summary: despite his genius intellect, spencer has no idea how to articulate his feelings. also known as, four times spencer reid injures himself to get your attention plus one time his plan fails (or does it?).
relationship: spencer reid x fem!reader
genre: fluff
word count: 4.8k
tags: i know Nothing about first-aid so i apologize if this is both vague and incorrect, spencer burns his hand… and hits his head… and scrapes his knee (minor blood warning)... and tweaks his ankle… and nearly breaks his nose, there’s a track behind FBI headquarters because i needed there to be, the BAU being teasing little shits, crush confession (crushfession?)
a/n: my first time writing a 4+1 fic and i am OBSESSED!!! thank you thank you anon for this adorable idea <3
based on this request
1. The Coffee Incident
(January 5)
The first time was an accident.
Spencer hadn’t meant to cause a scene. He had merely been pouring his first cup of coffee for the day, but then the break room door had swung open, and you had entered. Spencer hadn’t seen you in almost a week because of the days off for New Year’s, and it had been the longest week of his life. To say he was excited to see you was an understatement.
Although Spencer’s memory was quite exceptional, it seemed to have betrayed him. The mental image of your beauty did no justice to convey how spectacular it felt to see you in-person. As soon as he laid eyes on you, the rest of the world faded away. Well, momentarily, at least.
You smiled at him, and he smiled at you, but his goofy grin was quickly replaced by a grimace as his mug overflowed and piping hot coffee poured all over his hand. Instinctively, he pulled away, hissing in pain and flailing his hand about as if he could shake away the discomfort.
“Reid!” you exclaimed with concern, quickly crossing the room and planting your feet right in front of him. You held out your hands to him, beckoning him to let you examine his burns. At first, he was reluctant to be doted on, but then he realized that his injury was a blessing in disguise.
Although his hand was in yours for the sole purpose of you offering him medical attention, he considered it an intimate moment. He had always wondered if your hands were as soft as they looked, and now he knew: they were.
The moment was fleeting, just a few minutes of you utilizing your superior first-aid knowledge to care for him, but it inspired him. Spencer began to wonder how else he could capture your attention under the guise of “medical assistance.”
Desperate to feel your touch once more, Spencer began scheming. Soon, incident no. 2 was born.
2. The Filing Cabinet Incident
(January 16)
The second time was kind of an accident.
For much of the past week or so, Spencer had been contemplating his next move. If he were a more confident man, he could just tell you that he thought you were wildly attractive, but alas, he was not. Confident, that is. So instead?
He nearly got a concussion.
Now, it’s worth noting here that Spencer did not intentionally slam his head into a filing cabinet. Rather, he was bent over, rummaging through the bottom drawer, when you called out to him. At the sound of your melodic, lilting tone—okay, to anyone else it just sounded like you were casually greeting him as you entered the room—his heart leapt, and so did he. He hadn’t heard you come in, but of course, he had left the door open, so that was his own fault, really.
A solid bang practically echoed through the room as the back of his head connected with the bottom of the top drawer. Evidently, it had slid open while he was distractedly searching for the file he needed.
A bit embarrassing? Yeah. Exactly what he needed? Also yes.
Honestly, he was barely dazed by the contact. However, your presence seemed to reduce Spencer to childish tactics. Much like how a toddler only starts wailing over a scraped knee once their parent panics, Spencer turned on the theatrics when he heard you gasp.
“Jeez, are you okay?” you asked, joining him beside the filing cabinet. As he straightened to his full height, he made a snap decision to lift a hand to the back of his head and gingerly hold his “injury”. It was hardly even tender, but he winced for good measure as he looked at you.
“I’m fine,” he promised. It was the honest-to-God truth, but you knew he had a tendency to downplay his pain, so you figured he was just feigning nonchalance. He did have a grimace on his face—more out of guilt for stretching the truth than anything—which you interpreted as being pained. He wasn’t about to correct you; he was officially committed to the bit.
You reached for his arm, pulling his hand away from the back of his head. It was purely platonic, but Spencer felt his skin heat under your touch regardless. He hoped you didn’t notice, hoped that his cardigan sleeve was doing enough to spare him that embarrassment.
“Let’s get you some ice,” you said softly. You started to pull away and head toward the break room, then thought better of leaving Spencer to trail behind you. You stepped back to his side, carefully grabbing his arm once more. Bless your heart, you really thought he was concussed. In defense of his lying ass, he was a bit dizzy now that you were touching him, even something as simple as holding his wrist to guide him to the break room.
His steps were heavy and uneven for the few feet required to cross the hall, but you noticed, clicking your tongue and shaking your head.
“Poor hon,” you murmured, and Spencer nearly tripped. You were a ridiculously affectionate person; it was no secret that you were the sweetheart of the team. You regularly referred to Garcia as “love” and showered Prentiss in unprompted hugs, but your terms of endearment never failed to give Spencer heart palpitations when they were directed at him. He was powerless to resist his mind wandering, wondering what it would be like to wake up beside you, your hands carding through his hair as you called him “hon” and snuggled up against him.
Oh God, where was he?
“Sit,” you commanded in that sweet, worried tone of yours. Spencer blinked, realizing that his feet had somehow carried him to the break room while he had been fantasizing. Wordlessly, he sunk onto the sofa, watching you bustle around the kitchenette. You procured some ice cubes from the freezer, packing them into a plastic bag before wrapping the bag in a towel. Then, you brought the towel over to him and held it out. He accepted it with a shaky hand, not needing to be told to hold it against the back of his head.
As he iced his not-so-injured-injury, you pulled up a chair in front of him and sat so close to him that your knees were brushing against each other’s. He was confused at first what you were doing; he had assumed that you would just grab him some ice and call it a day, but you were, apparently, in full Caretaker Mode.
You pulled your phone out of your back pocket and turned on the flashlight, directing it at his eyes one at a time to watch how his pupils reacted. Spencer vaguely wondered if it really would look like he was concussed, considering how much his pupils undoubtedly dilated when he saw you. Yet, you hummed approvingly and pocketed your phone.
“No concussion,” you declared confidently. “I have seen symptoms develop a few hours after impact, though. Rare, but not impossible. If you have a worsening headache or any confusion today, let me know, but you should be just fine.” In some strange way, this news almost disappointed him. If he had been concussed, that would be all the more reason for you to dote on him. Despite his initial begrudging acceptance of your help with his burned hand, he had quickly come to realize that your Mother Hen demeanor was adorable, and made him that much more obsessed with you. So he wanted to be fawned over. Sue him.
You stood, returning your chair to its home before turning back to Spencer, offering him a sympathetic smile. You placed a hand on his shoulder, patting it gently before exiting the room, returning to whatever task you had been in the middle of when you had spoken to him in the first place. Your absence left Spencer even more enamored than the last time, and his mind immediately started reeling, plotting his next excuse to have you close again.
3. The Track Incident
(January 28)
The third time was poorly planned, but intentional nonetheless.
