sex, oral (f receiving), hangover nausea, alcohol use, porn with lots and lots of plot :) lmk if i missed anything!
A/N- the town in this is heavily inspired by my love for northern michigan aka the best part of the best state. divider from @thecutestgrotto !
A soft sun welcomes the calm morning. It streaks through the windshield of Robby's recently swapped Ford Ranger. Unlike his bike, it's built for the curvy, tree lined roads of the small northern town he's traipsing through.
His lids start to droop, stomach growling from the endless hours of driving. He perks up at a neon sign cutting through the pale blue skies. Soon thereafter, wafts of bacon, coffee, and oil drift through his cracked windows, and his stomach does the steering for him.
He's the only car in this parking lot, and he's surprised to see a little white building with pink trimming. Bright pink letters splash across the white wooden door.
Petal and Bloom- it reads in loopy letters, and stepping through the door is like walking through a time machine. It's pure 50s, a vibrant turquoise coating the walls, peach booths lining the width of the pink and white checkered floor.
He can't help but let a chuckle escape his lips, the giddiness knocked completely out of him at the sight of the waitress that greets him.
You're pretty. Gorgeous, even. The shiny gloss of your lips, the curve of your hips, the blush painting your cheeks- they make his heart skip in a way he thought wasn't possible anymore.
You sidle up to him, the sweetest diner dress adorning your figure. It's pink, with a pretty name looped into the stitching. It hangs off your frame with ease, pulled tight at the waist by your white apron. You bounce on your tennis shoes, a sweet smile on your sweet face.
"Hi! Dining in?" You chirp, and it's so perky he debates getting a coffee.
"Yeah, just me," Robby huffs, nodding his head and averting his gaze.
Looking at you nearly paralyzes him, but looking and talking to you? He feels like he's 14 again, talking to Patricia Connors at her locker the week before homecoming.
He slides into the booth you cheerily lead him to, cheeks heating at the new position. He looks up at you now, the early morning sun coating you in a golden glow. Your eyes sparkle in the light, and he swallows a thick lump in his throat.
"What can I get started for you, sir?" You ask, and guilt pools in his stomach at the name.
"Please, call me Robby," he waves you off, and you nod lightly. Your instant obedience gets his heart racing, and he smooths a hand down the back of his neck. It does nothing to self soothe.
Chill out, you gross old man, he kicks himself, clearing his throat before answering you.
"Can I just start with a coffee?" He rasps, eyes trained on the menu in front of him, only darting them up when you walk away.
The sway in your hips nearly knocks him unconscious, dark dots literally starting to pepper his vision. The clink of a cheap plastic glass snaps him out of his senselessness.
He sees water, accompanied by a mug of coffee and a piece of toast he's surprised was made so fast.
"You looked like you were about to pass out," you say, apprehensively.
He makes the mistake of looking up at you, your small smile rendering him breathless.
"Thanks," he breathes, and it's a pathetic croak in the back of his throat.
You chuckle, flipping your notepad open. You poise a pink pen to the paper, a pensive brow pointing right at him.
"What else can I get you?" You ask, and he rattles off his order- unable to resist the bacon he smelled a mile back.
"Alright, that'll be a while," you quip, snapping it shut in the wake of his confusion. "As you can see, we're packed to the brim. There's no way the kitchen will be able to get this out in under an hour. That okay?"
The empty sound of the diner fills the space between you. You're joking. He knows, somewhere deep in his semi-consciousness that you are, but his exhausted haze clouds his logical reasoning.
"What?" Is all he can manage, and he wants to kick himself.
"Nothing, sir," you chuckle, and miraculously, he doesn't feel embarrassed or ashamed, but endeared, almost. "I'll be back shortly."
He watches you walk away again, and curses under his breath. He runs a flat palm down his face, trying to scrub out the weariness in his eyes. His heart pounds a symphony against his chest, ringing even in his ears.
He has no idea what happened back there, can't remember a single time he dropped the ball while flirting. It came so easily to him in Pittsburgh, when he was at his worst.
Another thing clicks, something his therapist has taught him to identify. When we recover from trauma, our brain puts together puzzle pieces that have been scattered around for too long. Or something like that.
He makes a match now, realizing that his desperation for validation projected on his female counterparts, romantic or not. It's jarring for a moment, but he's gotten better at acknowledging it, deciding what he'll do better in the future, and moving on.
It's methodical, the steps to this procedure. It feels right for his brain, to check things off in a sort of list. It feels less daunting, actually doable for him.
Once again, his thoughts are interrupted by plastic dishware clinking on the table. He perks a little, the steam of his eggs and scent of his bacon enough to restart his nervous system.
He nods his head at you, muttering a small thank you, heart sinking a little at the thought of your interaction being over.
Like you can read his thoughts, you slide into the booth across from him, propping your chin in your hand.
"Is this okay?" You ask, smiling. "You seem like you could use a little bit of company."
You have no idea, he thinks.
"That'd be great, thanks," is what he says. He glances around, looking for any other employee in the building. "This won't get you in trouble, will it?" He asks, voice quieter than it was before.
A chuckle stifles past your lips, and the sound swirls around his head like little blue birdies in a cartoon. He feels like a caricature around you, a dopey, wide eyed Popeye, smitten by Olive Oil.
"No," you respond, and relief washes over him. "My best friend owns this place, she's not even clocked in. Still hungover from last night."
There's a teasing lilt to your voice, and he smiles, thinking about what it must be like to know you. To have known you, well enough to work together and live in the same small town together.
He does laugh at this information, eyes finding his plate. He grabs a piece of bacon, nibbling on it lightly without breaking eye contact.
"So, what brings you to our little corner of the world?" You ask him, with the familiarity of a life lived in the same place.
He shrugs, looking at the window to survey the scene. It's remote, located off the highway on the right and a small side street to the left. The left hand road leads to a slightly bigger downtown, if his strained vision proves correct.
"I'm a doctor," he starts, and it feels foreign falling from his lips. "I was…" he starts, and all the possible things he could say dance around in his brain. "…burnt out," is what he lands on.
That's one way to put it.
Your mouth twists downward, brows furrowing. It's not pity, though, and it's not sympathy, either. Both of those would have immediately triggered something deep and angry within him.
No, what he sees is more like empathy. The glint in your eye, the purse of your lips, the nod of your head tells him that you relate. It's what he's choosing to believe, anyway, as he doesn't have any factual information to back this up. He feels it pretty strongly, though, and he's learning that's not always a bad thing.
"I get what that's like," you sigh, and his ears perk up like a dog.
His heart pounds at the immediate validation, swirling a euphoric rush through his veins.
"Yeah?" He asks, voice lilting and a bit pitchy.
You nod again, pretty gold earrings dangling with the motion.
"I just got fired," you admit, and now it's his turn to frown. "That's why I'm working at my best friend's diner at 28."
There's a civil war brewing inside him, the guilt of hearing your age at battle with the giddiness your vulnerability makes him. It all results in a sore tummy, and he shovels scrambled eggs in his mouth to try and tamper it down.
"Please," he says, once he's swallowed, taken a sip of water and grounded himself. "You have your entire life ahead of you."
There's a brief pause in your rapport, then, the weight of his words hanging heavier than intended. You don't seem to mind, unless, again, his calculations are incorrect. He's been proven to read you pretty well so far, though, so he's hopeful.
The sparkle in your eye helps. The sun is now fully up, hanging high in the sky as mid-morning dawns on the both of you. It shines through the window, landing perfectly on you.
It takes his breath away, and he allows himself a moment to sink into it, to enjoy it. Instead of feeling guilty, racking his brain for all the reasons he wouldn't deserve to even enjoy a nice conversation, he indulges. That's what the sabbatical is for, right?
"And you don't?" You ask.
His face crinkles in a smile, dipping his head down to try and hide the wrinkles around his eyes. Shock paralyzes him when he feels your soft fingers tucking under his jaw and lifting him back up to you.
You're smiling when he meets your gaze, but then you give him a showy pout. It sends a cacophony of butterflies loose in his belly, and he feels like a school boy. He sips on his coffee, the caffeine doing nothing to quell the giddiness erupting within him.
"What's that face for?" He asks, and his soft tone surprises him.
"You're not smiling anymore," you jut your bottom lip out, and it's taking everything to not lean over the table, take them between his own lips, and suck.
"Why do I need to smile?" He asks, and feels ridiculous almost instantly.
You deserve to smile, Michael, you deserve to enjoy things, Dr. Parker would say, and he repeats it in his head like a mantra.
"You have these sweet lines around your eyes when you smile," your hand once again brands his skin, now your open palm cupping his cheek.
He's stunned at your abrasiveness, pathetically intrigued by what you have to offer. His cheek heats under your touch, and he spots the tiny smile creeping on your lips.
"They're nice," you remark, removing your hand from his face.
It's cold instantly without your touch, a shiver unzipping his spine at the loss of contact.
The moment floats between you two, vibrant and sparkly like a crystal ball. He knows exactly what his fortune is. He's looking at it.
"So," you say, effectively popping the magical bubble, "a doctor, huh?"
He nods, apprehensive to the topic. He can't remember the last time he talked about his job with someone who knew nothing about it. He can't remember the last time he's been this removed from Pittsburgh. It's…scary. Nice, but scary.
He powers through anyway, allowing himself the fortune he's so gracelessly stumbled upon.
"Yeah," he gruffs, smoothing his hand over the back of his neck.
He can't yet bring himself to say more, bottom lip sliding between his teeth.
"Can I guess what you do?" You ask, and he quickly nods.
This, somehow, eases him. It allows him the vulnerability of sharing the information, without the pressure of finding the right words, racking his anxious mind for something to mask how horrible it's been the past few years.
You stroke your chin with your forefinger and thumb, brows puzzled in the sweetest way. He fights the urge to kiss away the crease between your brows.
"Emergency medicine," you say, and his blood runs cold.
You perk up at his reaction, knowing immediately you got it right.
"Yay!" You squeal, clapping your hands together. "What a crazy coincidence! I don't know why I even guessed that, you just seem like you've seen some shit."
He chuckles at that, a genuine, cathartic chuckle.
"Ooh, you have no idea," he says, and your smile makes his heart race.
"Where is it? Are you guys typically busy?" You ask, and he almost envies your naivete.
"Uh, 's in Pittsburgh," he says, eyes trained on his lap.
His ears are on fire, heart roaring in his chest but he pushes through, even though his voice is croaky and he feels like he might throw up.
"We're a trauma center, so…" he trails off, gaining the courage to look back up at you. "Yeah, I've seen some shit."
You give him a kind smile, a sweet giggle peeling from your lips, and he positively melts. He can't remember the last time someone looked at him like this, like he was something, anything else than Dr. Robby.
"Well, I'm looking forward to hearing some stories," you propose, tone uneasy.
