Len

she/they; bisexual; INTP; Leo; 22

[raspberry-starship]

Penumbra { 6 }

fem!reader x Sam ⟢ ✧ MASTERLIST ✧ About + Masterlist for Penumbra

Summary: Reader is invisible, cursed to walk the Earth but not able to interfere with it for several years. A chance encounter while snooping around a crime scene leads her to the one person who can see her: Sam Winchester. Content/Warnings: [no use of y/n] + slurs (fag, fairy, etc.), internalized homophobia, smut (not super explicit), VERY Dean-centric chapter Titular Song's Artist: DJO ♡♡ A/N: I've been SO excited for this chapter. This is probably my favorite one so far. It's pretty angsty 😔

Closing the gates of Hell forever. That’s the mission Sam signed onto.

You’re not sure what to make of it all once he’s done explaining. You both sit in silence under the muggy night on a curb at the edge of the parking lot. You’re frowning ahead of you, towards the closed motel room door. Beside you Sam absently rubs his hands together between his knees. He steals a glance at you.

You open your mouth like you’re going to speak then close it. This happens a few times in succession. You look cute— kind of like a confused fish. He can’t help a little snort of admiration. The sound draws your focus immediately, still frowning hard. He offers you a weak but genuine smirk.

“I know. It’s a lot.”

You shake your head softly, “That’s an understatement.”

He snorts again with a little more gusto. “It’s kind of hard to think of another way to put it.”

You don’t reply to that. Instead you look down at your outstretched legs with a glum expression of concern. Seeing that look on you makes a faint ache bloom in Sam’s chest.

“I’m sorry.” He says again, “I should’ve told you.”

You shrug a shoulder weakly. “I guess I… wouldn’t have known where to start either if I were you.”

He nods a few times and you both slip into silence. An owl hoots somewhere in the distance, and the breeze returns. You tug your jacket closer to you.

“Are you cold?” He asks.

“No.” You shake your head, “I’m just, uh, doing it for comfort I guess.”

He watches you for a long moment. “Are you upset?”

You’re not sure how to answer at first. “I’m… worried.”

“Listen, we’ll figure this out, okay?” He says, instinctively going to touch your shoulder then stopping himself. “You won’t be stuck like this forever. I’ll make sure of it.”

You frown and meet his eyes. “I’m worried about you, Sam.”

“Oh. Uh…” He doesn’t really know what to say so he kind of shrugs.

“I mean, closing the gates of Hell sounds good but I… I just wonder what the cost will be. To you.”

He smiles without any joy. “I’ve done a lot of things that… others have had to foot the bill for. I see this as… my way of paying them back, I guess.”

You raise your head again to look at him. There’s a pain in your face. His brows twitch together a little in concern.

“Can you close your eyes?” You ask at almost a whisper.

He nods and does it, still facing you. He waits for a moment, wondering what you’ll do. Tentatively, the weight of your head rests on top of his shoulder. You drape yourself around the one of his arms closest to you, wrapping it up in both of yours. You feel him relax under your touch. Your cheek makes a soft noise against the canvas of his coat as you nuzzle into a comfortable spot. His next exhale comes out shaky.

He turns his face towards yours, tilting down a bit to where he knows you are. You peer up at him through your lashes, face still flush with his front. Another long breath rattles out of him. The hand of the arm in your embrace lifts up cautiously. Blindly, he seeks you out, moving haltingly in case you reject his touch. You stay perfectly still in invitation, watching his hand come to rest on your knee. You stare down at it there, watching it settle into holding you.

“I wish I could look at you right now.” He barely murmurs, worrying that’s too transparent— will you recoil at his honesty?

Your head lifts off his shoulder but your arms stay tight around his. He’s waiting with bated breath for your response, tension slipping back into his musculature. Your arms gently tug him a little closer and lower. He bows his head and then your soft lips press into his cheek. He puts all his energy into not revealing that this makes him want to swoon. You pull back and the skin of his face immediately misses your warmth— misses you blocking him from the wind.

“I… I think I… wish you could look at me now, too.” You mutter, clearly unsure of whether or not that was an okay thing to admit.

He lifts the hand from your knee. Just barely skimming his fingertips against various points of you, he uses touch to find your face. With all this tenderness you’re sure he shouldn’t have, his fingers curl and his knuckles brush against your cheek. It’s just a brief pass across your skin but you almost feel like you’re glowing off of the ghostly touch.

In the corner of your eye you see movement. Glancing in the direction of the motel makes you inadvertently bump into Sam’s hand, which was still hovering near your face. He doesn’t move away from you, instead letting his knuckles rest on the swell of your cheek. Your eyes narrow when you see Dean looking out the open door for his brother. The expression he has is less angry but his brow is still furrowed in suspicion.

To Dean, his brother looks very odd right now— eyes closed, head turned towards an empty spot, and his fingers curled to rest against seemingly nothing. Deciding to swallow the urge to poke fun at Sam, Dean just closes the door behind him.

You turn to whisper to Sam. “Dean’s coming over here, I think.”

Sam sighs with exhaustion and nods. When he doesn’t open his eyes immediately you somehow know it’s because he doesn’t want you to get shoved away from him. Reluctantly, you pull away, a lingering squeeze left on his forearm as you fully withdraw. Sighing, he opens his eyes to see Dean walking towards you both. You hover beside Sam with a guarded expression. He doesn’t stand to greet his brother, just lifts his head.

Dean’s boots shuffle to a halt in front of Sam’s. “So are you gonna sleep out here or come back inside?”

Sam takes a breath and glances away briefly. The silence makes Dean shift his weight.

“How do you feel?”

Sam frowns up at Dean. “About what?”

“After the Trial, dipshit.”

“Oh.” Sam’s face in blank, “Okay, I guess.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam shrugs, “I dunno. I feel okay.”

Dean shifts in place, “Sam, you were flat on your ass back there. Are you sure you’re okay? You were unconscious for at least three hours.”

Sam turns to you for confirmation. You shrug a shoulder, “It was probably much longer. That’s just how long you were asleep after we found you—”

“—Sammy.” Dean cuts you off without knowing, garnering Sam’s focus again. He raises his eyebrows expectantly at his younger brother.

“Dean, I’m fine—”

“—My ass.”

Sam opens his mouth to reply then closes it with an annoyed hum through pursed lips. Dean clears his throat and you can tell he’s posturing.

“Is, uh… she here?”

Sam’s eye flicker to their corners to scowl lightly at Dean as he nods. You think Sam’s got every right to be more outwardly angry than that. Despite this, you hold your tongue.

“So you believe me?” Sam asks.

Dean’s eyes are shifty, not really meeting Sam’s for long. “I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I don’t know man, what you’re telling me is crazy.” Dean replies then heaves a sigh, “But… if you say she’s real then… sure.”

He finishes that with a lame shrug. It’s clear he’s just trying to pacify someone he thinks is losing their mind.

Your head cocks to the side as you give Dean a disbelieving look. A comment slips out before you consider it carefully, “It’s like he’s allergic to just saying sorry.”

Sam snorts a little at that, shooting you a brief look, his eyes softening significantly as they focus on you.

“What?” Dean asks impatiently.

“Nothin’.” Sam replies, face falling as he sits forwards again.

“No, go on,” You say, “tell him what I said.”

Sam hazards a glance over at you. You’re staring up at Dean with your head still tilted, eyes narrowed and dark like tinted glass. Sighing, Sam’s feet scoot further out onto the asphalt and he rubs his stubbly chin with one hand.

“She said: ‘it’s like he’s allergic to just saying sorry.’” Sam peers up through his lashes at Dean.

A muscle on Dean’s jaw juts out as he clenches his teeth. “Well why don’t you tell Casper to mind her own fuckin’ business, how about that.”

You can’t help a dismissive snort, “I will when I get something better to do.”

“Don’t be a dick.” Sam addresses his brother.

Dean rolls his eyes dramatically, “Sammy, are you sure this isn’t some kind of side-effect of the Trials?”

Sam’s face wrinkles incredulously. “What? Why?”

“I don’t know!” Dean raises and drops his hands, “You didn’t start acting weird until after the second one and now you’re insisting that there’s a person here that only you can see. You gotta understand how that looks.”

“What I understand is you not trusting me.”

“Well excuse me for trying to be a bit delicate with you!” Dean snaps, “And if she is real, then why don’t you tell her we’ve got bigger things to worry about than whatever dumbass shit she did to get herself cursed!”

You open your mouth to reply when Sam stands up to his full height. You watch Dean’s chin lift so he can keep glowering right into Sam’s eyes.

“She can hear you perfectly fine. You just can’t hear her.”

Dean lets out a huff through his nose. “Alright fine, and what’s she saying?”

“Nothing right this second.”

“You’re a dick, Dean.” You interject.

“Now she just called you a dick.” Sam repeats to his brother.

“Sure.” Dean rolls his eyes a little and turns on his heel, “Whatever. I’m going to bed.”

Sam’s fists clench at either side of him. He marches a few steps to catch up with Dean.

“What is your goddamn problem, huh?” Sam demands angrily.

In their wake you slowly stand up from the curb, hands clasped in front of your chest a bit anxiously.

“I am not the one with the problem, Sam!” Dean snaps, immediately turning to face his brother with an accusatory finger pointed at his chest. “I just drove five hours here with no stops, dragged your giant limp ass out of a blown-up church and I still can’t get a straight answer outta you to save my life! Sorry if I’m not in the mood to indulge your crazy shit right now!”

“No you’re not! You’re not sorry!” Sam swipes a definitive hand through the air between them, “You’ve been riding my ass for months now! First it was because I didn’t look for you, then it was about me not hunting for the last year, then it was me taking on the Trials instead of you! Are you noticing a pattern here? It’s like everything I do is fucking wrong to you!”

Dean’s face is stoney but he doesn’t answer.

“It doesn’t matter what I do, or what I say! You always would’a done it different— you would’a done it better! Why don’t you believe in me anymore, huh?”

“Well maybe because you’ve started actin’ like Molly Jensen and expected me to just go along with it!”

Both you and Sam frown and utter: “What?”

Dean raises and drops his hands, “My god, dude! C’mon! Ghost! The movie! Molly Jensen’s the— you know what never mind! You comin’ or what?!”

Sam takes a single step closer to Dean, staring deep into his brother’s eyes with a dark tint to them.

“She’s not a ghost. She’s real. And she’s a person who needs our help.”

Dean swallows but doesn’t reply. He doesn’t look away from Sam’s intense gaze either as he continues.

“You know what, Dean? I’m sick of dealing with your extended hissy-fit about Cas.” Sam menaces, “It’s not any of our faults that he ran off! You don’t get to take it out on everyone just because he’s not here for you to get angry with, alright? No one’s gonna put up with your bitching just because you’re hurting! You change your goddamn tone when you talk about her and when you talk to Kevin.”

“What about how I talk to Kevin?”

“You keep ordering him around like a sergeant! He’s a kid, Dean!” Sam exclaims, “Who just lost his mom! Don’t you remember what that feels like?!”

“Don’t.”

“Or what?!” Sam snaps, “You think it’s okay for you to be, uh, uh, unsympathetic to a kid just because you’re mad about your friend running off?! You don’t just get to throw your emotions at everyone else when you can’t be upset with the one person you’re actually mad at!”

“Sammy, enough!”

“I’ll tell you when it’s been enough!” Sam raises his voice louder, “And when we find Cas— which we will —you can be as angry with him as you want! But stop taking it out on everyone else who’s still sticking around!”

Dean’s nose wrinkles and he glances away. He wants to say “it’s not about Cas” but he can’t make himself do it. Because he knows that it is in large part about the angel. Everything has been annoying and anger-inducing recently and Dean secretly does know why. Where’s the dorky guy in the trench coat that’s supposed to be following him around? Maybe if he were here Dean would have some backup against Sam’s hallucination-talk. As things stand, though, he’s got no reply left in him.

A few feet behind Sam, you cock your head to the side, eyeing Dean in a new light.

“Who’s Cas?” You ask.

Sam glances over his shoulder at the sound of your voice but doesn’t fully meet your gaze. He replies with a gentler tone than the one he’s been using for his brother.

“Cas is our friend.”

You frown harder but Sam’s not really looking at you anymore. He’s turned back to Dean.

“Cas is an angel.” Dean adds with the intonation of a correction. “A stupid, reckless, idiotic one who dropped out on us. So sorry if I don’t have a lotta patience when it seems like you’re about to do it too!”

Sam raises his hands to either side of him, “Dean, I would never do that to you!”

“You literally did! Earlier this year!” Dean snaps, “And what, I’m just supposed to forgive and forget while you were off with some girl? And not hunting?!”

“’Cause I gotta do everything exactly the way you would, right?!” Sam shouts, “I told you— you either move on or I will! I don’t have to put up with this! You’re not a teenager anymore, Dean, you’re an adult! So start acting like one! You always act like you’re so much more advanced than me when in reality you’re still just a scared little boy afraid of everyone abandoning him all the time! Do you never stop to consider why people might not wanna put up with your shit after a while?!”

A dead silence fills the air. You shiver at the tension, watching Dean’s nostrils flare. He shakes his head softly, a humorless snort puffing past his lips. For a moment he glances to the side and swipes his thumb over the crease of his mouth, almost casual— almost unbothered. Without warning or preamble, Dean snaps back around to punch Sam in the jaw.