Spencer and Penelope’s physical fitness assessment was approaching. Garcia had proposed that they do some training outside on a particularly warm winter day, and Spencer had reluctantly agreed. He wasn’t too keen on running laps or jumping hurdles or whatever Garcia had planned, especially since he was considering looking into just getting the whole thing waived.
However, there was one appeal to doing some physical activity, and that was the fact that it was the perfect environment to stage an injury.
Hotch had given them permission to leave early that day to do some training, so they had made their way outside to the track and field. As Spencer rounded the track, he looked around, making sure there was no one watching in case his performance was less than Oscar-worthy. Garcia was hustling a few feet ahead of him, and he concluded that there was nobody else around, so with that in mind, he threw himself on the ground.
Hearing him hit the floor, Garcia whipped around.
“Reid!” she shrieked, staring at him sprawled on the ground. “Are you okay?”
Spencer had intentionally stumbled in a way that had made his legs slam into the ground, and he had to hide his satisfied grin when he sat back and saw the scrape on his left knee. He knew it was disturbing to be so excited to see tiny specks of blood blooming across his marred skin, but it was a minor sacrifice, really. It’s not like he would ever go so far as to break an arm in order to talk to you. Even he had some dignity.
“Fine,” he grunted, pulling himself off the track.
“You’re bleeding,” Garcia said pointedly, eyebrows furrowed in worry.
“Barely,” Spencer responded with a shrug. Then, because he did not want Garcia to be privy to his self-injurious plotting, he planned his escape. “I’m gonna go clean up.”
“Okay,” Garcia nodded. “I can walk with you, if you want.”
“It’s alright,” Spencer declined. “I’ll be right back.”
“Right back” meaning “after I make a point to hobble past my crush’s desk so that she checks on me”.
All according to plan, Spencer exaggeratedly limped through the bullpen, and you stopped him.
“What happened?” you questioned, eyes widening when you looked down and saw the tiny dots of blood dotting his leg.
“I fell, no big deal,” Spencer shrugged, moving to go grab the first-aid kit from the supply closet. Of course, you rose from your chair and put a hand on his shoulder, effectively halting him. He turned to look at you, feeling a pang of guilt when he saw the concern in your expression.
If only he could just tell you how he felt without making you worry. For a genius, this entire ordeal was incredibly stupid. He knew it, but couldn’t seem to stop himself. He had some dumb fantasy that maybe caring for him would make you realize that you really did care for him, and then you could both just admit to your feelings and live happily ever after and blah blah blah. He realized how much his daydream read like a ridiculous romantic comedy, but the heart wants what it wants.
You ushered him into your chair and hurried away to grab the first-aid kit yourself. While you were gone, Morgan noticed Spencer’s condition and raised a knowing eyebrow before blowing him kisses across the bullpen. Spencer rolled his eyes, returning his focus to you. You emerged from the hallway, dropping the first-aid kit on your desk before kneeling in front of him.
Well, if that didn’t throw his mind right into the gutter.
Spencer watched as you disinfected the scrape, barely even registering the sting over the pounding of his racing heart. Your brows were furrowed in concentration, and your tongue was poking out of the corner of your mouth. He didn’t think that there was anything about bandaging a knee that required such unsullied attention, but he appreciated the way that you were so devoted to aiding him.
His eyes threatened to flutter shut as your fingertips barely danced across his skin. It was maddening, how the tiniest contact from you could feel so good. You were merely sticking a Band-Aid on his knee, for Christ’s sake. Why did he feel like he was in heaven?
After applying the bandage, you patted the edges to make sure it was secure. You sat back on your heels, about to stand up, when Morgan called from across the room.
“Kiss it better!” he teased. Spencer was grateful that you were too distracted shooting Morgan a perplexed—and slightly annoyed—look to notice how Spencer flushed. His cheeks burned bright red, and he practically ran away, thanking you over his shoulder as he headed back outside.
Spencer knew that Morgan’s joking would only become more relentless if he didn’t just man up and talk to you, and God, did he want to. Today, though? Today, he was not feeling brave enough.
Maybe next time.
4. The “Treadmill” Incident
(February 5)
The fourth time was a stroke of genius. Well, as genius as this whole absurdly stupid ordeal could get.
After sustaining a very real—minor, but real—injury the week before, Spencer decided to give himself a break. Not a break from yearning; that would be damn near impossible. A break from bleeding, though? That he could manage.
One morning, Spencer decided to fake a limp. He figured his upcoming fitness test was the perfect ruse; he could pretend he had tweaked his ankle while training. He entered the bullpen right on time, careful to keep more weight on his left leg than his right. He tried to keep his movements just subtle enough that they would be noticeable but not overly dramatic.
After Morgan had gossiped to the entire team about last week’s events, everyone (except you) was well aware that Spencer was full of shit. As he walked to his desk, Rossi noticed his act and let out a loud huff of amused laughter. Spencer narrowed his eyes at the older man, silently commanding him to not say a word. Rossi held up his hands in surrender and wandered off, seemingly disengaging. However, his blinds were open, and it was quite obvious that Rossi was settling in to watch the next few minutes unfold from the comfort of his office.
Spencer reached his desk, dropping his messenger bag beside him and settling into his chair. From your position across from him, you cleared your throat, and Spencer fought to keep a smug smile off his face, knowing his plan had been set into motion.
He looked up at you with mock innocence.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“What’s wrong?” you replied, nodding toward his “bad” ankle.
“Oh, nothing,” he shrugged. “Just tweaked it.”
“Doing what?” you asked with an adorable tilt of your head.
“Running,” Spencer answered, the lie rolling off his tongue exactly as he had practiced. “Treadmill.”
“You don’t run,” you said pointedly, narrowing your eyes skeptically. “You literally faceplanted on the track just last week trying to do laps.”
“I did not faceplant,” Spencer retorted defensively. “I… knee… planted.”
“Point being,” you continued adamantly, “you don’t run.”
“I’ve taken it up,” Spencer argued, skin starting to crawl under your suspicion. Oh God, had someone snitched to you? He was betting it was JJ. If anyone were going to rat his ass out for lying to you, it would be her.
Evidently, his momentary panic had been for nothing. You leaned over your desk, whispering conspiratorily to him, “You know you can waive the fitness test, right?”
You were so cute. Not only were you aware of his strong aversion to cardio, but you were helping him get out of the exam altogether. Of course, he did know that it could be waived; he had already submitted the proper paperwork, but nobody needed to know that right now. For all intents and purposes, he was a dedicated athlete, preparing to pass this physical with flying colors.
“Damn. I wish you had told me sooner,” Spencer huffed with faux surprise. You winced, eyes trailing down to his ankle once more.
“Sorry,” you muttered, staring at his Converse as if you could assess his alleged injury with X-ray vision.
He was such an ass. Here he was, making you feel guilty for withholding information from him, information that could have prevented him from ending up in a position to sprain his ankle. Little did you know, he had not been running this morning. In fact, he had snoozed his alarm twice, leaving little time to do much of anything besides change and hit the road.
“It’s okay,” Spencer assured you. Then, because he was getting a bit antsy to receive your assistance, he asked, “Any chance you know how to tape it up?”
