could u write smth for me sam x reader (obvi), where the reader expresses how much she loves sunflowers, and every time he’s out for a run or a walk or whatever, he takes a certain route to make sure he can pick her a sunflower from a field so he can take it home to her?
thank you!!! 💘💘
⋆｡ ˚ the long way home
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ you mention loving sunflowers once, and sam quietly builds a whole ritual around bringing them back to you
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 638 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ extra fluff
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ friends to lovers tension, shy sam, emotional pining
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
it starts because you say it once. barely even a confession, really. just a small thing slipped into the middle of a long afternoon, while you’re leaning against the bunker’s kitchen counter with your hands wrapped around a mug, watching dust float through a stripe of sunlight.
“sunflowers are my favorite,” you say, mostly to yourself. “they always look so happy.”
sam looks up from the newspaper he’s pretending to read. “yeah?”
“yeah,” you say, smiling into your coffee. “big faces. tall stems. they’re basically the golden retrievers of flowers.”
he laughs under his breath, soft enough that you almost miss it. “that makes sense,” he says.
you narrow your eyes. “what does that mean?”
“nothing,” he says too quickly, which means something, obviously.
you throw a sugar packet at him. he catches it without looking proud, because he’s sam, and that’s somehow worse.
you don’t think about it again. sam does.
the first time he brings one home, you’re elbow-deep in laundry, trying to figure out if dean’s socks are cursed or just naturally horrible, when sam walks into the room sweaty from his run, hair damp at his temples, cheeks pink from the cold.
there’s a sunflower in his hand.
not a bouquet. not anything polished or planned. just one sunflower, bright and uneven, its stem wrapped in a napkin from some gas station.
you stare at it. then at him.
“i saw it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “on the way back. figured you’d, uh… want it.”
your chest does this embarrassing little thing. “you figured right,” you say, taking it carefully.
his fingers brush yours. barely. still, you feel it.
after that, it becomes a habit he never announces. every couple of days, when he goes out for a run or a walk to clear his head, he comes back with another one. sometimes fresh and huge, sometimes a little crooked, sometimes missing a petal or two because the wind got to it first.
he always acts casual, like he didn’t clearly change his route just to pass that field outside town. you know, because one morning you watch from the garage as he takes the left road instead of the shorter one. the long way. for you.
stupidly, it makes you want to cry. just in the way soft things can sneak up and knock the air out of you.
one evening, he finds you in the library, sliding the newest sunflower into an old glass bottle you’ve stolen from the kitchen. there are five now, lined up along the table, gold heads tilted in different directions.
“you’re keeping all of them?” he asks, voice gentle.
“of course i am.”
he looks down, smiling at the floor. shy. too shy for someone so tall. “they don’t last forever.”
“neither do most good things,” you say, then immediately regret how honest it sounds.
sam’s smile fades into something quieter.
you look at the flowers instead of him. “but i still want them.”
there’s a pause. then he steps closer—slow and careful—the same way he handles everything he’s afraid to break. “i can keep bringing them,” he says.
your fingers tighten around the bottle. “yeah?”
“yeah.” his voice dips. “if you want.”
you turn toward him, heart doing too much, hands smelling faintly green from the stem. “i do,” you say.
sam’s eyes flick to your mouth for half a second, then back up, and the room feels suddenly too quiet, too full of everything neither of you has been brave enough to touch.
he doesn’t kiss you. not yet. but his hand brushes yours again, warm and nervous and real, and this time neither of you moves away. the sunflower leans between you, bright and ridiculous, while sam looks at you like he’d take the long way home forever for you.
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summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam comes to your auntie’s house looking for answers, and you see too much of him too quickly—the grief, the guilt, and the want he’s trying very hard not to feel.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x missouri’s niece!reader ( f ; woc ) ft. dean
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 1946 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty fluff
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ grief after jess’s death, psychic/emotional reading, intense longing, almost-kiss, sam pulling away, mild teasing, dean catching strays
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ do yall know that moment when the idea is really good but you try to execute and it turns out eh. this is it for me. do i like it? i don't know anymore. i hope you do!
consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the first thing you hear is your auntie’s voice cutting through the house like she already knows trouble has stepped onto the porch.