You screech in surprise as Sam stumbles to the side a little. “What the hell—!?”

Sam straightens with a mean glare.

“Did that make you feel better?!” Sam can’t help taunting, wiping the blood off his lip.

“Yeah, it did.” Dean lunges towards Sam again.

The two of them crash into the sedan parked to the side. They tangle and wrestle with each other, both grunting and shouting non-verbal noises. Your heart gallops uncontrollably, mouth agape and unsure of what you ought to do. Dean gets the upper-hand on Sam, shoving him down onto the hood of the car with a forearm to the throat.

“Dean—!” Sam grits out, voice strained.

Dean’s nose wrinkles like an animal, fury burning in his green eyes. There are no words now, just blinding fury and the desire for the simplicity of Purgatory. The rules of engagement were clear-cut back there— kill anything that’s standing between him and the angel, then anything standing between him and the portal. For months Dean bled and sweat and slashed his way through that wasteland in search of Cas, never sleeping, barely ever even resting except to wet his dry mouth with some water. All Cas seems to have done recently is run away from him. Is Dean really so bad? Why is it that Cas won’t just—

Smash! The splintering noise of wood shattering interrupts everything. A searing wave of pressure-pain blooms between Dean’s thighs.

“Agh!” He doubles over immediately, releasing Sam.

Sam shoots upright with a gasp, hands going to touch his own throat. Much to his confusion and surprise, Dean stoops forwards with a hand over his crotch. Bewildered and still catching his breath, Sam looks around only to find you holding a big branch, now broken in two pieces. The second his eyes process the sight you’re dropping the stick. Flushed and panting hard you look up at Sam with watery eyes.

“I— I’m s— sorry, I didn’t know—” You’re trembling now, “—I didn’t know what to do— I’m— I’m sorry!”

Sam takes a step towards you and you shift back instinctively— is he angry with you? That sight pains him to see more than he could ever admit. He knows rationally that there are many people who are afraid of him just purely based on his physical size, but seeing you almost cower away from him makes his skin crawl— it makes him wish he could slip out of his skin for a moment, if only to show you he is no threat to you.

He squeezes his eyes shut and holds out a hand to you. Over the sounds of Dean groaning in pain Sam hears you release a relieved breath. Your smaller hand slips into his and Sam finally feels like his lungs inhale a full breath. He’s not sure what to do. He’s still reeling from Dean’s attack and struggling to catch his breath. He wants to double-check that Dean won’t make another move but he can’t. If Sam opens his eyes right now your pressure and the weight of your hand will leave him. He doesn’t think he can endure that right now but what’s more important is getting the two of you to safety.

Sam gives your hand a squeeze before releasing it then opening his eyes to look at his attacker. Dean has slumped from all fours onto just his knees, leaning a shoulder against the sedan as the dizziness slowly subsides. He won’t meet Sam’s gaze out of obvious shame.

“Sleep somewhere else tonight.” Sam says, voice scratchy and still unsteady.

He opens his mouth to add more but there’s nothing else he can say. Swallowing his guilt over this decision, he jerks his head towards the motel in silent request that you go ahead of him. Dean doesn’t look up or speak, just stays close to the ground, shaken by himself and the situation he’s found that self in.

When Sam’s finally got the door closed behind you both, he slips the chain into place, too.

“What’s going on?” Kevin pipes up from the far bed. He’s tucked in below the waist, some headphones on over his head but one out of the way so he can hear.

“Uh,” Sam swallows, still somewhat out of breath, “Dean’s gonna, uh, sleep somewhere else tonight.”

Kevin blinks, clearly surprised and confused. “Why?”

Sam shakes his head slightly, “Not right now, Kevin. I can’t explain right now. Let’s just all go to sleep, okay? We’ll talk in the morning.”

Kevin frowns, “Is your imaginary friend here?”

Sam’s expression melts into one of reserved annoyance. “She’s not imaginary. She’s invisible.”

“Oh. Uh-huh.” Kevin nods slowly, clearly unsure.

Sam’s shoulders slump with exhaustion. “We can talk about everything in the morning, okay? You, uh, should get some sleep.”

Kevin’s expression shifts to one more tinged with concern. “You too, right?”

“Huh?”

“You need sleep, Sam.” Kevin says, the worry clear in his young features. “The Trials are no joke. You need to rest.”

Sam exhales and nods, “I will. Go on. I’ll turn the lights off in a bit, okay?”

Hesitantly, Kevin nods and then with one last long look at Sam, settles down onto his back, slipping the headphone back over his ears. A heavy silence falls over the room as the boy turns onto his side, facing away from them.

Sam faces you. There’s this lost expression in his eyes, like he’s unsure what exactly he needs in this moment. Swallowing thickly, you barely extend one hand out near your hip, letting it hover there in an offer. Sam immediately squeezes his eyes shut and takes you by the wrist, tugging you to his chest without hesitation.

You bump face-first into his t-shirt, which is still riddled with holes from the broken glass. His arms envelop you and one hand cradles the back of your head close to his heart. You think at first this is for your benefit but then you feel him trembling beneath his clothes. Your brows pinch together— he’s never seemed so fragile before.

Your arms loop around his middle and tug him close to you, too. It’s as if you’re trying to silently communicate: I can comfort you, too. I can hold you, too.

A shudder releases from his exhausted body and he begins to lean on you like he just can’t help it. Your hands creep up higher under his arms, taking ahold of his shoulders to encourage this. He doesn’t go so far as to crush you, but you stay there for a long few minutes just breathing together, chest-to-chest. Even after all of his last 24 hours of messy work, the smell of him— the unique Sam-musk —comforts you.

After some time, the two of you agree it’s time for bed. You insist on Sam going to the bathroom first. He does, washing his face clean of blood. You ask him several iterations of questions about whether or not his nose is broken. He assures you finally that it’s been broken twice before— he knows the feeling well. You’re hovering at the sink beside him, and something shadows your face when he says that.

He catches the expression in the corner of his eye and glances over to you. With your brows knit together with a sorrow he doesn’t know how to discern, you tell him “it’s nothing” when he asks what’s wrong. After he brushes his teeth he leaves you to do what you need to do in there.

Sam doesn’t get under the covers, waiting until you come out of the bathroom sometime later. He’s sitting with his feet on the floor, hands between his knees while slowly rubbing his palms together. His eyes flicker up to find you as soon as you return. They follow you as you round the foot of Kevin’s bed and come to stand beside Sam.

“Are you gonna get in?” You ask, quiet even though the kid can’t hear you.

Sam nods slowly, a distant look in his eye.

You’re not sure what comes over you but you reach out to brush some hair off his forehead. You freeze inches from his face, not close enough to feel the magnetic repulsion that keeps you from contact with objects. He glances up at your hand. Without a word, he closes his eyes. Your heart melts and you finish the movement, fingertips skating across his forehead, very carefully tracing some of the hair off his tacky skin. When you reach his ear, he cranes his neck just a tiny bit, like he’s seeking out more contact. You hesitate for a split second then card your fingers through the front of his hair. Instantly, he melts under the touch, a long weary exhale squeezing out of him like an air mattress deflating. You have to swallow a lump in your throat.

When your hand lifts off of him at the crown of his head, he lets out a low, barely audible noise. You’re not sure what it implies until he murmurs to you.

“Again?”

His voice is so soft, so vulnerable, so shy— it seems like a man his size shouldn’t be able to sound so small and delicate. It makes you want to slip into his lap and run your fingers through his hair repeatedly until he drifts off into the most peaceful sleep. But you don’t. Because you hardly know the man and you don’t know what he wants. You grant him his wish though, performing the action again, a little slower this time.

He shivers in a way that seems quite pleasant. His chin raises, making his face parallel to yours. If his eyes could open he’d stare right up into your face as you repeat the movement again for a third time.

Before Sam knows what he’s doing his lips are moving. “Can you… hold me tonight?”

Your brows pinch together heartbrokenly. “Yeah. Of course I can do that.”

He nods softly, a little childlike in his manner but not in an off-putting way. Maybe childlike isn’t the right word. Maybe it’s simply… vulnerable. He’s just sitting there, eyes closed and letting you touch him without being able to watch.

“Is… is it hard for you to do this?” You find yourself asking.

His face scrunches a little in confusion. Goddamn it he’s cute. “What d’you mean?”

You slip onto the bed beside him, using just your index finger to curl a lock of hair over his ear. “I dunno. Ask for… this, I guess. I just… I can’t imagine touch has been overly abundant or… very kind in your lifetime.”

He snorts humorlessly. “Understatement.”

Your features scrunch in misery, heart clenching on his behalf. You crawl across the bed and slip under the covers. He picks up a tie he’d packed in his duffle, tying it around his eyes before tucking himself in beside you. He turns to face you and you’re not sure how he wants you to hold him. He doesn’t see your hesitation, just slides his hands through the covers in search of you. Gently, he tugs you closer. You catch on quickly and wrap your arms around his middle.

“I’m sorry.” You murmur.

He shakes his head slightly, a soft scratch on his pillow. “S’not your fault.”

Your brows furrow harder. “It doesn’t have to be my fault for me to be sad about it. To feel sorry you have to deal with… that.”

His face cracks into a little smirk but you can’t quite tell what it means. “You’re a softie.”

“Pfft!” You roll your eyes but can’t completely subdue the smile his teasing caused. You sober up after, not letting him get away from your attention to his difficult life. “It’s… it’s not fair.”

He releases a long, weary sigh. The sound makes you more sad. It’s so resigned— no fight left in him tonight. Your eyes flicker down to his throat, where some purple bruises are forming.

Without thinking you scoot closer to him, your knees bumping into his. You see his brows twitch a little above the tie at the contact. You wish he could look at you— it’s so painfully clear now how much he wants to see when you’re this close. Your fingertips graze over his Adam’s apple making him shudder softly. One of his tree-trunk arms slips across your middle. Despite the disparity, you take in every bit of him this close as you can— the strong nose that comes to a gentle point; the eyebrows that are only relaxed now, in the dark without anything to perplex them; the weariness in his every breath.

After a moment you softly ask, “Has Dean ever done something like that to you before?”

Sam sighs and the breath causes goosebumps on the exposed flesh above your shirt collar. “Yeah. A few times.”

“That’s awful. Why would he do that?”

Sam doesn’t answer you for a long moment. “Unlike tonight I… think I might’a deserved it the other times he tried ‘knocking some sense into me’.”

You immediately make a hum of disagreement. “I sincerely doubt that.”

Sam shrugs a little in your embrace but doesn’t push the conversation any further. He doesn’t want to get into it— he doesn’t want to tell you about the demon blood. He doesn’t want you to know about Ruby.

Is he a coward? Maybe. But also… is it so wrong for him to want to preserve the way you look at him? His eyes are open behind the blindfold, straining like he might be able to see through it— to see you staring at him so close. You look upon the world with concern and distrust, but he can see the way you soften for him. He yearns for your gaze every time it’s not on him.

You see him and he’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean but he feels what it means in the silence.

“Get some rest.” You say, though your eyes are nowhere near drooping.

He nods, “Is it… okay if I stay here for a bit?”

You swallow with some effort and nod. “Of course. Stay as long as you need.”

* * *

It’s not something Dean thinks through fully. There’s not much to it— it’s nothing he hasn’t done before —but it’s still different. It’s new.

The bartender comes back to refill his glass over and over, pausing for longer each time to chat with him. The truths that slip past his lips, loosened by liquor, are never even close to the full ones. He’s returned from somewhere rough after a long while of being there. He doesn’t get specific. He doesn’t need to. Despite his best efforts, the feelings swirling around in Dean are easy to discern on his pretty features. For someone intuitive enough, there’s no need for intense interrogation to read them loud and clear.

The lights are getting turned off overhead. Last call was a half-hour ago. He’s still sitting on the stool at the bar, dawdling with his last finger of whiskey, still sipping from the glass that’s held more drinks than he’s kept count of tonight. People move around him but they’re shadows in his periphery. The only person outside of him that’s real is the bartender. The music overhead is a low droning thrum, a constant undercurrent of noise that he doesn’t process.

Dean doesn’t feel real right now. In truth, he hasn’t felt real in a long time. He doesn’t know when it started. He doesn’t know if he ever felt real. He tries to think of a time when he did.

The first thing that comes to mind is the memory of a mouthful of dirt; hands clawing at oppressive darkness trapping him inside the Earth; splinters from pine wood in his knuckles and palms.; the prickling ghost of claws tearing his guts out slipping away from his skin’s memory in place of a sharp stinging on the swell of his shoulder. A first gulp of fresh air that burned his lungs and a burst of soil between parted lips made him feel alive for the first time in years.

How can a man feel like his skin is brand new? If he’s worn his body ragged for over 25 years, how can he feel like the breeze tickling his flesh is new or different at the age of 29?

Walking down a road so desolate there wasn’t even a line demarcating the two lanes, he knew he was born again somehow. His body looked like he remembered— by all accounts he was once again the man he’d become on Earth —but the flesh tingled with every sensation like the world birthed him anew.

