ŕźdescription: As Sam is dealing with his addiction to demon blood and Dean fearing his brother is becoming a monster, no one checks up on you. Especially with these weird changes happening. Winchesters x Fem! Sibling Reader
ŕźa/n: itâs been so hard uploading lately and honestly I kinda feel like utter shit fighting with grammar and formatting as always not edited
ŕźWARNINGS: body gore, inspired by the movie Black Swan, vomiting, burning, cuts, blood, body parts melting like heat melting
The first feather appears on a Tuesday. You don't think much of it.
Honestly, compared to everything else happening in your life, a random black feather isn't exactly worth panicking over.
You find it caught in the sleeve of your worn down jacket while Dean drives and Sam pretends to read in the passenger seat. You flick it away and forget about it. At least, you try to. It was probably just some stupid misplacing its grooming techniques.
Then another appears.
And another.
And another.
By the end of the week you've found six.
All black.
All identical.
All showing up where they shouldn't.
Inside your backpack. On your motel pillow. Tangled in your hair. Tiny ones under your fingernails. Every time you find one, a strange feeling settles in your stomach. A warning. A feeling that something is very, very wrong.
But nobody notices.
Dean's too busy watching Sam's every move with paranoia. And Sam's too busy hiding things. So you keep your mouth shut. Like always.
ââąŕźťđĽ¸ŕźşâ°â
The coughing starts a few days later.
At first it's minor. Just a tickle in your throat. An irritation kinda like the beginning of strep throat.
Something easy to ignore. And curable with hot tea and steaming.
Then one morning you wake up feeling like your lungs are filled with broken glass.
Every breath hurts. Every inhale burns. Every exhale rattles your bones.
You spend ten minutes bent over the motel sink trying to catch your breath. The force of the cough was so strong it had left you hunched over, pushing your vertebrae to stick out against your skin.
When you finally emerge from the bathroom, Dean barely glances up from his lukewarm coffee.
"You sick?"
You force a smile.
"I'm fine. Just some allergies."
Dean nods.
"Well pick up some claritin on the way over."
Then he immediately turns to check on Sam.
It was September. Maybe the bees were also pollinating your lungs as well, leaving their stingers right next to your heart. A reminder of them in the winter.
ââąŕźťđĽ¸ŕźşâ°â
The first time you see the cuts, you almost screamed - key word almost.
You're changing clothes after a hunt when you catch sight of your reflection on the dirty motel mirror.
For a second your brain can't process what you're looking at.
Then realization hits. There are marks on your back. Long. Deep. Jagged.
Running across your shoulder blades. They look like claw marks or lizard skin. Except they're perfectly symmetrical. As if someone drew them there with a ruler.
You twist around. Trying to get a better look. Pain shoots through your back.
The skin feels tight. Tender. Almost stretched to its brim.
Like something underneath is pushing outward.
You don't tell Dean.
You already know how that conversation goes.
âLater, Y/N.â
âNot now.â
âWe're dealing with Sam.â
Everything is Sam. Sam and his stupid demon blood causing him to lean into the possession of Ruby. Dean hated her. But at least he would talk to her, unlike you.
Lately it feels like you're disappearing.
Standing right in front of them and somehow being invisible.
ââąŕźťđĽ¸ŕźşâ°â
The next symptom terrifies you.
You catch your reflection in a gas station bathroom.
For half a second your eyes red.
Not bloodshot.
Not irritated.
Glowing. As the retinal veins filled with neon and burst in your frames of view, penetrating your iris.
A bright crimson flash. Your pupils began to open towards the liquid streaming down your eye ball. As if your eyes became cherry slushies in a matter of seconds.
Then they're normal again.
You stumble backward.
Your heart pounding.
"No."
The word comes out as a whisper.
You grip the sink.
Stare into the mirror.
Wait for it to happen again.
It doesn't.
But the fear stays.
Growing.
Spreading.
Poisoning every thought.
Because you know someone else whose eyes do strange things.
Someone else who was fed demon blood as a baby.
Someone else who's becoming less human every day.
Sam.
ââąŕźťđĽ¸ŕźşâ°â
The thought follows you everywhere.
Maybe you're like him.
Maybe Azazel chose both twins.
Maybe you're just finding out later.
Maybe you're turning into something awful.
You start noticing similarities.
Sam gets headaches.
You get headaches.
Sam has nightmares.
You have nightmares.
Sam's changing.
You're changing.
It makes sense. Too much sense.
And the more you think about it, the more convinced you become.
ââąŕźťđĽ¸ŕźşâ°â
Then the feathers start coming up. Again.
One minute you're brushing your teeth.
The next you're doubled over the sink coughing so hard tears blur your vision.
Something catches in your throat.
You gag.
Choke.
Spit into the sink.
And freeze.
A black feather sits in the white porcelain.
Covered in blood.
For a moment the world stops.
You stare.
Unable to breathe.
Unable to move.
Unable to think.
The feather shouldn't be there. You shouldnât even question why it is coming within you instead of outside. This is not normal.Â
Nothing about this should be possible. Sure, you lived in the supernatural world, but you weren't part of it yourself. This couldn't be real.
Yet there it is.
Real.
Proof that whatever is happening to you is getting worse.
ââąŕźťđĽ¸ŕźşâ°â
You stop sleeping after that.
Every night you wake gasping.
Covered in sweat.
Your back burning. Your lungs aching. The cuts stretching wider every day.
And nobody notices.
Or maybe they do.
Maybe they just don't know what to do.
Dean spends every waking second worrying about Sam.
Following Sam.
Arguing with Sam.
Trying to save Sam.
Sometimes you want to scream at him.
Sometimes you want to grab his shoulders and shake him and shout:
LOOK AT ME.
I'M FALLING APART TOO.
But you never do.
Because Dean already looks exhausted.
And because part of you is terrified of what he'll find if he actually starts paying attention.
ââąŕźťđĽ¸ŕźşâ°â
The breaking point comes three weeks later.
You're sitting alone in a motel room when Sam walks in.
He immediately notices something is wrong. He has for a while now, he just never grew the courage to say it until now. (Especially with Dean being gone.)
You look awful.
Your skin lacks color.
Dark circles sit beneath your eyes.
Your hands won't stop shaking.
"Y/N?"
You look up.
"What?"