“don’t you track mud on my floor, dean winchester,” she calls from the kitchen before anyone even knocks. “and don’t you start touching things either. i know how your hands get when you’re nervous.”
there’s a pause outside the door—then a man’s voice, offended and low, says, “i’m not nervous.”
you smile into your mug.
you’re still leaning against the hallway wall when missouri opens the door, one hand on her hip, the other holding a dish towel she’s been using more as a weapon than anything else.
two men stand on the porch in the dull afternoon light, both too tall for the doorway, both carrying the particular kind of exhaustion that clings to hunters even when they’re trying to look casual. the shorter one—dean, you guess, because no one else could look that smug while being scolded—has sharp green eyes, a leather jacket, and a grin that arrives a second before his manners do. his gaze moves over the room, then lands on you, and you feel the shape of whatever charming thing he’s about to say before he says it.
your aunt does too. “don’t,” she snaps.
dean’s mouth closes.
you laugh, slow and pleased, because that alone is worth the price of admission. “so this is the goofy looking kid?”
dean turns to you so fast it’s almost impressive. “excuse me?”
“auntie said you were one goofy looking kid.” you take a sip of coffee, eyes moving over him with shameless amusement. “i mean, you cleaned up fine, i guess. but spiritually? i see it.”
behind him, sam makes the smallest sound, not quite a laugh, but close enough that your attention shifts. and there he is…
sam winchester is not loud the way dean is. he doesn’t fill a room by trying to own it. he does the opposite, actually; he stands half a step behind his brother with his shoulders drawn in just enough to make you wonder how many times in his life he’s tried to take up less space than his body naturally demands. he’s beautiful, in that painful, unfinished way grief can make someone beautiful when it has not been kind to them. his hair falls across his forehead, his eyes are tired and watchful, and something about him feels bruised without being soft. not weak. just held together by discipline and guilt and the kind of sadness that has not figured out how to become survivable yet.
your gift reaches for him before you mean it to. that happens sometimes. with certain people. pain has a texture, and sam’s is everywhere, threaded through him so densely that for one dizzy second you taste smoke in the back of your throat and feel heat above you, impossible and wrong. a ceiling. firelight. a woman’s scream cut off by memory instead of distance. love, then horror, then a guilt so deep it almost has a pulse.
you blink, and the room comes back. sam is looking at you. “you saw something,” he says quietly.
you could lie. you’re good at lying when it’s useful, and pretty enough that people usually let you get away with it. your auntie says beauty is a tool until it becomes a trap, and you’ve spent most of your life learning the difference. you know how people look at your dark skin when they want to compliment without sounding stupid, how their eyes catch on your shiny hair and linger half a second too long, how they decide who you are before you speak. sam doesn’t do that. he looks like he’s waiting to see if you’re going to make his grief into a performance.
so you don’t. “a little,” you say. “not on purpose.”
his jaw tightens, but he nods once, like that answer is fair.
dean glances between you, his playful expression dimming. “okay, what the hell just happened?”
“your brother is carrying a lot,” you say, because it’s true and because you want to see what dean does with it.
dean’s face changes. protective before sarcastic, older brother before smartass. that, more than anything, makes you like him despite yourself.
missouri steps in before the air can get too heavy. “and he’ll keep carrying it unless we get this case handled. sit down, both of you. my niece is helping.”
you look at her. “am i?”
“you already know you are.”
“i love being volunteered in my own home.”
“then stop being so gifted.”
dean snorts. sam almost smiles again, and you hate how much you want to earn a real one from him.
the case is ugly. a house at the edge of town, a little girl who keeps seeing her dead father in the hallway, a mother who insists grief is making her child imaginative because the alternative would require believing in something worse.
you go with sam and dean after sundown, partly because missouri tells you to and partly because sam looks at the photographs spread across your auntie’s table with a focus so heavy it feels like penance. he wants to save everyone because he could not save her. you don’t need to touch him to know that. it sits around him, plain as breath.
by the time you reach the house, rain has started tapping against the roof in thin, nervous lines. dean takes the downstairs with his flashlight, muttering something about creepy family portraits and rich people with bad taste, while you and sam move through the upstairs hall together.
sam stays close, not crowding you, just near enough that when the floor groans under your foot, his hand lifts instinctively toward your elbow.
neither of you says anything for a few steps.
“does it always work that way?” he asks eventually, his voice low so it doesn’t carry downstairs. “your psychic thing.”
you glance at him. “my psychic thing?”
his mouth twitches. “sorry. your very normal, not-at-all-terrifying ability to look at people and know things.”
“better.”
that almost-smile appears again, faint and reluctant, and it does something stupid to your chest. you look away first, because you are not about to become weak over a sad man with pretty eyes and a moral injury. except… well…
“it’s not always the same,” you say, running your fingers along the edge of a doorframe. “sometimes i see images. sometimes feelings. sometimes it’s more like… walking into a room where someone left music playing, and even after they turn it off, you still feel the song.”
sam is quiet for long enough that you wonder if you’ve said too much. then he says, “what song am i?”
you shouldn’t answer. it’s too intimate for a hallway in a haunted house, too soft for someone you met less than two hours ago, too dangerous when grief is already standing between you with its teeth bared. but sam’s looking at you like he regrets asking and needs to know anyway.