You looked mildly insulted by his question, squinting at him.
“Of course I do,” you said flatly, before abandoning the pretense and perking back up. “BRB.”
A few minutes later, you were perched on the floor in front of him, sitting cross-legged with his foot propped in your lap.
“I just have to anchor it here,” you explained, lightly tapping a spot above his ankle before wrapping the tape around his foot, preparing to place the last few pieces. As you worked, Prentiss approached, freezing in place when she saw you sitting on the ground.
“Well, what weird fetish thing is happening here?” she inquired with a broad grin.
“Stop!” you squealed indignantly, looking at her with exaggerated offense. “I do not have a thing for feet. Reid hurt his ankle this morning.”
“Oh, I’m sure he did,” Prentiss replied. Spencer gulped nervously, anticipating that she would spill his secret. You either didn’t pick up on Emily’s sarcasm or were too focused on finishing your tape job, placing the last piece and patting his ankle comfortingly.
“How’s that feel?” you asked, looking up at Spencer with big, concerned eyes.
“Good,” he said with a jerky nod, feeling Prentiss’s eyes on the two of you. Considering the fact that his ankle was perfectly fine, the tape felt a bit uncomfortable, but he obviously couldn’t tell you that. “Good” would have to suffice.
“Yeah, I’m sure it does,” Prentiss jeered, returning to her desk across the room. You shook your head disapprovingly, ever the empath. You were always quick to come to anyone’s defense when they were being teased by the rest of the team, and Spencer was no exception. It made him adore you that much more, even though he was currently completely undeserving of your loyalty.
As you rose from the floor, Spencer leaned over to pull on his sock. As he shoved his foot back into his shoe, he spoke sincerely.
“Thanks for all your help,” he said quietly, not wanting anyone else to overhear. Once his shoe was tied again, he met your gaze and added, “I really appreciate it.”
Understatement of the year.
“It’s no problem,” you replied, waving a hand casually and smiling brightly. “That’s what friends are for.”
Right. Friends.
Spencer offered you a tight-lipped smile, trying not to cringe. Of course you merely thought of him as a friend. It’s not like he’d ever had the guts to tell you that he wanted anything more. If only he could find the words, maybe there was a chance that he could feel more than just a fleeting touch from you.
He really wanted to find out, but he wasn’t sure what to do.
So he did what he did best, and planned his next injury.
5. The… Derek Morgan Incident?
(February 13)
The fifth time was just plain stupid.
Since Morgan had known about Spencer’s crush for some time now, Spencer decided to enlist some help. Understandably, Morgan was a bit taken aback by his request.
“You want me to what?” he asked, gaping at Spencer.
“Punch me in the face!” Spencer repeated for the umpteenth time. Morgan groaned.
“Why don’t you just tell her how you feel? Like a normal person?” Morgan questioned.
“I will!” Spencer insisted. Then, in a much quieter, much more unsure voice, he added, “Eventually.”
“But first, you want me to give you a shiner,” Morgan said flatly.
“Yes!” Spencer exclaimed impatiently. He had already explained his plan several times. Was it insane? Yes. Should it have been this hard to grasp, though? He didn’t think so.
“Oh my God,” Morgan sighed exaggeratedly. Then, he raised his eyebrows and pointed at Spencer. “This feels like a weird thing to say when you’re about to give someone a black eye, but you owe me.”
With that, Morgan took up a fighting stance, preparing to sock his beloved coworker in the face. He held his hands in front of his face, balling them into fists. Spencer scrunched his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for impact.
“Jesus!”
Your voice broke the tense silence. Unfortunately, you had entered the room a millisecond too late; Morgan’s fist was already flying through the air. To add insult to injury (no pun intended), your voice surprised Spencer, and he opened his eyes and angled his head toward the sound, causing Morgan’s punch to land squarely in the side of his nose.
You gasped, clapping your hands over your mouth in shock.
“What the hell, Morgan?” you shrieked, racing over to them. Morgan held up his hands, proclaiming his innocence and taking a step back as you assessed Spencer’s injury. Spencer was groaning in pain, holding his hands up to his nose. When you coaxed his hands away from his face, you saw that his nose was bleeding. Luckily, it didn’t look to be broken; it would likely only bruise. At the sight, you turned over your shoulder and shot daggers at Morgan. He ignored you, addressing Spencer directly.
“I told you it was a stupid idea,” he chided. After reaching the same conclusion as you and determining that Spencer’s wound was nothing dire, Morgan stalked out of the room, shaking his head and muttering something unintelligible under his breath.
At Morgan’s remark, you turned back to Spencer, confusion washing over your features.
“What idea?” you asked, gesturing for Spencer to sit as you wetted some paper towels. You sat in front of him, gently blotting at the blood that had trickled from his nose. Fortunately, the bleeding was minimal, and had already stopped. As you cleaned him up, you watched him expectantly, and Spencer squirmed under your scrutinizing gaze.
“Um…” he mumbled.
“Spence,” you coaxed, gingerly swiping the paper towel under his nose. Once the blood had been washed away, you offered him the towel and leaned back, crossing your arms. He blew his nose and cleared his throat before meeting your eyes.
“It was kind of stupid,” Spencer conceded, his voice barely above a whisper. He sighed, embarrassed to confess, but knowing that this conversation would happen eventually. “I, uh… asked him to hit me.”
“What?” you asked, your brow furrowing. “Why would you do that? It’s not, like, a form of self-harm or something, is it? Well, I guess it’s not really self-harm if he’s punching you in the face, but if it was your idea—Do I need to report you? I don’t know when the last time was that you had a psych eval, but this is pretty—”
“I don’t need a psych eval,” Spencer interjected. “I’m fine, I just…” He sighed again, bracing himself for the rejection that would surely follow his admission. “I wanted your help.”
“My help?” you parroted, confused.
“Yeah,” Spencer nodded. “I… I like when you help me. When I’m hurt, I mean. I know it sounds crazy to get injured on purpose just so you’ll pay attention to me or whatever, but… I don’t know.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, assessing him with a distressed look. He thought you were about to have him involuntarily committed somewhere, but then you spoke.
“You know there’s other ways to get my attention, right?” you asked.
“I… well, yes,” Spencer admitted, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t know how to talk to you, I guess. I just… well, I burned my hand and you were so attentive and sweet and I got this dumb idea in my head that you would only ever care about me if you were helping me and—”
“I care about you,” you stated, “but, wait. You burned your hand over a month ago. You’ve been faking it ever since?”
“Not exactly?” Spencer responded, scratching the back of his neck. “I really did hit my head.”
“The track?” you questioned.
“I might have tripped,” Spencer paused, “on purpose.”
“And… do you even own a treadmill?” you continued.
“...No,” Spencer confessed.
“And you asked Morgan to… break your nose,” you said, sounding purely baffled.
“No! That was an accident,” Spencer clarified. “I just… asked him to punch me in the face. I was hoping for a black eye, at most.”
You blinked.
“I don’t think that sounds much better,” you stated.
