we used to get christmas episodes of television. halloween episodes. valentines. we used to get television that felt like part of your life. like it was happening alongside your life. now we mostly get 8 episodes dropping all at once every two years and they don't have time for any of that. i miss characters living alongside us
Summary: After a hunt leaves Dean with only one functional leg, the boys crash at the Singer house for two weeks until he’s back on his feet. Which means dealing with a needy Dean—and a sweet Sam, who can’t seem to stop staring at you like you’ve hung the moon.
CW: None? I think? Just so. Much. Pining. Childhood friends to lovers, literally all fluff and yearning, sweet confessions, grumpy Dean, light drinking, some awkward Sam, slow burn!
WC: 9.3K
Based on this request!
Fourteen days.
Fourteen days that Dean Winchester has to be off his feet. Fourteen days that he can’t walk, can’t run, and can’t drive Baby around like a maniac. Fourteen days that he can’t hunt.
Hell, that’s fourteen whole days that he’ll need crutches to even go piss without assistance.
Sam had called you early in the evening, his voice tight, but clearly trying to sound casual, the familiar rumble of the impala cutting through every pause. You could hear the hesitation between every word. The way his voice dipped low, undoubtedly apologetic, almost mumbled like a kid waiting to be scolded. The way he repeated his ‘sorry’s far too many times to count, and how the line went uncharacteristically silent for a moment after you’d picked up on the third ring.
He explained Dean’s little problem—nothing dramatic, he’d insisted, just a bad fall after tripping over a footstone—but enough to make getting around just about impossible, and to put hunting on hiatus until further notice. It really didn’t come as a surprise when he’d ended his ramble session with a question, one spoken through a sigh: can we crash with you?
For fourteen days.
Of course, you’d said yes without wasting a breath. You’ve never quite had a back bone when it came to the Winchester brothers, and, hey, the company could be nice. Maybe. As long as you can survive the bickering.
It’s nearing eleven when the impala’s tires crunch over the long, twisty gravel driveway of the Singer’s house. You hear it before you see it, purring low like a cat (or, as Dean would say, a lion), sleek black frame blending into the twilight.
You’d just finished tucking the corners of the stubborn new sheets on your fathers bed when the sound finds your ears, and you slip from the room just in time to hear the engine go idle, one hand swinging the door open before either man can even slide out of the car.
Sam rounds the impala first, slamming the door to the driver’s side shut with a bang, helping a grumbling Dean out the other side. He looks, put lightly, absolutely miserable. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen the older Winchester look so defeated, which is really saying something—not to mention the silly looking cast on his right foot, and the too-short crutches that he practically throws off the impalas bench.
“Took ya’s long enough,” you call, leaning against the doorframe, the humid night air already clinging uncomfortably to your skin, cicadas buzzing in the tall sea of grass. You hear Sam huff a laugh, and Dean shoots you a look, just as he slaps Sam’s outstretched hand out of the way.
Miraculously, he manages to hobble towards the deck without tripping, but once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he accepts defeat long enough to sling an arm over Sam’s broad shoulders.
“That’s ‘cause Sam drives like a freakin’ grandma in a school zone,” he complains, and Sam sends you a tired look, one that both says ‘please help’ and ‘I’m so sorry’ at the same time. You can’t help but snicker.
Once all three Winchester boots hit the worn wood of the porch, Dean practically shoves Sam off of him like a petulant child. You have to fight off a snort. “How’re you, uh. How’re you feeling, Dean-o?”
“Peachy,” the man gripes, limping past you when you step back from the doorframe, appearing about two inches shorter from just how hunched over those damn crutches he is. He manages to make his way to a chair, some old leather thing that’s peeling on the arms, and he plops himself onto it gracelessly. An irritated huff of air escapes his chest as he props his foot up on the coffee table.
“Just… peachy.” He glares at the offending appendage like it’s personally insulted him, and you grimace, before redirecting your attention back to the door, where Sam’s hauling two duffels up the stairs that probably weigh about as much as a small child.
Sam, the sweetheart, lingers there for a moment like he’s afraid of tracking mud on the floor. He gives you that lopsided smile of his, soft, tired, and just a touch apologetic, before stepping inside. He scuffs his boots on the mat, setting the bags by the door, his arm brushing your shoulder as he moves past you.
He stands… closer than he usually does. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him, and you can practically taste his scent. Not in an overwhelming, cool-it-with-the-axe way, but in a holy-shit-you-smell-like-heaven way.
You’re not sure which is worse.
He bows his head towards you, hair falling over his eyes. It’s longer again, parted in the middle, tousled from travel or sleepless nights or Dean clunking him on the head for ‘hovering’. His flannel is unbuttoned too far at the top, probably because of the blistering heat that’s been plaguing the country for the past week, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms dusted with faint freckles and old scars.
“Hey,” he says, gentle, simple. Quiet just for you to hear, like anything louder would cause you to shatter. “I’m sorry about… uh,” he gestures towards Dean, “…yeah. Sorry.”
You snort, shrugging, and you look towards Dean again: a stupid little pout on his face that reminds you of when you were kids.
“Don’t be sorry. Things are quiet around here. I could use the entertainment,” you tease, turning back to Sam. He’s still looking at you. His expression is a little hard to decipher; warm, tired, and so agonizingly soft that your stomach just about flips.
“You’ll be sick of it by tomorrow. Trust me,” he tells you, face cracking into a grin. It’s one of those rare, unrestrained ones that crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and makes his dimples pop adorably.
“Probably. Can’t throw him out now, though. I did up Dad’s room for him, since he’s away on a hunt. Said he won’t be back for a few weeks.” You nod your head towards the hall, before glancing up at him with an expression that’s nothing short of mischievous. “…He even has shower rails in the bathroom. Planning to tell Dean I installed them just for him.”
Sam tries to hide his snicker by coughing into his hand, a soft sound that’s more adorable than it has any right to be. He nudges you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans in, just a little closer than probably necessary.
Interesting.
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll have plenty of colourful ways to say thanks,” he murmurs, amusement thick in his tone. He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his lips quirking again when he catches your smile. He stares, then must realize it, because you swear his cheeks turn a shade of pink. He swallows a little awkwardly, almost like he’s gone all nervous—his palms sliding against the denim of his jeans.
Dean’s groan cuts through the moment like a freshly sharpened blade.
“Alright, what’re you two whispering about?” he demands, squinting suspiciously between the two of you. Sam straightens up, still smiling, but he clears his throat, holding his hands up in mock surrender. You flick your attention to him, raising a brow.
