Hey ur stories are literally peak 😫 “hidden fever” is definitely my new fav. Just agh ur so good at writting with emotion. If your inbox isnt to full i would like to to put in a small request.
Could i request a story where the little sister is around 14-16. Sam is beginning to realize that much like him, his sister doesn’t have the chance to have many friends and tries to be a friend for her ontop of a brother since dean cant really break from his care taker role. I think the show really captured Sam’s empathetic nature and id love to see that in him as a brother.
╰┈➤ The Brother A Sister Needs
Sam Winchester x little sister!reader (Ft. Dean)
Summary: You can't make many friends so Sam multitasks and fills that spot while being his brotherly self.
Warnings: None!
Notes: Thank you thank you! I'm glad you liked that one as much as I loved writing it. Not gonna lie... a bit of a fan of your work too so I got excited when I saw your request 😅
You sat curled up in the corner chair by the window at the motel room, knees pulled to your chest, earbuds in. The afternoon light filtered through the grimy glass, casting shadows across the parking lot below. Another town, another motel, another day of pretending this was normal.
Sam was sprawled across one of the beds, surrounded by lore books and his laptop, supposedly researching the next hunt. Dean had gone out for food, which meant you were stuck here with Sam on what your eldest brother probably considered "babysitting duty." Never mind that you were fifteen and could handle yourself better than most adults. You'd been raised the same way they had—salt lines, shotguns, exorcisms. You were competent, capable, and completely alone.
Your music played on, Phoebe Bridgers' melancholic voice filling your ears, and you stared out at nothing in particular. Sometimes you wondered what it would be like to be a normal teenager. To worry about homework and boys and what to wear to school dances. To have friends who actually knew your real name, who you didn't have to lie to about everything.
You startled as Sam gently pulled out one of your earbuds. You looked up at him, surprised. He never really bothered you when you were like this—lost in your own world, trying to escape the reality of this life.
"What are you listening to?" he asked.
You blinked at him. "Just... a playlist."
Suspicious now, you handed him the other earbud and watched as he settled onto the arm of your chair. This was weird. Sam didn't usually care about your music. He was always too busy with research or arguing with Dean about the next hunt.
He listened for a moment, his head tilting slightly. "This is really good. Who is it?"
"Phoebe Bridgers." You studied his face, trying to figure out his angle. "Since when do you care about my music?"
"Since now, I guess." He offered a small smile that seemed genuine. "I'm tired of researching anyway. Tell me about her?"
For a moment, you considered brushing him off. But there was something in his expression—actual interest, not just the polite attention Dean gave you when you talked about things he didn't understand. So, tentatively, you started talking. About the artist, about the lyrics that felt like they understood something about loneliness. About why this particular album meant something to you.
Sam listened—really listened—asking questions that showed he was actually paying attention. When you finally wound down, you realized you'd been talking for almost ten minutes straight, and there was a warmth in your chest that hadn't been there before.
"You know," Sam said carefully, "I was thinking... this hunt Dean's planning, it's pretty straightforward. Salt and burn. We don't really need three people."
You tensed immediately, defensive. "I can handle it."
"I know you can. That's not what I meant." He paused, and you watched him choose his words carefully. "There's a bookstore in town. Independent place, supposed to have a really good poetry section. I thought maybe... we could skip this one. Let Dean handle it. Go check it out instead."
Your heart did a little flip, hope and disbelief warring in your chest. "Dean would never—"
"Dean doesn't get to make every decision," Sam interrupted gently. "And honestly? I think he forgets sometimes that you're not just another hunter. You're fifteen. You should get to do fifteen-year-old things occasionally."
"Like go to a bookstore?" You tried to keep the hope out of your voice, but you could hear it anyway. Pathetic.
"Like go to a bookstore. Maybe grab coffee after. You know, stuff that normal siblings do." He bumped your shoulder with his. "I know I'm not exactly the poster child for normal, but I'm probably closer than Dean."
You laughed—actually laughed—and it felt strange and good at the same time.
"Why are you doing this?" you asked quietly, afraid to trust it but wanting to so badly.
Sam was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was soft with understanding. "Because I know what it's like. Growing up in this life. Never staying anywhere long enough to make real friends. Always being the weird kid, the new kid, the one who can't talk about their real life. It sucks."
"Yeah." Your voice came out small. "It really does."
"Dean tries," Sam continued, and you appreciated that he didn't badmouth your oldest brother even when it would be easy. "And he loves you—loves both of us—more than anything. But Dean's been playing parent for so long, I think he just forgets to play the brother part. Someone to talk to about stupid stuff. Someone who gets what you're going through."
"And you do?" You looked up at him, vulnerability making your voice waver.