“It’s not, really,” Spencer sighed, his shoulders slumping. God, he felt so stupid. He had done all of this, for what? For you to look at him like he had two heads? Surprisingly, your expression softened, and you began to look a bit amused.
“And you did that… so I would help?” you asked.
“Yeah…” Spencer affirmed, feeling absolutely ridiculous now that he had admitted it.
“If you wanted my attention, all you had to do was ask,” you mused, starting to look more flattered than appalled.
“Yeah, I just… I’m not very good at that,” Spencer confessed quietly. “It’s kind of hard.”
“Talking is hard?” you giggled. “It’s easier than getting punched in the face!”
“In your opinion!” Spencer retorted defensively. “But you’re… you! You’re bubbly and extroverted and sweet and—”
“Do you need me to ask you out?” you offered, and Spencer blanched. Holy shit, were you actually offering?
“I mean… would you? If I needed it,” Spencer questioned, eyes wide with astonishment. You nodded like the answer was obvious, so he continued, “I… might need that.” Then, he started to question himself. Would you think he was less of a man if he didn’t make the first move? “Unless, I… no, I can ask. You probably want me to ask. You don’t have to ask. Um… how should I ask?”
You giggled again, but it sounded more like an “aw, how cute!” kind of laugh and less like a “Spencer’s a gigantic idiot and clearly making a fool of himself” kind of laugh. He much preferred the former.
“Coffee,” you stated simply. Confidently. He wondered how it was so easy for you. “You ask if I want to get coffee sometime.”
Spencer blinked, eyes darting to the coffee machine in the kitchenette. He wanted to point out that a coffee date would be silly, that the BAU had perfectly good coffee here, but then he thought about how fulfilling it would feel to buy you a fancy latte with oat milk and vanilla syrup or whatever it was that you preferred, and he nodded at you. He didn’t have to take things so literally. Coffee was good.
“O-okay,” he nodded again. “Do you want to get coffee sometime, maybe? W-with me, if that wasn’t obvious. Which isn’t to say that I didn’t think you would understand my implication, I just wanted to be clear and—sorry. I’m nervous.”
“That’s okay,” you assured him with a bright smile. “Yes, I would like to get coffee. With you.”
“Great,” Spencer said, sighing with relief. The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a moment, and then you spoke.
“So… I taped your foot for nothing?” you inquired. Spencer blushed harder.
“I’m sorry for lying,” he promised.
“Oh, big deal. It’s the fact that I was the brunt of a foot fetish joke that’s the problem here!” you replied with mock indignation.
“I’m sorry about that, too,” Spencer said. “But Prentiss knew I was faking it. I think the joke was more directed at me, anyway.”
As if summoned by the mere first letter of his name, Hotch appeared in the doorway, eyeing them with his usual unimpressed stare.
“Reid, if you’re done scheming for her affection, you have a report due before lunch.”
Spencer’s head whipped around to face his boss.
“Oh. Um, yes, sir,” he stammered, nodding like a bobblehead. As quickly as he had arrived, Hotch disappeared. Spencer turned back to you, swallowing thickly.
in which — playing as keeper for the slytherin quidditch team is never easy. yet, when someone places a hex on your broomstick mid-match—almost injuring you—your teammates take matters into their own hands..
contains — five protective boys (mattheo riddle, theodore nott, draco malfoy, blaise zabini, enzo berkshire), a vengeful friend (pansy parkinson), mentions of heights & falling, hexing, a physical altercation & bleeding, appearances from mcgonagall, hagrid, madam hooch, and cho chang
word count — 1.8k
A collective gasp rang through the stands, the audience full of shades of emerald green and navy blue watching in shock. Lee Jordan swore loudly into the enchanted megaphone he held as he commentated the match — the sight so jarring that not even McGonagall reprimanded him over his choice of words.
“What the-,” Mattheo Riddle, who was flying closest to you, hovered his broomstick beside yours.
You, however, couldn’t respond, as you were too busy trying not to fall thirty feet down from your broomstick. You bent downwards, holding onto the handle for dear life.
The Quidditch match had been going smoothly — Slytherin was in the lead against Ravenclaw by 20 points to 0, and the weather conditions were ideal for one of the last match’s of the season.
As Keeper, you maneuvered your broom in front of the three goalposts on your team’s side when suddenly, the broomstick had started moving out-of-control.
Your weight was held precariously on the broomstick which rattled beneath you — twisting and turning in every direction possible. The sight of your green robes swooshing this way and that caused the stands of heads to turn in every direction, trying to locate your resisting broomstick that held you, almost dangling.
Even the Ravenclaw team remained on their own broomsticks, transfixed at the sight — not even bothering with the fact that the goalposts were now deserted of protection against the Quaffle, which now floated around aimlessly.
Theodore Nott made his way over to your other side, before you abruptly turned in the other direction. “Careful, bella,” he said, narrowly avoiding being hit by the tail of twigs from the end of your broomstick.
“Make — it — STOP,” you rasped out, struggling to hold on — the broomstick moving even impossibly faster as it continued to rotate.
“Theo, go tell Flint to call time-out!” Mattheo yelled over the increasingly loud gasps coming from the crowd, as he tried to reach for the handle of your broom to hold it still.
Theo nodded, quickly tilting the hilt of his own broomstick towards the Slytherin captain.
Draco Malfoy, who was too preoccupied by your struggle rather than the golden snitch he was supposed to catch, made his way over.
“Are you alright?” he asked, concern — and mild entertainment — laced in his words.
“Oh — yeah — FANTASTIC!” you roared sarcastically, as your broomstick began to rise upwards and descend a few feet rapidly.
The sound of Madam Hooch’s whistle rang throughout the pitch, as Theo made his way back over to the small huddle of team players that had formed around you. Behind him was Blaise Zabini — Adrian Pucey and Marcus Flint behind him a distance away, watching in astonishment.
“How do we make it stop?” Theo asked, as Mattheo was almost knocked off his own broom — the handle of yours colliding with the front of his, sending him spinning.
“Guys!” a voice called from the stands. As you spun, you caught the brief sight of your two other friends who weren’t on the Quidditch team — Pansy Parkinson and Enzo Berkshire.
“Get her off it!” Pansy shrieked out, covering her eyes with the palms of her hands as she thought you were about to plummet to the grounds.
Mattheo and Theo exchanged a silent look with one another, before tilting their brooms downwards. They hovered below where you flew — waiting to catch you if you fell.
“Try a spell or something!” Enzo said, as he began to pull out his own wand, Draco and Blaise following suit.
“Immobulus!” Draco called out. The green sparks that illuminated from the tip of his wand twinkled around the wooden broomstick; he had missed you, as you were moving too fast.
“It’s not working,” he said, growing concerned the more pale your face became with each passing minute of vertigo.
“What is that?” Pansy pointed towards a cloaked figure that stood at the bottom of the pitch, beneath the stands. The figure was staring fixedly at your broomstick, their mouth forming around unheard words.
“Ugh, I’ll be back. Don’t let her fall!” Pansy ordered, before hurriedly making her way through the stands of immobile Slytherins, who stood transfixed at the sight.