“You’re bunking in my dad’s room. Bathrooms attached, close to the kitchen, Sam and I only a yell away. Sound good?”
Dean’s expression flickers, green eyes narrowing with a funny mixture of irritation and resignation, before he slumps back with an exaggerated sigh.
“Yeah, yeah. Sounds fantastic,” he mutters, before gesturing vaguely at his plaster-covered foot. “Just gotta figure out how to get there.” He shoots Sam a pointed look.
Sam, who was still hovering close enough for his elbow to brush your arm, rolls his eyes, exhaling through his nose. How he’s so patient, you have no damn clue.
“C’mon,” he deadpans, crossing the short distance to his brother, and hauling him up with a grunt. He grabs the crutches, which Dean had tossed to the side like they aren’t a hundred goddamn dollars, pushing them against his chest. “Let’s get you to bed before you get us kicked to the streets for being a smartass.”
You watch them bicker for a moment, face twisted in a look of pure amusement, as Sam begins to guide him down the hall.
You busy yourself by poking through the linen closet, yanking out a blanket that doesn’t smell like dust and death, tossing it onto the long, worn couch. You even slip up to your room just long enough to grab a pillow, one that’s not lumpy on one side, chucking it onto the makeshift bed.
In the back of your mind… you hope it smells like you.
You make your way to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, just as Sam’s finished wrestling Dean into the bed. He joins you with a sigh that sounds a lot like a father who’s just talked down his toddler from a tantrum. His palms together, a soothing gesture, and he leans against the counter with a tight-lipped smile that says ‘see what I have to deal with?’
The look you shoot him then is a little sympathetic, but mostly delighted.
“Sounds like you’ve had a fun week,” you tease, lifting the glass to your lips for a quick sip. “Can’t say I blame you for wanting to enlist some help.”
Sam exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh, born out of sheer exhaustion, and he scrubs a hand over his face.
“Fun,” he echoes, voice low, tired, and fond all at once. His eyes flick towards the closed door, Dean’s quarters for the next two weeks, before settling back on you. The way he softens is visible. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, buttons of his shirt straining (not that you’re looking, or anything), and his shoulders slump, like he’s finally letting himself relax. Really relax. The kitchen light catches the earthy green flecks in his eyes when he tilts his head at you, gaze gentle in a way that almost makes you squirm.
It’s warm. Steady. He looks at you like he’s tracing the shape of your face, and burning it into his memory. Not in a greedy, or outwardly obnoxious way; but in a way that makes your stomach swirl, and your throat feel strangely dry, and has you taking another sip from your glass. Silence stretches, and when he breaks it, it almost looks like he has to force himself out of his own head.
“…I owe you for this. Really,” he murmurs, voice low, thick like sticky-sweet honey. “It means a lot. I don’t know how to—”
“Sam. You don’t need to thank me,” you cut him off, maybe a little too quickly, but his expression remains sheepish. Like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like it’s been trained into his soul that being there for him is a burden, not a blessing. “I miss having you guys around. Just like the old times.”
That earns you a smile.
“…Yeah. Like the old times.”
By day three, you’ve already adapted to your new routine.
Dean’s still whiny. He still yells for Sam every time he has to move so much as an inch, despite the crutches, which he insists were invented by the devil himself. He complained to you about the water pressure on day two, then again because his cast got a little wet, even though he’d wrapped it in some plastic bag you found under the sink. He even tried to scold you for feeding him ‘rabbit food’ after you’d put some tomato in his burger.
As for Sam… if anything, he’s only gotten sweeter.
It’s grown impossible for you to perform any household task without the younger Winchester offering his assistance. He’s got his hands full with Dean, that much is clear, and yet? The second you step into the kitchen to wash up the dishes, he’s placing a big, warm hand on your wrist, and insisting you go sit down.
He helps with laundry. He sets the table before you eat. He wakes up extra early to brew coffee exactly the way you like it, and he apologizes each time Dean makes a snarky comment.
Even when Dean shoots him a look, one that you can’t quite decipher, and he turns an adorable shade of pink.
The day had gone by quick. It rained, for the first time in nearly a week; meaning you spent most of it inside, with some old book open over your thighs, your legs kicked up on the edge of the couch. Dean stayed in his room—probably watching some stupid movie (one that hopefully wasn’t erotic, for your sanity)—while Sam kept you company.
And by keeping you company, you mean stealing glances at you over a book of his own every thirty seconds.
It was nice. Comfortable. Almost domestic, in a way. You’d slipped away to your room around ten, tucking yourself in bed with a racing heart and buzzing mind… only to be woken up at a quarter to two by the obnoxious sound of your phone ringing.
Unfortunately, for both you and your old man, he’d found himself in a rut on his hunt. The irritation in his tone was palpable as he described the sigil he’d found carved into the floor of some abandoned factory. You’d done up a quick sketch in your notebook as he spoke, his words painting a picture, just as he shoots you a blurry image with the instruction of ‘it’s in one of my books, go find it.’
Great. Just great.
You migrate to the dining room, sitting at the table with eye bags that would make a raccoon jealous, a lukewarm cup of coffee, and a stack of lore books taller than you. One second, you’re squinting at the faded ink of some obscure Enochian ward, pen tapping on the page. The next? There’s warmth at your back, and a big shadow leaning over your shoulder.
“You always up this late?”
“Jesus—!” Your entire body jolts, your pen clattering to the table, hair on your neck standing tall, heart pounding a mile a minute, the whole nine yards. But the second you turn your head, finding the tired, worried, (and apologetic) puppy eyes of Sam Winchester, you relax.
Completely.
You laugh, an embarrassed sound, dragging a clammy hand over your face, like that’ll do anything to scrape off the exhaustion. “Sorry, didn’t mean to… ‘m not used to company while Dad’s away.”
“No, I’m sorry,” he smiles, sheepish now, eyes laced with sincerity. “Didn’t realize you were so jumpy. Bobby doesn’t sneak up on you enough, huh?”
“You say that like he could. He walks like his feet are made of lead.”
Sam snickers, taking your newfound relaxation as a sign he can lean in closer. Close enough that you can smell the faded, masculine scent of his soap, the hint of minty toothpaste in his breath, and feel the warmth of his skin radiating through his thin t-shirt.
“What’re you doing, anyway?” His hand settles lightly on the back of your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder by accident (or not), as he squints at the page, a frown pulling at his lips. “You’re not… you’re not hunting, are you?”
You cock your head to the side, just enough to look at him.