His forehead wrinkles.
"You look terrible."
You laugh.
A harsh, bitter sound.
"Thanks."
"I'm serious."
You look away.
For some reason that hurts.
Because Sam noticed.
Sam noticed before Dean did.
ââąŕźťđĽ¸ŕźşâ°â
Later that night, after another coughing fit leaves blood staining your shirt, Sam approaches you quietly.
He's holding a flask.
You already know what's inside.
Demon blood.
The thing Dean hates.
The thing Sam swears helps him.
The thing that's slowly destroying him.
"I think you're like me," Sam says softly.
Your stomach drops.
Because you've been thinking the exact same thing. For weeks. For months. The only difference is Sam got to beat demons and you ended up feeling like one. It wasas if you got the other end of the deal.
"I know."
Sam sits beside you.
For a moment he's just your twin.
Not Lucifer's vessel.
Not the chosen child.
Not the boy carrying the weight of the apocalypse.
Just Sam.
Your brother.
The boy who used to hold your hand during thunderstorms. The boy who always shared his snickers. The boy who once punched a bully for making you cry.
"It helps," he says.
You stare at the flask. "If it helps you..."
"Maybe it'll help you too." He finished your sentence.Â
You don't want to do it.
Every instinct in your body screams not to.
But you're desperate.
You're scared.
And most of allâYou want this nightmare to stop.
So you take the flask, and drink.Â
The second it touches your tongue, you know you've made a mistake.
Pain explodes through your body. Not discomfort. Not nausea.
Fuckin pain. Pure. Blinding.Agony.
The flask slips from your fingers and crashes onto the motel floor.
You barely hear it. Your ears are ringing. Your heartbeat is pounding so loudly it drowns everything else out.
"Y/N?"
Sam's voice sounds far away.
You clutch your throat.
It feels like you've swallowed fire. Actual hell fire.
Like molten metal is burning its way down your chest. Molding your insides to steel beams.Â
"Sam..."
The word comes out broken. Barely audible.
Then your knees hit the carpet.
Hard.
A scream tears from your throat. And suddenly Sam is beside you.
"Y/N!"
Your entire body convulses.
The pain spreads. Down your neck.
Across your shoulders. Through your ribs.
Every nerve feels like it's being ripped apart.
Something hot crawls beneath your skin.
You look down.
And your blood runs cold.
Golden cracks are spreading up your arms.
Thin lines glowing beneath your flesh.
Like sunlight trapped under your skin.
"What the hellâ"Another scream cuts you off.
The motel room blurs.
Your vision doubles.
Triples.
The cuts on your back feel like they're splitting open.
Something pushes against them.
Something enormous.
Something trying to get out.
"Dean!" Sam shouts.
"DEAN!" He shouts again, and as if teleportation became a reality, the door slams open so hard it nearly flies off its hinges.
Dean storms inside.
"What happened?!"
Then he sees you.
And freezes.
For one horrible second nobody moves.
You lie crumpled on the floor.
Shaking.
Crying.
Barely conscious.
Smoke rises from your skin.
Actual smoke.
The air smells scorched.
Burn marks spread across your arms and neck. Your skin begins to melt off your bone and mold into lumps of molten lava. Almost as if your skin began to wrinkle like a pig in a fryer.
The carpet beneath you is blackening and rising with thick smoke.
Dean's face loses all color.
"Y/N."
You hear it.
The fear in his voice.
Real fear.
The kind he rarely lets anyone see.
The kind that instantly makes you feel six years old again.
"Dean..."
Your voice breaks.
Another wave of agony slams into you.
You scream.
Dean is beside you immediately.
One hand gripping your shoulder.
The other brushing your hair back from your face.
"Hey."
His voice shakes.
"Hey, hey, look at me."
You try.
You really do.
But everything hurts too much.
"Dean..."
"You're okay."
The lie is automatic.
You both know it.
Dean looks up at Sam.
"What happened?"
Sam looks sick.
Actually sick.
Like he might throw up.
"I gave her some."
Dean frowns.
"What?"
Sam swallows.
"Demon blood."
The room goes silent.
For a moment Dean simply stares.
Not understanding. Not processing. Then realization hits.
His eyes widen. "You did what?"
"I thought she was like me!"
Dean stands so fast the lamp rattles.
"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR DAMN MIND?!"
Another scream tears out of you.
Both brothers immediately snap their attention back.
Your body arches off the floor. The cuts on your back split wider. Blood soaks through your shirt. It was as if teeth with chomping away the flesh of your back and replacing the once smooth flesh with flakes of crisp bone.
Dean's heart nearly stops.
"Y/N!"
The motel lights begin flickering.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
Off.
On.
Then every light explodes at once.
Glass rains from the ceiling. The television shorts out. The mirror shatters. The windows crack. A morning dove's cry could be heard within the blended screams.
And for one impossible secondâthe entire room fills with white light.
Blinding.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
Dean throws an arm over his eyes.
Sam stumbles backward.
The walls shake.
The floor trembles.
And behind youâ
For the briefest momentâ
Something appears.
Massive.
Brilliant.
A silhouette made entirely of light.
Wings.
Huge marbled wings.
Stretching from one side of the room to the other.
Then they're gone.
Just like that.
The light disappears.
The shaking stops.
And you collapse.
Motionless.
Silence.
Nobody breathes.
Nobody moves.
Dean stares.
His mind refusing to process what just happened.
"Y/N?"
Nothing.
He reaches for your pulse.
His hand shakes.
"Come on."
Nothing.
Fear settles heavily in his chest.
Cold.
Sharp.
Familiar.
He remembers another hospital room.
Another impossible loss.
Another person he couldn't save.
"No."
His voice cracks.
"Come on, kid."
Still nothing.
The panic starts rising.
Fast.
Dangerously fast.
Because Y/N isn't supposed to be the one lying there.
She's supposed to be stubborn.
Annoying. Rolling her eyes. Arguing with him. For everything good in the world, she was supposed to be making fun of his haircuts and sideburns, not on the floor waiting for door dashed reaper.
Notânot this.
Never this.
ââąŕźťđĽ¸ŕźşâ°â
The familiar flutter of wings echoed through the motel room, but this time it didn't bring relief.