Half of your weight was dangling off the broomstick, as you struggled to maintain your balance on the spinning death trap.
The whole stadium was simultaneously drowned in deafening silence and roars of raucous. Many people gasped, others letting out a sob. Hagrid had even covered his eyes from where he stood near the Ravenclaw students.
Your stomach dropped, as you felt yourself free fall. You shut your eyes tightly, bracing for the impact of the hard grounds.
Then, a collective cheer echoed throughout the stands — louder even than when the Quidditch Cup was awarded. You blinked your eyes open, realizing that you hadn’t landed on the muddy ground, yet rather, in someone’s arms.
“I’ve got you,” Mattheo said, as he pulled you onto his own broomstick — Theo holding onto the handle from beside you to ensure that it could support both of your weights.
A sick crunching sound was heard. You looked down, seeing your broomstick, or, what remained of it, as it toppled to the ground.
You stared with your mouth agape, still shaking as you reached to hold onto Mattheo. “You could say I caught you, huh?” he said jokingly, sending a sly wink over his shoulder at you, before heading towards the grounds.
A gleam of gold shining near where your broomstick had landed caught your eye, causing you to gasp.
“Malfoy, the snitch!” you yelled over Mattheo’s shoulder.
You had caught his attention, as well as the attention of Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw Seeker, and the rest of the stands. Malfoy lurched forward, Chang barrelling towards the snitch from the opposite side of the pitch.
Both teams held their breaths, watching as the two dived towards the remnants of your broomstick. Malfoy fell towards the muddy terrain, rolling for a few meters.
You gasped. You saw a green gloved-hand reach into the air, brandishing a fluttering snitch that fought against his closed fist.
“Malfoy’s caught the snitch. Slytherin wins!” Lee Jordan roared, his own prejudice against the Slytherin team dispersed from the horrors of the match.
The stadium erupted in applause and cheers, as the rest of the team hurdled towards Malfoy on the grounds — your arms still clenched tightly around Mattheo’s mid-section.
“That was brilliant!” Blaise roared, as Theo clapped a hand on Malfoy’s back, earning a wince from him. Enzo made his way over from the stands, followed by the rest of the Slytherin spectators.
“That was-,” he began, before a horrid scream came from behind the stands.
“YOU!” a female voice roared.
Pansy Parkinson came striding onto the field, pulling a sobbing Ravenclaw by the sleeve of her robe behind her.
“This one,” she began, as the girl reluctantly tried to break away from Pansy’s grasp. “Was hexing your broom.”
The girl sobbed, covering her streaming eyes with the sleeves of her robes. “I was t-told t-to. Another boy said h-he would h-hex me if I d-didn’t,” she sobbed.
“Who?” Theo asked angrily, a shared look of fury mirrored on Mattheo’s, Blaise’s, and Draco’s faces from where they’d made their way over to the forming group.
Wordlessly, the sobbing girl pointed to a boy on the Ravenclaw team. Countless heads turned in his direction. You recognized the boy as being in the same year as you — you had even spoken to him on your first train ride to Hogwarts, the two of you anxious about which House you’d be sorted into.
He was already staring at the lot of you, feigning innocent concern. Before you could stop him, Mattheo had stride towards him, pushing him sharply across the shoulders — the boy toppling backwards to the grass of the pitch.
“Don’t-,” you tried to grab Theo’s arm, but he pulled away, following after Mattheo, wand clenched in his hand.
The boy unsteadily tried to push himself back up from the grass, brandishing his wand from the pocket of his Quidditch robes. He was quickly shot back down by Theo’s loud shout of “Expelliarmus!” as he caught the boy’s wand, dropping it to the ground and stomping on it with the heel of his shoe.
A Ravenclaw first-year from the growing crowd on the pitch gasped, covering his eyes with his much too large robes. Many of the Slytherins cheered, encouragements of “Yeah, hex his arse!” spewing about.
Mattheo leaned towards the boy as he laid on the grass, pulling him forwards by the hem of his Quidditch uniform, punching him across the nose harshly.
“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” roared an authoritative voice, hurtling towards the crowd that had grown around the three fighting boys. Professor McGonagall had made her way over, Madam Hooch at her side.
“Depulso!” McGonagall roared. The three boys separated from one another — Theo and Mattheo on one side of the group, the Ravenclaw boy, who clutched his bleeding nose, on the other.
“He’s a filthy cheater,” Pansy chimed in.
“That’s enough, Parkinson!” McGonagall said, fury laced in her voice, her top-hat almost falling over her eyes as she shook on the spot with outrage.
“You,” she spoke, pulling the Ravenclaw boy up by his arm, “Go to Madam Pomfrey’s — and 50 points will be taken from Ravenclaw.” The boy quickly hurried away, his head downcast, a trail of blood following him as he left to the sound of whispers.
“And you two,” she spoke, addressing Mattheo and Theo. “25 points each will be taken from Slytherin.”
“Worth it,” Theo whispered, loud enough that only the seven of you could hear. Mattheo silently fist-bumped him.
“And detention,” she continued. She shook her head exasperatedly, before turning her way back towards the empty grounds, mumbles of “honestly,” and “completely unacceptable,” falling from her lips. Madam Hooch followed shortly after her.
“You all right, bella?” Theo asked you, placing an arm around your shoulders.
“I’m fine,” you assured. “My broom isn’t, though,” you pointed towards the remnants of the wooden broom that lay a few feet away.
“You know, that Ravenclaw boy had a pretty nice one..” Mattheo smirked, a glint in his eyes.
“You can’t steal his broom,” Enzo warned.
“Without us,” Draco finished, him, Blaise, and Pansy joining the rest of you.
“That’s not what I meant-,” he started.
“Come on, with any luck, we can hex him before he even makes it to Madam Pomfrey’s,” Pansy said excitedly, breaking into a run across the field towards the castle.
The five of you stared after her.
“Come on!” she looked over her shoulder and signalled for you guys to follow, breaking into a sprint.
Draco smirked, before running after her, his own broomstick clutched in his hand. Mattheo followed with a laugh, Theo reaching for your hand before the two of you sprinted after. Blaise shrugged, before running.
Draco has been your date to...well everything, since you could walk. It is purely platonic. You are friends. Best friends. Right...?
CW! Pining, clumsy reader, Draco is emotionally constipated, alcohol. Let me know if there's anything else!
reader and Draco are childhood besties. Reader is in Slytherin. Ending is a little rushed, lazy proof read.
Main masterlist
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
“You are my date, right?”
Your chin slips from the cradle of your palm–elbow hitting the wood, a hiss of pain escaping your lips. Blissful reverie broken by his voice. There’s ink smeared all over your parchment, maybe your hands. So much for taking notes. Well, can you be blamed, Professor Binns is about as interesting as a mule’s bottom.
“Well?”
Your attention snaps up to Draco. The sun illuminates him into a very pretty, very impatient angel. You blink at his shiny hair, before humming a small, “What?”
He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, “To the Notts’ Annual Gala. You are going to accompany me, yes?”