"I think so. At least, I'd like to try." He met your eyes, and you saw genuine regret there. "I know I've been kind of... distant since I came back. Caught up in the hunting and the research and everything else. But you deserve better than that. You deserve to have someone in your corner who sees you as more than just another hunter or another responsibility."
Your eyes stung with sudden tears. You blinked them back quickly, but not before Sam noticed. He didn't comment on it though, just waited.
"I'd really like that," you admitted.
"Then it's a plan." Sam stood, offering his hand. "Come on, let's figure out how to break this to Dean."
Dean, predictably, was not thrilled.
"A bookstore? Are you serious right now?" He set down the bag of burgers with more force than necessary, and you felt your stomach sink. Of course it wasn't going to happen. It was stupid to hope. "We've got a job."
"You've got a job," Sam corrected, and you looked at him in surprise. He sounded... firm. Determined. "A simple job. One hunter. Maybe two hours of work."
"And what, you two are just gonna go read poetry while I'm burning bones?"
You held your breath as Dean looked between you and Sam. You could see the war on his face—the protective instinct, the need to keep you both close, the belief that hunting always came first. You waited for the inevitable no, already preparing yourself for the disappointment.
Finally, Dean sighed. "Fine. But phones on, check in every hour, and if anything weird happens—"
"We'll call immediately," Sam promised.
"And you," Dean pointed at you, his big brother expression in full force, "stay with Sam. Don't wander off, don't talk to strangers, don't—"
"Dean." Sam's voice held a note of warning. "We've got this."
Dean grabbed a burger, muttering under his breath about irresponsible little brothers and grey hairs, but he didn't argue further.
You couldn't quite believe it had worked.
The bookstore was perfect.
Cramped and dusty, with crooked shelves that looked like they might collapse under the weight of all those stories. A cat slept on the counter, and the whole place smelled like old paper and possibility. Your eyes went wide the moment you walked in.
"Go ahead," Sam said, his voice warm. "Explore. I'll be in the history section if you need me."
You didn't need to be told twice. You disappeared into the stacks, running your fingers along the spines with a reverence you usually reserved for Dad's journal. Here, surrounded by books and stories and words, you could almost forget about monsters and salt lines and the constant ache of loneliness.
You found the poetry section and lost yourself in it. Plath and Dickinson and poets you'd never heard of but whose words seemed to reach right into your chest and squeeze. You gathered books in your arms, not sure which ones you wanted, not sure how many Sam would let you get.
Twenty minutes later, you found him in the history section, and you couldn't help yourself. "Sam, look at this one." You thrust a slim volume at him—local folklore and ghost stories. "There's a whole chapter about that haunted mill Dean mentioned."
His face lit up, and suddenly you were both sitting on the floor between the shelves, books spread around you like treasure. Sam told you about his college literature courses, about professors who made dead poets come alive. He told you about accidentally checking out a demonology book from the university library and having to make up an entire fake research project to explain it.
You found yourself telling him things you'd never told anyone. About the public library in your last town, about the librarian who'd recommended books without asking questions you couldn't answer. About Maya, the girl in your last school who'd invited you to a sleepover.
"I wanted to go so badly," you admitted, your chest tight with the memory. "Even though I knew I couldn't tell her anything real about my life. Even though we were leaving in two weeks anyway. I just wanted to feel normal for one night."
"I know," Sam said softly, and you could tell he really did. "I spent most of my teenage years wanting that."
"Does it get better? When you're older?"
Sam thought about it, and you appreciated that he didn't just give you an easy answer. "I don't know. The hunting doesn't stop. The moving doesn't stop. But maybe... maybe it gets better when you find your people. The ones who understand, who you don't have to hide from."
"Yeah, like Dean. Even when he's being overprotective and annoying." Sam smiled. "And like me, I hope. I know I'm not around as much as I should be, and I know I'm not the most fun person, but—"
"You're here now," you interrupted, and you meant it. "That matters."
Sam insisted on buying whatever books you wanted—all of them, even though you protested it was too much. Then you went to the coffee shop next door, and you ordered something sweet and complicated while Sam got black coffee that you secretly thought tasted like dirt.
"So," he said once you were settled, "tell me about that girl. The one who invited you to the sleepover."
"Her name was Maya. She was really into art, always drawing in the margins of her notebooks." You felt that familiar wistfulness creep in. "We had English together. She said I had good taste in books."
"Did you like her? As a friend, I mean?"
"Yeah. She was nice. Easy to talk to, you know? Or at least, as easy as it could be when I couldn't tell her anything true." You stirred your coffee, watching the foam swirl. "It's hard, keeping up the walls all the time."