Dean spun around, ready to snap at Castiel for appearing unannounced as usual, but the words died in his throat the moment he saw the angel's face.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Over the years Dean had seen Castiel experience just about every human emotion imaginable. He'd seen him furious enough to start wars, confused by humanity's simplest habits, determined enough to rebel against Heaven itself, and burdened by guilt so heavy it nearly destroyed him.
But fear?
Dean had never seen Castiel afraid.
Not once.
Yet that was exactly what he saw now.
The angel's eyes immediately found Y/N's unconscious form sprawled across the motel floor. His expression tightened as he took in the burns crawling across her skin, the blood staining her clothes, and the black feathers scattered around her like the aftermath of some impossible storm.
For a moment, Castiel simply stared.
Then the color drained from his face.
"What happened?" he asked quietly.
Dean pointed toward Sam.
Sam looked sick enough to collapse.
"I gave her demon blood."
The words hung in the air.
Castiel's gaze shifted to him so slowly that it made Dean's stomach twist.
"Why?"
Sam swallowed hard. "I thought she was infected too. I thought she was like me."
The silence that followed felt unbearable.
Castiel crossed the room and knelt beside Y/N. His hand hovered over one of the burn marks on her arm without quite touching it. The closer he got, the more troubled he seemed.
"You thought she was like you, Sam," he said.
It wasn't a question.
It sounded like an accusation.
Sam's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of it.
"Isn't she?"
For a moment Castiel said nothing.
His eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again there was something exhausted in them, as though he were carrying knowledge he had hoped never to share.
Dean immediately hated whatever answer was coming.
Finally, Castiel looked up.
"She was never infected."
Dean frowned.
"What?"
The angel's gaze returned to Y/N.
The hardness in his expression softened into something that looked dangerously close to grief.
"She was never carrying demon blood."
The room fell completely silent.
Sam stared.
Dean stared.
Neither of them understood.
Dean let out a frustrated laugh.
"What the hell does that mean?"
Castiel remained quiet for a moment before speaking.
"When Azazel fed Sam his blood as an infant, Heaven became aware of what he was doing."
Dean's stomach sank.
A cold feeling settled deep in his chest.
"...Go on."
For the first time, Castiel seemed reluctant.
"It means one twin was claimed by Hell."
Dean's jaw tightened.
His eyes immediately moved to Sam.
"And the other?"
Castiel looked down at Y/N once more.
The expression on his face made Dean wish he hadn't asked.
"The other was claimed by Heaven."
The words struck the room like a thunderclap.
For several seconds nobody spoke.
Dean's mind raced through months of memories.
The feathers.
The coughing fits.
The strange wounds on her back.
The flashes of red in her eyes.
The way she always looked exhausted.
The way she kept insisting something was wrong, then backing down saying it was nothing.
The way he'd brushed it aside because Sam's problems had seemed more urgent. I mean, his brother was drinking demon blood straight from the source.
One by one, every piece fell into place.
Not demon blood.
Grace.
Angel grace.
The realization made him feel physically ill.
His gaze dropped to his sister's unconscious form.
She looked so small lying there.
Fragile.
Human.
Yet apparently she had been carrying something impossible inside her for her entire life.
Dean remembered every time she had tried to get his attention.
Every complaint he hadn't listened to.
Every cough he'd ignored.
Every exhausted look he'd failed to notice.
While he'd been watching Sam spiral toward Hell, Y/N had been suffering right in front of him.
And he hadn't seen any of it.
Guilt settled heavily in his chest.
Because for weeks he'd convinced himself he was protecting his family.
But looking at Y/N now, broken and unconscious on the motel floor, all he could think was that he'd failed her.
He should have noticed. He should have listened.He should have been there.
And somehow, the look on Castiel's face told him that none of that was the worst part.
Whatever was happening to Y/N, whatever Heaven had hidden inside her all those years ago, it wasn't over.
In fact, Dean had the sinking feeling it was only just beginning.
â Stars: Dean Winchester x GN!Reader x Castiel (romantic, former), Jack Kline x GN!Reader (platonic - parental)
â Co-stars: Sam Winchester
â Plot: You'll do whatever you have to to protect your son, even if it means leaving behind one of the two people in life who used to mean everything to you.
â Run Time: 1k
â Warnings: angsty angst angst angst, intense & protective anger, grief, betrayal, break-up, doing what's best for Jack even if it hurts everyone, Dean hate (I adore him but these couple of episodes made me hate him)
ę§ Read my rules and send a request! ę§
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You stood in the bunker, back against the wall, cold seeping into your skin through your clothes. You just watched. Dean, screaming at Sam, telling him what monster Jack was, that he didn't deserve to be saved, that he was nothing.
You couldn't fucking take it anymore.
Before you knew it, the rage inside you boiled over. You didn't feel your feet moving until you were halfway across the room. One raise of your hands, one push, and you slammed Dean against a wall.
"What the fuck are you doing?!"
He didn't fight you, he never thought he'd have to, he didn't know how.
Before you could answer, before you could think about what you were doing, your palm stung. Dean looked at you in shock. Unless he was being controlled by some mystical, magical bullshit, you had never hit him before. Once he asked, after he was way out of line, why you didn't just deck him then and there. You told him it was because you never wanted him to feel anything but kindness from you. For you to be his refuge, the only person who would never hurt him.
He should've known you were lying.
Now, you looked at him and all there was inside you was anger. He used to be your calm and your love and the light in this fucked up world, half of it at least. But you just felt a twist in your heart now, one look at his fucking face made your fists clench.
"Stop it" Your voice wasn't anything it had been before.
You had been mad, furious. Never with him, but he'd seen it. The only time you ever scared him was when you were protecting someone you loved, and if he had a few braincells that weren't soaking in a big, wet heap of grief and guilt and hate, he'd see that that's what you were doing now to. Only, this was the first time you weren't protecting him.
"Look, I-"
"No" You shook your head "You've said enough. Listen for once"
You kept your forearm just under his throat, lower now, not pressing against his windpipe but close enough that you could cut off his air at any moment.
"That thing, is a scared, hurt little boy. He's lost his mother, his f-, his father. He's hurt people in a way he has no control over and he thinks one of the only people in this world who might ever give a damn about him hates him. And you threatened to kill him"
Sam's eyes flicked between you and Dean, panicked, not knowing whether to stop you or add fuel to the fire. Neither seemed to be the safest option right now. He was probably right.