His tone makes it sound obvious. Maybe it is. You’ve been his date to everything since…you could walk, pretty much. It’s like an open secret, the two of you slotted into place. A universal fact. For convenience, obviously. You don’t want the trouble of finding an appropriate date to a posh gala, and he doesn’t want to give girls false hope. You’re just friends. Best friends.
Yeah. Platonic dates. That’s it.
“You don’t have to ask,” You reply, gathering your stuff. He scoffs, running a hand through his hair.
“My mother’s taught me better than that, darling. You should know.”
You raise your brows in a challenge. He gives you a look, before huffing. Then he moves, hunching in around you, one hand braced on the desk, the other rubbing at your cheek. His thumb ghosts over your skin, gentle. You feel sudden heat rise to your face.
“What are you doing?” You shove him away lightly. You glance around, anywhere but him. There’s only a few students still here, scrambling to get their things and leave. No one is paying you any attention.
“You’ve got ink all over your face. Doesn’t look very elegant.”
You let your jaw hang open in feigned offence. You shift to cross your arms over your chest, but it sends your–luckily closed–inkpot flying. You wince. Draco snickers.
“Well, if you want a date for the gala, you better wipe that smirk off, Malfoy.”
“Is that a threat, L/N?”
“I’m sure I could get someone to go with me.”
His brows raise this time. But something dims in those storm-bright eyes of his. A dark haze of some emotion. You try not to think about it.
“I’ll apologize,” He concedes, “You are a very graceful girl, Y/N. Even if you have ink on your face.”
You hum, unconvinced. He rolls his eyes, then sighs dramatically.
“I am truly sorry, dear. Don’t you leave me for some prick.”
Your heart flutters in your chest. His words linger dangerously close to jealousy. But maybe it’s just your traitorous little heart, and you’re reading far too much into this.
“And you’re not a prick?”
“No, darling.”
You shake your head in disbelief. He doesn’t respond, simply grabbing your books from your hands. The hefty volume doesn’t look nearly as big as it does in your hands. You don’t know whether to flush or be envious. He hauls up your things and holds out his free hand.
“Coming?”
You clear your throat, tearing your eyes away from those pretty hands, “Yeah.”
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The topic comes back up a week later.
One of the warm evenings where the entire group—from Pansy to Enzo—have gathered in the common room. The fireplace casts long shadows over the room, lacing with the soft blue glow of the Black lake. You love these evenings, leant against Pansy, talking about everything and nothing.
“I swear it’s true!” You articulate wildly, Pansy belly laughing behind you, “Go ask Cormac, he’s still covered in the goop.”
“I’m not doubting you, L/N,” Blaise replies, hands raised in surrender, “I’ve seen you cast slugs into your own belly.”
“Hey!” You shout, indignant, “I was in second year, you bastard!”
You glance around at your friends, hoping someone will jump to your defense, but they’re all far too busy laughing. The traitors. You sigh in defeat, shifting back against Pansy, knocking your elbow into the poor girl’s gut in the process. Three of the traitors—not Draco, because he’s much too busy shaking his head in exasperation—double up on the laughter.
“Sorry,” you wince, rubbing at her stomach, hoping you look apologetic.
Pansy grumbles, “Next time you maim me, I will spill pumpkin juice on the dress you got for the gala.”
Your mouth hangs open, aghast. But you don’t have time to respond because Theo is speaking already—miraculously recovered from his fit.
“You’re coming? Mrs. L/N didn’t mention you in the RSVP.”
“Oh, I’m going as someone’s date.”
Pansy throws you off, forgetting all about your elbow and—thank Merlin—your dress, “A date? Whose date?”
You roll your eyes. They ought to know by now. Like you’ve ever gone with anyone else. You sigh, flop down back down.
“Dray’s.”
You want to tack on a ‘duh’, but you forgo sounding like a five year old. While Pansy hums, the boys sit up straighter. As though they know something you don’t. It makes your brows knit together. You cast a quick glance at Draco, but his eyes are fixed on the fireplace.
Nothing abnormal. He always looks like he’s contemplating his existence.
Right?
“You didn’t tell us.” Enzo has the biggest grin on his face. You are worried it will rip his cheeks in half.
“What’s there to tell?” Draco says, voice low. You nod vigorously in agreement. The boys are not convinced. Pansy looks like something’s dawned on her.
“She’s never been listed as your plus one, before, Dray.” Blaise replies, “Made her the missus, have you?”
The oddest squeak leaves your lips. You jolt up, somehow managing to knock Pansy off the couch entirely. She screams about tossing your dress in the Black lake, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Your ears feel hot. Is everyone else feeling hot? Merlin, they should extinguish the fire.
The group rounds on you, but thankfully, Draco comes to the rescue.
“She’s been my date since I was two, what’s new about it?” He sounds tense.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Blaise says, awfully pleased, “You know, I’ve known Pansy since I was two, she doesn’t call me ‘Blay’, now does she?”
“That’s because it sounds ridiculous,” You retort, but your voice wobbles, “All of you are absolute–”
“What is so abnormal about familial alliances?” Draco interrupts, “All of us have them. All of us have been forced to go to a gala with a specific date before, haven’t we? Let’s act mature about it.”
Forced. By his parents.
The flush in your throat is replaced by…unwelcome sadness. It thickens till it’s like a tight lump you can barely swallow around. It aches, and you hate that your eyes are welling up. You know it’s true, you always have. You are friends, best-friends. Obviously. It’s platonic, you shouldn’t be disappointed.
So, why is it that you can’t breathe?
You see the alarm appear on your other friends’ faces, the lightness giving way to something unhappy. You’ve never been good at hiding tears. You need to get out of here before Draco sees.
“It’s getting late,” You say, forcing a smile, but it’s too twisted, “I’ve got assignments, and I’m really tired, I’ll head up, yeah.”
“Y/N–” Pansy reaches for your hand, you shake it off.
“Good night, see you tomorrow, bye.”
You hear the protests of your friend group, hear the screech of armchairs being pushed. You rush to your dorm, and manage to make it up.
Not without tripping on the last step.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The gala draws around like everything inevitable.
You would have looked forward to it. The Notts’ house is grandiose and you love the gardens with a ferocity. The red, pink and white roses, marble fountains. You like the food they serve too, familiar enough to feel it on your tongue just at a thought. But it only makes your skin crawl.
Forced.
You shudder in the silk of your dress. Merlin, the dress. You had fallen in love with it on sight, delicate cream fabric that rustles like leaves in the autumn breeze. Or the ripples of a lake. It hugs all the right places, accentuates all the others. You love it. You wanted to wear something your mother bought, for once.
But now, it just feels like dead weight.
Draco joins you by the door, apologising for being late. You nod and smile and try not to trip as you enter. You don’t take his elbow when he offers.
His brows furrow, but he does not comment, “You look beautiful, darling.”
“Thanks.” You’re bad at pretending. Really bad.
“What? Do I look odd?”
“What! No!”
“I didn’t get the complement I was expecting.”