“No. Well, not me. My dad called. He’s at a dead end, n’ wants my help figuring out the origin of these sigils.” You nudge your journal towards him with your index finger, and he hums. He’s so close you can almost feel the vibration. “…Only problem is that he’s a fuckin’ lore hoarder. I don’t even know where to start.”
“Oh.”
His brow furrows, silence falling between you for a fleeting moment. His eyes narrow.
“That’s… not Enochian,” he murmurs, shifting his weight, his chest pressing against your back for just a second before he catches himself, and pulls back. “…Uh. Sorry.”
His fingers tap absently against the chair, restless, thinking, maybe a little indecisive, before he exhales sharply, dragging a chair up beside you. His knee bumps yours as he folds himself next to you, elbows braced on the table, eyes scanning the symbols with quiet intensity.
You tilt your head, opening your mouth to speak, but he’s faster.
“These letters look more like Latin to me. Maybe even some Hebrew,” he muses, turning to look at you. That sharpness in his gaze seems to soften almost immediately. “…You need some help?”
His voice is soft, careful, like it’s not just an offer. Like he wants to stay.
“You sure? It’s late. You don’t have to—”
“I’m sure,” he states, thumb skimming the edge of those yellowing pages of the book spread open in front of him like he needs something to fidget with. His voice drops, quiet, warm, into something so gentle that your heart just about skips a beat. “…You’re exhausted. Let me help. Please.”
Yeah.
It’s not quite possible for you to say no to that.
You don’t respond right away, not with words, at least. If the conflict shows on your face, Sam doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t scoff, or even look annoyed. No, instead, he simply… watches you. His eyes are soft, encouraging, expression warm with lingering sleep.
And when you finally nod, leaning back in your chair, he smiles. Not wide, or with teeth—more of a quiet, gentle thing, that makes his face light up in the best way, and displays those sweet dimples when the light hits his face just right.
He moves slowly, turning your journal back towards you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leans in.
It’s electric.
“See how the letters curve here? It’s more like a hook, rather than a smooth arc.” He traces the shape lightly, his fingertip just hovering over your work, like he’s afraid to smudge the ink. “…That tells me it’s not Enochian. The Enochian alphabet is more… round. I’m thinking this is ancient Hebrew—” he points at a letter, “—and see these circles? There’s even some Malachim script.”
You hover as he explains, nodding, and… yeah. He’s right. Of course he is. Your lips part in an inaudible ‘ohhh’, your own hand moving to follow his in its silent trace, fingers brushing his.
He pauses. You see it, or, more accurately, you feel it. The way his breathing seems to freeze for a moment, before coming out in a jagged exhale that fans over your cheek, his body pressed so close to yours. He shifts, knee brushing yours again; to move away? To get closer?
You can’t be sure.
“…So, not Enochian. A combination of other things. You’re thinking, what… The Lesser Key?”
“Yeah. Maybe,” he murmurs, “or some kind of interpretation. Mind if I…” He trails off, long arm stretching over you to brush the worn leather spine of a book stacked next to you. His touch is careful. Thoughtful. And when you nod, he hums gratefully.
You watch as he pulls the book from the pile, already flipping ahead to the intended section like he’s read it a thousand times before. Two long fingers trace the faded ink over each page, each one silverfish bitten, bleached with time, his soft eyes searching. And when he finds what he’s looking for, he stops abruptly, pressing his fingertips over a pale illustration.
“There.”
And there it is.
Maybe not exactly. Some of the letters look reversed, like they were intended to be written backwards. A couple of the symbols etched into the sigil are written cleaner, sharper, but… yeah. The main idea is there, and that’s enough for you.
“Well, holy shit.” You huff an impressed laugh, settling just a little closer to him. “Thanks, Sam. You’re good. Really good,” you nudge him with your shoulder, “I see why Dean keeps you around.”
He chokes out a laugh of his own, soft and surprised, and ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s suddenly shy. His fingers linger there, tapping over his nape, but he’s not looking at the book anymore.
He’s looking at you.
“Yeah, uh. Anytime,” he murmurs, simple, but sincere. His eyes flicker over your face, lingering on the tired shadows under your eyes, before he finally moves, extending his free hand out to hold the back of your chair. Those pretty fingers twitch, like he wants to go further. Be bolder. Run his palm over your back, touch, comfort you the way he’s wanted for years.
But he doesn’t. Not yet.
“It’s not an exact match. But I’d guess it’s the same demon, or same category, at least,” he adds, a sweet flush creeping up his neck, like your sudden silence is suffocating him. “I can keep digging if you want. Find something more accurate.”
“No.” You cut him off quickly, and he frowns, face twisting into an expression that reminds you far too much of a kicked puppy. It’s both adorable, and a little heartbreaking. “You’ve just saved me about six hours of staring at lore until my eyes fall out of my skull. It’s two in the morning. Go to bed, Sammy.”
The corner of his mouth quirks, and you swear he looks even more embarrassed than before. Of course, though, because he’ll never quite let it go, he still mumbles out a near-silent, “it’s Sam.”
He lingers like he’s seconds away from arguing with you. Fortunately, you win in the end, and he pushes up from the table, stretching his arms behind his back with a quiet groan. His shirt rides up just slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of skin above his waistband (again, not that you’re looking), and when he lowers his arms—he places his palm on your shoulder. Squeezes. Even when his face heats up, and his pulse races so quick, he wonders if you can feel it.
“Fine. But… get some sleep, okay?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he pads silently back towards the couch in the other room, leaving that undeniable warmth to prickle beneath your skin.
It takes until day six for Dean’s constant complaining to claw its way beneath your skin, and in your defence, half of it was because of the heat.
As it turns out, the rain had served to be nothing but a short-lived sense of false relief, because not a day later, another blistering heatwave hit. Full force.
More than hot enough to make your shirt cling to your body like a second skin, for the horizon to look all hazy like you’re staring at it through clear water, and to make the older Winchester’s whining just that much more irritating. Thankfully, both for your well being and Deans, you’d plotted your escape to the junkyard—because that way, you could strangle the fucked-up wiring in your old Trans Am, instead of his sweaty throat.
You stand half hunched over the open hood of the car, damp tank top rubbing uncomfortably against your sticky skin. Your sweaty hands fumble with the socket wrench as it slips from your grasp, hot metal heating your palms like it just wants you to snap. Your molars dig into your cheek, knuckles white, fingers already grease stained, a string of curses slipping out between irritated puffs of breath. Nothing about it should be difficult, you’ve disconnected a thousand batteries before, but there’s something about the goddamn heat that has your jaw tensing and your fist tightening.
“You sound just like your father.”