"Yeah, I'm sure I can make that work," he says, sipping his coffee, nibbling his toast.
"How long are you in town?" You ask, and his heart sinks at the thought of ever leaving this cozy bubble.
"I'm here for three months," he says, and is almost prideful by the way you perk up at this news. "Plenty of time to swap stories."
"I can't wait," you reply, and his stomach cartwheels. "Where are you staying?" You ask, and he raises a brow.
"Why? Y'gonna come murder me?" He asks, resting his back against the cushiony booth.
"Yup, you caught me!" You giggle, playing along. It electrifies him.
He laughs, and can't help but notice how easy this feels. It's exhilarating, addicting, and utterly terrifying.
"No," you roll your eyes once your laughter dies down. "I've lived here my entire life and I probably already know exactly where you're at."
"Well, with your track record of guessing things about me," he starts, pulling out his phone to open up his Airbnb app. "You probably will."
He turns his phone around, and goes still once he sees your face fall. You grab his phone, pinching the screen to zoom in and out, eyes glossing over. His gut twists, and he feels absolutely awful.
Before he can spiral, he decides to take action instead.
"I'm so sorry, did I say something?" He asks, shaky fingers plucking his phone back.
You shake your head, wiping a stray tear from the corner of your eye.
"Gosh no, no not at all," you insist, and it does nothing to sway his guilt. "That's actually uhm-" you swallow, and his heart sinks even deeper. "That's my grandparents' cottage."
"Oh," he blinks, unsure how to take this news.
"They always rent it out over the summer. They're in the Hamptons," you roll your eyes, and he can tell there's more to this story. "My whole family is, actually."
For the first time this entire conversation, you seem…small. You're avoiding his gaze, fiddling with your apron, pouting your lips.
"And you're here?" He asks, and you just shrug.
"I just moved back from New York, actually," you confess, and he leans forward, giving you his full attention. "I got fired from the marketing firm my grandfather owns."
His mouth twists downward, once again heeding your earlier understanding.
"One of the jackass accountants tried feeling me up," you say, and the confession rocks him. Not only does your brazen confidence scare the shit out of him, he's also overcome with a severe need to beat this preppy New York accountant's ass.
"I reacted maybe a bit…harsher than I should have," you continue. "I turned around and just slapped him. I honestly wasn't thinking, it was an instinctive reaction. So, I got fired for disorderly conduct."
"I'm sorry…" Robby trails off, genuinely confused. "They fired you for disorderly conduct? Not the guy putting his hands where he wasn't fucking supposed to in the first place?"
You nod, to his everlasting fury.
"On top of that, my boyfriend dumped me," you mutter. "Said he couldn't be with a 'snitch', like we're in third grade."
Anger flares white hot within him, furrowing his brows and burning his stomach until there's nothing left but ash.
"I had to come home," you say. "My family is not happy with me. I also have some stories."
"Well, I'm really looking forward to hearing them," he says, only able to offer kindness in wake of this news.
"Likewise," you murmur.
The sun shines between you once again, illuminating Robby's now empty plate. Your eyes find it, and he sees you immediately jump back into waitress mode.
"Let me take care of this!" You chirp, swiping his plate away and whisking it to the kitchen.
He feels cold at the loss of you, eyes trained on your frame the entire time. He watches you ring up the order, bringing his check back to the table.
He opens his mouth to speak, but is forcefully interrupted by the door swinging open.
"Oh. My. God. GIRL!" Another young woman bursts through the door, looking a bit worse for wear.
Her hair is mussy, makeup smeared and clothes wrinkled.
"Is my uniform here?" She asks, skittering through the diner.
"Yeah, in the back!" You shout, and she responds with a comical, "THANK GOD!"
"Aaaand that's Cherry, my best friend," you quip, collecting his payment and dispersing the change. "I'll see you tomorrow, Robby?" You ask, and he nods eagerly.
"Go and get some sleep, you'll need it," you tap your notepad on the table to see him out.
He reluctantly finds the door, slinging his bag over his shoulder before looking back at you one last time.
"And a tip?" You add, and he raises his brow. "The guest bed is comfier than the master bed. Trust me."
"Thanks," he chuckles, pushing the door open, back into the real world.
The next few weeks are almost always a mirror of that first morning. Robby coming in at the break of dawn, you two sitting over a coffee together.
He came in that second day, looking much more rested than the day before, raving about the mattress in the guest room.
You'd laughed, giving him a playful 'told you so!' before assuming the exact same booth he'd had the day before.
Cherry's been more than cool, allowing you to sit and talk with him when you're really supposed to be on the clock.
You repay her in gossip, gushing to her about all the ways the hot, mysterious, older doctor has been flirting with you.
At least, you think he's flirting with you. He dances all around it, a teasing twinkle in his eye, a small smirk on his lips. Cherry's convinced he wants you. You're not so sure.
He always makes a point to confirm with you, and Cherry, that your early morning chats are okay. You can tell he feels guilty every time he asks, and in a sick way, it makes your heart swell. It still doesn't stop him from talking with you until the next customer comes in.
He comes in so early, this typically only happens after you've banked a good hour and change of conversation, each one more titillating than the last.
This morning, you'd finished your conversation with an invite. It was bold, unexpected, tumbling from your lips before you could have stopped it.
"Hey!" You chirp, just as he's about to push the door open. "Cherry and I are hosting a little something after closing hours."
"A little something?" He raises his brow, and your stomach somersaults.
Tonight, you and Cherry were debuting Bloom and Petal: After Hours. It's been a passion project of Cherry's, turning the daytime breakfast bar into a lively night scene.
You reference the framed certificate now resting behind the bar, some fancy scribbling displaying your newly acquired liquor license.
Robby's face shifts in understanding, a small smile hiding behind nervous eyes.
"A bar with a bunch of 25 year olds?" He quirks a brow, and your heart sinks.
You've never really addressed the age gap between you two, though it feels glaringly obvious, and even foolish now. Your face burns, and the words that leave your mouth leave you humiliated.
"For me?" You ask, cringing as they fall out of your mouth like rotten teeth.
He doesn't seem to share this sentiment, though, as his brown eyes glimmer in the light, his telltale sign you've gotten to his soft spot. Your heart rate picks up, and you look at him expectantly.
"Maybe," he murmurs, and you'll take it. It's something. "See you," he says, and he's out the door.
"See you," you breathe, into the empty diner.
Bloom and Petal: After Hours is thumping, and you've been on your feet for hours. Sweat drips from your brow as you weave through the crowd of sticky bodies of people you've known since grade school.
You're thankful to have ditched the thick, cartoony outfit for a pink Bloom and Petal t-shirt, paired with denim shorts. You finally escape behind the bar for a brief moment, attending to a few drinks and avoiding the crowd.
Your eyes keep darting towards the door, expecting a familiar face to walk through. Disappointment spreads deep in your stomach like a disease with each ring of the front bell.
"He's still not here?" Cherry yells over the crowd, and you shake a sad head no.
She rolls her eyes, forever on your side.
"Boo! What a dick! I thought he liked you!" She squeals, and her use of past tense, though unintentional, makes your tummy turn.
"I thought he did, too," you mutter, furiously cranking the beer tap.
Foam aggressively overflows the pint, and you crash it down on to the bar a little too harshly. Cherry rears her head back at this, eyes wide, and now it's your turn to roll your eyes.
"I'm so dumb!" You force a smile, your tone terminally delightful. "The stupidest girl in school!"
Cherry chortles at this, and you give her a sardonic smile. Then, you hear it again.
Ding!
Your head whips towards the door, like a pathetic dog waiting for its long gone owner. Cherry sees this too, wincing at the action.
Shame burns deep in your belly, and you turn, pressing your palms flat on the wall, leaning your forehead against them. A long groan strangles your throat, Cherry rubbing a soothing hand down your back.
"Take a minute, babe, it's been a crazy night," she says before darting to the other side of the bar.
You feel ridiculous, of course he wouldn't show up. He's about twice the age of everyone here, he's clearly here running away from something, and most of all, he's not your fucking boyfriend.
That last fact makes you sick, and you dart into the kitchen to get a fresh breath. You barrel your way through the bustling back to get through the door, bursting open like a treasure chest.
The relief of the fresh air folds you in half, hands resting on your knees as you will yourself not to vomit. Nausea spins your head, quelling with each breath of fresh, summer air.
"Woah!" You hear a familiar voice, and your eyes dart up to find the man you've been looking for all night.
He's like an angel in the fading sunset, approaching you gently from the other side of the parking lot.
"Robby!" You breathe, half chuckle half gasp. "Hi!"
He reaches out a tentative hand as if to steady you, approaching slowly, bending slightly at the knee to look you in the eye.
"You okay, sweet girl?" He asks, and the debut of this pet name does nothing to help your desire to hurl.
You nod, anyway, inhaling deep through your nose and out through your mouth.
"Good job," he mutters, and your knees nearly give out on you.
"Yeah," you swallow thickly. "Yeah, I'm good. I think I just need some water."
"Do you have any out here, sweet girl?" He asks.
You stumble, your heart skipping a beat. Again, with that damn nickname.
"N-no, I don't," you mumble, and you can't tell if the haziness is from Robby, or the overstimulation.
"Stay here, I'll be right back," he darts across the parking lot once more, back to his truck.
Your focus stills on his frame, the way it leaned and stretched into the front seat of his car. Your cheeks burn, shame creeping in your belly.
He's not your boyfriend, you remind yourself. Snap out of it.
He comes back, a steel water bottle rattling with ice. You perk up at the sound, a Pavlovian response driven by dehydration.
He holds out the bottle, and you snatch it from his grasp, savoring each slide of the cool liquid down your parched throat.
You let the straw go with a pop!, a groan of relief escaping your lips. Robby shifts on his feet at the noise, and you choose to think nothing of it.
"Is it okay if I walk you in?" He asks, pointing towards the door. "I just wanna make sure you get back okay."
You nod, wordlessly, letting him guide you toward the door, his arm hovering over your waist. You come back to life step by step, the energy of the bar swallowing you back in the second you cross the threshold.
Your lips wrap around the straw again, vision clearing up with each swallow. Robby taps your hip lightly in approval, and you almost stop to squeeze your legs together.
You burst out of the kitchen, immediately thrust back into the hot, sweaty bubble of the night. He rounds the corner of the bar with ease, propping himself on an empty stool.
It really sinks in, then, him being here. Seeing him, his wide, tired eyes, his soft smile, surrounded by purple and blue and pink flashing lights and bustling twenty somethings.
He's here for you. Your heart sings.
"Thank you for coming," you mutter sweetly. "What can I get you, handsome?"
You count this as revenge for his earlier nickname. You're successful, given his deep blush he tries so sweetly to hide.
"Whatever beer you have on tap, babe," he says, and you shudder.