He looks perfect. The sleek black suit is perfectly tailored and the color of his shirt matches your dress. His hair is set, but not too much. You still want to muss it up, and you would have. But his easy smile only makes you hurt.
Forced.
“You’re good.” You manage. His frown returns.
You’re inside soon, and it’s easy to be whisked away from him. You meet your parents, accept the passing flutes of champagne and wine, most of all, keep your distance. You search for Pansy in the fray, but don’t find her. So you find other past times. When the musicians string up a quartet, you dance with Theo instead of your own date.
Then you dance with Enzo. Then with Blaise.
By then you’ve had three glasses of champagne, so you are open when he starts talking.
“Try not to step on the feet, love,” He says, smiling as he leads you onto the floor.
“No promises,” you reply, placing your hands on his shoulders.
“So…you haven’t danced with Draco yet.” Blaise says it more of a statement than a question, but you answer anyway.
“No.”
“Why not?”
You shrug. You don’t have an answer to that question. You shouldn’t be mad at Draco, you have no reason to be. This was for convenience, right? Always had been. You should just suck it up. Not like he could ever have feelings for you.
Blaise sighs, then regrets it because you step on his foot. You murmur a half hearted apology.
He shakes his head dismissively, “He’s emotionally challenged, I know.”
“Constipated,” You agree.
“But he didn’t mean what he said. He’s not the brightest–”
“He’s plenty bright.”
“Yeah, to you, because you’re bloody in love with him.”
“I’m not–” You duck your head, heat rising to your cheeks at the same pace as sadness swells in your chest.
“Don’t you lie to me,” Blaise warns, no real heat to it, “It’s obvious to everyone but the two of you.”
You sigh this time, thoroughly defeated. Your steps slow, and it’s only Blaise’s movements that keeps you gliding across the floor.
“I want it to stay that way,” You say, “He’ll never like me back.”
“Merlin’s sake.” Blaise rolls his eyes, fond but frustrated, “Look, I don’t think I can tell you something that Draco should, but you need to talk to him.”
“I do talk to him.”
Blaise raises a brow in challenge, “You’ve been avoiding him since that evening.”
“Well I–”
“He was a git, a sad sorry git. But you should give him a chance. He’s moping even now, look.”
You turn to follow Blaise’s gaze. Draco is standing in the far corner, wine clutched tight, jaw ground tighter. He does look mopey.
“Go talk to him.”
Blaise releases you, giving you a tiny nudge. You wonder if you should protest, but Draco looks too pitiful to be left alone. You are too attached to do it. So you offer Blaise a small smile, whispering a small ‘thanks’ in parting.
You don’t get very far.
A waiter’s tray crashes into you, spilling wine all over the cream dress. You yelp in surprise, jumping back from him, apologies cascading in a colourful string from your lips. Your hands wring the fabric hopelessly. Wine stains are wretched, even the most powerful cleaning spells can’t get rid of them fully. You want to cry. You are going to cry—
A coat is placed over your shoulders, the too familiar scent of citrus and smoke engulfs you.
Draco.
“Watch where you’re going,” He snaps to the waiter, though you’re certain it was your fault. He catches your shoulders, gently guiding you to an exit.
You barely make it out to the gardens before the ugly sobbing starts. Draco’s hands cradle your face, eyes wide.
“Darling, no, we can fix it, I’m sure–”
“Am I just a convenience for you?”
Salt and snot stream down your face, and you hate it. You must look horrible. You want to hide, run away. You want to turn back time to when everything was simple. Instead you just watch his expression morph, concern mixing with confusion.
“What?”
“Were you forced to be my friend?”
“Merlin, Y/N, no! Of course not.”
“Then you were forced into the dates and the–everything else. You didn’t want it. You didn’t want me.”
His brows furrow, his hands shifting from your face to your shoulders, as though clutching you tight enough could knock sense back into you. ‘
“No. What makes you think that?”
“You said it.”
For a moment he continues to stare at you in confusion. Then he pulls away entirely. You fear you’ve done it. You’ve scared him away, made him realize it was always a farce. It’s done, you’ve lost not only the one boy you’ve ever loved, but also your best friend. Way to go.
“I–I’ll go–” But he holds up a hand.
He stares at you dumbfounded for a second longer, “I wouldn’t–It wasn’t just. Merlin, I couldn’t be forced to spend every weekend with someone, Y/N.”
“I’m sorry,” He says after a moment, and it’s your turn to be confused, “I’m sorry I ever made you feel that way.”
“What?”
“You are so–” His fists clench then unclench like he just doesn’t know how to convey what he feels, “–You are everything to me, Y/N. Everything I ever choose has led to you, and I make bad decisions when people put me under pressure, I say stupid things.”
“You’re not stupid.”
“Not the point, dear. The point is, I want you in every sense of the word.”
Your eyes widen. You don’t think you’re understanding this, so you shrink into yourself, laughing nervously. You must look mad, laughing through the tears.
Draco curses—very unlike him—then strides forward, seizing your face with both hands, pulling you in until your lips meet his.
He tastes like wine and feels like everything right. You want to dissolve into the ground beneath your feet, meld your body into his. You tangle your hands into the hair at the nape of his neck. His hands shift to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You only break apart when neither of you can breathe.
“I would pick you as my date every single time,” He says, placing his forehead against yours. You laugh, genuine this time.
“I’d say I would do the same, but I think you ought to suffer.”
He groans, dramatic as always, “Must I? You’ve been dancing with other people all night.”
You sigh, pretending to be very conflicted on the matter, “Fine, I guess I could spare one dance.”
He grins, swooping back in for a kiss, “Lets get to it then.”
You guess you’ll always be Draco Malfoy’s dates to these events. You just wonder if it was ever platonic.
summary: late night research in motel rooms called for falling asleep in uncomfortable places, sam always had you covered though
content: fem!reader, fluff, platonic with hints at feelings, reader and sam doing research for a case, cold motel rooms
word count: 1.5k
Motel rooms always seemed cold. But none had been as cold as this one.
All you wanted, after getting back from investigating a few locations with no results, was a nice, warm motel room. Not whatever this was.
The cool autumn air from outside seemed to follow you inside, the chill surrounding you, causing your lips to stay pale with that rosey look in your cheeks. You had your arms crossed over yourself, trying to feel at least an ounce of warmth.
“God it’s cold in here,” Sam’s voice was low, teeth chattering from the cold.
He closed the door as quickly as he could, throwing his bag down onto one of the beds. Your brow furrowed after a certain other brother didn’t follow Sam inside.
“He’s getting food,” Sam shoved his hands in the pockets of his warm, Carhartt jacket.
Not that you cared much at this moment, instead walking over to the heater that sat under the window. You crouched down, fiddling with the thermometer. It didn’t seem to be doing anything.
“Can this— why won’t it turn on— stupid fucking thing,” you mumbled, mostly to yourself.
You hadn’t heard Sam walking over, so the next thing you felt was his hands on your upper arms, pulling you to stand up. He swapped places with you, trying to figure out how this old heater worked. Everything he did seemed to have no result, leaving you tapping your foot frustratedly on the floor.