There was one thing about existence that began then and had not been present before: the feeling of being watched. Despite that, he could spin around in circles looking for the eyes following him only to find nothing. At first it was nerve-wracking because he didn’t know who was watching. But then he got used to it. He became reliant on the ability to look upwards and speak to empty air and know someone heard him.

When he thinks back on it now, Dean knows when that feeling left him. It was that first night in Purgatory, when all the woods were dark and not quiet. When he hissed out into the shadows for the angel that had played a large hand in getting him to this place and only ominous noises of other creatures responded. He was supposed to feel like there was someone watching him— someone watching out for him when all he’d ever done was watch out for others. But there was no one.

So is it so unreasonable of Dean to be angry? Is he so broken and incomprehensible that even his own brother can’t relate to that feeling of abandonment? What’s he saying— he knows that Sam’s abandoned him many times over. And if he were in more of a charitable mood he would consider how many times he’d done the same thing to Sam. All the times that he’d gotten John so mad that he’d sent Dean packing on the road with nothing but a rucksack and whatever money he’d recently hustled from pool, barely legal-looking enough to get into bars without too many questions thrown his way. All the times when Dean had done the same thing to Sam upon being faced with disappointment in his brother’s behaviors.

There’s a part of Dean that still remains logical, even after Purgatory where the term “logical” became a moving target. He knows that he and Sam have tangled each other up in this mess over and over— both of them contributing new knots to a giant ball of twine that only the two of them know about.

“What’s your name, stranger?” The bartender asked some hours ago.

“Dean.” He swallowed his gulp of bourbon. “Yours?”

“Alex.” The bartender smirked. “Let me know if you need anything else, Dean.”

Dean’s name is spoken like it’s dreamy somehow— like his name alone holds some kind of beauty Dean has never heard in it himself.

When the bartender comes to lean on the counter in front of Dean for the last time that evening, there’s no one else in the bar. Dean’s in a daze— not drunk, just buzzed enough to let himself hide in the persona of the “stranger”. The bartender doesn’t know him, doesn’t know what he’s done or who he’s become in the last year. Dean doesn’t know who he’s become either.

The back room is made of brick, the overhead light dim from needing a new bulb. Dean offers to change it as soon as they walk in— he’s tall enough to reach without much effort. Alex shushes him with a seductive smile.

“Have you ever done this before?”

Dean scoffs lightly, “I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you mean.”

“You know that’s not what I’m asking.” Alex’s lips brush against Dean’s with each syllable.

Dean’s breath hitches and he thinks that makes him sound like a girl. He doesn’t answer, just grabs the bartender and smashes their mouths together. He thinks maybe he’ll imagine it’s a girl he’s kissing. When his eyes are closed and their lips begin moving together, though, he doesn’t disappear into a fantasy. He’s perfectly aware the whole time that he’s letting a man card his fingers through his hair. There’s a cock in the dark pants pressing into the front of Dean’s dirty jeans, making a bulge grow in Dean’s boxers.

It’s rough from Dean’s side— demanding and impatient. Alex is slow and careful, hands strong and sure enough to make Dean match his pace. Dean thinks he might’ve been convincing enough that Alex believes he’s not nervous. Just to be safe, he keeps his hands busy so Alex can’t see the tremor in them.

Dean wants his brain to turn off. He wants to be lost in this like how he used to lose himself in sex. It’s not working. He’s painfully aware of the lower register in the soft sighs and moans he’s eliciting from his partner. He wants to go into a fugue state— the kind where he leaves everything about himself behind to please someone who will never see him again. Still, if he does his job just right, she’ll always remember him as one of the best lays of her life. A one-night wonder, he’s often thought smugly as he comes after arduous effort.

Alex’s hands go to Dean’s belt. Instinctively, Dean grabs his wrists to stop him. Alex pulls back to look him in the eye, panting softly and flushed from Dean’s kisses. There’s no words out of Dean, just his back to a wall and his eyes flickering to the ajar door over Alex’s shoulder.

▪ What if someone catches me?

It’s not the first time that thought has paralyzed Dean. It’s a thought he’s encountered many times over— one he’s shoved away easily sometimes. It doesn’t leave easily this time.

“It’s just you an’ me, sweetie.” Alex whispers.

Dean scoffs a little— how many times has a girl said something like that to him? Doesn’t Alex feel pathetic talking like that? It doesn’t seem that way. Alex is perfectly in his element, totally within the headspace Dean wishes he could disappear into. Alex’s hand covers Dean’s hard-on through his jeans, giving his cock a firm, tempting squeeze. Dean just barely manages to choke down a moan that makes him sound like a bitch in heat.

▪ No one’s watching you now. ▪ No one knows what you’re going to do.

“We gotta make it quick.” Dean manages to grit out.

Alex smirks, “That’ll be up to you, baby.”

His hands are big on Dean’s cock. It’s not like Dean’s only been with women who he could break in half— he’s been the one begging for a big lady before —but Alex’s touch is different. He’s methodical, un-bothered, and completely in his element. The rasp of day-old stubble against the sensitive skin of Dean’s thighs is new. It tickles, makes him flinch a little. Alex hums happily around his cock and Dean can’t help a choked moan slipping past his lips. It’s not like him— this isn’t like him at all.

Or is it?

Fuck, the man has got skill, though, there’s no doubt about it. He’s thorough and builds up to a pace that has Dean holding back whimpers. When he gags around Dean’s cock he doesn’t retreat, he forces it deeper down his throat. It’s like he’s—

“You’re a greedy thing, huh?” Dean can’t help mumbling, fisting a hand into Alex’s curls.

The man on his knees hums affirmatively, eyes closed in bliss. He takes Dean into his mouth over and over, his hands picking up the slack. In the past Dean’s had no qualms asking for what finishes him off every time— if a girl’s finding his prostate, it’s not wrong, right? He’s sure it’s a loophole he’s been lying to himself about for years when Alex finds it without his guidance or asking.

Dean comes down the man’s throat with a knee-jerking wave of pleasure so strong it borders on nausea. His knuckles are white in Alex’s dark hair, gripping too hard because he’s not in full control of himself right now. His head falls back against the brick wall and his lungs burn with gasping breaths. The overhead bulb flickers and dims even further as he calms his heart rate.

Alex is too tender to him. He tucks Dean’s limp cock away with slow, practiced movements, too kind to the man who can’t admit what he’s just done. Dean’s lucky that his gruffness after the act isn’t taken personally. Alex knows Dean’s type— the lost man who’s too cowardly to act on or ask for the kind of intimacy he wants. Alex might not know Dean’s past but he knows Dean is a man who has never felt this kind of closeness to another man— at least not without the threat of violence hanging over him. That’s familiar.

He kisses Dean one last time and Dean tastes the last residue of his spendings on the tip of Alex’s tongue. He’s not unfamiliar with that flavor, nor has he ever turned down a kiss from a girl good enough to swallow all of his cum down without complaint. His eyes are closed and he returns the kiss somewhat, but he’s caught on the idea of what this looks like from the outside. If someone were to walk past that ajar door, they’d think Dean’s a queer— a fag, a fairy, a queen, a pussy. It doesn’t stop him, but he thinks about it until the very moment Alex pulls away.

“Well then.” Alex straightens Dean’s coat with a smug smirk. “I guess this is goodbye.”

Dean’s brows twitch together a little in confusion. “You don’t… you don’t want me to…?”

He can’t even finish the question— he can’t even get out a simple “return the favor” kind of line. Alex smiles wistfully.

“I don’t think you’re ready for that yet, honey.” He pats Dean on the cheek and then turns towards the door. “I’m gonna finish cleaning up.” He pauses with one hand on the door and gives Dean a once-over, “I hope you had fun. I sure did. Let me know if… you want more.”

Alex winks and then slips out of sight.

Dean swallows thickly, a burning behind his eyes. He feels his throat contracting and he wonders silently if he’s going to be a real bitch and cry after coming.

▪ What a fuckin’ pussy.

Dean slips out the back door of the bar a few minutes later— anything to avoid seeing Alex again. The Impala’s wheels kick up gravel as he speeds off, tears blurring his vision and no feeling of eyes on his back to comfort or shame him. He disappears into the night, down a road so desolate there’s no yellow lines on the asphalt.

Whistling to himself, Alex goes to put crates of recently-cleaned glasses into that back room. When he flicks on the light, it comes on brighter than he expects. This only startles him a little. He glances into the small trash bin near the door and sees an old lightbulb laying on top of other random trash. Alex knows he’ll never see Dean again— he knows he’s just changed the man’s life and that’s more than enough of a rush for him. Still, he softens at the sight of the overhead light, wondering how a man so repressed could be so concerned with paying someone back for the simple safety of intimacy with a stranger.

Dean sleeps in the Impala tonight, arms crossed and cheeks repeatedly wiped clean with a scowl. He wishes he had a blanket— something to cover him from the unfamiliar eyes of the outside world peeking in through his car’s windows. He makes do, though. When has Dean ever had enough comfort? He oughta be used to this by now. Still, there in the silence, he realizes that he might never be okay with how much he still longs for the things he lacks.

▪ What a pussy.

[raspberry-starship]

Penumbra { 5 }

fem!reader x Sam ⟢ ✧ MASTERLIST ✧ About + Masterlist for Penumbra

Summary: Reader is invisible, cursed to walk the Earth but not able to interfere with it for several years. A chance encounter while snooping around a crime scene leads her to the one person who can see her: Sam Winchester. Content/Warnings: [no use of y/n] + no warnings for this chapter Titular Song's Artist: The Neighbourhood A/N: I wasn't planning to get so much into a Dean storyline originally but I realized that I would be missing an opportunity to explore things about him that the show never did with any level of seriousness. Dean Winchester, you make me soooo sad sometimes. And also angry. ENJOY!!

There’s a ringing in Sam’s ears that’s so loud it aches. He’s laying on rough terrain, pinpricks of what he soon recognizes as broken glass poke into his flesh at various points. He tries to move and a low, pained groan escapes him. His body feels stiff and sore, like he started to rigor mortis while he was unconscious. After the difficulty of slightly stretching his legs out, he gives up on moving for the time being.

Everything is so quiet around him. His eyes are shut because he’s kind of forgotten that lifting his eyelids is something he ought to do to orient himself. A slight twitch of his hips moves him enough that he’s pricked by a new shard of glass in the waist. He doesn’t even flinch, he just lets out a low, short moan of pain. His body kind of goes limp again, pressing the glass further into his flesh through his shirt.

A wave of self-pity washes over him. He’s not even concerned enough with his own pain to stop it. What kind of person doesn’t care about himself enough to get out of broken glass? He wonders distantly if this is because he knows he deserves it. He deserves this pain and worse. The Sam that lived with Amelia and pretended he could stay is gone. He was a dream locked in a snow globe, and now it’s shattered beneath him, a piece of it stabbing into his side like a razor-sharp splinter.

He realizes his ears are muffled when the heavy creak of old hinges echoes around the cavernous wreck he’s laying in. He knows he should hear that clearly, since there’s nothing separating him from the entry door into the nave.

Someone barks his name gruffly in concern. His limbs draw up closer to him, stiff and trembling slightly like he’s lifting very heavy weights and straining his muscles while he gets more fetal. A large hand smacks onto the round of his shoulder and guides him onto his back a bit. The crunching of glass beneath boots is louder than the muffled noise of it crunching under Sam’s giant form. He doesn’t react to these either really, just acknowledges the pain and accepts it as a part of life. Existence has always involved mass amounts of pain, in Sam’s experience. This is just the same soup, reheated.

Dean calls to him a few more times, coming in clearer with each one. Sam tries opening his eyes a few times but chinks of sunrise coming through the gaping holes torn into the walls around him burn to look at right now. Skeletons of iron remain in those gaps where stained glass used to temper the morning light into something akin to being holy. He’s always kind of understood that aspect of Christianity— the reverence for light. Something in Sam wilts at the sight of that beauty having been destroyed. He didn’t mean to do that. Just another casualty of something elegant existing near Sam.

Dean curses under his breath repeatedly, picking off the shards of glass he can see. He keeps prompting Sam to speak but he can only respond in grunts and groans. When he’s finally able to pry his eyelids open longer than a split-second he sees you hovering over Dean’s shoulder where he’s crouched close to the ground. Sam can’t help smiling dopily as his eyes fall shut again. It’s funny to see you there, just like how it was secretly funny the first time he saw you in that crime scene. You look as out of place as could be in your pajamas and one of his old jackets. Your arms are crossed tight under your breasts, deep concern etched into your beautiful features. But you’re still beautiful. It’s like the sun rises fully in an instant. Stained glass be damned, you translate light more divinely than the windows he accidentally destroyed ever could.

“Mm… Beautiful…” He mumbles, barely audible and with eyes closed, head lolling to the side.

“Damn it you stupid dope.” Dean grumbles before shouting over his shoulder, “KEVIN!”

The prophet comes scrambling into the church, purposefully doing everything he can to not look at the dead body laying over the alter, completely blasted open in the chest. The priest’s bloody, splintered ribs stick out of a gaping cavity where his innards used to live, all of them now displaced. His heart was ejected with such force that it went all the way down the church and into the organ on the back balcony. Kevin scurries over to Dean’s side, brows knit together in fear and concern.

“I thought he was going to ‘cut off the head of the snake’ not…” Kevin struggles for words, “…blow him up.”