You give him a curt nod, turning on the ball of your foot to fulfill his order. You tap your foot as you anxiously wait for the glass to fill, butterflies swarming your stomach at the thought of turning around to see Robby again.
You're met with a much worse sight, though. One that completely pops the Robby bubble you've inflated for yourself.
Clean cut brown hair, perfectly tailored suit, $200 tie. The same, sorry excuse of a man that left you alone, deserted in New York, after getting fired from your job.
"Brayden, what are you doing here?" You choke.
Beer threatens to spill over the lid of the glass you're shakily holding. Robby anticipates the situation, reaching two hands out to take his drink himself.
You're suddenly thankful, yet self conscious for his help all at the same time. Your eyes dart back to Robby, then back to Brayden. Back and forth, back and forth.
It's not long before Brayden clocks what's going on, the man sitting next to him. He scoffs, readjusting his tie with an arrogance that makes you want to punch him.
"I'm here to talk some sense into you," he responds, and hearing his voice again after all this time is like nails on a chalkboard. "Clearly you need it."
His eyes dart to his left as he says it, and you burn with rage.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" You size him up. Like always, he takes the bait.
"Your family is fucking furious with you, y'know?" He remarks, and you dip your head in shame. "This little stunt you're pulling?" He circles a finger in the air in reference to the space around him. "It's ridiculous. You know it's ridiculous! I mean- look at you! Are you wearing denim?"
You can't believe the words that are coming out of his mouth, wondering how you could've been so blind to this man's true self.
"I wore denim in New York, you fucking ass," it's the only thing you can think of to say, and you feel like a fucking idiot.
"Not at work," he says, and you roll your eyes. "Any job where you can get away with wearing denim is a job you should never be working at. Can you imagine what your family would say if they saw you right now?"
You cross your hands over your chest, a familiar burn stinging the back of your nose as you will yourself not to cry in front of him.
"I'm sorry," a gruff voice interrupts, and your heart stops.
Robby's holding up a hand in Brayden's direction, who rears his head back in surprise.
"Who the hell do you think you are, talking to someone like that?" he asks, tone poisonous.
It takes you by surprise, eyes anxiously darting back to Brayden
"I'm sorry, who are you?" Brayden scoffs, and your heart pounds in your ears, anxiety thrumming through your veins.
"Does it fucking matter?" Robby responds, and your eyes find the floor.
"Don't think I didn't see you two walking in from the back," he drops, and your body goes white hot with fear. "What do you think your family is going to think when I tell them you're letting a man twice your age fight your battles for you?"
You make the mistake of looking up at him, no longer able to hide the tears pricking your eye. He has an all knowing smirk on his face, and you catch Robby shifting in his peripheral.
"That's not how they raised their strong, nuisance of a girl, hm?" He asks, and Robby slams a hand down on the bar.
"Are you fucking serious?"He asks, wild eyes darting toward you.
You panic, giving him crazy, sad eyes.
"I'm sorry," he gruffs, holding a hand up. "I just can't stand to see him talk to you like this," his voice is quiet, as private as it can be with your ex breathing down his neck.
Your stomach rolls, heart pounding when you see Cherry approach from behind. Anxiety is a pinball within you, hitting each point of your nervous system and sparing no expense.
"Oh. Fuck. NO!" You hear her screech, latching her manicured fingers underneath his shirt collar, yanking him up off the stool.
He squeals, and the sound earns a genuine laugh from you.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing here?" She barks at him, using her large waitress tray as a shield, guiding him out the door with each step she takes.
"Thought I'd come see what you managed to scrounge together," he smirks, walking backward toward the door. "Not bad, classy as ever."
"God, that guy fucking sucks," Robby whispers as Cherry bullies him out the door.
"Tell me about it," you gruff, grabbing a damp towel and wiping down the nearest surface you can find. Anything to distract yourself from the heat of his gaze.
A moment of silence beats between you, his eyes trained on you as you do everything in your power to avoid him. The vulnerability of the moment settles over you like a wet blanket, rubbing you raw and making you ache.
"Robby, I think you should go," you whisper, regret lacing every word.
The look in his eye is that of a kicked puppy, and you once again will yourself not to cry.
"What?" He asks, utter confusion in his tone.
"Thank you for coming," you start, a smile on your lips, bright and fake as ever, "but I think he was right. If my family gets wind of what we've been doing-"
"What have we been doing, exactly?" He cuts you off, and you freeze, not expecting this question.
Because, in all honesty, you really don't know what you've been doing.
You like Robby, that much is for certain. You like spending time with him, talking with him, listening to him, but maybe Brayden was right. He's nearly 30 years your senior, you could never have a relationship with him without stirring the pot with your entire family.
Is it worth it? For someone that will be gone in three months?
"I don't really know, Robby," you throw your hands up. "We're…two adults who talk to each other? We're friends?" You let that last question linger, toeing the line on suggesting more than that. You ultimately don't take the bait, and just raise your brow at him instead, begging him to tell you different.
He doesn't, of course, just slides a $10 over the counter, hops off the stool, and leaves.
Your heart sinks, cheeks on fire, and you bury your face in your forearms, laying flat against the bar.
"Ugh!" You groan, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.
What the hell has this man done to you?
You're worse for wear the next morning, a headache splitting your head in two. You bring a hand to your forehead, groaning at the light seeping in through the window.
Folding a pillow over your head, you thrash to the other side, memories of last night coming to you in flashes.
Robby not showing, Robby finding you in the parking lot, Brayden, Robby leaving, the shots Cherry clunk down on the bar after closing…
You're starting to regret that fifth lemon drop as it rumbles your stomach, acid creeping up your throat. You clamp a hand over your mouth, willing the nausea to ebb.
It eventually does, and you feel strong enough to sit up, swing your legs over the side of the bed, and make a sad attempt to stand. Your legs are wobbly to start, but eventually you find your footing, padding into the bathroom.
You freshen up, a mere face wash reviving as you move to the kitchen, desperately clamoring for some coffee and a piece of toast. A buzz on the counter lights up your screen, and you take in a message from Cherry.
Cherry: girl…did robby respond to you yet
Your heart drops, numb fingers swiping rapidly to get to your messages. Robby had given you his number a few days prior, something he tried to keep low key as he scribbled it on his receipt. You remember feeling flushed, like a love sick high school girl who just got asked to the prom.
Now, you just feel sick, actually sick. Opening the messages, an onslaught of drunken nonsense greets you, to your everlasting horror.
RObb
Robb y
H hey
Is your real name robert??? what's up with that
These were just to name a few, and the more you scroll, the worse you feel. Your view is instantly shot back to the very last text you sent- it's just the Spotify link to Go Go Juice by Sabrina Carpenter- and you drop the phone like it's hot as the three, cursed little bubbles pop up.
You scream, literally scream, as the phone clatters onto the counter, making impact with the marble at the same time your toast pops out of the toaster.
You sit in silence with yourself for a minute, then, feeling absolutely ridiculous about the predicament you've gotten yourself in.
Four months ago you were drinking champagne on the fanciest rooftop bars in Brooklyn. You were also more unhappy than you'd ever been.
Meeting Robby has made you feel like yourself for the first time in a very, very long time. And if that's the case, then it can't be that bad, can it?
Your phone buzzes, drawing your attention back to the devilish brick taking up real estate on your counter top.
Robby: My real name is Michael. Last name Robinavitch. Everyone at work calls me Robby. It's easier.
You stare at the words on your screen, tapping your foot anxiously as they settle in. The simplicity of his message is almost laughable, but there's weight to his select words.
He gave you his first and last name, something that feels ridiculously intimate for absolutely no logical reason at all.
As you ponder on how to respond, you come up empty time and time again. Your mind wanders back to that first day, the conversation about his Airbnb.
Before you can consider the possible ethical and moral violations of your actions, you slip your shoes on, grab your keys, and are out the door with your coffee in hand.
You roll up to the familiar, grand cabin with your heart beating a million miles an hour. The adrenaline has finally worn off as you sit in your car, in a deep stare down with the house that you spent most of your childhood in.
You feel so fucking stupid. Why would you even think this was okay? Tears burn your eyes as you scramble for the gear shift, pulling before realizing you hadn't even turned the car back on yet.
Before you can shakily push the button, the door swings open, and you're caught red handed. You freeze, your hands finding a home on the steering wheel, almost in defense in front of you.
He lifts his hand, making a 'come hither' motion with his fingers, and it's embarrassing how immediately you obey.
You swing the door open, stomping across the gravel dirt road to reach the porch. You're breathing hard as you approach him, in his low hanging sweatpants and thin white t-shirt.
And his glasses, oh God, his fucking glasses. It's perfect. He's perfect, you're afraid.
"Your first name is Michael?" You breathe, and he can't help but rear his head back a little.
"Yeah," he huffs, and that, unfortunately, does it for you.
You press your hands on his scruffy cheeks, pressing your lips firmly into his.
He's shocked, at first, going rigid in your arms as you plant one on him.
It doesn't take him long to melt into it, though, gathering his bearings and wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you closer to him, your tits pressing against his chest, the thin fabric of both your pajamas leaving little to the imagination.
He stumbles backward into the house, closing the door behind you and pressing you up against it. You shiver at his initiative, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing him against you deeper.
He runs his tongue over your lips, and you pout, desperately wanting his own on you again. He awards your impatience with one, two, three sweet kisses. You beam.
Your lips brush together as you smile up at him, eyes sparkling in the early morning light. You see his brows crease, a self-pitying smirk on his lips.
"God, I am so fucked," he rasps, smashing his lips into yours once again.
Your teeth clink at his intensity, and your tongues swirl each others as he palms your sides, going lower until he reaches your ass.
"Is this okay?" He husks, pressing sweet kisses and kitten licks to your ear.
You nod feverishly against him, and he pinches the plush skin of your ass. You squeal, and he gives you a light smack.
"Words, doll," he demands, and you're once again at his beck and call.
"Yes, God, yes, please," you mewl, eyes shining desperately.
"Good girl," he grunts, pressing his forehead against yours.
He hikes up your thin pajama shirt, pressing delicate kisses down your neck. You can't help but throw your head back into the wall, nails scraping the back of his neck.
His palms find your tits, squeezing and rolling your nipples, pinching every now and again. Warmth blooms deep in your lower belly, squeezing your thighs together at his expansive grip.
"Feel good?" He murmurs against your neck, and you nod desperately. "Arms up," he instructs, and you throw them up like a rag doll.
He slides your shirt over your head, marveling at the sight before pulling you to him, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you to the guest room.
You cup his cheeks as you move, peppering kisses all along his face. He chuckles, and your heart swells with the sound.
"Stop!" He laughs, "I can't see," he flops you down on the bed, his gaze on you so entirely vulnerable.