“one you keep punishing yourself for still hearing,” you say. his face goes still. “sorry,” you add, quieter. “that came out sharper than i meant.”
“no,” he says, and his voice has changed, gone rough around the edges. “it’s okay.”
but it isn’t. you can feel that too.
a noise comes from behind the bedroom door at the end of the hall, like fingernails dragging over damp wood. sam moves immediately, all hunter now, shoulders squaring, grief packed away so fast it makes something in you ache. he reaches for the handle first, and your hand closes over his wrist before you think better of it.
the contact hits harder than it should. warm skin. tense muscle. his pulse under your fingers. and beneath that, a flood of feeling so sudden you nearly sway—fear, guilt, want, restraint, exhaustion, and a loneliness so old it doesn’t belong only to jessica. it belongs to childhood motels and motel breakfasts, to moving schools, to leaving and being left, to wanting a normal life so badly that wanting itself started to feel selfish.
sam freezes. your eyes lift to his. “don’t,” he says, but it isn’t angry. it’s almost pleading.
you loosen your grip, but you don’t step back. “i’m not trying to pry.”
his gaze drops briefly to your hand still hovering near him, then back to your face. “that might be worse.”
the house creaks around you. downstairs, dean swears loudly, followed by a crash and a muffled, “i’m good!”
you should answer. you should move. there is a ghost or a monster or something awful behind that door, and you are standing in a hallway with sam winchester feeling the space between your bodies become smaller than it has any right to be.
“you look at me,” he says, barely above a whisper, “like you know how bad it is.”
“i do know,” you admit.
his throat moves as he swallows. “and you’re still standing here.”
“i am.”
his eyes search your face, and you let him, even though it makes your skin feel too warm and your lungs too tight. there is a certain kind of attention that feels almost like touch before anyone lays a hand on you, and sam has it without trying. quiet, helpless, intense. he looks at your mouth once, quick enough that he probably thinks you miss it, but you don’t. you miss very little. especially not that.
your voice softens. “sam.”
hearing you say his name does something to him. you see it in the way his control slips for half a second, the way his hand comes up slowly, not touching your face yet, just hovering near your cheek as if he has to ask permission from the air first. you could close the distance. you want to. god, you want to, and the wanting is inconvenient and hot and terribly timed, because this man is not ready for anything except maybe surviving the next hour.
still, he leans in.
so do you.
your breath catches when his nose almost brushes yours, when his hand finally settles near your jaw with a gentleness that feels more dangerous than hunger. he’s so close you can feel the warmth of his mouth. close that the almost becomes its own kind of kiss, aching and unfinished.
then he stops. his eyes close, and his forehead nearly touches yours. “god,” he breathes, voice low and wrecked, “you have no idea how much i want this—want you. but i can’t.” his thumb shifts once against your skin, not quite a caress, not quite not one. “not right now.”
the words hurt, but not because they’re cruel. they are far from it.
you stay very still, letting them settle where the kiss should have been. “i know.”
he opens his eyes, and the guilt in them is immediate. “i’m sorry.”
“don’t be.” your smile is small, almost teasing because if you don’t make it lighter, you might make it worse. “i have excellent timing, clearly. haunted house. dead girlfriend trauma. your brother fighting furniture downstairs.”
sam lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh, and the sound is so soft you want to keep it in your pocket, which is ridiculous. humiliating, honestly.
from below, dean yells, “i could use some help here!”
sam pulls back, flushed and mortified, and you turn toward the stairs before he can see too much of what his almost has done to you. “come on, sad little puppy boy,” you say, gentler than the words deserve. “let’s save your goofy looking brother.”
sam follows you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours once on the way down.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
i finished the l word tonight and i have so many thoughts but what is mainly on my mind is why did the quality drop SO DRASTICALLY in season 5 and 6?? was it cancelled? i can’t find anything that says it was. what happened to the writing quality ???
the l word is really going downhill in season 5 and 6 the subplots are ridiculous, jenny is irredeemable, the transphobia is genuinely horrifying. jesus christ.
The Hot Wife and I celebrated our 27th/15th (together/married) anniversary last week. We still love each other and still have a lot of fun together. Funny to think we’ve been together so long. We’ve had our ups and downs over the years, but we’ve always worked through the hard times. We’ve been in a really good place for a while now and are both looking forward to retiring and having at least another 27 years of adventures together.
Got all dressed up on our anniversary and took my best gal to dinner. We’re definitely looking a lot older than we did in ‘99. She got me flowers and we exchanged cards and it was a good night. 🥂🎉❤️
Forgot to mention we first met playing softball - the Bay City Rollers t-shirt for that team - and the Disney t-shirt is from our honeymoon when we stayed at the Polynesian in Disney World.
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