“Well, plans change.” Dean nods to a sliver of Sam’s forearm visible through a cut on his shirt. “Look.”

Dean rips the fabric open more to show Kevin that Sam’s veins are glowing with etherial light. Golden, purple, ice-blue, and silvery-white illuminate the capillaries below the skin. You swallow thickly at the sight, horrified by what that might mean. And what it might be doing to Sam.

The ordeal of getting Sam into the Impala is one that takes about 30 minutes (if you’re being generous about Dean and Kevin’s efficiency). They’re concerned about him, sure, but you observe a resignation in them that you don’t understand. Dean’s stony and quick to snap directions at Kevin— no “please” or “thank you” ever uttered. Kevin, whom you’ve been studying for a few hours now, is gaunt with dark circles running deep under his eye sockets. Dean gives him the front seat. Sam’s laying across the back so you squeeze into the very uncomfortable space regularly reserved for feet behind the front bench.

You stop listening to Dean and Kevin as the Impala purrs to life beneath you. Tugging your knees up close to your chest, you lean back into the door. You’re right beside Sam’s head. He’s unconscious again, little cuts from the glass Dean already picked out dotting his golden skin. There’s a white noise in your ears, like your brain can’t accept new information through sound right now, it’s too busy working overtime to soothe your fears and to try detangling what you just witnessed.

Dean and Kevin speak about “Trials”. They keep bringing them up but you don’t know what they’re for. Are they like the Labors of Hercules? You hope not. In the end of that myth Hercules dies. It’s heroic, sure, but it’s not very narratively satisfying from your point of view.

You crane your neck to see out the car’s side windows as it pulls away from the church. It’s a massive structure sitting on a small rise. The alter and apse face a rushing river below— you think it might be a tributary to the Mississippi —and there’s no buildings close-by so you can understand how the battle might’ve gone unheard. But the resulting debris was so clearly drawn from intense violence that you’re still sort of amazed that no one came running to see who was killing the head priest.

What kind of trial has a man killing a priest? That doesn’t seem very righteous at all. Did you read this whole situation wrong? What kind of man have you gotten entangled with? You let him sleep in your bed for fuck’s sake, what were you thinking?

It’s not like you have any deep undying love for priests— not at all, actually —but the symbolism of Sam seemingly having caused the chest cavity of a holy man to explode outwards with such force is hard to ignore. Have you read him wrong? Is he really evil? That doesn’t feel right.

You want to follow your gut and give him grace but you haven’t survived this long out of a willingness to easily give people the benefit of the doubt— it’s quite the opposite, actually. You’ve lived a life of wariness, bound by caution and fear. You’re not proud of everything you’ve done but you know that assuming the worst of people is always a safer bet than assuming the best.

He stirs beside you on the Impala’s backseat. Your head snaps to the side to look at him. His features scrunch together the same way they do when he’s waking up in the morning. You wait with bated breath, hoping he’ll open his eyes. He does for a moment but then they slip back closed. He seems to have seen you though, if the soft smile on his woozy face is any indication. One of his hands limply scoots a little closer to you but you’re not sure if it’s an offer or a request for touch or simply nothing at all.

When all four of you are back in the motel, Dean and Kevin continue prattling back-and-forth to each other. They dropped Sam into one of the beds with less care than you would’ve used. You sit on the edge of the other mattress, one knee bouncing frantically but your face stoney. Internally you’re not sure what’s happening to you. Your mind is filled with static, no feelings or thoughts quite solid enough to grasp onto. The audio of Dean and Kevin comes and goes while your eyes bore into Sam’s sleeping face. He looks pale. Gaunt, even.

You watch Dean meticulously pick out every piece of glass in his brother’s body. He takes off Sam’s tattered flannel to do it but leaves the t-shirt on because the holes in it actually helps him locate all the shards. While he works, you tune briefly into he and Kevin’s conversation.

“So. Trial one was hellhounds.” Dean begins.

Kevin nods, pacing the length of the room, “Yeah. ‘Bathe in the filth of what Sin hath wrought, under the disemboweled belly of a beast from below.’ Pretty self-explanatory.”

“And Trial two was the lesbians.” Dean’s features scrunch as he pulls a particularly tricky piece of glass out of Sam.

“‘Save a lover who hath coveted what is beautiful, endeavoring to keep it alive at great cost. Free them of their binding contract by thine hand slaughtering their entrapper.’”

“And this one was, what?”

Kevin pauses his movements and releases a sigh, “‘Cleanse a House of the Lord that has sunken deep into the fen of false idols. Sever the head of the beast that sullies what ought be pure.’”

Dean spares the boy a fleeting glance then continues picking glass out of his brother. “And you don’t know the next one, yet.”

Kevin shakes his head, “Buh— but I’m close, though. A few more days I think.”

Dean sighs wearily, wiping some sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “He needs time to recover, kid. Don’t rush.”

Kevin nods. There’s not much conversation after that. All you can see and process is Sam’s limp body being plucked and poked at like a game of Operation.

Throughout the whole hour and a half it takes, Dean’s hands never waver once. Sam doesn’t stir at all. This does seem to concern Dean— every time he finds a larger piece he gives a warning aloud to his brother. It’s clear to you that he’s hoping Sam will answer. He doesn’t, just keeps sleeping, the glowing in his veins dimming significantly as time passes. Eventually Dean leaves to go get he and Kevin some food. You hope there’s leftovers you can steal.

When left alone with Kevin, you notice how in a daze he seems. He looks almost as ill and pale as Sam did in the church, clearly sleep-deprived. He doesn’t stay still for very long, often going to check the warding or peek out through the curtains into the parking lot. Eventually he pulls a chair over to the window, off to the side a bit so he can keep watch. Valiantly, he tries to stay alert, but eventually his eyelids are drooping and his head keeps drifting towards his collarbones before snapping back upright. It’s a losing battle but you watch him fight it for hours, wondering where Dean went.

When Dean returns with barbecue, Kevin reminds him that he doesn’t eat meat. You wonder if Kevin will ask what took the older man so long to come back but he doesn’t. Kevin’s clearly used to being left behind like this. That realization makes you sad. Since Kevin only picks at the fries and coleslaw, you get to steal his pulled-pork sandwich when no one’s looking. You scarf it down quick, ever unsure of whether the curse will fling it from your hands eventually.

Sam sleeps all day. The sun has gone back down, Dean’s showered and then dozed off soundly by the time Sam wakes up. The younger man stirs on the bed with a pained groan, face scrunching up as he fights for consciousness. The first thing his eyes see when they open is you, half-lit by the TV which is playing some rerun of Dr. Sexy, MD. You’ve moved down onto the floor now, leaning back against the mattress where you were sitting before. Above your head, Dean burps while he dozes, arms and ankles crossed on top of the covers. The pattering of shower water indicates where Kevin is. Sam knows from the last couple days that the boy takes very long showers.

You’re sitting with your knees up, an elbow rested on top of one, that hand holding your forehead. The skin of your face is pulled taut in a somewhat odd manner, making one of your brows curve unnaturally as you watch your other hand pick lint balls off the carpet. You don’t look up at him. Your expression is… sour. Somehow Sam knows just from looking at you that you’re not very pleased with him. He can’t blame you.

He murmurs your name in the hopes he can be quiet enough not to wake Dean. Your eyes flicker up at the sound, and there’s redness around them, a glassiness to their surface that shows you’ve been steadily leaking tears for some time now. Sam’s heart clenches at the sight of it— the thought of how long you must have been sitting there waiting, miserable and alone while in a room of people who can’t see you makes him sad.

Something about the way Sam says your name makes you angry. He sounds pitying, like he’s going to give you a few comforting pats and then tell you everything’s going to be just fine. But it’s not fine. You can see that clearly now. He’s been keeping something from you and now you’ve spent enough time eavesdropping on Dean and Kevin to know the broad strokes of what it is.

Sam is undergoing very difficult magical trials for something important enough that neither Kevin nor Dean seem all that phased by his current state. Dean is resentful of Sam for taking on this burden. Neither Dean nor Kevin seem all that sure that Sam will survive this.

And so is it completely within your rights to get furious? Hard to say. Sam never lied to you, he only omitted what is clearly something hugely consequential to him and his helping your situation. Right now, though, it does feel like he lied to you— like he got your hopes up for nothing. And the only reason you’re still here is because you need to give him a piece of your mind.

His hand inches towards you on the bed like it did in the Impala. He can’t commit to fully offering or asking for your hand to meet his. Your lower lip wobbles so you clench your teeth. You might be on the verge of tears but you want him to know your rage. Keeping calm was somewhat manageable while he was sleeping but now? You’re out for blood.

“What. The hell.” You breathe shakily.

His hand closes on top of the sheets, clearly seeing that you would not be taking ahold of it. There’s sorrow written all over his face and it makes you more angry. What right does he have to be feeling sorry for himself?

“You lied to me.”

His eyes shoot up to meet yours. He shakes his head, a look on his features that begs for you to believe him.

“You did!” You hiss, “You said you could help me but you can’t! You can’t even help yourself!” Why did I fucking believe you?

“I didn’t—” Sam props himself up onto his elbows then winces from dizziness and has to go back down. “—I didn’t lie.”

“Well you sure as hell didn’t tell me the truth!” You snap, “What’ve you done to help my situation, huh? Anything?!”

“Hey, that’s not fai—”

You shoot up to your feet, scowling viciously. “All I am is a little imaginary friend you keep around for what?! Company?! ’Cause your domineering older brother is furious all the time for some reason and you’re stuck with him and you feel lonely about it?! Well I’m not your pet!” You spin away from him to hide your miserable features. I knew there was some ulterior motive! What could you possibly care about me for?!

The tears are brimming at your lower lash line. Sam sits up, brows knit in genuine concern and contrition. You glance over your shoulder at Sam expectantly. When he doesn’t say anything but looks like he desperately wants to, your fists clench at either side of you. It’s clear why he won’t talk.

“And you still haven’t told him about me!” You jab a finger in Dean’s direction. “So I had to fucking scramble to make sure I could come and see if you were okay! You have successfully made me completely reliant on you and your attention and your help and for what?! So you can live out some stupid fantasy before you fucking leave?!”

“No, that’s not true—”

“—Just stop!” You snap through gritted teeth. The tears finally start falling and humiliation joins the overwhelming salad bowl of your current emotions.

A commercial comes on the TV that is loud enough to startle you. You turn to grab the remote and then you can’t. Your fingers strain and tremble with the effort of trying to get it but it’s no use. With an angry huff you give up trying to maintain self control.

There’s not much thought put into what happens next. You’re not proud of what you’re doing— of how you’re acting —but allowing yourself to get swept away by your impulses feels almost cathartic right now. It’s like you’re aware of the shame coming after this outburst but you’re soaking up all the spotlight while you can.

“MotherFUCKER!” You shout, kicking one of Sam’s boots on the floor, just out of his sight, with impressive force.

The heavy leather shoe flies into the TV’s console with a loud thud that makes the flatscreen wobble. The sudden sound makes Sam sit up and wakes Dean from his light slumber.

“What the…?” Dean mumbles blearily as he shoots upright.

He looks to Sam who immediately turned to meet his gaze. You spin to face Sam too, eyes ablaze.

“Tell him!” You shout, “Tell him I’m here!”

Sam falters, mouth open and unsure of what to say.

“Sam?” Dean begins shifting towards his brother across his bed.

“Goddamn it, Sam, tell him I’m here!” Silvery tears streak down the planes of your face, glistening in the TV’s glow. “The one fucker in the world who can see me and all he does is make me feel more invisible—!”

“Sammy? Y’alright?” Dean begins, voice scratchy from sleep.

“—FUCK!” You scream in frustration, both hands gripping your hair roughly as you turn away. In the corner of your eye you see Sam flinch a little at the volume. This is useless. All of this is useless. I’m going to fucking die like this. It’s all I’m going to get.

Dean’s trying to talk to Sam. He goes to put a hand on Sam’s forehead for a temperature check but gets shoved aside. Sam shoots to his feet and starts marching around the bed towards you, uttering your name as a request for patience. A strong hand on the shoulder yanks him back to face his brother.

“Dude?!” Dean shouts indignantly, “What the hell is up with you?!”

“Dean, I can’t deal with this right now, okay? I need you to—”

“—No, no, no! The only thing either of us needs to do is stand fuckin’ still and talk about what’s going on!”

“Dean! I don’t have the time—!”

“—Well then fuckin’ make some!” Dean snaps over him, “Sam, you’ve been acting like a schizo for weeks now! You think I don’t hear you talkin’ to nobody?! I hear you!”

You’re standing in the corner near the door now, still tugging at the roots of your hair.

Nobody. You let out a humorless laugh, almost a little deranged. Yeah. That’s right. Nobody. He’s talking to nobody. Just like everyone else. Just like how it’ll always be.

“Is it the trials? Are you going crazy? Again!?” Dean demands.

Sam rubs both hands down his face, unable to keep his impatience out of his tone. “No I’m not going crazy!”

“Then what?!”

“THERE’S A PERSON HERE!” Sam shouts suddenly, both hands smacking down onto his thighs in exasperation. “There’s another person here but you can’t see her. Alright?”