You hadn’t even heard Sam approach, curse his stealth, his voice cutting through your exasperation with a jolt. Luckily for you, you don’t startle quite as hard as the other night (and if you had, you surely would’ve clunked your head on the hood), but you still let out a groan, bowing your head with an exaggerated shake.
“Do you take pride in your ability to scare the living hell out of me, Winchester?” you tease, cocking your head towards him, pointing the offending socket wrench in his direction.
Sam grins, bright and very unapologetic, the bastard, as he comes just a little closer. He leans against the fender, his arms crossed over his chest. He has the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to mid forearm, revealing freshly sun-kissed skin, and a glittery sheen of sweat.
“Maybe,” he admits shamelessly, tilting his head, which earns him a playful glare. His hair sticks to his forehead slightly, damp from the heat, and he shakes his head absently to swipe it back. “You’re the one who keeps letting me sneak up on you, though.”
You roll your eyes, finally laying down that stupid wrench, and Sam takes the opportunity to just… look at you. Really look at you. His gaze flicks over your face, lingering at the sweat beading at your temple, before dropping to the way your tank top clings to your shoulders, the smudges of grease that stain your arms.
The moment you catch him, though, you swear his cheeks turn just a little more red, his brows furrowing into something almost sheepish.
“I, uh. Here,” he chokes the words out, extending his arm towards you in a stiff, mechanical motion, a cold plastic water bottle clutched in his hand.
The sight damn near brings you to your knees.
You take the bottle with a blissful ‘thank you’, the icy condensation soothing your overheated palm like balm to a wound. Still, you don’t drink right away. The water has a faint sheen to it, almost cloudy, and you lift a brow, amused.
“You druggin’ me?”
Sam’s eyes shoot open comically wide, his head shaking before your words even fully land, and you can’t help but laugh at the look of sheer horror on his face.
“What? No—God, no,” he blurts, just as you twist the cap open with a quiet snicker. “It’s… electrolytes. That powder stuff, y’know? It’s hot, ‘n I figured you wouldn’t be drinking enough ‘cause you’re so damn stubborn. I thought about making you something else, like, a smoothie, since you love fruit, but I didn’t know where you kept the blender—”
“Sam.” You cut him off gently, taking a swig. “Thank you. You’re sweet.”
For a moment, he just blinks at you, like he’s unsure of how to respond to the praise. Then he clears his throat, an awkward, punched out sound, before he jerks his head towards the engine.
“…Need a hand?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer before stepping up beside you, nudging your knee with his as he peers under the hood. His arm brushes yours, warm and solid, as he hums thoughtfully, like he has any clue what he’s looking at.
He doesn’t.
You take another sip of your drink before setting it to the side.
“Y’ever replace an alternator, Sam?” you ask, and the crooked smile you receive is answer enough. Dean? Sure. He knows his way around an engine. And as for you, you’ve been tearing your way through your father’s junkyard since you could walk. But Sam?
Yeah. No.
“I mean, uh. Y’know, I’ve...” He tilts his head, considering the mess of bolts and wiring before him, before shooting you a sidelong glance, pretty eyes crinkling at the corners. “…No.”
You snicker, picking the socket wrench back up, tightening your grip on the hot metal with slippery fingers.
“But I’ve been told I’ve got a real talent for holding a flashlight,” he offers, voice dropping into that low, teasing tone that never fails to make your stomach flip. “And I won’t complain like a certain individual back in the house. Promise.”
A soft smile tugs at your lips, and for the first time in hours, you don’t feel two seconds away from strangling someone.
“Ah. There’s your real motive. Trying to avoid your brother so you don’t bite his head off,” you joke, and he shrugs noncommittedly, telling you all you need to know. “No need for a light, though. Not at this time of day.”
His smile falters.
You regret your words instantly. You didn’t mean it like that—God, no, not like you were brushing him off—but he looks almost hurt, and those puppy eyes are just lethal.
“Why don’t I teach you?” you suggest quickly. Surprise flickers across his face, and the sight makes your heart stutter. “It’s pretty easy,” you add, softer now, “and you’re a real quick learner.”
“…Yeah?” he questions gently, almost like he’s expecting you to take it back, before the corners of his lips quirk right back up in a quietly pleased grin. He shifts closer, hovering over the engine, his hand sliding from the fender to rest just above the grille.
He doesn’t look back at the car right away, though, no; he just… watches you for a second. He lingers on the small smudge of grease on your cheek, the little crease between your brows that always forms whenever you’re focused, the way your tongue swipes across your lower lip… before ducking his head with a nod.
“Okay.”
He exhales, almost a laugh, like he’s shaking off nerves. Rolling his sleeves up just a little higher over his elbows, he exposes the lean muscle of his forearms when he braces his palms back on the edge of the engine bay. The sun catches his tan skin, warm and shining under the golden light.
You swallow. Hard.
“…Walk me through it?” he adds after a moment, breaking your trance, and you have to shake your head lightly to refocus, before nodding as your confidence slips back in place. You tilt your wrist forward, pointing at the battery.
“Alright. We’ve just gotta take out the battery first. Don’t wanna fuck up the electrical, or give yourself a nasty shock. You just have to disconnect the cables. This one first—” you gesture towards the back cable, Sam humming thoughtfully, “—negative. That’ll break the ground circuit. Then you can take off the red one next, remove the hold-down clamp, and lift it out. You with me?”
Sam makes a low, affirmative sound, his brows drawing together in concentration. He follows along, he really does—but when his eyes drift, he seriously can’t help it. He takes in the cables first, committing them to memory, but his eyes wander to trace your fingers, up to the soft angle of your wrist before he can catch them.
And then he’s just looking at you.
“Yeah,” he says. “I think so.”
You smile before continuing. “Once the battery’s out, you’ve got to remove the serpentine belt. That’s not too bad. Loosening it can be a bitch, though.” The metal wrench tinks against the tensioner as you point, your head tilting towards him. “Then you can start working on the alternator. But that’s hands-on work. Can’t really explain it.”
You don’t move to demonstrate. No, instead, you extend the socket wrench out in your overheated palm. An offer.
“Have at ‘er.”
Sam hesitates, a brief moment of almost-panic flickering over his face, breaking through his newfound ease. For a second, he just stares at the tool, at your outstretched hand, like he can’t quite believe that you’re handing him the task. Like it’s some sort of test.
“Me?” he questions, stunned, and when you nod, he takes an extra beat to move.