"Sucks," you shrug, making yourself comfortable on the memory foam mattress.
He quirks a brow, resting one knee on the bed.
"Oh, so you wanna be bratty about this, huh?" He poses, sliding his knee between your legs.
"It's the only thing I really know how to be," you reply, snippily.
Your breath catches in your throat as he hovers above you, ghosting his lips over your neck.
"Such a fucking tease, Michael," you breathe, wrapping your arms around his neck.
He allows himself to be pulled in by you, and you revel in every second of the close contact. His hands fly to your waistband, tugging on the elastic band. He presses a kiss at the exposed skin there, and you draw in a shaky breath.
"Can I taste you?" He murmurs against your skin, eyes closed as he takes you in.
"Yes, please," you reply, and he presses a kiss to your hip bone.
"Oh my God," he groans, peeling your bottoms off to reveal your glistening center. "You're so beautiful, fuck."
Your heart swells at his praise, nails digging into his scalp as he dives in. He laps at your collecting wetness, running his tongue up to your clit.
You jump when he flicks the tip of his tongue, swirling around your clit in a way that has you preening. You arch your back off the bed, grinding your pussy into his face to absorb any of the friction he was so generously giving you.
The scrape of his beard adds a special sting to the overstimulation, the sensitive skin of your thighs rubbing raw within minutes. It's a delicious sting, one that you can't seem to care much about at the moment.
He plays in your wetness, teasingly dipping his tongue into your hole, just a little. You gasp at his cruelty, tugging his hair ever so slightly. He groans against you, bringing a thumb up to rub your clit.
He coos at your soft whimpers, the pit in your stomach burning hot as he looks up at you, eyes big and brown and desperate.
He delves his tongue into you fully, his thumb never slowing its assault. Your release is quite rapid, waves of fire dancing over your skin as you roll your hips into his face.
He lets you use him to ride it out, rubbing his face and beard against your sensitive skin to help you through it. You dissolve into the pressure, ears ringing as you come down from your high.
Robby wastes no time crawling up your body, pressing his lips against yours immediately. You moan against his mouth at the taste, and he dips his tongue into your mouth.
Your hand finds his length, big and hard and still confined in those damn gray sweatpants.
"Why are you still fully clothed?" You ask, and he can't help but laugh.
He rolls his eyes, sitting back on his heels to lift his shirt off. He goes to lean back over you then, but you put a hand up, stopping him from going any further.
You take a moment to relish in the sight before you, the dark hair peppering his torso, the soft curve of his tummy. He's gorgeous, and you tell him so.
He flushes red at the compliment, moving your hand gently as he dips down to kiss you again.
"Can't remember the last time I've been called that," he murmurs against your cheek, pressing a light kiss there as he kicks off his pants.
He wasn't wearing underwear, and you thank whatever deity is above for the way his cock springs free, bouncing against his tummy.
The tip is red, angry, pre cum pooling at the center. You can't help but lean forward, darting your tongue out and collecting the salty liquid.
He grips your jaw and stops you from going further, earning him a cute little pout.
"I know, sweet girl. Next time," he kisses the pout off your face, and those last two words echo in your mind.
Next time, next time, next time.
"If you get your mouth on me right now, I'm going to cum," he explains, lining himself up at your entrance. "And believe it or not, I'm not in my twenties. Can't just bounce back like I used to."
Your cheeks heat at his words, teeth biting down on your lower lip as he teases your entrance with his tip.
"But don't worry," he mutters, thrusting into you, hips flush with your ass in one fell swoop. "I'm gonna fuck you real good, baby."
The air is knocked from your lungs, a gasp strangling out of your throat as he hikes your legs higher around his waist. He pulls out, only to slam back in harder, a whine falling from your pouty lips.
He leans down to kiss you as he starts to move, a repetitive rhythm that has you squealing into his neck.
You dig your fingers into his back, throwing your head back onto the pillow. He mouths at your neck, desperate grunts falling from his ow lips.
"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs against your neck. You shudder. "You have any idea how good this pussy feels?" He asks, sitting up on his knees to pick up his speed.
You wail, his balls slapping your ass with each thrust. He holds both of your legs up by your ankles. now, resting them on one shoulder as he continues to drive into you.
"God, Michael!" You whine, throwing your forearms over your eyes.
He shudders at this, kissing your ankle and asking you to call him that again.
"Feels so good, Michael," you whimper, a sweet smile on your face now that you know the damage you cause him. "Gonna make me cum."
He groans at this, and it's guttural. Your pussy squeezes down on him extra hard, the spring in your stomach beginning to coil. He kisses your ankle again, your shin, running his tongue along every spare inch of skin he can find.
You're dizzy underneath him, the world hazy as you bring your hands up to his belly, pressing and groping all of him you can.
"Fuck," a strangled groan wrestles its way out of his throat. "Your hands feel so fucking good, baby," he insists, thrusts nearly erratic. "You like feelin' me? Like how soft I am for you? Even when I'm fucking you like a slut?"
His words spark inside you, exploding like tiny fireworks. You feel your wetness pooling on the bed below, only growing messier at his words. He coos as he feels you gush around him.
"So perfect for me," he whispers, and you nod, taking a fistful of his tummy in each hand. "Love it when you fucking feel me up."
"I love your body, Michael," you tell him, eyes hazy and glossed over. "You're so gorgeous," you repeat your words from earlier, and he shudders above you.
"Pretty girl," he moans, his thrusts growing sloppy. "Want you to cum for me, make me the luckiest guy in the world, yeah?"
That does it, your Earth no longer spinning on its axis as your second orgasm hits you. It's like a freight train, rough and brutal and perfect. His own is soon to follow, his hips pressing flush against your ass as he empties himself inside you.
"Michael," you whine, teary eyes finding his darkened ones.
They soften at your plea for him, maneuvering your legs into a more comfortable position before pulling out. You whine at the loss of him, and he lightly taps your inner thigh.
"I know, sweet girl," he says, getting up from the bed. "You stay there 'n look pretty, hm?" He runs a large hand over your hair as he settles you into the bed. "I'm gonna get you a towel, m'kay?"
You nod wordlessly as you watch him go, selfishly committing his ass to memory.
You watch him nearly melt when he comes back, his reaction to you just…laying in his bed an immediate ego boost. Your heart swells as he gets his hands on you again, gently patting your core dry.
He then squirts some lotion in his hands, rubbing them gently into your raw inner thighs. You hiss at the sting, and he presses a sweet kiss to your lips, shushing you gently.
Once he's done a thorough clean up, he crawls in next to you, taking you in his arms and pulling you flush against him. You whimper, your lower half still sensitive as it pulses around nothing, the feeling of just being close to him so exciting.
He reaches down to pinch your ass, a light chuckle and a "be good," leaving his lips. He kisses you when you nod, muttering something about the best girl in the world.
Your lids grow heavy, and he jostles you slightly before you can fully give in.
"Hey," he starts, licking his swollen lips. "We're gonna talk about those messages when you wake up again, hm?"
Embarrassment floods you again, and you bury yourself into him. He shushes you sweetly, rubbing his hand along your back and pressing a kiss to your head.
"It's okay, it's okay," he validates, and you snuggle into him. "You're okay. I'm not mad, or weirded out or anything. I like you, and I want to talk about this, just not when you're this sleepy," he murmurs against your skin, and you nod desperately.
He clutches a hand on the back of your head, holding you flush to him as you drift to sleep.
You have no idea what will come when you wake, or what things will look like in three months when Robby goes back to Pittsburgh. But you're already back at your parents' place in your hometown, what do you have to lose?
Summary: After a hunt leaves Dean with only one functional leg, the boys crash at the Singer house for two weeks until he’s back on his feet. Which means dealing with a needy Dean—and a sweet Sam, who can’t seem to stop staring at you like you’ve hung the moon.
CW: None? I think? Just so. Much. Pining. Childhood friends to lovers, literally all fluff and yearning, sweet confessions, grumpy Dean, light drinking, some awkward Sam, slow burn!
WC: 9.3K
Based on this request!
Fourteen days.
Fourteen days that Dean Winchester has to be off his feet. Fourteen days that he can’t walk, can’t run, and can’t drive Baby around like a maniac. Fourteen days that he can’t hunt.
Hell, that’s fourteen whole days that he’ll need crutches to even go piss without assistance.
Sam had called you early in the evening, his voice tight, but clearly trying to sound casual, the familiar rumble of the impala cutting through every pause. You could hear the hesitation between every word. The way his voice dipped low, undoubtedly apologetic, almost mumbled like a kid waiting to be scolded. The way he repeated his ‘sorry’s far too many times to count, and how the line went uncharacteristically silent for a moment after you’d picked up on the third ring.
He explained Dean’s little problem—nothing dramatic, he’d insisted, just a bad fall after tripping over a footstone—but enough to make getting around just about impossible, and to put hunting on hiatus until further notice. It really didn’t come as a surprise when he’d ended his ramble session with a question, one spoken through a sigh: can we crash with you?
For fourteen days.
Of course, you’d said yes without wasting a breath. You’ve never quite had a back bone when it came to the Winchester brothers, and, hey, the company could be nice. Maybe. As long as you can survive the bickering.
It’s nearing eleven when the impala’s tires crunch over the long, twisty gravel driveway of the Singer’s house. You hear it before you see it, purring low like a cat (or, as Dean would say, a lion), sleek black frame blending into the twilight.
You’d just finished tucking the corners of the stubborn new sheets on your fathers bed when the sound finds your ears, and you slip from the room just in time to hear the engine go idle, one hand swinging the door open before either man can even slide out of the car.
Sam rounds the impala first, slamming the door to the driver’s side shut with a bang, helping a grumbling Dean out the other side. He looks, put lightly, absolutely miserable. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen the older Winchester look so defeated, which is really saying something—not to mention the silly looking cast on his right foot, and the too-short crutches that he practically throws off the impalas bench.
“Took ya’s long enough,” you call, leaning against the doorframe, the humid night air already clinging uncomfortably to your skin, cicadas buzzing in the tall sea of grass. You hear Sam huff a laugh, and Dean shoots you a look, just as he slaps Sam’s outstretched hand out of the way.
Miraculously, he manages to hobble towards the deck without tripping, but once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he accepts defeat long enough to sling an arm over Sam’s broad shoulders.
“That’s ‘cause Sam drives like a freakin’ grandma in a school zone,” he complains, and Sam sends you a tired look, one that both says ‘please help’ and ‘I’m so sorry’ at the same time. You can’t help but snicker.
Once all three Winchester boots hit the worn wood of the porch, Dean practically shoves Sam off of him like a petulant child. You have to fight off a snort. “How’re you, uh. How’re you feeling, Dean-o?”