Dean’s frozen for a moment, shock written all over his face. With an exhausted eye-roll and a long sigh Sam says with no real malice,

“Are you both happy?” He asks, glancing over his shoulder towards you, “Now does everyone wanna stop yelling at me? I’ve had a pretty tough 24 hours and on top of it you’re both giving me a migraine.”

You blink in surprise, stunned and still facing the wall. Well, you hadn’t exactly expected that to happen. Honestly, you were about to run off at the first opportunity because all of this has just gotten too complicated for your brain to handle but now… you’re not sure what’s going to happen.

“Sam—” Dean begins, sounding like someone trying to pacify someone who’s mentally unwell.

“—She’s real, Dean.” Sam snaps, glowering at his brother, “She’s real. And she’s been living in the Bunker with us for a few weeks.”

Dean blinks several times and shakes his head a little. You’re peeking over your shoulder at them now and you can tell he’s not going to swallow this pill easily.

“That’s who I was calling on the last hunt. That’s who I’ve been talking to.”

Dean’s features wrinkle incredulously. After a long pause he goes, “What?!”

Sam swallows, “I think she’s cursed, or something.”

“Sam, what the hell ‘re you talking about? This is nuts! What the hell kind of curse—”

“—I don’t know I haven’t figured it out yet!” Sam raises his voice, “All we know is no one can see her except me apparently, and she can’t touch things unless no one’s looking at ‘em!”

Dean stares at Sam for a long moment. “Dude, you do know that if no one else can see someone that usually means you’re hallucinating them, righ—?”

“—Don’t you think I’ve thought of that already?!” Sam snaps, “Of course I did! I thought of it the second I saw her!”

“Well excuse me for thinking of it too! It wouldn’t be the first time you imagined some invisible psycho bitch following you around!”

“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you because I knew— I knew! —you’d react this way! And you know what? I’m getting pretty sick of you making me doubt myself!” Sam shouts back, “Do you know how it feels? To know that your own brother— the only family you have left —wouldn’t trust you to tell him what color the sky is, let alone that there’s a person who’s trapped and needs our help?! Well, I’ll tell you! It sucks!”

Dean’s too stunned to speak.

“Why would you believe me, though, huh? I’m only your brother who’s saved your life hundreds of times!” Sam’s nose wrinkles as he adds sanctimoniously, “Yeah. I’m a completely unreliable narrator of my own perception. You’re right, Dean, you know better than me about what I see with my own eyes.”

Dean clenches his jaw, now looking angry. “Ya done?”

Sam’s chest rises and falls with his angry inhale. Scowling at his brother without replying, Sam snatches up his jacket and marches towards the door.

“C’mon.” Sam says and you think he’s addressing you.

With forceful movements he undoes the lock and chain before opening the door.

“Where the hell are you going?” Dean demands, “Sam!”

“Stuff it, Dean!” Sam snaps over his shoulder.

He uses too much strength to open the door. It slams into the wall beside you, making you flinch. Sam freezes for a split-second when he sees that. He can’t decipher everything in your expression but the hand absently resting over your heart tells him that he scared you. He wilts at the thought and averts his eyes. Ignoring Dean’s attempts to goad him into continuing the conversation, Sam marches off into the evening, canvas coat gripped tight in one fist.

“Dude—” Dean sucks his teeth and rolls his eyes. “He’s always gotta be a fuckin’ drama queen.”

Your eyes narrow incredulously at him. He turns to go bang on the bathroom door. That’s when you notice the notepad and pen on the kitchenette table.

“Kevin! Hurry up man!”

Dean begins trying to exchange words with Kevin over the roar of the shower and through the muffle of the locked door. He’s getting frustrated and is about to give up when the motel room door slams behind his back. He flinches violently, spinning to see an empty room. Everything is still outside of the door’s chain swinging back and forth, not put back in place. He blinks a few times and then sees the notepad on the end of the table. It’s got writing on it now, in one of Sam’s blue ballpoint pens.

The expression melts clean off Dean’s face. He looks up and all around the room, pale as a sheet. As the door to the bathroom opens he tears the note off the pad and crumples it into a ball. Clearing his throat he turns to see Kevin, freshly changed into his pajamas with wet hair.

“Where’s Sam?” He asks immediately.

Dean raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Did you not hear any of that?”

Kevin’s eyes dart around under his flattened brows. “Uh… any of what exactly?”

Dean rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Nothin. Go to sleep, alright. Sam ‘ll be back uh… when he’s back.”

He breezes past Kevin and into the bathroom without another word. The boy frowns deeply in his wake.

Outside, the gentle wind blows Sam’s hair around. He stops his quick march all the way at the other end of the parking lot, facing the woods. As the breeze dies down he closes his eyes and takes deep, measured breaths. He hears your footsteps first. The shuffling noise of the oversized boots he leant you makes the faintest hint of a smile touch the corners of his lips. When you stop a few feet behind him, he exhales and a mass of tension releases from his shoulders. Tiredly he lets his head loll forwards onto his collarbone, like his neck just can’t keep it up anymore.

You don’t say anything. He’s not sure if he wants you to. If Amelia had seen that all go down, what would she think of him? What does that mean you think of him?

“I’m sorry.” You speak up.

When you don’t elaborate he turns to glance at you. His heart sinks into his stomach when he sees you. Standing in the cold, still in your pajamas (comprised of an old pair of his boxers and your own tank top under his jacket) and aglow from the parking lot lights behind you, he can’t help a pang of longing. You look beautiful. The thought feels a little threatening to him. More devastating though is the knowledge that even if he could have you close in his clothes, he wouldn’t be able to look at you. It’s strange that the exchange of sight for touch or vis-versa causes such discomfort to him. Sam doesn’t want one or the other. As he looks at you now, the breeze disturbing the loose bits of your hair and your arms tight around your middle from chill, he realizes that he wants it all.

“I was being pushy.” You lower your gaze to the asphalt. “I didn’t mean to. I just… I let my emotions get the better of me. I’m sorry.”

Sam blinks a few times in surprise. A small humorless snort escapes him. “I think you might be the most forthcoming person when it comes to apologies that I’ve ever met.”

That makes you smile bashfully, no teeth showing but a hopefulness in the eyes that warms him. You sigh, Well the bar isn’t very high.

He turns to face you fully.

“Thank you.” He nods, “But I owe you an apology too.”

“It doesn’t have to be a ‘but’.”

“Huh?”

You shrug a shoulder, “You can say ‘and I owe you one too.’ You’re… you’re not always the one in the wrong. You know that right? You don’t have to… concede in order to get an apology for something that hurt you. That’s all I mean.”

His lips part to reply but he finds nothing. You take a step closer to him.

“I’m sorry I took it so personally.” You take a breath, “I’m… I’m grateful for what you’ve done for me. I know… you have other priorities. Things that began before I threw a wrench in your plans. I don’t want to be greedy…”

You hesitate to continue and he offers, “…And?”

You smirk a little at him. “And… I don’t want you to… go.”

His brows knit together slightly. “I’m not,” He lets out a short huff, “I’m not going anywhere.”

You don’t look sure. Still, you don’t say anything aloud.

“I, uh, I don’t think I’ve been clear enough.” He takes a step closer to you, “I really am happy to help.”

You make a small breathless noise of disbelief, but your eyes peer up at him with the desperation of someone who needs to hear that. You can’t admit that you need it because maybe then the validation will be withheld.

“I, um,” He clears his throat, “I’ve done a lot of… well I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. I’ve dealt with a lot of demons— literally and figuratively. To be honest, there’s a part of me that likes that… you don’t know much about my mistakes. And that you… don’t really push too much for me to reveal them, either.” He shakes his head a bit in wonder, “Because I know all of ‘em, though, I’m… kind of amazed by your trust in me.”

You smirk lightly, “Well, I don’t have a ton of options for life lines here.”

He laughs, soft and warm, just barely audible over the next gentle swell of wind.

“Sam?”

He looks up at you, brows raised in invitation for you to continue.

“I think you’re just as hard on you as you feel like Dean is.” You say hesitantly, “And you’re right I… I don’t know a lot about what you consider your mistakes. But I’ve seen you. I’ve watched you. And I’ve listened to you. That’s all I… I think I need. I think… I think you’ve charmed me like you used to charm those old ladies.”

He laughs, a beautiful blush creeping onto his cheeks. Shyly, he ducks his head a little and you don’t blink at all, just stare on in wonder. It isn’t a conscious decision, you just can’t miss any of him right now. You need to drink up as much of his visage as possible. It’s a need that defies logic or definition. You’re speaking before you know what you’re doing.

“I’m glad it’s you.” You murmur, “I’m glad you’re the one who found me. I’m glad you can see me, Sam.”

His eyes flicker up to you. His head’s still bowed so his pretty dark lashes frame his gaze perfectly.

Almost like you’re scared, you add: “I think… I think I can see you, too.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up a little but it’s hollow. “Of course you can.”

You shake your head dreamily, “No. Not just the outside you. The inside you. The one… the one that wants to be seen. I… I don’t know that inside-you very well yet but… I like what I see so far.”

Sam’s heart melts and his head feels light. He reaches out towards you, immediately closing his eyes to not interrupt the connection. With those big, firm hands, he ever so gently pulls you to his chest. Wrapping you up in his arms tight, you feel like you could be absorbed into him. That thought isn’t so unpleasant.

“Thank you.” He whispers into your scalp. “I see you, too.”

That makes tears spring to your eyes. You’re not sure why— it’s not like this is news to you —but the appreciation you feel for him expands in your chest. Your hands slide up from the small of his back to the tops of his shoulders, pulling him into you, too. In his head, he wonders if he could just melt into you, too. It kind of feels like things might feel better that way— more manageable, at least. When you pull apart he’s not meeting your eye a lot.

“Here. C’mon, let’s uh, find a place to sit.” He offers a weak smile, “I have, uh, a lot of explaining to do.”

[lenas-unhinged-spn]

the whole shove sam in a room and lock him in it to detox from what is essentially drugs plotline is so insane to me. i mean aside from the fact that it’s incredibly dangerous — considering he was using the blood longer-term and, not dissimilar to drug addicts, he couldn’t just be cold turkey detoxed, his body literally started dying — it’s just so terrible. shove the addict in a room with nothing but a little metal bed for forcible dangerous detox. sounds like torture to me. but nooo that’s his brother, dean just cares. in this essay i will…

[queen-lucy-the-valiant]

I've been thinking perhaps that the difference between Jill, Eustace, Polly, and Digory’s experience in Narnia and the Pevensies' experience in Narnia contributes to Susan breaking with the friends of narnia.

Like, Narnia is a place they all love obviously, but those four either view it as a nice place to visit (and rescue) or they view it with a kind of religious reverance. And while Eustace experiences losing Caspian, he sees him become young again in Aslan’s Country, and while both Jill and he both lose Rillian and Puddleglum and everyone else, they get to say goodbye with the knowlege they're never going to see them again. And Polly and Digory knew people in Narnia, but again, they both got to say goodbye and also didnt really have the time to build up a great attachment. They're always ready to go home at the end of their adventures, even if it means saying goodbye.

While the Pevensies are Narnia. They lived there for years and years and had whole lives where they forgot England exisited. And worse, they never did get to say goodbye. They didnt know that when they left the Cair, it would be the last time they saw Mr. Tumnus. And they didnt know when they left their companions behind and chased after the white stag that they would never return. They didnt get any goodbyes. They left behind so much unfinished business, not only in their personal lives, but in their roles as Narnias monarchs; they were responsible for the safety of everyone in their narnia and then they get ripped away and, after the return to Narnia in PC, they feel responsible for any harm that came to Narnia after they vanished even though it wasnt their fault. And then they forget it all, only to remember and gain the knowledge that they never got to say goodbye and that theyll never see their friends again and a short while later, both susan and peter learn that theyre not even allowed to visit the grave of their lost home.

And of course Lucy and Edmund adjust to the loss, because they have time and a final visit and the ability to say goodbye. And Peter probably doesn't handle it well, but he has work to throw himself into, he has the expectation of uni and such. And of course they all understand the loss, but they have destractions or closure or something.

So, back to the original point of this post, I think that the non Pevensie Friends of Narnia dont understand why Susan doesnt want to remember everything, or share everything. They dont understand why remembering Narnia would be painful because they dont have any painful memories of Narnia, and while they intellectually understand that the Pevensies were there for much longer, they have trouble actually understanding it, because the pevensies dont look as if theyve lived through those years, and so it just doesnt click that they carry fifteen years of grief along with their fifteen years of adventures.

But regardless of why, their attitude towards Narnia is so different that it begins to grate at Susan. Maybe Jill asks a question Susan refuses to answer one to many time, or maybe the Professor or Polly take her apprent age forgranted and dismiss something. And none of it is malicious and they are trying but they're also human and Narnia makes them exicted and happy and they dont always realize that the Pevensies are aching inside. They dont have these meetings very often after all.

So maybe the friends of narnia stop feeling like a safe place to Susan, because she hasnt moved past her grief and needs someone to talk to and everyone feels so distant from her and she doesnt want to ruin their perception of narnia. And she doesnt mean to break with them all at first, but its easier to say that she doesnt remember something when the others ask, and slowly she "doesnt remember" more and more until she herself almost believes it. And then its just easier not to go. And then its easier to actually try and forget and well, Susan has always liked parties, has always liked dressing well and making herself up. And it does help, dressing up and spending a night out on the town with those girls who would have been her friends in another life, dancing and flirting and joining in on the postwar relief sweeping through the country. And so she does it more and more and if its the one thing from narnia she can bring into this world, well she tries not to think about that too ofte.