"Y'know, it should be enough" You laughed, bitter and dead and wrong "It should be enough for you but it isn't. I love him because he is Castiel's son and that is enough"
You didn't know, but Jack heard you. He sat around the corner, hearing the filth Dean spewed, convincing himself that what he said was true, until you stopped him. You were sweet to him, maybe a little distant, it was to be expected, but sweet nonetheless. He never thought you might love him, or even really care about him, he was beginning to think it was impossible for anyone to love a creature as evil as himself. But somehow, you did. All because of his father. Your Angel.
"So you can hate him all you like, but the mirror is pretty fuckin' clearly showing your own reflection there Dean" You took a few steps back, all anger dropping from your bones, pure truth the only thing left, cold in your voice "But if you lay a hand on my son, I will end you. I promise you that, baby"
You spat out the last word, the last time you'd call him that, and walked off, rounding the corner without looking back.
Easily.
Sam was the one knocking on your door after. Three careful, frighteningly light raps.
"Hey, uhm" He took a step in, your back stayed turned to him "M-"
"I'm not apologising. I meant every word and the same goes for you"
"I know I just- Dean, he's-he's pretty messed up right now. With mom, with Cas, he just-"
"I lost him too, Sam. And if I see Lucifer, I will beat him and stab him and hurt him and burn him in every way imaginable until he kills me. But Jack is innocent"
"I know, I think that too, but-"
Sam stopped, seeing the open drawers of your dresser, the empty space next to Dean's shirts.
"You're not-"
"I am" You turned to face him, eyes red, cheeks dry now "I'm almost finished packing, then I'm taking Jack and we're leaving"
"You can't just-"
"Yeah, Sam, I can"
Dean paused just before your door, coming to fake whatever apology would land you back in his arms by midnight. You weren't dumb, but you loved him too much.
"Please, don't" Sam reached out, hand falling to your shoulder before you shook it off.
"This isn't my home anymore. I can't stay"
"Just give it some time. I-I know Dean can be- he just needs to adjust, cool off a little"
"And what if he doesn't? I lose a son and both of them? I can't do that, Sammy. Just can't"
You stepped past him, halfway to the door.
"If you walk away, you're gonna lose Dean for good"
"I lost him the moment Lucifer drove a blade through our lover's heart. He's gone, Sam. He's not coming back and I don't want to put myself and Jack through what's left, we deserve better. He does"
"Fine" Sam conceded, you could hear that little hint of betrayal in his tone "But you walk out that door, and you're not welcome back"
"Wasn't plannin' on making the round trip. Done it one too many times already"
Taglist for all of my Supernatural writing - 49 + more in reblogs!
Iâm kinda curious, in the bugs episode in early season 1, when Dean told Sam that John went by Stanford whenever he could, Iâm wondering if it was really Dean going by Stanford to check on Sam.
Genuinely I donât see John doing that. Especially now that Iâve ventured further into the show; thatâs just not at all Johnâs character. Itâs more deans to have been the one doing it but telling Sam that it was John just to save his face.
pairing fratboy! rafe cameron x kook!sororitygirl! reader
rating explicit 18+
summary when rafeâs friends bet that he canât charm you into sleeping with him, he canât say no to the challenge. he has no idea that you decide to make a game out of his advances. you have a secret bet to win, too. and youâre determined to break his heart.
< prev
Your sorority house is bright, crowded, and covered in pink decorations. Once Rafe steps into the Valentineâs Day themed party, he realizes just how stupid it is to be here. But after a month of replaying that conversation in the parking lot, a month of silence between you since then, he couldnât turn down the opportunity to see you again.
You had real feelings. You admitted to regretting hurting him. To liking him. Itâs why heâs here, stubbornly hopeful that youâll find that spark again, because what you two had after you gave up on your stupid bets was too good for him to forget about.
He moves deeper into the house with Mac and Cooper, scanning the crowds. A few nights ago, heâd had too much to drink, and he didn't tell them everything, nothing about your bet, but he did admit to them that he actually liked you.
It was awkward. Mac slapped his shoulder, told him heâd get over it. Cooper made a joke, teased that the whole point of the bet was to not catch feelings. It was the typical response heâs used to, being told to man up. All he had left to do was pretend it didnât hurt.
They find a pocket of space and Rafe leans against his wall, trying to ground himself, when he sees you. Youâre near the kitchen doorway, laughing with someone, unbothered and looking impossibly beautiful in a short white dress. His fingers curl against his palm.
Mac notices him zoning out. He follows Rafeâs eye line, then huffs a quiet laugh when he sees who Rafeâs staring at.
âBro, thereâs a million other girls,â Mac says. âAt least fifty in this house. You gotta quit acting like sheâs the only one.â
âSheâs got you whipped,â Cooper adds, grinning.
Rafe ignores the pain in his stomach, the anger rushing into him, and just laughs it off, the way heâs supposed to, the way heâs expected to.
Mac shifts his weight, glancing between Rafe and you across the room.
âItâs really over over, huh?â Mac asks.
Rafe knows heâs asking if he should try again, if thereâs something left to salvage. But they donât know all of it. And then, he remembers Macâs voice from the start of the bet. She hates you.
âYou were right,â Rafe says, keeping his tone light. âShe hates me. So, who you gonna strike out with tonight?â
Mac shoves him and Rafe laughs, relieved the attention is off of him, glad that he can still fake being okay when he needs to.
ăťăťăťăťăť
âI just heard some gossip about you,â Jada says quietly, approaching you as the crowd shifts around her.
Her words make your stomach tighten. It hits the same nerve Rafe pressed when he told you what people say about you, how you donât have feelings.
âI donât want to know,â you laugh, but it comes out thin.
âI was eavesdropping over there.â
She tilts her head toward the front of the house. You follow her gaze.
Rafe is leaning against the wall, standing with the same two guys heâd told you had bet him to sleep with you. Youâve felt his eyes on you all night. Youâve been drawn to him since the moment he walked in, but youâve refused to give in. Youâve never had to have this much self-control over a guy before.
âHis friend said heâs whipped for you,â Jada murmurs.
âHm,â you say flatly.
Itâs clear that Jada knows youâre only acting like you donât care. After everything you told her, every late night where you sat on the edge of your bed, frustrated and hurt, asking her to physically take your phone away from you so you wouldnât text Rafe, she can read you easily.