His fingers close around the handle tentatively, warm and calloused, and you swear he has the slightest tremor. His thumb brushes yours as he takes it, a fleeting touch that sends a spark up your arm despite the sweltering heat; and this time, he lets it linger. Just a little.
He clears his throat softly before turning back to the mess of cables, rolling his shoulders like a pitcher getting ready to throw.
“You’ve got a lot of faith in me, I mean, if you ever want this thing on the road again.” He laughs, but the hesitation is still present, threaded with just a touch of Sam-Winchester-self-depreciation that twists at your heart.
You don’t entertain it. Not this time. Instead, your hip drops to lean against the bumper as you turn your body towards him, arms folded across your chest.
“Nah. I trust you.”
And for a heartbeat, Sam just freezes. The wrench hovers in his grip like he’s suddenly forgotten what to do with it. His lips part slightly, like he’s going to say something. But for once? He doesn’t have a smart remark. He doesn’t have a dumb joke to deflect with. He just blinks once, twice, gaze so damn soft it makes something deep in your chest ache.
Then, without a word, he leans forward, and gets to work.
The wrench clicks into place on the first bolt, his grip steadying, instinct taking over. He ratchets in careful yet powerful strokes, confidence surfacing, piece by piece. You watch closely: the way his bangs fall over his forehead, each quiet puff of his breath, the way the tendon in his forearm jumps with each back-and-forth pull. Sam’s in his element, working, learning, and if it gives you a bit of a show?
Well, that’s just a bonus.
On day ten, you finally crack open your first beer.
The living room glows with the soft light of a single lamp in one corner, the one that’s bulb has gone a faded shade of orange, and that flickers every few moments. Empty glass bottles and half-full longnecks scatter the coffee table, Dean’s cast covered foot thrown haphazardly next to them, one good kick from sloshing foam onto plaster.
The three of you are sprawled out easily in the room, Dean in that old chair he’s claimed as his own, tipsy fingers picking leather from the armrest, while you and Sam share the tiny couch, close enough to feel the brush of his knee every time his leg bounces restlessly. Laughter flows freely through loose lips, paired with the heavy bass of some old rock track booming through your ancient speaker, filling the usually quiet room with a new kind of comfort.
“Oh, come on, Dean. Load is good!” you manage between snickers with impressive seriousness, your heated debate about Metallica albums becoming equally as important as monster talk to your intoxicated mind.
“Good?” Dean drawls, who’s already had double yet is somehow half as tipsy, voice thick with playful disdain. “That shit is not Metallica. They went mainstream, I’m telling you.”
He takes another swig from his bottle (his eighth? Ninth? Who even knows), and levels a glare at you like you’ve just taken Baby for a joyride.
Sam, meanwhile, is slumped against the loveseat, warm and heavy in that almost-drunk Sam way where he leans into you just a little more than usual, like it’s as simple as breathing. One arm is thrown along the backside of the couch, fingertips tapping along to the beat, brushing your shoulder every so often when his hand slips limply. The other stays in his lap, fingers idly twisting around the neck of an open bottle.
He almost looks a little lost. Happy lost, you note, if that dimpled smile is saying anything.
“Seriously?” you groan, albeit dramatically, but there’s no mistaking the way the corner of your lips curve upwards.
You take a sip of your beer, the liquid fizzing pleasantly on your tongue. The cold stings your teeth in a way that should be uncomfortable, but instead, seems to be just right.
“You’re only sayin’ that ‘cause it’s newer. You’re blinded by the classics,” you accuse, jutting out one finger from around the neck of your bottle, pointing it in the older Winchester’s direction, before sparing a glance at Sam. “Help me out here, would ya?”
Sam blinks, slow, buzzed, like the words take a moment to travel from his ears to his brain.
For a second, he just stares, lips slightly parted like he’s forgotten what the argument was about. His cheeks are flushed a pretty pink from the beer, warm from the golden glow of the lamp, his hair a little messy from running his fingers through it all night.
When he snaps out of it, finally, a lazy grin spreads across his face, and your stomach seems to flip even more than usual. He lifts his beer in some sort of salute, before taking a swig.
“It’s not… bad,” he says carefully, ever the mediator, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
His eyes flick to yours as he says it, as if searching for some sort of approval, and he sure as hell gets it—you flashing him a triumphant smile, landing your obnoxious ‘aha!’. Dean rolls his eyes so hard, you think they might fall out of his skull.
“Dude, you always take her side,” he complains, hardening his gaze into something that’s probably supposed to be scrutinizing.
“No I don’t,” Sam defends, sounding almost pouty, but it’s weak. Really weak.
“It’s ‘cause I’m always right,” you butt in, giggling all over again, Sam’s soft smile growing at the sound alone.
“Yeah, no,” Dean decides, eyes flicking between you and his brother. “That’s not why. Wanna know why? It’s just ‘cause he…” he trails off, slowly, voice dipping into something uncharacteristically quiet, and you feel the way Sam stiffens by your side. Hard.
They exchange a look, one you don’t quite understand. Sharp, quick, silent Winchester communication—like they know something you don’t. And when Dean speaks again, he waves his arm as if to brush you off.
“…Whatever. His opinions invalid, anyway. He likes freakin’ Bon Jovi.”
For a beat too long, you don’t respond. Long enough to make the air in the room feel slightly unnatural, like it’s suddenly gotten thicker, grown from an easy flow to something a little suffocating. Dean’s words still hang between you, unfinished in a way that somehow makes them worse. He left space, too much space, leaving room for you to fill in blanks that you don’t quite understand.
Your mind should be racing to reach it. Should be grabbing onto something, anything, but instead, every thought drifts lazily past, tangled and unhelpful, like puzzle pieces that almost fit together but never quite click.
And God, Sam… Sam looks a little like he’s about to bolt.
That snaps you out of it, quick, your brain catching a thought, flipping it over, and blurting out a response before it really settles.
“Dean, even I like Bon Jovi.”
Dean’s gaze flicks back to you, thrown off just enough for some of that smothering tension to crack, even just a fraction. He looks at you, then Sam, then back to you—like he’s trying to gauge if opening his mouth will get him punched or not—before giving you another scowl.
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck in an attempt to shake off some of the pressure. “That’s his influence.”
He sticks the neck of his bottle in Sam’s direction, who seems to have relaxed a little, but just barely.
“His poor, poor influence.”
“Poor? You could argue that Bon Jovi’s classic, too,” you challenge, tilting your head, a half-smile tugging at your lips again. You’re still trying to keep it light, even if something in the room still feels a little off.
Even if that something is right next to you, knee to knee, and radiating an intense amount of heat that you have to fight yourself not to lean into.