[wendichester]

Dearest,

Once you have the time and are in the mood, would you write a little something about jealous Sam, all huffy about the reader going to some party and finding some pictures posted on her friend's facebook, especially because they had a huge fight about Ruby and such before and now he isn't sure if they broke up.

I live for your angsty pieces, but if you feel like a more fluffy end is better suited, I'll kiss your feet.

Thank you,

Love,

Len

⋆｡ ˚ pictures of you with someone else

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ after a fight about ruby leaves your relationship in a strange, undefined place, sam finds party pictures of you online and realizes he has no idea whether he still has the right to be jealous. pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x reader ( f ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 1025 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty as hell warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ jealousy, relationship uncertainty, argument aftermath, insecurity, emotional tension

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ. writing this honestly crushed me a little bit, len. ugh 🤧 ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ

sam shouldn’t be looking.

he knows it—sharp and immediate and completely useless—because his hand is already on the mouse and your friend’s facebook page is already open on the motel desk. the screen is too bright for the room, washing everything in that pale blue-white glare that makes the wallpaper look sickly.

the room is quiet except for the old heater rattling beneath the window and the soft, sticky click of sam scrolling.

and there you are. tagged in three new photos from some party he didn’t know about.

not that you have to tell him. not after the fight. not after you stood in front of him two nights ago with your arms wrapped around yourself, asking him where he’d been, and sam said working the case even though you both knew there were too many missing hours in that answer. not after ruby’s name finally came out of your mouth in a tone that made his stomach drop before the argument even became real.

“you keep choosing her,” you said.

sam can still hear it. how tired you had sounded. he had hated that. hated the way it made him feel cornered because some ugly part of him knew you were right, and instead of admitting it, instead of saying i’m scared and i don’t know what i’m becoming, he got defensive. he said you didn’t understand. he said it was bigger than the two of you. he said things that sounded true and cruel at the same time, which might be the worst kind of true.

then you left. no slammed door. you just picked up your jacket and walked out with your mouth pressed tight, and sam let you because he was angry, because he was proud, because he was already half convinced you deserved someone less ruined by whatever was crawling around under his skin.

now you’re smiling in a photo with a red plastic cup in your hand.

the sight of it twists something low in him.

you look good. your cheeks are warm from the crowded room, your shoulders loose in a way they haven’t been around him lately, colored lights catching at the edges of your face.

sam stares at your smile and feels this horrible, selfish ache because he remembers when he could put that expression on you without thinking. stupid jokes over gas station snacks. his hand brushing yours over lore books. your laugh against his shoulder in the impala when dean complained about both of you being annoying.

he scrolls to the second photo.

you’re standing beside someone he doesn’t know. some guy with one hand resting on your waist. not low. not obscene. not enough that sam has any right to feel the hot rush of jealousy that climbs up his throat. it could be innocent. probably is innocent. the guy’s leaning in to hear you over the music, and you’re smiling at something off-camera, not even looking at him, but sam’s body reacts before his brain can be fair. his jaw tightens. his fingers curl around the mouse hard enough that the plastic creaks.

he zooms in. immediately hates himself for it. the hand is casual. familiar, maybe. your body is turned slightly away, but you don’t look uncomfortable. you don’t look trapped. you look fine.

you look fine without him.

that’s the part that makes him feel sick.

sam sits back, rubbing both hands over his face until his eyes burn. his chest feels too small, and there’s this ugly voice in him whispering that maybe this is what he wanted. wasn’t it? distance. freedom from his lies. space from the version of himself he keeps making worse. maybe you’re supposed to go to parties and let someone harmless touch your waist and laugh into the noise because at least there, nobody’s vanishing at midnight to meet a demon in an empty parking lot.

ruby.

even thinking her name feels wrong now. not because he doesn’t want to see her. he does. wants the certainty she gives him, the purpose, the burn of power in his veins that makes grief and fear and helplessness go quiet for a while. he wants it, and he hates wanting it, and somewhere inside all that wanting, he’s been leaving you alone with excuses that get thinner every time he uses them.

the next photo loads.

you’re laughing harder in this one, head tilted back, eyes closed, one hand covering your mouth as if someone caught you mid-sound. the guy’s still there, closer now, his hand no longer on your waist but on the back of your chair, leaning into your space with an expression sam can’t read from a frozen picture.

it could be nothing. sam knows that. he also knows nothing has been enough to ruin people before.

his stomach lurches again, sharp and mean. he imagines the guy asking if you’re single. imagines you pausing. imagines you not knowing what answer to give because sam doesn’t know either.

are you broken up?

the question lands with no mercy.

he thinks of the fight, of your face when he said maybe you should stop waiting up if you hated not knowing where he was. god. he said that. he actually said that to you. like you were unreasonable for noticing the empty side of the bed, the cold coffee, the blood on his lips.

sam closes the laptop. then opens it again. pathetic. your smile stares back at him from the screen, bright and distant and not his to reach for.

he wants to call you. wants to hear your voice, even angry, especially angry, because anger would mean there’s still a string between you he can pull without it snapping. he wants to ask who the guy is despite knowing he has no right. he wants to tell you to come back despite knowing he hasn’t earned it.

instead, sam stays in the motel room with the blue light on his face, looking at a picture of you being held, and tries to figure out when protecting the world started meaning he could destroy everything small and good that was still his.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.

[wendichester]

𖤓 𝒂 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓, found in the back of a demonology paperback, pressed flat by a lavender motel receipt and a tacky seaside magnet shaped like a mermaid 𖤓 @lelapine

zari,

i still have the magnet.

i know that’s probably not how a letter should start, but i think you’d appreciate the honesty more than the polish.

it’s ugly, by the way. objectively.

dean had said it looked like something a retired sea witch would sell, which only made you buy it faster. you stood in that little seaside shop with your pink hat tipped over one eye, holding a lavender postcard in one hand and the magnet in the other, and told us, very seriously, that “americans have no respect for true coastal nonsense.”

dean said, “sweetheart, that thing’s a crime.”

you said, “then arrest me.”

i think i fell a little bit in love with you right there, which was inconvenient because i’d been trying very hard not to.

that summer was supposed to be practical. a case near the coast, two or three days of research, maybe a salt-and-burn if we were lucky. you were supposed to be the demonologist helping us translate one old french text that had no business turning up in a fishing town in maine. instead, you arrived with a suitcase too elegant for the motel carpet, a stack of books that looked heavier than you, and the expression of someone who’d been personally insulted by the entire country.

you hated being in the states. not quietly, either. you could be reserved around people you didn’t trust, careful with how much of yourself you gave away, but your irritation had excellent posture. you missed the french riviera with a passion that made every overheated motel room feel guilty for existing. you missed balance. beauty. mornings that didn’t begin with fluorescent diner coffee and dean arguing with a vending machine.

you said, more than once, that if you could throw your degree over your head and leave, you would.

then you would glance at me.

then you would look away.

i noticed more than you probably wanted me to. the way you complained about studying but still corrected my translation before i could ask. the way you said you were only helping because the manuscript was “an embarrassment to demonological accuracy,” then stayed up past midnight with your cheek in your hand, making notes in the margins. the way heat made you sharper, snarkier, a little mean around the edges, but not careless. never careless. you’d insult the motel curtains, dean’s driving, my posture, the entire concept of american bread, and then remind me to put sunscreen on because i’d been reading too long near the window.

you applied yours carefully every morning. no rushed, careless smearing. you made it a ritual, standing by the sink in a pale slip dress or a soft summer top, your little handheld fan tucked under your arm, grumbling about how ac was a sign of weakness while looking personally betrayed by august.

“zari,” i said once, “the air conditioner exists for a reason.”

“so does moral fortitude.”

“you’re sweating.”

“i am glowing with contempt.”

you were impossible. and funny. and so much smaller than the force of your personality suggested. i don’t mean that in a way you’d hate. i know you hated when people treated your height or your body as an invitation to underestimate you. you carried yourself with so much ego and attitude that most people didn’t dare. but i remember the details anyway. the tilt of your chin when someone annoyed you. the pretty severity of your hats. the lavender ribbon you tied around one book so the pages wouldn’t split. the way you took up space through certainty instead of size.

you never needed to be anything other than exactly yourself to hold a room.

i wish i had told you that sooner.

most mornings, you were awake before you wanted to be. not because you were an early riser. no, you made your feelings on that very clear. the heat dragged everyone out of sleep before sunrise, and you were at your worst and softest then, barefoot on the motel balcony with an iced coffee in your hand, still half-dreaming, hair pinned away from your neck, watching the seaside town blink awake. boats knocking gently against the docks. gulls screaming. dean sleeping through everything.

that was when i liked you best.

not because you were nicer in the mornings. you weren’t. you once looked at me over your coffee and said, “you are offensively tall.” but your guard slipped then. only a little. enough for me to see the tiredness underneath the attitude. the loneliness of being somewhere you didn’t choose, doing work you were good at but resented, surrounded by books when part of you wanted sun and sea and a life that didn’t require translating curses before noon.

i wanted to make it easier for you. not fix it. i knew better than that. you would’ve bitten my head off. cursed me in french. but i wanted to stand close enough that you didn’t have to carry all of it alone.

the road trip didn’t help my composure.

you refused to learn how to drive with such complete confidence that dean almost respected it. you slept in the passenger seat when you could steal it, one cheek pressed against your hand, hat tipped low, pretending you weren’t judging every song that came on. except you were. internally, violently, with academic precision.

once, dean put on something loud and smug and said, “don’t worry, princess, you can pick next.”

without opening your eyes, you said, “i would rather walk into the sea.”

i laughed so hard, my stomach hurt.

when the impala broke down on the edge of nowhere, you sat in the shade beneath a crooked roadside sign, fanning yourself, offering what you called emotional support while dean cursed into the engine and i tried to keep the case files from blowing into a ditch.

“you’re both doing wonderfully,” you called.

“grab a wrench,” dean snapped.

“i will not move, chéri.”

you did, though. you handed me water before i asked. you held the flashlight when the sun started to go down. you made some remark about winchester men needing adult supervision, then touched my shoulder as you passed, just briefly, and i thought about it for the next forty miles.

that was the worst part, maybe. how easy you made it look. you flirted openly and somehow didn’t seem to know you were doing it. leaning too close to read over my arm. stealing my pen and making me reach around you for it. calling me “mon grand chercheur” under your breath because you liked watching me try not to react. you’d say something sharp, something teasing, then soften your voice at the exact wrong second and leave me sitting there with my pulse making a fool of me.

mutual pining sounds almost elegant when you put it that way.

it wasn’t. it was me pretending not to watch your mouth while you argued about medieval possession rites. it was you pretending not to care when my hand settled at the small of your back while we crossed a crowded pier. it was dean announcing, loudly, that the tension in the room was interfering with his ability to enjoy his sandwich.

the outdoor cinema was your idea. technically, it was also part of the case, because the old projector booth was where the haunting centered, but you wore lavender and pink anyway, as if exorcising a spirit near a parking lot screen required style. you brought iced coffee. i brought a blanket. dean brought three hot dogs and then disappeared the second the ghost activity went quiet because, in his words, he “respected the suffering of nerds in love.”

we sat on the hood of the impala after the movie started again, the picture flickering over our faces, the sound slightly warped through the speakers. your shoulder pressed into my arm. your fan rested beside your knee. the night was still too warm, but better than the day, softer around the edges. you were quiet for a long time, which made me nervous.

then you said, “i do not want to go back yet.”

i knew you meant the motel. the degree. the states. maybe france. maybe all of it.

i said, “then don’t. not yet.”

you looked at me, and there was nothing polished about it. no snark ready. no easy flirtation. just you, tired and beautiful and a little scared of wanting something that might complicate the life you already found unbearable.

“reassuring words, sam,” you said, almost teasing, but not quite. “this is where you’re supposed to be good at them.”

so i tried. i told you that you were allowed to hate where you were and still find something worth staying for. i told you that your work mattered, even when it made you want to throw every book into the ocean. i told you that i noticed when you acted mean because you were overheated, and when you acted mean because you were protecting something softer. i told you i liked both versions. probably too much.

you kissed me beside the concession stand, which was completely ordinary until it wasn’t. there were melted ice pops in the trash can nearby. a speaker crackled behind us. someone’s kid was crying near the bathrooms. your hand curled in my shirt, and my hand found your waist carefully, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. you didn’t. you rose onto your toes instead, annoyed even in affection, and whispered against my mouth, “you are still offensively tall.”

i said, “i’ll make it work.”

after that, summer changed without making a big announcement. you still complained about the heat. dean still drove. the cases still found us. you still pretended not to care about the music while silently judging every single choice. but you leaned into my side more often. you let me kiss the top of your head in bookstores. you let me carry the heavier stack of books without accusing me of chivalric nonsense every time. sometimes, when you were tired, you’d reach for my hand first.

that felt bigger than anything.

the end of summer came, because it always does, but it didn’t take you from me. not completely. you went back to your degree, and i went back to hunting, and for a few days i thought we were going to do the noble thing and pretend that was enough.

then you called.

you said, “i found another text you translated wrong.”

i said, “that’s not possible.”

you said, “it is, unfortunately. also, i miss you.”

i still remember standing in the motel parking lot with the phone against my ear, smiling so hard dean rolled his eyes and walked away.

so this is me writing it down before time turns it too neat. you were not just a summer thing, zari. you were iced coffee at sunrise, lavender in the passenger seat, sunscreen on my shoulder, a tacky magnet on the dash, and a kiss beside a bad outdoor movie that made me forget how ordinary anything could be. you were books in the heat and a handheld fan and the sharpest mouth in any room, and somehow... you were also home.

i kept the magnet because you chose it.

i kept the summer because it brought me you.