And funny enough, despite how messy the situation was, she roots for you two. She said that it was obvious something real had begun between you, that sometimes two wrongs do kind of make a right.
âAnd then that other guy was like, is it really over?â she continues. âAnd Rafe said it is because you hate him.â
You shrug, taking a sip of your drink.
âDo you?â she asks, her brows raised.
âHeâs still hanging around the same guys who made a bet on me,â you reply.
âDonât you still hang out with the friends who made the bet on him?â she asks.
âCan we not do this?â you laugh, used to her stubborn optimism.
Your eyes drift over to Rafe. You donât hate him. You hate what you did to each other.
Admittedly, you were thinking about approaching him tonight. Even after everything, part of you still wants him anyway. At a safe distance.
Impulse has never been your strong suit, and when it comes to Rafe, itâs even worse.
ăťăťăťăťăť
As the night drags on, you eventually cross paths in the crowd. Rafeâs close enough that you can smell his cologne, close enough that you donât want to pretend you donât feel the pull.
Without thinking, in your tipsy state, you tug lightly at the sleeve of his dark blue t-shirt. He looks over, his expression losing its tension, and he leans down to hear you over the music and the crowd, dipping his head closer.
âYou didnât even try,â you say, looking up at him.
âHuh?â he murmurs, a tiny smirk pulling on his lips, heart pounding now that youâre talking to him.
You look stunning, but all he can think about is how much he prefers to see you like he did the night he came over, when you were barefaced and wearing nothing but a t-shirt. Thereâs something different about your beauty then, when youâre comfortable and unguarded.
âYou didnât even try,â you repeat, and gesture around at the pink, red, and white decorations scattered across the house. âThereâs a theme.â
The tension between you is so thick and so familiar, the kind of heaviness that can only come from two people who admitted they had feelings for each other and then gave up anyway.
Rafe licks his lips, shaking his head just slightly, accepting the fact that even after a month of no contact, you pull him in effortlessly.
âYou lookâŚâ he starts, voice low.
His gaze drifts over you slowly, and suddenly, it makes you feel exposed. Heâs looking at you like heâs thinking about everything you admitted to, and itâs instinct to pull away when you feel this vulnerable.
âI know,â you say self-assuredly. Then, you pace past him, deeper into the crowd, slipping back into how it was before, when you kept him at armâs length.
Thereâs a sharp twist in your chest as you walk away, because no matter how many hard feelings you still carry, the gravity between you and Rafe hasnât gone anywhere.
You can feel it. Youâre sure he can, too.
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Itâs a Friday in midâMarch, and the air is cooling, the tide rolling over the sand as the sun sets.
You and your friends spread your blankets out in a circle. You're glad you came home for Spring Break, even though youâve spent the whole week noticing that Rafe hasnât been around.
He mustâve gone far away. You shouldnât care, shouldnât wonder if heâs talking to someone else. Youâve never felt jealousy like this before, but thatâs just more proof of how heâs completely changed things.
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The beach is nearly full when Rafe gets there with his friends. He stands apart from them as they sit down, staring out at the water.
He almost didnât answer when his mom called yesterday. He thought of what youâd told him, that someone who can leave their family doesnât deserve a space in their life. But he picked up. And she told him sheâll come back to the island soon for his birthday. Just to see him and his sisters.
Itâs been haunting him. And as if he doesnât have enough on his mind, he hears you before he sees you, that genuine laugh of yours that used to love. He scans the crowd ahead until he finds you sitting with your friends.
It feels like it used to, back when you silently circled each other around Kildare, oblivious to how easy things would be if you just had a genuine conversation. If things were different, if youâd just started this organically, youâd learn just how much you have in common, how joking and talking together can last hours but feel like minutes.
He hates this. The one time he felt a girl could actually understand him, she was only with him to hurt him.
He wasnât harsh enough with you for what you did to him, but he couldnât let his temper snap the way it usually does.
Normally, heâd lose it, scream at someone for doing something like that to him, but he couldnât bring himself to raise his voice at you. Because thereâs something about you that softens him. And he hates how powerless he is to it.
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As night falls, the tide keeps pushing everyone back, higher and higher up the beach. The sand is crowded now, bodies everywhere, music thumping.
You and Rafe end up shifting into the same open patch of sand. Heâs sitting, but youâre standing, and he sees you rub your bare arms, the wind colder now that the sun is gone.
He hasnât spoken to you since Valentineâs Day. You told him this was over before that, and he decided that if you wanted him, youâd come to him like you did at that party. He swore he wouldnât go out on a limb again. But then he sees you cold, and he canât pretend he doesnât care.
Everyone around both of you is talking and laughing. No one is looking. And he lets himself listen to his instinct, once again losing control when it comes to you.
Rafe stands up and steps toward you. His button-up is loose over his t-shirt, and he pulls it off.
You finally see him standing beside you, towering over you. He holds the overshirt out, his hand brushing your arm.
With everyone drunk and distracted, it feels like the whole party disappears, like itâs just you two, the tide pushing you into the same space. Like this, like you and him, are inevitable.
âHere,â he murmurs.
The reflex to protect yourself and shut him out crashes into you. You almost say you donât need it, but the feeling of looking in those blue eyes again cracks you open. Itâs something youâve been starving for.
âReturning the favor?â you say softly, reminding him of the night you offered your sweater to clean him up after that fight.
A small smirk tugs at Rafeâs lips, like heâs reminiscing about it too, about everything that came before. The expression fades as quickly as it came.
You take his shirt, and even though itâs thin, when you pull it over your arms, it offers you a familiar warmth.
âYou wannaâŚ?â Rafe murmurs, nodding behind you, toward the dunes. You nod at the invitation to find privacy and slip away with him, the cool night air carrying the salty smell of the ocean, your shoes sinking into the sand.
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Seconds later, you settle in the cool sand, sitting side-by-side, half-hidden by the dunes.
The distant party thunders ahead. Rafe notices how good it feels to see his shirt on you, to know youâre more comfortable now. He always liked this feeling, of taking care of someone. Heâs spent most of his life feeling replaceable. This gives him value.
âHow are you?â he asks.