“I think it’s broken,” he huffed.
As he stood up, he saw the look on your face. Tired, cold, maybe on the verge of getting upset. It had been a long day of finding absolutely nothing, so he wasn’t surprised.
“Here, why don’t you just sit down,” Sam ushered you to the table, hand on the small of your back. “I’ll get my laptop running, should at least give off a little warmth for your hands.”
You didn’t protest, didn’t talk, just… sat down. On one of the uncomfortable chairs with hardly any cushioning. Sam pulled his laptop from his bag, placing it on the table in front of you, plugging in the charging cable right after. As he switched on the outlet, the laptop began whirring to life.
He stood close to you, leaning almost right next to your face as he opened his laptop and typed in his password. Clicking around for a minute or so, he pulled up a few research tabs he’d looked at previously.
“There,” he glanced to you, realising now how close he was. He stood up straight, clearing his throat. “Uh— that’s just— some of the theories I had… if you wanted to check them over.”
Sam walked back over to his bed after, leaving you at the table with his laptop. It didn’t take long, the keyboard becoming slightly warm. You placed your hands on top, sighing at the slight temperature change.
It’s a few minutes before you start scrolling over the website of lore Sam had pulled up, the time down in the bottom right corner of his screen catching your eye.
“We’ve almost been up for 24 hours,” you laughed.
Sam checked the motel clock, “oh, I didn’t realise,” he pulled his shoes off, throwing them down by the bed. “Should probably get some sleep, you’ve done a lot of work today.”
You turned in his direction, “so have you, it wasn’t just me.”
“I’m gonna check this book,” he pulled it out of his bag. “I’ll sleep once Dean gets back.”
He moved back, settling against the headboard as he opened the lore book in front of him. Both of you doing your own set of research. Sure it was late, but when research needed to be done, it had to be done.
It was quiet while you and Sam did your separate reading, you weren’t entirely sure how long you were on the same page for, or how long it would be before you’d warm up enough to get the feeling in your feet back.
It only took a couple of sentences more before your eyes struggled to stay open. Every word, every blink tempting your body to just let the tiredness take over.
But Sam was up, he was staying awake for the purpose of research, so you should too.
Easier said than done.
You slouched in your seat, leaning closer to the table as you tried your best to take this information in. Inevitably, you couldn’t stop the exhaustion from further flooding your body, allowing sleep to force your eyes to close.
Making no noise, your head fell against your arm, just resting there. Your hair covering your face as it fell from behind your ear at the angle. As uncomfortable as it was, you sighed softly, the feeling of sleep exactly what you needed after such a tiring day.
“I might’ve found something,” Sam said, oblivious from his bed. “It’s kinda strange but— oh.”
He noticed, placed his book aside, quietly moving off of the bed to check on you. Sam brushed your hair back, seeing you were well and truly asleep. That same expression of deep slumber you always had when you were way too tired.
“You’re gonna get back ache like this,” he whispered, softly running his hand down your hoodie covered back.
You lightly stirred at the feeling, letting out a sleepy hum before drifting straight back into the deep place you were just a moment ago.
Sam considered his options, figuring out if he could lift you over to the other bed without waking you up too much. Maybe he could at least get you into more comfortable clothes that way. Not the easiest with you sitting like this.
Instead of moving you, he crouched down, unlaced your boots to gently pull them from your feet. He found your fluffy socks in your bag, getting them on as replacement of the warmth from your shoes.
He’d have to leave you in your jeans with your shirt and hoodie, but he could see you were still cold, could see your pale hands, the soft redness to your cheeks.
Sam knew you had an extra jacket. You’d worn it in the car on the way over here. In the car. The impala. You must’ve left it in there and Dean went off to get food. He takes a breath. It doesn’t take long for him to make another decision.
He talks quietly, “gonna get you nice and warm, okay, sweet girl?” He uses a pet name he’d never call you by if you were awake.
He unzips his brown, Carhartt jacket. Slipping it off of his arms. He holds onto it, cautiously draping it over your back to try and give you some form of cover. Like a blanket.
A smile subconsciously grew on your face at the feeling, even if you were asleep. You could feel it, feel your body a warming up, the cold air dissipating by the second.
Sam was happy with his work, already beginning to feel the chill now that you have his jacket. But he’d always rather be freezing cold if that meant you’d be toasty and warm at this time of year.
You were always more important to him.
He sighed for a moment, thinking of other better ways he could’ve kept you warm. Some that aren’t things that usual friends would do in times like this. He stops thinking about it.
Tired legs carry him back over to his bed, instead, going under the covers now, trying to keep as warm as possible. He pushed his book aside, switching the lamp off beside the bed. He was too tired to wait for Dean to get back, deciding on following behind you with sleep.
The next morning, you only woke up at the sound of the shower running. A result of you sitting so close to the bathroom door.
You groaned quietly, going to move, when you realised… there was a jacket over you. It was warm, soft, comforting. Best of all, it smelled just like Sam. You sighed happily, pulling it tighter around yourself as you sat up.
Glancing around the room, you assumed Dean was in the shower as Sam was still in bed. It was early, way too early after almost being awake for an entire day.
You would’ve gotten into your bed, if Dean hadn’t obviously decided to claim it after seeing you weren’t sleeping in it. Your eyes rolled, but drifted to Sam.
You stood without thinking twice, wincing at the pain radiating down your back from sleeping over a table, walking across the room to the empty side of Sam’s bed.
Not wanting to wake him, you climbed onto the bed, on top of the covers. Continuing to use his own jacket as your blanket. That was more comforting than any regular blanket.
Sam was sound asleep, peaceful look on his face. You reached out just for a moment, tracing your thumb across the soft features of his cheek.
“Thanks for the jacket, Sammy,” you whispered. “You’re the best.”
You got comfortable after that, propping the hood of his jacket over your head to keep you even warmer. To feel more of that comfort, especially now you were next to him in bed.
But, this jacket didn’t just feel warm, it was more than that, because it was his. He always made you feel warm, both on the inside and out.
taglist: @rafeskitty @icpsammy @milkyhrtss | if you would like to join my sam winchester taglist, please comment here or see this post
it was richie and bev who went to eddie. beverly put an arm around the thin boy’s waist while richie dug his aspirator out of his pocket. bite on this, eddie, he said, and eddie took a hitching, gasping breath as richie pulled the trigger.
So we gonna talk about the fact that Tyler must have spent DAYS at the hospital with them dead flowers waiting for her to wake up so he could wave at her? I love his dramatic ass
To then find out that he tries to kill her on the Day of the Dead, which is Wednesday's favorite day, and then she mentions
Once this man has taken a shower, starts up his curly hair routine, gotten some sun, had three square meals a day, has slept for 48 hours, has access to clothes he *hasn’t* found on the side of the road….
It’s over for you hoes, he’s getting his girl back.
honestly it’s actually the small, mundane, boring things that someone does for you out of love which mean so much rather than grand gestures and proclamations
blakekathryn
areudirty
andulkaphoto
turnnoffyourmind
baratheonpilled
amandla
gummygunk