Dean opens his mouth, closes it, then huffs.
“Very poor,” he lands on, weakly. “Jovi is the pop of rock. Nothing about that is classic, ‘n you know it.”
You scoff, which almost earns you a smirk, but it doesn’t stick. Not really.
Because Sam still hasn’t said anything.
You glance over at him, and yeah. Definitely off. He’s stiff, posture tight like his muscles are locked in place, his shoulders just a touch too taut. His jaw’s set hard enough to hurt, and his eyes are fixed somewhere past Dean like he’s trying to become one with the couch, or maybe just disappear entirely.
“Sammy.” You nudge him with your elbow, a quick, gentle motion, and he startles like you’d jammed a knife between his ribs. He bows his head to look at you, loopy-eyed from that alcohol induced haze, cheeks still a flustered red.
He doesn’t even correct you this time.
“…Hm?”
“Are y’going to defend yourself,” you ask, voice tipping into a more teasing register, watching him just a little closer, “or just let him slander you?”
Sam doesn’t respond right away. His grip on his bottle loosens just a touch, thumb dragging lazily along the peeling label as his gaze flickers down, then back to you. Then he huffs. Shakes his head. And suddenly, a small, familiar smile tugs at his lips again, dimples creating pretty little indents on his still pink cheeks.
“…You love ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’, Dean.”
You snicker, Dean groans, and Sam seems to relax in a way that helps you breathe easy again. The tension doesn’t disappear, not entirely anyway, but it loosens, unwinding like a knot pulled in the right direction. And when Sam takes another sip of his beer, eyes flicking to you, there’s something softer in it now. Something that wasn’t there a moment ago—or maybe something he just couldn’t quite hide this time.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean concedes, waving both of you off, planting his now empty bottle on the coffee table with a heavy thud. “You’re both still wrong. I’m just outnumbered.”
“Right…” you drawl, still giggling, and Sam lets out a real laugh this time. The kind that lights up his entire face, and makes your chest tighten without even realizing it.
The music hums into another solo, the room settling back into something familiar. Sam shifts, just slightly, and his fingertips brush your shoulder in soft, rhythmic circles where his arm’s draped along the back of the couch.
And this time, he doesn’t pull away at all.
On day fourteen, it’s your turn to scare the soul clean out of Sam’s body.
You wake up early, too early for most, before the sun has even fully breached the horizon. The sky is still a faded pink, the world sitting quietly, where everything feels as though it’s paused and waiting. The air’s already warm, already heavy, but it’s not suffocating yet; it’s gentle. The kind of warmth that settles over your skin just right, or glows through your kitchen blinds as you brew a pot of rich coffee.
When you shake Sam awake, he startles. Of course he does. Hunters never quite wake easy. There’s a flash of immediate alertness in his eyes, maybe a little bit of panic, before it fades into soft recognition. And as it turns out, it doesn’t take much convincing, if any at all, to get him to follow.
And so your short journey begins.
You walk side by side in an easy, peaceful quiet, the kind that doesn’t really need any filling. The fields stretch endlessly around you, overgrown grass tickling your legs, the odd car or rusted-out part scattered around every corner. Remnants of old memories, of laughter-fueled moments that you hold oh so close to your heart.
Then the trees cast cool shadows as you move through the woods, ducking under low branches that force Sam to practically fold himself in half, step over fallen logs, and push through bushes that scrape your knees, practiced like you’ve done it a thousand times before.
Because you have.
Eventually, you reach it. The two of you lie out the old blanket you’d packed, right where the trees clear out, a quiet lake opens up, and the land dips into something almost hidden just for you. It’s the kind of place no one would ever find unless they really went looking. The place that was always just… yours. Yours and Sam’s.
You lean back into the blanket, your hair fanning across worn fabric as you let yourself relax, flipping open your journal, graphite smudging against the curve of your palm as you begin to sketch. Sam settles beside you, the movement quiet, unhurried, and so damn familiar. Neither of you speak, not at first, and neither of you really have to.
The lake is still, in that glassy, undisturbed sort of way, except from the occasional ripple from a fish breaching the surface, or a leaf falling from a nearby tree. Morning light cascades over it in pretty golds and soft blues, shining in a way that makes everything feel a little softer around the edges.
It’s all so… familiar.
Every rock, every tree, every incline in the field has a memory attached. It’s the place you used to go all the time as kids, after school or when the pressure at home got too heavy. Escaping out to the hills like you weren’t the children of hunters, but two regular kids who liked skipping stones and splashing water, or two teenagers who would sneak a couple beers from your fathers fridge. The place that held all of your goodbyes, before John would snatch the boys away for months, and you wouldn’t hear a thing until they returned just a little older, a little rougher.
It makes this feel like goodbye all over again.
Next to you, it seems Sam might be thinking just the same thing. He doesn’t say it out loud yet, but he just breathes it all in, mapping the space around him like a trail he knows better than the back of his hand. He watches the birds fly from tree to tree, takes in the scent of damp earth and wild flowers, listens to the way your pencil scratches lightly against your paper.
Eventually though, he turns to look at you instead.
His gaze lingers in a way that shouldn’t feel as heavy as it does. He doesn’t look at your journal, or the way your hands grip your pencil. No, he stares at your profile. Your relaxed expression. The way your hair frames your face, the slope of your nose, the soft bow of your lips. A soft smile tugs at his own as he quietly slips down to his elbow beside you, closing some of that space so naturally it could be framed as unintentional.
But now, you know better than that.
Your pencil glides across the paper in deep strokes, before your fingertip darts out to smudge the graphite, blending it into something softer. You try to ignore his gaze. You really do. But you can feel it—and it makes your heart thump like a drum against your ribs, flutter in a way you can feel up in your throat.
Slowly, so slowly as to not break the quiet, your pencil lowers to rest between the pages, as you turn your head gently to the side.
“…You okay there, Sam?”
His expression does something a little complicated when you speak. It softens into something sweet, the way it always does when you meet his gaze, but at the same time, it almost gets heavier. He gives you that damn look, that puppy-eyed stare, the one that makes your chest warm with affection so intense, it’s near impossible to stifle.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice still a little rough from sleep, or maybe just emotion he hasn’t quite faced. “Just… thinking.”
His knee brushes yours as he shifts, bending it where it rests over the blanket so he can look at you more fully. It doesn’t feel like an accident, not this time, and he certainly doesn’t rush to pull it away.
“Thinking?” you echo. “About what?”
Sam exhales, a quiet, shaky breath, like the question weighs on him.