“Peachy,” the man gripes, limping past you when you step back from the doorframe, appearing about two inches shorter from just how hunched over those damn crutches he is. He manages to make his way to a chair, some old leather thing that’s peeling on the arms, and he plops himself onto it gracelessly. An irritated huff of air escapes his chest as he props his foot up on the coffee table.
“Just… peachy.” He glares at the offending appendage like it’s personally insulted him, and you grimace, before redirecting your attention back to the door, where Sam’s hauling two duffels up the stairs that probably weigh about as much as a small child.
Sam, the sweetheart, lingers there for a moment like he’s afraid of tracking mud on the floor. He gives you that lopsided smile of his, soft, tired, and just a touch apologetic, before stepping inside. He scuffs his boots on the mat, setting the bags by the door, his arm brushing your shoulder as he moves past you.
He stands… closer than he usually does. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him, and you can practically taste his scent. Not in an overwhelming, cool-it-with-the-axe way, but in a holy-shit-you-smell-like-heaven way.
You’re not sure which is worse.
He bows his head towards you, hair falling over his eyes. It’s longer again, parted in the middle, tousled from travel or sleepless nights or Dean clunking him on the head for ‘hovering’. His flannel is unbuttoned too far at the top, probably because of the blistering heat that’s been plaguing the country for the past week, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms dusted with faint freckles and old scars.
“Hey,” he says, gentle, simple. Quiet just for you to hear, like anything louder would cause you to shatter. “I’m sorry about… uh,” he gestures towards Dean, “…yeah. Sorry.”
You snort, shrugging, and you look towards Dean again: a stupid little pout on his face that reminds you of when you were kids.
“Don’t be sorry. Things are quiet around here. I could use the entertainment,” you tease, turning back to Sam. He’s still looking at you. His expression is a little hard to decipher; warm, tired, and so agonizingly soft that your stomach just about flips.
“You’ll be sick of it by tomorrow. Trust me,” he tells you, face cracking into a grin. It’s one of those rare, unrestrained ones that crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and makes his dimples pop adorably.
“Probably. Can’t throw him out now, though. I did up Dad’s room for him, since he’s away on a hunt. Said he won’t be back for a few weeks.” You nod your head towards the hall, before glancing up at him with an expression that’s nothing short of mischievous. “…He even has shower rails in the bathroom. Planning to tell Dean I installed them just for him.”
Sam tries to hide his snicker by coughing into his hand, a soft sound that’s more adorable than it has any right to be. He nudges you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans in, just a little closer than probably necessary.
Interesting.
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll have plenty of colourful ways to say thanks,” he murmurs, amusement thick in his tone. He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his lips quirking again when he catches your smile. He stares, then must realize it, because you swear his cheeks turn a shade of pink. He swallows a little awkwardly, almost like he’s gone all nervous—his palms sliding against the denim of his jeans.
Dean’s groan cuts through the moment like a freshly sharpened blade.
“Alright, what’re you two whispering about?” he demands, squinting suspiciously between the two of you. Sam straightens up, still smiling, but he clears his throat, holding his hands up in mock surrender. You flick your attention to him, raising a brow.
“You’re bunking in my dad’s room. Bathrooms attached, close to the kitchen, Sam and I only a yell away. Sound good?”
Dean’s expression flickers, green eyes narrowing with a funny mixture of irritation and resignation, before he slumps back with an exaggerated sigh.
“Yeah, yeah. Sounds fantastic,” he mutters, before gesturing vaguely at his plaster-covered foot. “Just gotta figure out how to get there.” He shoots Sam a pointed look.
Sam, who was still hovering close enough for his elbow to brush your arm, rolls his eyes, exhaling through his nose. How he’s so patient, you have no damn clue.
“C’mon,” he deadpans, crossing the short distance to his brother, and hauling him up with a grunt. He grabs the crutches, which Dean had tossed to the side like they aren’t a hundred goddamn dollars, pushing them against his chest. “Let’s get you to bed before you get us kicked to the streets for being a smartass.”
You watch them bicker for a moment, face twisted in a look of pure amusement, as Sam begins to guide him down the hall.
You busy yourself by poking through the linen closet, yanking out a blanket that doesn’t smell like dust and death, tossing it onto the long, worn couch. You even slip up to your room just long enough to grab a pillow, one that’s not lumpy on one side, chucking it onto the makeshift bed.
In the back of your mind… you hope it smells like you.
You make your way to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, just as Sam’s finished wrestling Dean into the bed. He joins you with a sigh that sounds a lot like a father who’s just talked down his toddler from a tantrum. His palms together, a soothing gesture, and he leans against the counter with a tight-lipped smile that says ‘see what I have to deal with?’
The look you shoot him then is a little sympathetic, but mostly delighted.
“Sounds like you’ve had a fun week,” you tease, lifting the glass to your lips for a quick sip. “Can’t say I blame you for wanting to enlist some help.”
Sam exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh, born out of sheer exhaustion, and he scrubs a hand over his face.
“Fun,” he echoes, voice low, tired, and fond all at once. His eyes flick towards the closed door, Dean’s quarters for the next two weeks, before settling back on you. The way he softens is visible. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, buttons of his shirt straining (not that you’re looking, or anything), and his shoulders slump, like he’s finally letting himself relax. Really relax. The kitchen light catches the earthy green flecks in his eyes when he tilts his head at you, gaze gentle in a way that almost makes you squirm.
It’s warm. Steady. He looks at you like he’s tracing the shape of your face, and burning it into his memory. Not in a greedy, or outwardly obnoxious way; but in a way that makes your stomach swirl, and your throat feel strangely dry, and has you taking another sip from your glass. Silence stretches, and when he breaks it, it almost looks like he has to force himself out of his own head.
“…I owe you for this. Really,” he murmurs, voice low, thick like sticky-sweet honey. “It means a lot. I don’t know how to—”
“Sam. You don’t need to thank me,” you cut him off, maybe a little too quickly, but his expression remains sheepish. Like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like it’s been trained into his soul that being there for him is a burden, not a blessing. “I miss having you guys around. Just like the old times.”
That earns you a smile.
“…Yeah. Like the old times.”
By day three, you’ve already adapted to your new routine.
Dean’s still whiny. He still yells for Sam every time he has to move so much as an inch, despite the crutches, which he insists were invented by the devil himself. He complained to you about the water pressure on day two, then again because his cast got a little wet, even though he’d wrapped it in some plastic bag you found under the sink. He even tried to scold you for feeding him ‘rabbit food’ after you’d put some tomato in his burger.
As for Sam… if anything, he’s only gotten sweeter.
It’s grown impossible for you to perform any household task without the younger Winchester offering his assistance. He’s got his hands full with Dean, that much is clear, and yet? The second you step into the kitchen to wash up the dishes, he’s placing a big, warm hand on your wrist, and insisting you go sit down.
He helps with laundry. He sets the table before you eat. He wakes up extra early to brew coffee exactly the way you like it, and he apologizes each time Dean makes a snarky comment.
Even when Dean shoots him a look, one that you can’t quite decipher, and he turns an adorable shade of pink.
The day had gone by quick. It rained, for the first time in nearly a week; meaning you spent most of it inside, with some old book open over your thighs, your legs kicked up on the edge of the couch. Dean stayed in his room—probably watching some stupid movie (one that hopefully wasn’t erotic, for your sanity)—while Sam kept you company.
And by keeping you company, you mean stealing glances at you over a book of his own every thirty seconds.
It was nice. Comfortable. Almost domestic, in a way. You’d slipped away to your room around ten, tucking yourself in bed with a racing heart and buzzing mind… only to be woken up at a quarter to two by the obnoxious sound of your phone ringing.
Unfortunately, for both you and your old man, he’d found himself in a rut on his hunt. The irritation in his tone was palpable as he described the sigil he’d found carved into the floor of some abandoned factory. You’d done up a quick sketch in your notebook as he spoke, his words painting a picture, just as he shoots you a blurry image with the instruction of ‘it’s in one of my books, go find it.’
Great. Just great.
You migrate to the dining room, sitting at the table with eye bags that would make a raccoon jealous, a lukewarm cup of coffee, and a stack of lore books taller than you. One second, you’re squinting at the faded ink of some obscure Enochian ward, pen tapping on the page. The next? There’s warmth at your back, and a big shadow leaning over your shoulder.
“You always up this late?”
“Jesus—!” Your entire body jolts, your pen clattering to the table, hair on your neck standing tall, heart pounding a mile a minute, the whole nine yards. But the second you turn your head, finding the tired, worried, (and apologetic) puppy eyes of Sam Winchester, you relax.
Completely.
You laugh, an embarrassed sound, dragging a clammy hand over your face, like that’ll do anything to scrape off the exhaustion. “Sorry, didn’t mean to… ‘m not used to company while Dad’s away.”
“No, I’m sorry,” he smiles, sheepish now, eyes laced with sincerity. “Didn’t realize you were so jumpy. Bobby doesn’t sneak up on you enough, huh?”
“You say that like he could. He walks like his feet are made of lead.”
Sam snickers, taking your newfound relaxation as a sign he can lean in closer. Close enough that you can smell the faded, masculine scent of his soap, the hint of minty toothpaste in his breath, and feel the warmth of his skin radiating through his thin t-shirt.
“What’re you doing, anyway?” His hand settles lightly on the back of your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder by accident (or not), as he squints at the page, a frown pulling at his lips. “You’re not… you’re not hunting, are you?”
You cock your head to the side, just enough to look at him.
“No. Well, not me. My dad called. He’s at a dead end, n’ wants my help figuring out the origin of these sigils.” You nudge your journal towards him with your index finger, and he hums. He’s so close you can almost feel the vibration. “…Only problem is that he’s a fuckin’ lore hoarder. I don’t even know where to start.”
“Oh.”
His brow furrows, silence falling between you for a fleeting moment. His eyes narrow.
“That’s… not Enochian,” he murmurs, shifting his weight, his chest pressing against your back for just a second before he catches himself, and pulls back. “…Uh. Sorry.”
His fingers tap absently against the chair, restless, thinking, maybe a little indecisive, before he exhales sharply, dragging a chair up beside you. His knee bumps yours as he folds himself next to you, elbows braced on the table, eyes scanning the symbols with quiet intensity.
You tilt your head, opening your mouth to speak, but he’s faster.
“These letters look more like Latin to me. Maybe even some Hebrew,” he muses, turning to look at you. That sharpness in his gaze seems to soften almost immediately. “…You need some help?”
His voice is soft, careful, like it’s not just an offer. Like he wants to stay.
“You sure? It’s late. You don’t have to—”
“I’m sure,” he states, thumb skimming the edge of those yellowing pages of the book spread open in front of him like he needs something to fidget with. His voice drops, quiet, warm, into something so gentle that your heart just about skips a beat. “…You’re exhausted. Let me help. Please.”
Yeah.