𖤓 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒌𝒐-𝒇𝒊! 𖤓

[kinky-cas]

i think cas is getting lebanon kansas IP banned from wikipedia editing because he keeps going in and correcting articles about ancient historical events and figures and just citing “i was there” or “common knowledge” as his source. this MAJORLY pisses sam off because it means he can’t edit pages on obscure occult topics with his meticulously sourced notes without a vpn. they’re starting a minor cold war in the bunker over this, meanwhile dean literally could not care less

[bluepearlie]

Obsessed with hell permanently changing Sam and Dean's characters in opposite ways.

Dean who gets traumatized by being the torturer. He has the soft parts of himself hardened into a small, condensed ball of hate that he gets brief pleasure in hurling at those who hurt him before going numb again. He still has love, but it's a hard, inflexible thing that refuses to learn or grow, and the part of himself that accepted cruelty as an act of self-defense is not afraid to beat that love into submission so it stays right where it is - firmly his, firmly under control.

Sam who gets traumatized by being the tortured. All his defenses are burned away, leaving the soft parts of himself pulpy and malleable as an open wound for the world to prod at. He wears his heart on his sleeve, but it has no boundaries protecting it. He's learned to not trust himself, so he puts everything into trusting others even when it hurts him more. Fighting back never worked in the cage - not even the smallest, meekest "no." Why would it work now?

Dean used to tell Sam he could go back to school and live his life once their hunt for Dad was over, and he meant it. He used to want Sam to move on after his death, not crucify himself to bring him back.

Sam used to tell Dean what he wanted, feeling safe enough with him to be totally honest, even if it caused conflict. He used to love with self-respect, staying when it was healthy and leaving when it wasn't. He used to say No.

Now they're both people who would be unrecognizable to their younger selves - would probably horrify them if they knew. They're the "bad future" versions that an after-school special would show to scare kids straight, show them the adults they don't want to be.

And isn't that just perfectly tragic?

[perfectassimilator]

i think sam drinking demon blood was kinda like how some victims of csa/sa may have a "promiscuous" lifestyle to sorta "rewrite" their trauma in a way they can cope with. sam was seeking a resolution to azazel's violation by reliving the initial trauma in a way that made him feel powerful or as if he were exerting agency. this, to me, makes ruby that much more insidious a villain

[saltcirclesigil]

Purple Puppy Tee~

All of Sam Winchester’s S1 clothing suddenly disappearing in later seasons not because they were destroyed but because they got too small by the time S4 hit.

Sammy would always go thrifting for cheap clothes with Dean since he was little. All the bittersweet memories attached to those shirts alongside the forcibly frugal tendencies of the family meant throwing away these clothes were a huge no-no — unless there was too much blood stain to salvage it.

So S1 Sam never threw away his purple puppy shirt he got for 3$ as a lanky teenager in the west….he just kept it tucked away in his bags.

Time passes and Sam started to bulk up (demons really do a number on a boy), and he can’t fit the shirt anymore. Then what?

He decided he’d lounge around the motel in it while doing research instead of wearing it out. But when he pulls it on, the arm seams split and he can barely pull the hem down past his waist. All that muscle ripping apart a haunting teenage memory.

His feelings about it are mixed. He’s happy the shirt tore because he finally has a reason to toss it, but sad that going in the trash with it was his pre-Stanford memory of Dean pulling the tee over his sixteen year old moose head like he was a baby: “You like dogs Sammy, dontcha? Here, you take that one while I go back for that Mötley shirt!!”

He keeps a scrap of fabric from the shirt with him and poorly sews it into one of his jacket pockets, the inner one close to his heart.

He’ll forever hold onto the innocence of the purple puppy.

[islaymonsters]

You X Hunting? <3 @lelapine

[lelapine]

Oooh, it's sooo pink! 🩷🩷

Thank you!! 🩷🩷🩷

[lelapine]

LEN !!! hello!! how are you doing these days!! miss you <333

Mari, dearest!

How have you been?

I'm suffering through exams (contracts and work law will be the death of me), but I see the light, those are my two last exams this semester🩷🩷

Miss you too 🩷🩷

[djarinova]

ˑ ִֶָ ꒰ comfort blanket ꒱ — sam winchester

content. gn!reader, fluff, cuddling, established relationship. wc; 862.

It's lazy, the way Sam pulls you into his lap, like he knows you're putty in his hands the second his fingertips dance across your lower back.

In fact, he knows you'll lean into his touch, prop yourself up onto your palms and let him move you into the seat that was made for you, without evening questioning it.

And you do.

His hands crowd your waist, so large against your frame, and he wraps an arm tight around your body as you fidget.

"I wouldn't have moved you onto my lap if I didn't want you here, okay?" His voice is low. His breath fans your ear, sending shivers across your neck and down your spine.

You still. With a slow nod you melt into him, letting his arms draw you closer, a wave of relaxation washing over you as his thumb begins to rub soft circles on your hip bone, just below the hem of your shirt.

You crane your neck over your shoulder when you hear him exhale shakily and you raise your eyebrow in question. Red flecks of embarrassment litter his cheeks, lighting him up the most adorable shade of rouge.

Oh.

You smile, running your tongue along your teeth as you turn back around. Sam's laptop sits in front of you, endless numbers of tabs are open on the browser and you can see his scribbled notes littering the table behind the screen.

Whatever the issue you're dealing with is, it won't be solved tonight, you're certain of it.

"Time to take a break, baby?" You whisper, pulling Sam's hand into yours and pressing a soft kiss to his palm.

He hums affirmatively, leaning around you and shutting his laptop with a flick of his wrist. The weariness from the hours he's spent staring at his screen are already catching up with him, his eyes ache and there's a low pain in the back of his head that he knows is going to turn into a ruthless headache in the next hour or so.

With a sigh he wraps his arms tighter around your waist, shifting you further back into his lap.

If you feel him shudder beneath you you're polite enough not to mention it—or perhaps you're just biding your time, waiting to tease him when he least expects it.

He breathes in the smell of your shampoo, once, twice, and lets it wash over him steadily. You feel his body start relaxing almost immediately and he buries his head in your hair for a moment, enjoying the smell of you—the smell of home—before drawing back and leaning his head over the back of the chair.

You don't lean back with him, too afraid of hurting him or making him uncomfortable, but it doesn't take more than a few seconds for Sam to miss your body's warmth.

He shifts abruptly, sitting bolt upright and hoisting an arm beneath your knees. He breathes out a whisper of "ready?" and then he's standing, walking towards the bed and plopping you down onto the well worn motel mattress.

You land with a grunt, although he was careful not to drop you without bending down first. You both learnt that lesson the hard way.

The first time he'd dropped you from standing height you'd practically bounced off the bed, and instead of spending time wrapped in each others arms you'd been forced to play doctor and nurse—and not in the fun way.

He's quick to follow you, sliding off his flannel and throwing it across the end of the bed before kneeling next to you on the mattress. From this angle he looks like a giant, towering over you at a ridiculous height. You think this must be what people see when they look at him, a tall, serious and intimidating hunter.

But when that smile splits across his face, the one that makes his eyes shine, the facade is broken. He's your Sam again—soft, warm, gentle.

You open your arms wide but he just shakes his head lightly, falling into the space behind you instead. He's quick to wrap his arm around your waist, before carefully manoeuvring you until you're flush against his front. You lift your head before he has the chance to ask and he slips an arm beneath your neck, pressing a kiss to the back of your head.

You intertwine your fingers through his and begin to play with them idly. A gentle smile falls across your face and your eyes start to flutter closed before you even have the chance to speak.

You hadn't planned to fall asleep. You'd wanted to relish in the alone time, it's not often the two of you are able to be alone like this—uninterrupted and relatively carefree.

But Sam's touch is like nothing else. The feeling of him being wrapped totally and completely around you is akin to being hugged by sunlight. Warmth radiates off of him, seeping into your skin and flowing down to the darkest depths.

The last thing you remember is his arms squeezing you three times and a soft whisper of your name falling over your ears.

[stargazedwinchester]

♡⸝⸝ 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏 2 𝒘𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒔,

summary,, you've always struggled with the idea of someone truly loving you because of your weight. you've always struggled with the idea of sam truly loving you because of your weight. word count,, 1,099 pairing,, sam winchester x thicker than a snicker!reader tags/genre,, body insecurity, unrequieted love, longing for something, fluff, a little angst, refusa lnow playing,, season 2 weight loss - harry styles ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ 1:35 ───ㅇ───── 3:47 find the masterlist here!

You hear it every time Sam talks about someone he used to date.

Stanford girls with tiny waists and glossy hair. Women at bars who smile at him like they already know he’ll smile back. Even the random hookups Dean teases him about always sound the same in your head: pretty. Slim. Effortless.

Nothing like you.

That thought settles ugly beneath your ribs. It sticks there.

Especially tonight.

The motel bathroom mirror is cruel under fluorescent lighting. Your sweater clings too much around your stomach, your jeans digging into your hips when you sit. You tug at the hem for the hundredth time before finally giving up and walking back into the room.

Sam’s sitting cross-legged on the bed with his laptop balanced on one knee while you pretend to read through lore notes.

Pretend being the key word.

You’ve reread the same paragraph four times.

Sam laughs suddenly under his breath at something on his screen.

“What?” you ask.

He turns the laptop toward you a little. “Dean made a dating profile for me.”

You snort despite yourself. “No he didn’t.”

“He absolutely did.”

The profile picture is awful. Half blurry, taken while Sam was eating fries somewhere. You laugh harder this time.

“Oh my God.”

“I know.”

Sam’s grinning now, eyes crinkling at the corners, and your stomach does that stupid thing it always does around him.

Then you spot the messages. A lot of messages.

Mostly women.

Pretty women.

You try not to visibly deflate. “Looks like it’s working,” you joke weakly.

Sam groans. “Unfortunately.”

“You could answer one.”

“Nah.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “Don’t really care.”

Like attention has never been something he’s had to think about. Dean bursts out of the bathroom before the silence can settle, towel around his neck. “Dude, tell her about the redhead.”

Sam immediately looks horrified. “Dean.”

“What redhead?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Dean drops onto the other bed. “Girl at the bar last week. Couldn’t stop staring at him.”

Sam rubs a hand over his face. “Can we not?”

“She was hot too,” Dean continues, ignoring him entirely. “Totally your type.”

You hate how quickly your brain catches on that phrase.

Your type.

An ache tightens painfully in your chest.

Because of course Sam has a type. Everybody does. And you know, logically, that not every woman Sam has ever glanced at looks identical, but insecurity doesn’t care much about logic.

It just collects evidence. Real or imagined.

You mumble something about needing air and step outside before either of them can say anything.

The night air is cold enough to sting.

You lean against the motel railing and stare out at the empty parking lot, arms folded tightly across yourself. It’s stupid to feel this bad over nothing. Sam’s your friend. He hasn’t done anything wrong.

That almost makes it worse.

Because he’s kind to you. Always kind. And that leaves room for hope to grow in all the wrong places.

The motel door creaks open behind you a few minutes later, and you don’t need to turn around to know it’s Sam.

“You disappeared.”

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

His footsteps stop beside you. For a while, neither of you says anything. Cars hiss past somewhere far off on the highway.

Then Sam says quietly, “Did Dean say something?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

You shrug.

Sam leans against the railing beside you, watching your face carefully in that way he always does. Like he’s trying to solve you without pushing too hard.

“You got quiet after the dating profile thing.”

God. Of course he noticed. “It’s nothing, Sam.”

“That usually means it’s definitely something.”

You laugh softly at that, but it comes out thin. Sam’s expression shifts immediately.

And suddenly you’re tired. Tired of carrying it around alone. Tired of feeling ridiculous every time your feelings get hurt over things Sam doesn’t even realise are hurting you.

So before you can stop yourself, you say, “I don’t think you’d ever look at me like that.”

Sam frowns. “Like what?”

“Like…” You gesture vaguely, embarrassed already. “Like girls you actually find attractive.”

The confusion on his face is immediate.

“What are you talking about?”

You stare out at the parking lot instead of him. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“No, seriously.”

His voice is gentler now.

Your throat tightens.

“It’s just hard sometimes, okay?” you admit quietly. “Watching girls flirt with you and knowing they’re all…” You shrug helplessly. “Different from me.”

Sam goes very still beside you. For one horrible, long second, you think maybe you’ve said too much.

“You think I’m not attracted to you?”

You let out a short, awkward laugh. “Sam.”

“No, answer me.”

You finally look at him then.