"Is that why you left? For Stanford?" The question had been burning in you for a while now, and the coffee and the bookstore and Sam's unexpected attention made you brave enough to ask.
Sam looked surprised but not angry. "Partly. I wanted to see what life could be like without hunting, without all the secrets. I wanted to be just... Sam. Not Sam Winchester, hunter. Just Sam."
You watched emotions flicker across his face—grief, nostalgia, something that might have been peace. "Yeah. Even though it ended badly, even though I'm back in the life... yeah, it was worth it. Because I got to see that there's more out there. That we're not just defined by what we hunt."
You nodded slowly, processing this. "Dean doesn't get that, does he?"
"Dean's complicated. This life is all he's ever known, all he's ever wanted to be good at. For him, hunting isn't just a job—it's family, identity, purpose, everything rolled into one." Sam stirred his coffee absently. "But you're not Dean. And you're not me either. You get to figure out who you want to be."
"While still hunting monsters and living in motels?"
"For now, yeah. But that doesn't mean you can't have other things too. Interests, hobbies, dreams. Things that are just yours." He met your eyes seriously. "And it doesn't mean you have to do this forever. When you're eighteen, if you want to leave—"
"I'm serious. If you want to go to college, get a normal job, have a normal life... I'll support you. I'll help you. Even if Dean doesn't understand."
Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them. "You'd do that?"
"Of course. You're my sister. Your happiness matters more than any hunt." Sam reached across the table, squeezing your hand. His palm was warm and calloused and steady. "I know right now it feels like this is all there is. Like you'll never have friends or a normal life or anything beyond the next case. But there are options. There's a future beyond this, if you want it."
"What if I don't know what I want?" Your voice cracked embarrassingly, but Sam didn't seem to care.
"Then you figure it out. That's what being your age is supposed to be about—trying things, making mistakes, finding out who you are." He smiled. "And in the meantime, you've got me. To talk to, to vent to, to recommend terrible books to."
You laughed wetly. "Your book recommendations aren't that bad."
You sat there until your coffee was cold, talking about everything and nothing. Sam told you about his first day at Stanford, about feeling completely lost in a sea of normal people with normal problems. You told him about the time you'd accidentally used a Latin phrase from an exorcism in history class and had to pretend it was from a TV show you watched.
By the time you headed back to the motel, the sun was setting, and you were smiling. Really smiling. Not the careful, tight expression you wore around Dean, always trying to prove you could handle things. Just... happy.
Dean was already back when you entered the motel room, cleaning weapons on his bed. He looked up immediately, his eyes scanning you both for injuries or trouble in that automatic way of his.
"How'd it go?" Sam asked.
"Bones are burned, ghost is toast. Standard Wednesday night." Dean's eyes lingered on you, on the bag of books you were clutching, on what must have been a noticeable lightness in your expression. "How about you two? Find anything good?"
"So many good things," you said, and launched into an explanation of every book you'd bought, the words tumbling out faster than you could organize them.
Dean listened with that patient expression he always got when you talked about things he didn't really understand, nodding in the right places and asking basic questions. But you noticed the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his expression softened as you talked.
Later, when you were in the shower, letting the hot water wash away the grime of too many days in the same clothes, you realized something. You felt lighter. Less alone. Like maybe, just maybe, you had an ally in this crazy, isolated life.
When you came out, Sam was making a supply run to the car. Dean was still cleaning weapons, but he looked up at you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
"You have a good time?" he asked gruffly.
"Yeah. Really good." You settled onto your bed with one of your new books. "Sam's pretty cool, actually."
"Don't let him hear you say that. It'll go to his head." But Dean was smiling slightly. "I'm glad, kid. You deserve days like that."
You wanted to hug him, to tell him you appreciated everything he did even when he was overbearing and overprotective. But that wasn't really how your family worked, so you just smiled back and opened your book.
Sam and Dean returned together a few minutes later, and you looked up from your reading. Sam caught your eye and winked. You grinned back, and something warm settled in your chest.
"Hey," Sam said, settling onto his bed. "Tomorrow, if we're still in town, you want to go to that record store I saw on Main Street? Bet they have more Phoebe Bridgers."
Your face lit up. "Really?"
"The hell I am," Dean protested, but he was smiling.
You laughed, and for the first time in forever, the motel room didn't feel quite so suffocating. The hunting wouldn't stop, the moves wouldn't stop, the loneliness wouldn't magically disappear. But maybe you had something now that you hadn't had before.
A brother who saw you. Who understood. Who cared about more than just keeping you alive—who cared about keeping you whole.
"Thanks, Sam," you said softly.
"Anytime, kid. That's what brothers are for."
You turned back to your book, but you couldn't stop smiling.
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