âItâs been a quiet week,â you say. He canât tell if thatâs good or bad. âYou?â
âYeah, me too.â
âWhereâd you go for the break?â
âNo where. Just stayed at school.â
âOh.â Youâd been so sure heâd escaped somewhere far away. âMakes sense, I guess.â
Rafe just looks at you, waiting for you to continue. And for a second itâs like you forget that you have so much history between you. His eyes look so soft, his lips so inviting. But you donât give in. You canât.
âI mean, you do kind of hate it here, donât you?â you add.
He rubs his hand over his mouth, gaze turning towards the dark water. Being home always drags him back into the parts of himself heâd rather outrun, to the memory of his mother leaving, and the fact sheâll be here again in a couple of weeks.
âWhat?â you say when he doesnât answer.
Rafe doesnât see why heâd open up to you when you rarely open up back. Sitting here with you feels good in the moment, but youâll just walk away again, and heâll be left with nothing but a hollow feeling.
Heâs not even sure why he pulled you away. Except he is. Itâs because youâre a habit he canât break.
He exhales, eyes flicking to his shirt on you.
âYou look better in it than I do,â he murmurs, changing the subject.
âDoes that mean I can keep it?â
âYou want to?â
Itâs a simple question, but itâs not at the same time. You know heâs asking about whether you want to keep a reminder of him. And you donât know how to answer that without giving yourself away.
âIf I look good in it, then yes,â you say, trying to play it off.
Rafe breathes a half-hearted chuckle, his expression dimming with disappointment. You hate that it gets under your skin. So, you swallow hard, and let yourself be honest.
âHey, I⌠I donât hate you,â you say. âI heard that you think that. But itâs not true.â
Rafeâs jaw tightens. He wants to ask where you heard, then decides against it. It doesnât matter. He misses you, and itâs good to hear you donât hate him, but it hurts just as bad to know you could never love him, either.
He only nods and doesnât meet your eyes. The ache in your chest deepens. Even though what he did hurt you, you think you hurt him more.
You wonder if he still wants something real with you. After what you did, maybe he doesnât. But either way, you know you canât give him that.
Your father leaving ripped something out of you. It left you trapped, gave you a fear of being seen for who you are and of being abandoned for it. You wish you could fix it, but what if you canât, and what if Rafe ends up being the one who pays for it?
You exhale, and you reach for the only escape you know. Distraction.
âWhen are people going to realize we donât need three different songs playing at the same time?â you say, shaking your head as the music overlaps at the party ahead.
Silhouettes move in clusters in the sand under the night sky. Itâs a representation of exactly what your life here has always been: surrounded by other Kooks who have nothing to do but party.
Rafe canât help but smirk when he recognizes that annoyed look on your face, the adorable way your eyes narrow.
He wants to say how pretty you are, but he wouldnât be able to take the rejection, so he says, âYou sure youâre not the one who hates it here?â
You catch yourself scowling and laugh. And Rafe revels in it. He should be used to it, being the exception for the girl whoâs known as cold, for making her laugh when she usually only offers glares, but it still feels so good. It always will.
As you continue to talk and make jokes, it starts to feel like the dynamic you once had. Itâs an easy backâandâforth that you only get with him.
Eventually, you realize youâve been gone far too long. Your friends will wonder where you disappeared to, but most of all, you canât let yourself get too comfortable here.
You pull off the overshirt and hand it back to Rafe. It felt so good, letting him take care of you, being so close to him again, but itâll all just make you want him more, miss him more. And you canât want him, because youâve spent years building walls you donât know how to take down.
It feels cruel to let him believe in something youâre still afraid of. The guilt settles in your chest. He deserves more than your uncertainty.
âI should get back,â you say. âMy friends are gonna start worrying.â
Rafe takes the shirt, fingers brushing yours, watching you stand and dust sand off your shorts.
âWhatâd you tell them?â he murmurs.
You meet his eyes in the dark, and you realize heâs asking what you told them about your bet. About his. It used to annoy you, the way heâd pry, but now you can see heâs just trying to understand you.
âThat I didnât go through with it,â you admit, gazing at him as he sits under the moonlight, the wind stirring his hair, brushing it across his forehead. âThat things just⌠fizzled out.â
You pause and look away, still not used to this kind of vulnerability. But thereâs something too special between you to let him believe a lie, to let him think youâre as emotionless as pretend you are.
âI didnât want to admit that I got hurt,â you say, voice thinning out.
Thatâs when Rafe gets that itâs not just him you keep at a distance. Itâs everyone.
He watches you leave, the sound of the waves filling the silence you left behind.
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Itâs the first weekend of April, only an hour into the frat party, and youâre already exhausted. Studying for finals has taken a toll on you. You donât want to ruin your friendsâ fun, so you let them know youâre going home and rush away before they can protest.
The main reason you came was because you knew Rafe would probably be here. Itâs his fratâs party, after all. You can admit you miss him. He gives you a feeling nobody ever has.
But you havenât seen him. And maybe thatâs for the best.
You slip out the front door, the same doorstep where he spilled his drink on you that night in October. The memory flashes through your mind, how angry you were, especially once he asked if you were always so sensitive. Itâs ironic, because heâs the one whoâs shown just how deeply he can feel.
You recognize his baseball hat first. Rafeâs sitting on the top step of the porch, broad back to the door, elbows on his knees, a beer bottle dangling from one hand.
Now that you see him, you tell yourself you should just walk past him. Mostly because you know his birthday was a few days ago. It came up in one of your many conversations a while back, and you havenât forgotten the date.
You almost want to avoid him, because you feel bad for not sending him a happy birthday text. But it felt too weird and sentimental and vulnerable to do it.
As you stare at him now, though, feeling just how much your chest warms simply from being a few feet away from him, you donât think you can ignore whatâs been tugging at you any longer.
Before Rafe, you were used to living with an emptiness inside of you. It was tolerable, but impossible to escape. And then this temperamental, funny, frustrating, complex man made you actually want to put your guard down. Heâs shown you what life can look like when you let someone in, even just a little.
Giving into this feeling goes against every instinct you have, but standing here now, you know youâd rather feel something, even if itâs pain, than nothing at all.
Rafe feels the step shift beside him, and he turns his head right away, and when he sees you sit next to him, itâs like his heart stops.