It’s not quite possible for you to say no to that.
You don’t respond right away, not with words, at least. If the conflict shows on your face, Sam doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t scoff, or even look annoyed. No, instead, he simply… watches you. His eyes are soft, encouraging, expression warm with lingering sleep.
And when you finally nod, leaning back in your chair, he smiles. Not wide, or with teeth—more of a quiet, gentle thing, that makes his face light up in the best way, and displays those sweet dimples when the light hits his face just right.
He moves slowly, turning your journal back towards you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leans in.
It’s electric.
“See how the letters curve here? It’s more like a hook, rather than a smooth arc.” He traces the shape lightly, his fingertip just hovering over your work, like he’s afraid to smudge the ink. “…That tells me it’s not Enochian. The Enochian alphabet is more… round. I’m thinking this is ancient Hebrew—” he points at a letter, “—and see these circles? There’s even some Malachim script.”
You hover as he explains, nodding, and… yeah. He’s right. Of course he is. Your lips part in an inaudible ‘ohhh’, your own hand moving to follow his in its silent trace, fingers brushing his.
He pauses. You see it, or, more accurately, you feel it. The way his breathing seems to freeze for a moment, before coming out in a jagged exhale that fans over your cheek, his body pressed so close to yours. He shifts, knee brushing yours again; to move away? To get closer?
You can’t be sure.
“…So, not Enochian. A combination of other things. You’re thinking, what… The Lesser Key?”
“Yeah. Maybe,” he murmurs, “or some kind of interpretation. Mind if I…” He trails off, long arm stretching over you to brush the worn leather spine of a book stacked next to you. His touch is careful. Thoughtful. And when you nod, he hums gratefully.
You watch as he pulls the book from the pile, already flipping ahead to the intended section like he’s read it a thousand times before. Two long fingers trace the faded ink over each page, each one silverfish bitten, bleached with time, his soft eyes searching. And when he finds what he’s looking for, he stops abruptly, pressing his fingertips over a pale illustration.
“There.”
And there it is.
Maybe not exactly. Some of the letters look reversed, like they were intended to be written backwards. A couple of the symbols etched into the sigil are written cleaner, sharper, but… yeah. The main idea is there, and that’s enough for you.
“Well, holy shit.” You huff an impressed laugh, settling just a little closer to him. “Thanks, Sam. You’re good. Really good,” you nudge him with your shoulder, “I see why Dean keeps you around.”
He chokes out a laugh of his own, soft and surprised, and ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s suddenly shy. His fingers linger there, tapping over his nape, but he’s not looking at the book anymore.
He’s looking at you.
“Yeah, uh. Anytime,” he murmurs, simple, but sincere. His eyes flicker over your face, lingering on the tired shadows under your eyes, before he finally moves, extending his free hand out to hold the back of your chair. Those pretty fingers twitch, like he wants to go further. Be bolder. Run his palm over your back, touch, comfort you the way he’s wanted for years.
But he doesn’t. Not yet.
“It’s not an exact match. But I’d guess it’s the same demon, or same category, at least,” he adds, a sweet flush creeping up his neck, like your sudden silence is suffocating him. “I can keep digging if you want. Find something more accurate.”
“No.” You cut him off quickly, and he frowns, face twisting into an expression that reminds you far too much of a kicked puppy. It’s both adorable, and a little heartbreaking. “You’ve just saved me about six hours of staring at lore until my eyes fall out of my skull. It’s two in the morning. Go to bed, Sammy.”
The corner of his mouth quirks, and you swear he looks even more embarrassed than before. Of course, though, because he’ll never quite let it go, he still mumbles out a near-silent, “it’s Sam.”
He lingers like he’s seconds away from arguing with you. Fortunately, you win in the end, and he pushes up from the table, stretching his arms behind his back with a quiet groan. His shirt rides up just slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of skin above his waistband (again, not that you’re looking), and when he lowers his arms—he places his palm on your shoulder. Squeezes. Even when his face heats up, and his pulse races so quick, he wonders if you can feel it.
“Fine. But… get some sleep, okay?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he pads silently back towards the couch in the other room, leaving that undeniable warmth to prickle beneath your skin.
It takes until day six for Dean’s constant complaining to claw its way beneath your skin, and in your defence, half of it was because of the heat.
As it turns out, the rain had served to be nothing but a short-lived sense of false relief, because not a day later, another blistering heatwave hit. Full force.
More than hot enough to make your shirt cling to your body like a second skin, for the horizon to look all hazy like you’re staring at it through clear water, and to make the older Winchester’s whining just that much more irritating. Thankfully, both for your well being and Deans, you’d plotted your escape to the junkyard—because that way, you could strangle the fucked-up wiring in your old Trans Am, instead of his sweaty throat.
You stand half hunched over the open hood of the car, damp tank top rubbing uncomfortably against your sticky skin. Your sweaty hands fumble with the socket wrench as it slips from your grasp, hot metal heating your palms like it just wants you to snap. Your molars dig into your cheek, knuckles white, fingers already grease stained, a string of curses slipping out between irritated puffs of breath. Nothing about it should be difficult, you’ve disconnected a thousand batteries before, but there’s something about the goddamn heat that has your jaw tensing and your fist tightening.
“You sound just like your father.”
You hadn’t even heard Sam approach, curse his stealth, his voice cutting through your exasperation with a jolt. Luckily for you, you don’t startle quite as hard as the other night (and if you had, you surely would’ve clunked your head on the hood), but you still let out a groan, bowing your head with an exaggerated shake.
“Do you take pride in your ability to scare the living hell out of me, Winchester?” you tease, cocking your head towards him, pointing the offending socket wrench in his direction.
Sam grins, bright and very unapologetic, the bastard, as he comes just a little closer. He leans against the fender, his arms crossed over his chest. He has the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to mid forearm, revealing freshly sun-kissed skin, and a glittery sheen of sweat.
“Maybe,” he admits shamelessly, tilting his head, which earns him a playful glare. His hair sticks to his forehead slightly, damp from the heat, and he shakes his head absently to swipe it back. “You’re the one who keeps letting me sneak up on you, though.”
You roll your eyes, finally laying down that stupid wrench, and Sam takes the opportunity to just… look at you. Really look at you. His gaze flicks over your face, lingering at the sweat beading at your temple, before dropping to the way your tank top clings to your shoulders, the smudges of grease that stain your arms.
The moment you catch him, though, you swear his cheeks turn just a little more red, his brows furrowing into something almost sheepish.
“I, uh. Here,” he chokes the words out, extending his arm towards you in a stiff, mechanical motion, a cold plastic water bottle clutched in his hand.
The sight damn near brings you to your knees.
You take the bottle with a blissful ‘thank you’, the icy condensation soothing your overheated palm like balm to a wound. Still, you don’t drink right away. The water has a faint sheen to it, almost cloudy, and you lift a brow, amused.
“You druggin’ me?”
Sam’s eyes shoot open comically wide, his head shaking before your words even fully land, and you can’t help but laugh at the look of sheer horror on his face.
“What? No—God, no,” he blurts, just as you twist the cap open with a quiet snicker. “It’s… electrolytes. That powder stuff, y’know? It’s hot, ‘n I figured you wouldn’t be drinking enough ‘cause you’re so damn stubborn. I thought about making you something else, like, a smoothie, since you love fruit, but I didn’t know where you kept the blender—”
“Sam.” You cut him off gently, taking a swig. “Thank you. You’re sweet.”
For a moment, he just blinks at you, like he’s unsure of how to respond to the praise. Then he clears his throat, an awkward, punched out sound, before he jerks his head towards the engine.
“…Need a hand?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer before stepping up beside you, nudging your knee with his as he peers under the hood. His arm brushes yours, warm and solid, as he hums thoughtfully, like he has any clue what he’s looking at.
He doesn’t.
You take another sip of your drink before setting it to the side.
“Y’ever replace an alternator, Sam?” you ask, and the crooked smile you receive is answer enough. Dean? Sure. He knows his way around an engine. And as for you, you’ve been tearing your way through your father’s junkyard since you could walk. But Sam?
Yeah. No.
“I mean, uh. Y’know, I’ve...” He tilts his head, considering the mess of bolts and wiring before him, before shooting you a sidelong glance, pretty eyes crinkling at the corners. “…No.”
You snicker, picking the socket wrench back up, tightening your grip on the hot metal with slippery fingers.
“But I’ve been told I’ve got a real talent for holding a flashlight,” he offers, voice dropping into that low, teasing tone that never fails to make your stomach flip. “And I won’t complain like a certain individual back in the house. Promise.”
A soft smile tugs at your lips, and for the first time in hours, you don’t feel two seconds away from strangling someone.
“Ah. There’s your real motive. Trying to avoid your brother so you don’t bite his head off,” you joke, and he shrugs noncommittedly, telling you all you need to know. “No need for a light, though. Not at this time of day.”
His smile falters.
You regret your words instantly. You didn’t mean it like that—God, no, not like you were brushing him off—but he looks almost hurt, and those puppy eyes are just lethal.
“Why don’t I teach you?” you suggest quickly. Surprise flickers across his face, and the sight makes your heart stutter. “It’s pretty easy,” you add, softer now, “and you’re a real quick learner.”
“…Yeah?” he questions gently, almost like he’s expecting you to take it back, before the corners of his lips quirk right back up in a quietly pleased grin. He shifts closer, hovering over the engine, his hand sliding from the fender to rest just above the grille.
He doesn’t look back at the car right away, though, no; he just… watches you for a second. He lingers on the small smudge of grease on your cheek, the little crease between your brows that always forms whenever you’re focused, the way your tongue swipes across your lower lip… before ducking his head with a nod.
“Okay.”
He exhales, almost a laugh, like he’s shaking off nerves. Rolling his sleeves up just a little higher over his elbows, he exposes the lean muscle of his forearms when he braces his palms back on the edge of the engine bay. The sun catches his tan skin, warm and shining under the golden light.
You swallow. Hard.
“…Walk me through it?” he adds after a moment, breaking your trance, and you have to shake your head lightly to refocus, before nodding as your confidence slips back in place. You tilt your wrist forward, pointing at the battery.
“Alright. We’ve just gotta take out the battery first. Don’t wanna fuck up the electrical, or give yourself a nasty shock. You just have to disconnect the cables. This one first—” you gesture towards the back cable, Sam humming thoughtfully, “—negative. That’ll break the ground circuit. Then you can take off the red one next, remove the hold-down clamp, and lift it out. You with me?”
Sam makes a low, affirmative sound, his brows drawing together in concentration. He follows along, he really does—but when his eyes drift, he seriously can’t help it. He takes in the cables first, committing them to memory, but his eyes wander to trace your fingers, up to the soft angle of your wrist before he can catch them.
And then he’s just looking at you.