“About… this. Staying here. How it’s coming to an end.” His voice comes out careful and almost measured, too measured, like he’s trying to mask that undercurrent of sadness that’s already starting to ache. “I could’ve sworn two weeks felt so much longer when we were kids.”
Fourteen days was never meant to last forever. You knew that. And yet, sitting by the lake, surrounded by old memories, it feels a little like time has slipped through your fingers like the sunrise melting into noon.
Your relaxed smile fades into something a little more sullen, even as warmth clings to your skin, both from the sun, and the barely-there touch of his knee.
“Yeah. It did.” You swallow, forcing yourself to look away briefly, like that’ll do anything to loosen the pressure in your chest. You sit up a little further, pushing onto your elbows, and your journal slides off your lap, pencil rolling into the overgrown grass.
“…You know you don’t need a reason to just… visit, right?”
For a moment, the words just… sit. And you’d expected just that.
Because the Winchesters don’t do things like that. They don’t go on hunt-free road trips, or lazy Sunday afternoons, or spontaneous visits unless blood is involved. Their lives are simple, that of a hunter’s: case files, salt rounds, and constant movement from crisis to crisis with no room for reunions.
And you know that. You really do. And yet…
“I just mean… you don’t need to be hunting. Or injured.” Your fingers curl into the blanket below as you find his eyes again. “You don’t need to justify it. You can just… come.”
His throat works as he swallows hard, and he turns towards the water for a fleeting second, like he’s anchoring himself against a wave of emotion threatening to spill over all at once.
“I don’t want to impose,” he lands on, slowly, spelling out the syllables. Bracing for rejection. “This is Bobby’s place. Your place. It’s safe. I’m not… Dean and I can’t just…”
He huffs, frustrated, shaking his head.
“Sam,” you start again, still gentle, voice so low, it almost gets lost in the passing breeze. “I’m saying I want you guys here.”
Silence falls. The trees sway with a soft gust of wind, and the pages of your journal flip by your side, but you don’t worry yourself about losing your place. You don’t tear your gaze away. You can’t. And when you speak again, your voice comes out more firm than before.
“I’m saying I want you here.”
He doesn’t respond right away, barely even blinks. Your own gaze finally slips away from his, dropping to your lap, then back out to the lake ahead—and you let out a breath that’s almost as frustrated as his own.
“I meant what I said when you first got here. I miss having you guys around. So much,” you whisper, and the words seem to catch in your throat, shaky and thick enough to ache. “I don’t… I don’t want this to be goodbye for the next six months. I don’t want to watch the impala pull onto the road and wonder when I’ll see your face again. I don’t—God, Sam, I don’t… I can’t—”
“Hey.” His voice slices through your words like the world’s softest blade.
“Yeah?”
“…Can I kiss you?”
You don’t answer right away. You think you do—your brain sends the signal, your lips part—but nothing actually comes out. The moment hangs there, frozen, like you’d pressed pause on the world, and forgot to press play again.
The words seem to replay in your head on repeat. Not once, not twice, but over and over and over, as you stare at him like if you look hard enough, the universe will rewind like some cruel joke. Because this is Sam.
This is Sam, and he’s just asked if he could kiss you.
You’re not sure how long your hesitation lasts, but it’s long enough for Sam’s eyes to widen. For his muscles to go tense. For his face to crumble like he’s just fucked up, really fucked up, and for him to lean away like he’s about to pull back. You don’t let him.
Because when your response finally comes, it has nothing to do with words.
You surge forward, capturing his lips with so much intensity that you get the brick wall that is Sam Winchester to sway. He inhales into it like he wasn’t expecting it, like it takes a moment to register, but once it does, he melts. Completely.
It’s like every nerve lights up all at once. Warm and electric and so damn right that your head spins, and your stomach flips.
It’s sweet. So damn sweet.
He kisses you back slowly, cautiously, like he’s terrified of messing things up; but with so much tenderness that it steals the air straight out of your lungs. There’s no rush, no urgency, just quiet wonder. Like the moment is fragile, and all either of you want to do is preserve it forever.
And when he finally pulls back, just enough to suck in a deep, lingering breath, he rests his forehead against yours. His eyes half lidded, and so full of adoration that it would bring you to your knees if you weren’t already so reclined.
“…You okay?” he questions, voice barely above a breath, as he searches your face for even the smallest ounce of doubt. He doesn’t find any.
“Perfect.”
He nods, and then he’s leaning in this time. Every muscle in your body relaxes the moment his lips slot against yours again, giving way to something warm and almost pliant. His hands rise, slow and tentative at first, before he cups your jaw with infinite gentleness. Two warm palms brush your cheeks as he tilts you impossibly closer, his fingers spanning the length of your face, his thumbs brushing sweetly over the delicate curve of your cheekbone in a clingy way that just about makes your eyes water.
And for a while, that’s all there is. You, him, the quiet rhythm of your breathing as your lips collide, the breeze ruffling through the field, and the soft rippling waves in the lake.
When you pull back again, it’s not that either of you want to, and you can feel it in the way he hesitates. The way his thumb traces your face, the way his lips linger a fraction too long before parting from yours. He doesn’t go far. He stays close enough for your noses to brush, for his bangs to tickle your forehead, and one of his hands never leaves your cheek.
There’s a faint, disbelieving huff of a laugh that comes from him, and after a moment of shock—one of your own follows.
“Okay,” he murmurs, like he’s trying the words out, testing his reality. Testing if this is all real. “Okay.”
Your lips curve into a smile despite yourself. “…Yeah?” you whisper, and you don’t say much else, at least not for the moment. Because if you do, you almost worry you’ll say something cheesy. Something cliché, like ‘you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.’
Because it’s true.
Your hand shifts where it rests between you, brushing against his wrist. He stills for a second at the contact, instinctive, and you feel his hesitation in his breath. But then he softens. Turns his hand. And finally, he slides his palm just enough so his fingers can lace between yours. Careful, so careful, like he’s still not quite sure if he’s allowed.
You squeeze, and he squeezes back.
“I’m not… good at this,” he admits, gaze dropping briefly to stare at your interlocked fingers, and his thumb brushes gently over your knuckles. “Showing up just because. Having a life off the road.”
Your smile lingers, but your gaze searches his, just for a second. “You don’t have to be good at it. But… I’ll say it a thousand times if I have to. I just want you here. I want… all of it.”
“All of it,” he echoes, and he lifts his head again, expression so warm, you feel like you could melt. His hand lifts from your cheek, only to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, holding just a moment longer than necessary. “…I’m not good at this, but I want to try. For you.”