You look so pretty. It's insane how itâs been weeks and he canât stop thinking about you. He keeps telling himself to move on from the girl who told him whatever this is was over, but something's clearly wrong with him.
He first sat here with a hollow feeling in his chest, but itâs gone now that youâre here.
âIs this a new habit?â you ask over the sound of the muffled bass, over the groups of students chattering as they walk down the street.
Rafe looks at you, the planes of his face sharp in the porch light.
âBailing on parties to just⌠sit somewhere?â you add.
His dimples flash as he huffs a quiet laugh.
âWhat, you keepinâ tabs on me?â he teases.
âItâs hard not to when youâre out here looking so lonely," you play along.
It stings him a little to hear that, but it also makes him feel kind of wanted that you noticed.
âIâm good,â Rafe says, because admitting the truth is admitting that he wants you, and the last time he did that, you told him you donât want him back.
You interlace your fingers in your lap, steadying yourself, deciding to finally say it out loud, to show him you care.
âHow was your birthday?â you ask.
Rafeâs head lifts. He wasnât expecting you to remember. What happened that day has been sitting heavy on him, mostly because he let himself hope it would be different this time. He feels stupid for it.
He looks at you, at the way youâre actually listening, and he answers honestly because if anyone would understand this kind of disappointment, itâs you.
âMy mom was supposed to visit,â he says.
A pang sinks into your heart. Clearly, she didnât show up.
âWhy didnât she?â you ask.
He shrugs.
âSaid she couldnât make the timing work.â
He hates that heâs still hurting over this. He should be used to people not showing up for him by now. And itâs fucking with him how before his mom hung up to tell him she wasnât coming, she told him she missed him. If she really did, then where the hell was she?
But he keeps that part to himself. Because he remembers that night in the poolhouse, how coldly you asked if he expected you to feel sorry for him, and even though youâre looking at him with so much compassion right now, your eyes softened, he canât say it.
You nod slowly, feeling the sadness heâs trying to swallow like itâs your own. You realize youâd take your dadâs silence over the kind of hope his mom gives him any day. At least you know not to expect anything.
âThatâs a bad excuse,â you reply.
Rafe shakes his head, rubs his thumb over his knee.
âI shouldnât give a shit,â he says with a humorless laugh, then takes a swig of his beer.
Your lips twist. Youâve spent so long hiding from feelings, but now, you can understand that bravery isnât shutting emotions out. Itâs letting them in. Heâs shown you that.
âCaring isnât a bad thing,â you say quietly.
Rafeâs eyes harden a little. Youâre being kind, but only from a distance, because youâre always at a distance, and knowing that leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
âIt is to you,â he replies, his temper slipping through.
You inhale and look away. His truthful words dig into your heart.
For a second, Rafe thinks youâre going to leave. The thought is bittersweet, because he loves how it feels to be near you, but he knows the ache that will come later, just like the one you left after you walked away from him on the beach.
âBecause IâmâŚâ you begin, forcing a weak smile. âIâm messed up.â
Itâs the closest youâve come to admitting it, that youâre so emotionally shut out because youâre convinced something is broken inside of you.
âSo what?â he responds. âSo am I.â
You like that he doesnât try to prove you wrong. Heâs seen the ugly parts of you, and he knows better than to pretend they arenât there. Itâs something you appreciate about him. Thereâs no sugarcoating.
âYou have it in you to still try to trust people,â you say, meeting his gaze. âI donât.â
His eyes search yours, and itâs almost unbearable how exposed and bare you feel right now.
âWhy not?â he scoffs, sharp, like he still believes this is fixable. Like youâre fixable.
âWhy do you want to know so bad?â you reply with the same tone.
âWhy donât you let me?â
âBecause I think you think you like me,â you say. âBut if you really got to know meâŚâ
You swallow down the threat of tears. The painfully honest words feel wrong in your mouth and every instinct tells you to leave, but Rafe is your weakness. Youâve accepted that now.
He squints in disbelief. He never imagined that what held you back wasnât him, but you. The realization hits hard, that maybe it was never his fault for not getting through, but yours for never letting him. And thatâs crazy. Canât you see how happy he is when heâs with you?
He remembers you telling him it was when he came to your room after that phone call with your mom that you chose to let the bet go. From that moment on, whatever was between you wasnât an act.
âYou forgot about it after that day in your room, yeah?â he asks, brows furrowing.
The memory turns in your mind. He didnât say the word bet, and youâre thankful for it. Hearing it now would hurt too much.
You nod, remembering that cloudy Sunday morning, remembering staring at him as he sat on your bed and making the decision that you werenât going to try to break his heart anymore.
âYou werenât faking anything after that,â he mutters, eyes locked on you. âI know you werenât. I did know you. I do. And I stillâŚâ
He huffs, looking down at his beer, jaw tightening. You watch his hard profile, your pulse pounding in your ears.
âYou stillâŚ?â you breathe.
âYou already know,â he says, resigned.
And you do. He still wants you.
And thatâs all you needed to hear.
Something breaks open inside of you, every remaining bit of control you had shattering and falling away. You lean in and guide him closer, your fingers brushing over his jaw. He doesnât fight it, his head turning towards yours beneath your touch, letting you press an impulsive kiss to his lips.
Rafe kisses you back, hard, his beer bottle landing on the concrete with a dull thump, his hands finding your face, feeling himself grimace with relief, with pain. Your mouth is soft on his, your skin warm, the sounds of your breath so utterly perfect. Everything about you is so damn perfect.
You pull back, gazing at him, your hands slowly dragging down to his shoulders.
This all started with a ridiculous bet that was never supposed to mean anything. But why should that matter now? Youâre always looking for excuses, always finding reasons to run. And that makes you just like your father, just like everyone whoâs ever walked away. Selfish, hurting someone who doesnât deserve it.
You take a breath, realizing how many times Rafeâs been the one to open up first, to tell the truth, to risk something. Even after everything, he still wants you. And you still want him.
You donât want to live in the past anymore, expecting pain and abandonment. You need to take a risk. And heâs worth it.
âIâve spent my whole life trying not to care,â you tell him, his hands still cradling your face, steadying you. âItâs always been so much easier to pretend I donât feel anything. And it got to a point where I really didnât. But then, I met you.â
Rafe takes you in, takes in how even the small things about you undo him. His pulse is thundering, hope blooming as you speak.