“Yeah,” he says. “I think so.”
You smile before continuing. “Once the battery’s out, you’ve got to remove the serpentine belt. That’s not too bad. Loosening it can be a bitch, though.” The metal wrench tinks against the tensioner as you point, your head tilting towards him. “Then you can start working on the alternator. But that’s hands-on work. Can’t really explain it.”
You don’t move to demonstrate. No, instead, you extend the socket wrench out in your overheated palm. An offer.
“Have at ‘er.”
Sam hesitates, a brief moment of almost-panic flickering over his face, breaking through his newfound ease. For a second, he just stares at the tool, at your outstretched hand, like he can’t quite believe that you’re handing him the task. Like it’s some sort of test.
“Me?” he questions, stunned, and when you nod, he takes an extra beat to move.
His fingers close around the handle tentatively, warm and calloused, and you swear he has the slightest tremor. His thumb brushes yours as he takes it, a fleeting touch that sends a spark up your arm despite the sweltering heat; and this time, he lets it linger. Just a little.
He clears his throat softly before turning back to the mess of cables, rolling his shoulders like a pitcher getting ready to throw.
“You’ve got a lot of faith in me, I mean, if you ever want this thing on the road again.” He laughs, but the hesitation is still present, threaded with just a touch of Sam-Winchester-self-depreciation that twists at your heart.
You don’t entertain it. Not this time. Instead, your hip drops to lean against the bumper as you turn your body towards him, arms folded across your chest.
“Nah. I trust you.”
And for a heartbeat, Sam just freezes. The wrench hovers in his grip like he’s suddenly forgotten what to do with it. His lips part slightly, like he’s going to say something. But for once? He doesn’t have a smart remark. He doesn’t have a dumb joke to deflect with. He just blinks once, twice, gaze so damn soft it makes something deep in your chest ache.
Then, without a word, he leans forward, and gets to work.
The wrench clicks into place on the first bolt, his grip steadying, instinct taking over. He ratchets in careful yet powerful strokes, confidence surfacing, piece by piece. You watch closely: the way his bangs fall over his forehead, each quiet puff of his breath, the way the tendon in his forearm jumps with each back-and-forth pull. Sam’s in his element, working, learning, and if it gives you a bit of a show?
Well, that’s just a bonus.
On day ten, you finally crack open your first beer.
The living room glows with the soft light of a single lamp in one corner, the one that’s bulb has gone a faded shade of orange, and that flickers every few moments. Empty glass bottles and half-full longnecks scatter the coffee table, Dean’s cast covered foot thrown haphazardly next to them, one good kick from sloshing foam onto plaster.
The three of you are sprawled out easily in the room, Dean in that old chair he’s claimed as his own, tipsy fingers picking leather from the armrest, while you and Sam share the tiny couch, close enough to feel the brush of his knee every time his leg bounces restlessly. Laughter flows freely through loose lips, paired with the heavy bass of some old rock track booming through your ancient speaker, filling the usually quiet room with a new kind of comfort.
“Oh, come on, Dean. Load is good!” you manage between snickers with impressive seriousness, your heated debate about Metallica albums becoming equally as important as monster talk to your intoxicated mind.
“Good?” Dean drawls, who’s already had double yet is somehow half as tipsy, voice thick with playful disdain. “That shit is not Metallica. They went mainstream, I’m telling you.”
He takes another swig from his bottle (his eighth? Ninth? Who even knows), and levels a glare at you like you’ve just taken Baby for a joyride.
Sam, meanwhile, is slumped against the loveseat, warm and heavy in that almost-drunk Sam way where he leans into you just a little more than usual, like it’s as simple as breathing. One arm is thrown along the backside of the couch, fingertips tapping along to the beat, brushing your shoulder every so often when his hand slips limply. The other stays in his lap, fingers idly twisting around the neck of an open bottle.
He almost looks a little lost. Happy lost, you note, if that dimpled smile is saying anything.
“Seriously?” you groan, albeit dramatically, but there’s no mistaking the way the corner of your lips curve upwards.
You take a sip of your beer, the liquid fizzing pleasantly on your tongue. The cold stings your teeth in a way that should be uncomfortable, but instead, seems to be just right.
“You’re only sayin’ that ‘cause it’s newer. You’re blinded by the classics,” you accuse, jutting out one finger from around the neck of your bottle, pointing it in the older Winchester’s direction, before sparing a glance at Sam. “Help me out here, would ya?”
Sam blinks, slow, buzzed, like the words take a moment to travel from his ears to his brain.
For a second, he just stares, lips slightly parted like he’s forgotten what the argument was about. His cheeks are flushed a pretty pink from the beer, warm from the golden glow of the lamp, his hair a little messy from running his fingers through it all night.
When he snaps out of it, finally, a lazy grin spreads across his face, and your stomach seems to flip even more than usual. He lifts his beer in some sort of salute, before taking a swig.
“It’s not… bad,” he says carefully, ever the mediator, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
His eyes flick to yours as he says it, as if searching for some sort of approval, and he sure as hell gets it—you flashing him a triumphant smile, landing your obnoxious ‘aha!’. Dean rolls his eyes so hard, you think they might fall out of his skull.
“Dude, you always take her side,” he complains, hardening his gaze into something that’s probably supposed to be scrutinizing.
“No I don’t,” Sam defends, sounding almost pouty, but it’s weak. Really weak.
“It’s ‘cause I’m always right,” you butt in, giggling all over again, Sam’s soft smile growing at the sound alone.
“Yeah, no,” Dean decides, eyes flicking between you and his brother. “That’s not why. Wanna know why? It’s just ‘cause he…” he trails off, slowly, voice dipping into something uncharacteristically quiet, and you feel the way Sam stiffens by your side. Hard.
They exchange a look, one you don’t quite understand. Sharp, quick, silent Winchester communication—like they know something you don’t. And when Dean speaks again, he waves his arm as if to brush you off.
“…Whatever. His opinions invalid, anyway. He likes freakin’ Bon Jovi.”
For a beat too long, you don’t respond. Long enough to make the air in the room feel slightly unnatural, like it’s suddenly gotten thicker, grown from an easy flow to something a little suffocating. Dean’s words still hang between you, unfinished in a way that somehow makes them worse. He left space, too much space, leaving room for you to fill in blanks that you don’t quite understand.
Your mind should be racing to reach it. Should be grabbing onto something, anything, but instead, every thought drifts lazily past, tangled and unhelpful, like puzzle pieces that almost fit together but never quite click.
And God, Sam… Sam looks a little like he’s about to bolt.
That snaps you out of it, quick, your brain catching a thought, flipping it over, and blurting out a response before it really settles.
“Dean, even I like Bon Jovi.”
Dean’s gaze flicks back to you, thrown off just enough for some of that smothering tension to crack, even just a fraction. He looks at you, then Sam, then back to you—like he’s trying to gauge if opening his mouth will get him punched or not—before giving you another scowl.
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck in an attempt to shake off some of the pressure. “That’s his influence.”
He sticks the neck of his bottle in Sam’s direction, who seems to have relaxed a little, but just barely.
“His poor, poor influence.”
“Poor? You could argue that Bon Jovi’s classic, too,” you challenge, tilting your head, a half-smile tugging at your lips again. You’re still trying to keep it light, even if something in the room still feels a little off.
Even if that something is right next to you, knee to knee, and radiating an intense amount of heat that you have to fight yourself not to lean into.
Dean opens his mouth, closes it, then huffs.
“Very poor,” he lands on, weakly. “Jovi is the pop of rock. Nothing about that is classic, ‘n you know it.”
You scoff, which almost earns you a smirk, but it doesn’t stick. Not really.
Because Sam still hasn’t said anything.
You glance over at him, and yeah. Definitely off. He’s stiff, posture tight like his muscles are locked in place, his shoulders just a touch too taut. His jaw’s set hard enough to hurt, and his eyes are fixed somewhere past Dean like he’s trying to become one with the couch, or maybe just disappear entirely.
“Sammy.” You nudge him with your elbow, a quick, gentle motion, and he startles like you’d jammed a knife between his ribs. He bows his head to look at you, loopy-eyed from that alcohol induced haze, cheeks still a flustered red.
He doesn’t even correct you this time.
“…Hm?”
“Are y’going to defend yourself,” you ask, voice tipping into a more teasing register, watching him just a little closer, “or just let him slander you?”
Sam doesn’t respond right away. His grip on his bottle loosens just a touch, thumb dragging lazily along the peeling label as his gaze flickers down, then back to you. Then he huffs. Shakes his head. And suddenly, a small, familiar smile tugs at his lips again, dimples creating pretty little indents on his still pink cheeks.
“…You love ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’, Dean.”
You snicker, Dean groans, and Sam seems to relax in a way that helps you breathe easy again. The tension doesn’t disappear, not entirely anyway, but it loosens, unwinding like a knot pulled in the right direction. And when Sam takes another sip of his beer, eyes flicking to you, there’s something softer in it now. Something that wasn’t there a moment ago—or maybe something he just couldn’t quite hide this time.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean concedes, waving both of you off, planting his now empty bottle on the coffee table with a heavy thud. “You’re both still wrong. I’m just outnumbered.”
“Right…” you drawl, still giggling, and Sam lets out a real laugh this time. The kind that lights up his entire face, and makes your chest tighten without even realizing it.
The music hums into another solo, the room settling back into something familiar. Sam shifts, just slightly, and his fingertips brush your shoulder in soft, rhythmic circles where his arm’s draped along the back of the couch.
And this time, he doesn’t pull away at all.
On day fourteen, it’s your turn to scare the soul clean out of Sam’s body.
You wake up early, too early for most, before the sun has even fully breached the horizon. The sky is still a faded pink, the world sitting quietly, where everything feels as though it’s paused and waiting. The air’s already warm, already heavy, but it’s not suffocating yet; it’s gentle. The kind of warmth that settles over your skin just right, or glows through your kitchen blinds as you brew a pot of rich coffee.
When you shake Sam awake, he startles. Of course he does. Hunters never quite wake easy. There’s a flash of immediate alertness in his eyes, maybe a little bit of panic, before it fades into soft recognition. And as it turns out, it doesn’t take much convincing, if any at all, to get him to follow.
And so your short journey begins.
You walk side by side in an easy, peaceful quiet, the kind that doesn’t really need any filling. The fields stretch endlessly around you, overgrown grass tickling your legs, the odd car or rusted-out part scattered around every corner. Remnants of old memories, of laughter-fueled moments that you hold oh so close to your heart.
Then the trees cast cool shadows as you move through the woods, ducking under low branches that force Sam to practically fold himself in half, step over fallen logs, and push through bushes that scrape your knees, practiced like you’ve done it a thousand times before.
Because you have.