“For us,” you correct, and he smiles so hard, the golden shine of the sun catches on his dimples.
“Yeah. For us.”
AN: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SAMMY 🎉🥳 as a gift to all the Sam lovers, here is almost 10K words of pure fluff.
This one is pretty different from my other work, honestly, lol, and I made up some demonology here that’s definitely inaccurate, so enjoy being thoroughly confused there (I was too). But I hope everyone’s had a great Sam day 🖤
(Dividers from @cursed-carmine)
Taglist: @spectralgalaxygauntlet @vfwwm (I’m doing this the next day, I’m so damn sorry)
summary: Dean is not in the habit of accepting help - especially not from rich, pretty college girls - but this time it really can't be helped. Badly injured and without his Baby, he is forced to take a lift from you for one long road trip to try to save Sam. He finds there are worse things than playing passenger princess.
pairing: dean winchester x f! reader
warnings: smut, canon-typical violence, angst, semi slow-burn, canon-typical dean self-loathing, very brief references to suicide, sam haunts the narrative like crazy, reader referenced as having hair and has a set backstory / unnamed family
a/n: i have learned from past mistakes and pre-written all parts of the series in advance, so we have a posting schedule below *everybody stands up and applauds*. this was a very special project for me and i can't wait to share it with you 🤍 drop a comment to join the series taglist or join my overall taglist here!
Contents:
1 The Road ✧ 6.4k words ⤷ 14/04
2 Burnout ✧ 6.6k words ⤷ 21/04
3 Under the Hood ✧ 5.3k words ⤷ 28/04
4 Insult and Injury ✧ 7.1k words ⤷ 05/05
5 In Bad Faith ✧ 7.4k words ⤷ 12/05
6 Courage Equal to Desire ✧ 8.9k words ⤷ 19/05
a/a/n: all 6 parts are set in s2 ep14 'born under a bad sign', with changed details and prolonged timelines. it is not necessary to have seen the episode to read this as the events of the episode itself are only a small fraction of the first and last part!
hey so was anybody gonna tell me that the raven boys is one of the best contemporary fantasy novels of the twenty-first century and an insane study on the cycles of abuse and the mindset of rich teenage boys and class divides or was i just gonna have to figure this out on my own
summary dean makes you a mixtape because he's got a big crush!
content gn!reader, friends with mutual crushes, dean is so very in love, a kiss on the cheek, use of sweet thing and sweetheart, just gentleness and dean being all nervous to give you a mixtape!
requested ♡
wc 828
⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆
Dean's hands are clammier than they've maybe ever been. He feels silly and stupid and like a teenage boy discovering the welling wonder of love for the very first time. It's so cheesy, what he's made and spent an inhuman amount of time curating.
Seven songs, for seven years of knowing you. One year of denial and six of being exhaustedly head over heels. He assumes many more will come and has very begrudgingly accepted that he is entirely a chicken.
And you're an angel. So completely good, it's bizarre.
He can do his very best to make you happy without being yours.
A big surge of something loving and needy and sticky as warmed syrup pulls through him when you step out of your motel room and onto the small balcony, down rickety stairs as you adjust your jacket. Still sleep mussed and lovely as ever.
"S'too early," you lament, though the sun is a high golden yolk in the sky already. He thinks you haven't been sleeping well, wants to share a room next time and look after you.
He pushes off where he'd been leaning against Baby without really meaning to and feels a nestle of light in his chest. You're too pretty under the early spring sun, it kisses your nose and sets little gleaming stars in your eyes.
"The day's nearly over, sweet thing," he teases mild. "How'd you sleep?"
You blink at him, lashes pulling apart slow. "Like a baby."
This could mean either awful or wonderfully. But there isn't any time to prod before he remembers what he's holding behind the leather of his jacket. How he may look conspicuous, how you can most definitely tell he's fidgety with his arms half hidden.
"Did something bite your hands off?"
"What? No," he huffs a nervous laugh. "My hands are fine. Perfect, actually."
You hum and cross your arms, one boot kicking out and tapping against smooth asphalt.
"Have you got something?"
He does, but you're rushing him. Better now than never, he supposes, if he were to wait any longer he might talk himself out of giving it to you. Or his flustering nerves would gnaw him away into a stub.
"Just... don't be weird," he sighs, hands shifting behind his back.
"Being weird is fun," you reply, smile sleepy and scrunching your nose in a way that nearly throws him into a whole tizzy. "Why shouldn't I be weird?"
His cheeks ache with a too-fond grin and his fingers squeeze at the concealed cassette, acting as a heavy weight. It may as well be his heart on a platter.
"You can be as weird as you wanna be," he says. "Just cool it for now."
"Okay." You point, gaze attempting to stretch and curl around his side to see. "Show me what you've got."
With a big, internal, here goes nothing, he pulls the tape out and holds it between two fingers for you to take. Your name on the white note cover, written in his best handwriting, and it's entirely simple. So sickeningly saccharine underneath.
His jaw works with a swallow as you stare at the thing, your expression open, eyes a little wide. He can't read it.
"Take it," he says, insecurity a festering root in his head. "Unless you-"
You grab it from him quick and hold it with such careful palms, fingers a delicate press against the plastic shell.
"There's no unless," you breathe, he registers the airy delight in your tone and feels tons of bricks fall from his shoulders. "You made this for me?"
He shrugs. "Yeah. That's your name on it, right?"
"Right," you whisper, and look up at him, and he's six feet under.
You're happy, and it suits you. More than anything else. He'd like to make this last forever, the small creases at the corners of your mouth as you laugh all soft, the rise of your eyebrows. You stretch a hand out to settle on his bicep.
It's very, extremely difficult to stay standing.
"I've never gotten anything like this before," you admit, a bashfulness about you now that makes his heart squeeze and swell along with your words. "Thank you, De. This is, um. Really neat."
Really neat. He aches and decides to make you thousands more.
But he's turned into complete static when you take a tentative step closer, chest nearly brushing his, and lean up to give a chaste, petal-soft kiss to his cheek. His knees are more jelly than bone.
He hopes to high heaven that he's not at all red.
"What's on it?" you ask.
It's whiplash inducing, the way you act like you haven't just set him and his insides atwirl. But he'll take whatever you give, and push all his nonsensical feelings way, way down, and be grateful for just this.
He gestures to the Impala.
"How about you put it in and see, sweetheart?"
Anything with you is all he wants.
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haven't written fanfic in two weeks i think so please forgive any rustiness!!
snowghoul
vaporwave
romaincrisis
baratheonpilled
jacobvanloon