Big mistake. Because he’s staring at you like the answer genuinely matters.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I guess I just feel like if someone looked like me and someone looked like…” You wave vaguely toward the motel room. “Every woman that ever hits on you, it’s kind of obvious who you’d pick.”

Sam blinks once. Then again.

And suddenly he looks almost frustrated.

“You really believe that?”

You immediately regret opening your mouth at all. “Can we just forget I said anything?”

“No, because apparently you’ve been sitting with this by yourself.”

His voice isn’t harsh, but stunned.

You look away again, heat crawling up your neck.

Sam exhales quietly beside you.

He begins softly, “Hey.”

His hand brushes your sleeve just enough to get your attention. “When I look at you,” he says slowly, “I’m not comparing you to anybody else.”

Your chest aches.

“I don’t do that.”

You swallow hard. “You don’t have to spare my feelings.”

“I’m not.”

There’s something so earnest in his face it almost hurts to look at him.

Sam shakes his head a little, like he can’t believe this conversation is happening. “You know what I see when I look at you?” he asks quietly. “I see somebody I can’t stop thinking about.”

Your breath catches.

“I see someone beautiful.”

His expression softens instantly. “C’mere.”

Before you can overthink it, Sam pulls you gently into him. Maybe it’s pathetic how quickly you melt a little at the feeling of his arms around you, but Sam just holds you there against his chest like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“No more deciding what I feel for me, okay?” he murmurs into your hair.

You let out a shaky laugh. “I’ll try.”

“Good.”

A beat passes.

He goes shy. After what feels like a minute has passed, he adds, “For the record, you’re exactly my type.”

✧ 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ // ✧𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 // ✧𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ

[wendichester]

sam ℘ dean winchester x the zodiac signs

⏾⋆.˚ drunk-dial confessions !

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ get your compatibility reading ; support my work .ᐟ

♈︎ 𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ “you’re a pain in my ass, you know that? but you’re my pain in the ass.” ๋࣭ ⭑ he calls you half-laughing, half-annoyed, because somehow even drunk he’s still arguing with you in his head. he tells you you’re reckless, impossible, too damn loud—and then gets weirdly quiet before admitting he trusts you more than he trusts most people. cute. embarrassing. very him. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ “you make me feel brave when i’m tired of being brave.” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam’s voice is softer than usual, a little rough around the edges. he tells you he doesn’t understand how you keep moving forward with so much fire in you, but he envies it. then he gets awkward and tries to backtrack, which only makes it worse. poor giant.

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ “you make things feel… solid. i don’t get a lot of that.” ๋࣭ ⭑ dean tries to play it casual, but the alcohol betrays him immediately. he tells you he likes that you don’t rush him, don’t push him, don’t make him explain every ugly little thing. then he mutters something about missing your cooking and pretends that was the whole point of the call. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ “i think you’re the closest thing to peace i’ve ever had.” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam says it way too honestly, then goes silent because he knows exactly how vulnerable it sounds. you can practically hear him staring at the wall, regretting his entire existence. but he doesn’t take it back.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ “i never know what the hell you’re gonna say next. i hate that. i love that.” ๋࣭ ⭑ he calls because something reminded him of you, and now he’s rambling. badly. one second he’s teasing you, the next he’s admitting you make his life less boring, and then he accuses you of “witchcraft or something” because no normal person should be that addictive to talk to. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ “you get my brain going. sometimes i wish you’d let it rest.” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam starts off trying to have a completely normal conversation and fails within thirty seconds. he tells you he likes how fast you think, how you make him reconsider things, how you annoy him in ways that feel suspiciously important. then he says your name too softly and ruins his own composure.

♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ “you care too much. don’t stop.” ๋࣭ ⭑ dean is drunk enough to say the thing sober dean would rather get punched than admit. he tells you he notices what you do for people. for him. how you check on him without making him feel cornered. then he gets all gruff and says, “anyway. don’t make it weird.” too late, babe. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ “i feel safe with you, and that scares me more than it should.” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam sounds tired when he says it. not sad exactly, just honest in that heavy, late-night way. he tells you he doesn’t have to perform around you. doesn’t have to be useful, smart, strong, okay. with you, he can just be a person. devastating. illegal. jail for him.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ “you walk into a room and it pisses me off how much i notice.” ๋࣭ ⭑ he absolutely calls you to flirt and accidentally catches feelings in real time. he says you’re dramatic, stubborn, too pretty for your own good, and then gets quieter before admitting you make him want to be seen. not just looked at. seen. then he panics and makes a bad joke. naturally. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ “you make confidence look easy. i don’t think it is, though.” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam sees through the performance, even drunk. he tells you he admires your warmth, your nerve, the way you keep shining even when life gets ugly. then he admits he worries people take more from you than they give back. rude of him to be that emotionally accurate at 2 a.m.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ “you’re always right. it’s disgusting. i miss it.” ๋࣭ ⭑ dean calls to complain, but the complaint is love-shaped. he tells you the motel room is weird without your little comments, your lists, your “did you clean that wound properly?” voice. then he admits you make him feel taken care of without making him feel weak. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ “you notice the things i hope nobody notices.” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is painfully honest with you. he tells you your attention makes him nervous because you see too much, but it also makes him feel less alone. you catch what he hides. you call him out gently. and drunk sam? drunk sam is very close to saying he needs you.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ “you make everything feel less ugly. don’t know how you do that.” ๋࣭ ⭑ dean tries to sound casual, but there’s this softness under it that gives him away. he tells you he likes your voice, your calm, the way you can walk into a mess and make people breathe again. then he says you’re “too damn charming,” as if he is personally offended by wanting you. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ “you make me want to believe things can turn out okay.” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam calls with that low, thoughtful drunk voice and accidentally becomes a romance novel with trauma. he tells you your gentleness doesn’t feel fake to him. that’s the part that gets him. you’re soft, but not shallow. kind, but not stupid. he notices. oh, he notices.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ “you scare me a little. not because i don’t trust you. because i do.” ๋࣭ ⭑ dean’s drunk enough to admit you get under his skin. you know when he’s lying, when he’s deflecting, when he’s about to do something stupid and heroic and deeply annoying. he tells you he hates how much you see, but his voice says he’d be lost if you stopped looking. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ “you understand the parts of me i don’t like talking about.” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam doesn’t waste time with small talk. not tonight. he tells you there’s something about you that makes the dark feel less shameful. you don’t flinch. you don’t make him pretty. you just stay. and that, apparently, is enough to ruin him a little.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ “you make me feel young. which is annoying, because i’m very rugged and mysterious.” ๋࣭ ⭑ dean is definitely smiling during this call. you can hear it. he tells you you’re trouble, but the good kind—the kind that makes him forget the world is ending for five minutes. then he says he wishes you were there, immediately makes a joke, and pretends he didn’t mean it. coward behavior. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ “you make running away sound less like fear and more like freedom.” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam gets philosophical. tragic but hot. he tells you he loves how you keep looking toward the horizon, how you refuse to rot in one place just because life hurt you there. he says you make him wonder who he’d be if he stopped punishing himself. silence. emotional damage.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ “you act tough. i know what that costs.” ๋࣭ ⭑ dean doesn’t tease much on this call. weird, right? he tells you he knows you’re tired, even when you hide it. he knows what it’s like to be the one everybody relies on. then he quietly says you don’t always have to be fine with him. and then probably clears his throat like he didn’t just gut you. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ “i trust you because you don’t promise things lightly.” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam respects your restraint more than he says. drunk, though? it slips out. he tells you your loyalty means something because it’s chosen, not loud. you don’t throw words around. you show up. and for sam, that’s basically a love language with a filing system.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ “i don’t get you. drives me insane.” ๋࣭ ⭑ dean calls because he’s thinking about you and is mad about it. you confuse him. you don’t react the way he expects, don’t need him the way he knows how to handle, don’t fit into the boxes he keeps trying to shove people into. he tells you you’re weird. it sounds painfully fond. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ “you make me feel less strange.” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam’s confession is quieter, almost careful. he tells you he likes the way your mind works, even when he can’t follow every turn. you make space for complicated things without trying to fix them immediately. with you, his weirdness doesn’t feel so lonely.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ “you look at me like i’m not ruined. don’t know what to do with that.” ๋࣭ ⭑ dean should not have called. we all know it. he tells you your softness gets to him because it doesn’t ask permission. you care, and it makes him defensive, and then guilty for being defensive. he says you’re too good at making him feel human. then he goes quiet for way too long. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ “you make sadness feel less embarrassing.” ๋࣭ ⭑ sam’s drunk-dial to you is tender in a way that almost hurts. he tells you you never make him feel stupid for feeling too much. you don’t rush him out of grief. you sit beside it with him. and when he whispers that he misses you, it sounds bigger than he meant it to.

[angelsdean]

Mary is 28. The year is 2016. Her whole life has been stolen from her. Some cosmic being plucked her from Heaven, took her away from her home, her husband, her babies, and placed her in this strange new world.

Her babies are gone, replaced with strangers a foot taller than her and nearly a decade older. They call her mom in gruff voices. They are hunters, something she never wanted for them. She has to hold back tears just looking at them. She sees glimmers of herself in Dean. His hair has darkened since he was a little boy, but she sees herself in other parts. The shape of his face, his cheekbones, his smile. She sees herself in Sam too, though he feels stranger. She can't quite match her pudgy little baby to this man.

At night, she moves through the bunker like a ghost. Nothing feels quite real. She takes scissors to her hair, thinks a drastic change will make this all feel more real. Throws herself into hunting. The adrenaline helps. Her racing heart reminding her she's alive, alive, alive. This isn't a dream.

This isn't a dream.

She sobs into her pillow, as the reality of it hits once more. She will never see her babies again.

These strange men look at her like she's a wonder. She understands what they lost. Understands they never had a mother. She imagines she'd look at her babies the same way, if she could see them again.

But she doesn't know how interact with this Sam and this Dean. All she knows is rocking babies to sleep to the tune of "Hey, Jude" and cutting the crusts off PB&J's and warming up store-bought pies for her sweet little toddler. She feels like she's failing at something she never really felt she succeeded at in the first place. So she focuses on the one thing she was ever good at: hunting.

When the British Men of Letters approach her, she goes in with good intentions. She's doing this for her boys. It's the one thing she can do right, she thinks.

Except things go wrong. They always go wrong.

"Cas almost died," Dean says, a hard edge to his voice and his eyes swimming with emotion.

She feels terrible, tries to explain. "I'm doing this for you. I'm playing three decades of catch up here." She wants to say, I'm trying to fix things. If I can rid the world of monsters, if I can make it safe then you won't have to fight anymore. You can have normal lives. You can be free. But she doesn't know how to talk to them.

Mary watches Dean's expression cloud with his own grief. "And we're not? How do you think this has been for us? We're your sons, and you've been gone. Our whole lives, you've been gone," he says. And she understands. She's been gone. And her babies are gone. And it's all so unfair.

"You said that you needed time. No, you said you need space," Dean continues, and she can feel herself losing him. Them. Sam won't even look at her. "So we gave you your space. But you didn't need just space. No, you needed space from us."

He's not wrong. She told them when she left, how hard it was to be around them.

"That's not true," she lies. "Dean, I'm trying –"

"How 'bout for once, you just try to be a mom?" Dean cuts in, hurt, angry.

And it hits her harder than she expected. Because she wishes, wishes she could be a mom again. To her babies. But that's never going to happen. And if she's stuck here, then she needs to figure out some other way to be.

"I am your mother," she says, sternly, "but I am not 'just a mom.' And you are not a child." It's not fair. Part of her knows that's not what Dean was asking. Not how he meant it. She's the one wishing he were a child. Wishing she could be "just" a mom. But she can't be a mother to them. Not this Dean. Not this Sam.

Dean looks her in the eyes, his expression vacant, haunted, and says, "I never was." His lip trembles for just a moment before he regains his composure.

She was a hunter's kid once. She knows what it's like. There's little room for childhood innocence. But she also doesn't know. She had a stable home. She had two parents. She had no siblings to look after.

"So between us and them –" Dean continues, the question hanging in the chasm that has opened up between them.

"It's not like that." Can't you see I'm choosing you. This is the only way I know how to keep you safe.

"Yeah, Mary, it is." She hates how it doesn't exactly break her heart, hearing her name come from his mouth instead of "mom." It feels more normal. Because these are not her children. "You made your choice. So there's the door."

Dean walks out of the room without a second look. Sam rises from the table, averting his eyes. She understands this too. Struggling to look. To see.

But this isn't how she wanted things to go. She didn't mean to upset them. And she doesn't want to lose them completely. She just--needs more time. "Sam," she tries. Maybe it would be easier to get through to him. He never really knew her, has no memories of her.

But he tells her to go too.

And maybe part of her is glad for the easy out. This will give her more time. She just needs to focus on hunting. Save the world. Put her babies to rest. Then she can come back and they can...be a family. However that might look for them.

[fallenangelblade]

mary winchester’s s12 arc is like: i didn’t come back wrong. you just reduced me to a perfect idol, a name on a headstone, a sepia-toned childhood memory, and got upset when you realized that i might be more complex than that. i existed to you as a smiling face in a faded photograph, and when i became real, you could not fathom my personhood. i came back exactly right, and your expectations were too high.