Eventually, you reach it. The two of you lie out the old blanket you’d packed, right where the trees clear out, a quiet lake opens up, and the land dips into something almost hidden just for you. It’s the kind of place no one would ever find unless they really went looking. The place that was always just… yours. Yours and Sam’s.
You lean back into the blanket, your hair fanning across worn fabric as you let yourself relax, flipping open your journal, graphite smudging against the curve of your palm as you begin to sketch. Sam settles beside you, the movement quiet, unhurried, and so damn familiar. Neither of you speak, not at first, and neither of you really have to.
The lake is still, in that glassy, undisturbed sort of way, except from the occasional ripple from a fish breaching the surface, or a leaf falling from a nearby tree. Morning light cascades over it in pretty golds and soft blues, shining in a way that makes everything feel a little softer around the edges.
It’s all so… familiar.
Every rock, every tree, every incline in the field has a memory attached. It’s the place you used to go all the time as kids, after school or when the pressure at home got too heavy. Escaping out to the hills like you weren’t the children of hunters, but two regular kids who liked skipping stones and splashing water, or two teenagers who would sneak a couple beers from your fathers fridge. The place that held all of your goodbyes, before John would snatch the boys away for months, and you wouldn’t hear a thing until they returned just a little older, a little rougher.
It makes this feel like goodbye all over again.
Next to you, it seems Sam might be thinking just the same thing. He doesn’t say it out loud yet, but he just breathes it all in, mapping the space around him like a trail he knows better than the back of his hand. He watches the birds fly from tree to tree, takes in the scent of damp earth and wild flowers, listens to the way your pencil scratches lightly against your paper.
Eventually though, he turns to look at you instead.
His gaze lingers in a way that shouldn’t feel as heavy as it does. He doesn’t look at your journal, or the way your hands grip your pencil. No, he stares at your profile. Your relaxed expression. The way your hair frames your face, the slope of your nose, the soft bow of your lips. A soft smile tugs at his own as he quietly slips down to his elbow beside you, closing some of that space so naturally it could be framed as unintentional.
But now, you know better than that.
Your pencil glides across the paper in deep strokes, before your fingertip darts out to smudge the graphite, blending it into something softer. You try to ignore his gaze. You really do. But you can feel it—and it makes your heart thump like a drum against your ribs, flutter in a way you can feel up in your throat.
Slowly, so slowly as to not break the quiet, your pencil lowers to rest between the pages, as you turn your head gently to the side.
“…You okay there, Sam?”
His expression does something a little complicated when you speak. It softens into something sweet, the way it always does when you meet his gaze, but at the same time, it almost gets heavier. He gives you that damn look, that puppy-eyed stare, the one that makes your chest warm with affection so intense, it’s near impossible to stifle.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice still a little rough from sleep, or maybe just emotion he hasn’t quite faced. “Just… thinking.”
His knee brushes yours as he shifts, bending it where it rests over the blanket so he can look at you more fully. It doesn’t feel like an accident, not this time, and he certainly doesn’t rush to pull it away.
“Thinking?” you echo. “About what?”
Sam exhales, a quiet, shaky breath, like the question weighs on him.
“About… this. Staying here. How it’s coming to an end.” His voice comes out careful and almost measured, too measured, like he’s trying to mask that undercurrent of sadness that’s already starting to ache. “I could’ve sworn two weeks felt so much longer when we were kids.”
Fourteen days was never meant to last forever. You knew that. And yet, sitting by the lake, surrounded by old memories, it feels a little like time has slipped through your fingers like the sunrise melting into noon.
Your relaxed smile fades into something a little more sullen, even as warmth clings to your skin, both from the sun, and the barely-there touch of his knee.
“Yeah. It did.” You swallow, forcing yourself to look away briefly, like that’ll do anything to loosen the pressure in your chest. You sit up a little further, pushing onto your elbows, and your journal slides off your lap, pencil rolling into the overgrown grass.
“…You know you don’t need a reason to just… visit, right?”
For a moment, the words just… sit. And you’d expected just that.
Because the Winchesters don’t do things like that. They don’t go on hunt-free road trips, or lazy Sunday afternoons, or spontaneous visits unless blood is involved. Their lives are simple, that of a hunter’s: case files, salt rounds, and constant movement from crisis to crisis with no room for reunions.
And you know that. You really do. And yet…
“I just mean… you don’t need to be hunting. Or injured.” Your fingers curl into the blanket below as you find his eyes again. “You don’t need to justify it. You can just… come.”
His throat works as he swallows hard, and he turns towards the water for a fleeting second, like he’s anchoring himself against a wave of emotion threatening to spill over all at once.
“I don’t want to impose,” he lands on, slowly, spelling out the syllables. Bracing for rejection. “This is Bobby’s place. Your place. It’s safe. I’m not… Dean and I can’t just…”
He huffs, frustrated, shaking his head.
“Sam,” you start again, still gentle, voice so low, it almost gets lost in the passing breeze. “I’m saying I want you guys here.”
Silence falls. The trees sway with a soft gust of wind, and the pages of your journal flip by your side, but you don’t worry yourself about losing your place. You don’t tear your gaze away. You can’t. And when you speak again, your voice comes out more firm than before.
“I’m saying I want you here.”
He doesn’t respond right away, barely even blinks. Your own gaze finally slips away from his, dropping to your lap, then back out to the lake ahead—and you let out a breath that’s almost as frustrated as his own.
“I meant what I said when you first got here. I miss having you guys around. So much,” you whisper, and the words seem to catch in your throat, shaky and thick enough to ache. “I don’t… I don’t want this to be goodbye for the next six months. I don’t want to watch the impala pull onto the road and wonder when I’ll see your face again. I don’t—God, Sam, I don’t… I can’t—”
“Hey.” His voice slices through your words like the world’s softest blade.
“Yeah?”
“…Can I kiss you?”
You don’t answer right away. You think you do—your brain sends the signal, your lips part—but nothing actually comes out. The moment hangs there, frozen, like you’d pressed pause on the world, and forgot to press play again.
The words seem to replay in your head on repeat. Not once, not twice, but over and over and over, as you stare at him like if you look hard enough, the universe will rewind like some cruel joke. Because this is Sam.
This is Sam, and he’s just asked if he could kiss you.
You’re not sure how long your hesitation lasts, but it’s long enough for Sam’s eyes to widen. For his muscles to go tense. For his face to crumble like he’s just fucked up, really fucked up, and for him to lean away like he’s about to pull back. You don’t let him.
Because when your response finally comes, it has nothing to do with words.
You surge forward, capturing his lips with so much intensity that you get the brick wall that is Sam Winchester to sway. He inhales into it like he wasn’t expecting it, like it takes a moment to register, but once it does, he melts. Completely.
It’s like every nerve lights up all at once. Warm and electric and so damn right that your head spins, and your stomach flips.
It’s sweet. So damn sweet.
He kisses you back slowly, cautiously, like he’s terrified of messing things up; but with so much tenderness that it steals the air straight out of your lungs. There’s no rush, no urgency, just quiet wonder. Like the moment is fragile, and all either of you want to do is preserve it forever.
And when he finally pulls back, just enough to suck in a deep, lingering breath, he rests his forehead against yours. His eyes half lidded, and so full of adoration that it would bring you to your knees if you weren’t already so reclined.
“…You okay?” he questions, voice barely above a breath, as he searches your face for even the smallest ounce of doubt. He doesn’t find any.
“Perfect.”
He nods, and then he’s leaning in this time. Every muscle in your body relaxes the moment his lips slot against yours again, giving way to something warm and almost pliant. His hands rise, slow and tentative at first, before he cups your jaw with infinite gentleness. Two warm palms brush your cheeks as he tilts you impossibly closer, his fingers spanning the length of your face, his thumbs brushing sweetly over the delicate curve of your cheekbone in a clingy way that just about makes your eyes water.
And for a while, that’s all there is. You, him, the quiet rhythm of your breathing as your lips collide, the breeze ruffling through the field, and the soft rippling waves in the lake.
When you pull back again, it’s not that either of you want to, and you can feel it in the way he hesitates. The way his thumb traces your face, the way his lips linger a fraction too long before parting from yours. He doesn’t go far. He stays close enough for your noses to brush, for his bangs to tickle your forehead, and one of his hands never leaves your cheek.
There’s a faint, disbelieving huff of a laugh that comes from him, and after a moment of shock—one of your own follows.
“Okay,” he murmurs, like he’s trying the words out, testing his reality. Testing if this is all real. “Okay.”
Your lips curve into a smile despite yourself. “…Yeah?” you whisper, and you don’t say much else, at least not for the moment. Because if you do, you almost worry you’ll say something cheesy. Something cliché, like ‘you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.’
Because it’s true.
Your hand shifts where it rests between you, brushing against his wrist. He stills for a second at the contact, instinctive, and you feel his hesitation in his breath. But then he softens. Turns his hand. And finally, he slides his palm just enough so his fingers can lace between yours. Careful, so careful, like he’s still not quite sure if he’s allowed.
You squeeze, and he squeezes back.
“I’m not… good at this,” he admits, gaze dropping briefly to stare at your interlocked fingers, and his thumb brushes gently over your knuckles. “Showing up just because. Having a life off the road.”
Your smile lingers, but your gaze searches his, just for a second. “You don’t have to be good at it. But… I’ll say it a thousand times if I have to. I just want you here. I want… all of it.”
“All of it,” he echoes, and he lifts his head again, expression so warm, you feel like you could melt. His hand lifts from your cheek, only to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, holding just a moment longer than necessary. “…I’m not good at this, but I want to try. For you.”
“For us,” you correct, and he smiles so hard, the golden shine of the sun catches on his dimples.
“Yeah. For us.”
AN: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SAMMY 🎉🥳 as a gift to all the Sam lovers, here is almost 10K words of pure fluff.
This one is pretty different from my other work, honestly, lol, and I made up some demonology here that’s definitely inaccurate, so enjoy being thoroughly confused there (I was too). But I hope everyone’s had a great Sam day 🖤
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A hunter believes it is his job to bare the Mark of Cain and suffer alone. It's Dean's destiny to kill his enemies and save the world no matter how vast the oceans of blood will grow. Sam, of course, refuses to let his brother do this alone and he is on the desperate search to find someone who can help his brother before he changes for the worst. When Castiel tells Sam about a rumor of a girl who is the direct descendent of Cain, he begins the hunt for her. He hopes you will be able to help him find a way to subside Dean's changes before he loses his brother forever.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: SPN spoilers pertaining to seasons nine and ten. SPN level of violence, gore, blood, torture, which may not be suitable for all audiences.
𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞: 09.12.23
𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞: 11.09.23
𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 1
𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 2
𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 3
𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 4
𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 5
𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 6
𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 7
𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 8
𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 9
𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 10 (final)
Jennifer Jacobs @jenniferjacobs06 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