âI hate how this started and how we lied to each other,â you say, âbut Iâm still glad it happened.â
He sees your lip tremble and his hands shift to take yours, resting on your lap. Heâs used to you looking confident and unbothered and untouchable, but now, he sees total uncertainty.
âI want to be with you,â you confess. âI donât know how to do this, but I⌠want to try. Do you?â
For a second, Rafe canât breathe. Hearing you say those words makes the ache thatâs lived in him for so long soften.
And for the first time, he feels wanted, chosen, and itâs by a girl who sees him in ways no one else ever has. He always thought he was too soft, pretending he didnât care just like you always did, but you saw it all, every part of him, and you still want him anyway. You still want to take this risk, even though youâre terrified.
And this is something heâs been waiting his whole life to feel. For once, he doesnât have to be tough or loud or anything forced.
He leans in. This kiss is different. It feels like both of you let go of the tension thatâs been holding you apart as your lips meet. Itâs slow, gentle, like youâve reached the end of a race and both made it.
You pull away, eyes meeting his, your thumb tracing the edge of his hand. You can feel the pulse in his wrist. Itâs going just as fast as yours.
âYeah,â he murmurs, and it makes you laugh, because the way he just kissed you was more than enough of a confirmation that he wants this, too.
You share a smile. This still feels scary, but youâve spent so long bracing for disappointment, and now, you know this is the start of something you can have hope in.
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The early evening sunlight filters through your bedroom window as you get ready for Rafeâs house party.
Ivyâs sprawled across your bed, scrolling on her phone, already ready, while Alayna touches up her makeup at your vanity. Youâre standing at your closet when your phone loudly buzzes on your dresser.
You cross the room to check who texted you.
You almost here? so boring without you.
You grin at Rafeâs message before you can stop yourself.
âI wonder who that is,â Ivy teases.
You look over at your friends, caught smiling, and roll your eyes.
âWhatever happened to Iâm not interested?â Alayna adds, an obvious callback to what you said months ago, when youâd sworn Rafe wasnât your type.
âEnough,â you laugh, waving them away. Youâve gotten used to their teasing. Itâs all still new to you, liking a guy this much, and being committed to him.
After that night on the porch, you and Rafe have been inseparable. You stayed out there talking for so long that your sorority sisters eventually left the party and walked right past you. Once Jada saw you, she had a big smile on her face when she said, âThought you were going home?â
Later on, you told her, and eventually Ivy and Alayna, all about how this thing with Rafe turned into something you never saw coming.
Now that youâve finished the school year and reached summer, youâre back in Kildare, but it feels like you returned as a different person.
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Rafeâs out back, leaning against the railing, the breeze lacing through his hair. His homeâs main-floor deck faces the beach, and heâs laughing with his buddies, but his eyes keep flicking toward his house. Youâd texted that you were on your way a few minutes ago, and heâs been distracted since.
His friends knew better than to give him shit when he told them heâs with you. He could tell they were surprised, but smart enough not to say much about him being with the girl with your reputation.
He spots you the second you step out onto the deck through the open doors with your friends, and your eyes find his.
Rafe closes the distance between you. He knows not to be too touchy in front of people. In the month youâve been his girlfriend, heâs seen the way affection in public makes you stiffen. So, all he does is pull you into a quick, easy hug, then he steps back again.
âHey,â he says, voice low. The warm smile you give him makes his chest tighten.
âJust steal her already,â Ivy sighs.
You chuckle at your friendâs comment. Theyâve all gotten used to it, the way you and Rafe tend to disappear at these gatherings, and eventually come back again. Thereâs no bitterness behind it. They like seeing you happy.
You gesture towards the house and tell him, âAre you not going to offer me a drink?â
âSo demanding,â Rafe teases, but his gaze is full of affection. You chuckle and as you walk in with him, his hand brushes yours.
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Like always, time with Rafe slips away. The minutes blur in the packed house as you lean against a wall together, tucked away in your own private world.
As you talk, your eyes drift up the wall along the staircase. Family photos are in neat square frames, representing his and his sistersâ lives growing up here. Youâve been in Rafeâs home before for parties, but never got close enough to study the photos. You never cared to.
Now you do. Now you want to know everything about him.
In one of your late night conversations, heâd told you about his dad, about how he never felt good enough for the man. And even though Rafe is so much bigger and taller and stronger than you, youâve developed a fierce protectiveness over him. Itâs like you wish you could save him from every time he was told he was too sensitive.
The protectiveness flares when someone drunkenly bumps into him, hard enough that if Rafeâs drink was still full, it wouldâve spilled.
âWatch where youâre going,â you snap before Rafe can even react.
âSorry,â the guy responds, hands up in the air as he stumbles away.
Rafe looks down at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He kind of loves seeing you mad. Itâs a reminder that you donât let anyone get away with anything, that youâre sharp with every other guy, but not him. Most of the time.
âYouâre not going to kick him out for that?â you half-joke.
âYou looked like you were about to take him,â he says.
âI probably could,â you reply, eyes following the guy as he disappears into the crowd. When you look up at Rafe again, you notice that intense look of his, the one that looks like heâs trying to figure you out, the one youâve grown to love.
âWhat is it now?â you sigh playfully, used to his staring.
Rafe licks his lips and looks down. Heâd kiss you right now if he could, but the last time he tried that in public, he felt you tense up.
Itâs hard not to take it personally. But he knows thereâs more to it, because thereâs always been so much more to you than you let on.
âToo many people around for me to kiss you, huh?â he says, because like always, he canât stop himself from saying whatâs on his mind to you.
You still, then shake your head with a sympathetic smile. He nods like he understands, but you can see the hurt anyway.
Sometimes, it scares you. Rafe eases into affection, while your instinct is to guard yourself. Itâs not natural for you to be openly affectionate. Youâve spent years being the girl no one can get close to because softness is something you never want people to see in you.
âItâs just not my thing,â you explain.
âI get it,â he says, eyes dropping to your empty cup. âYou want another?â
You appreciate him trying to play it off. Thatâs one of the things you like about Rafe, that even with all his intensity, heâs never been forceful with you. He can be overwhelming. Everyone knows that about him. But he gives you space.
You gaze up at him as he towers over you, waiting for your answer, your heart knocking against your ribs, the crowdâs noise thudding around you. You do want him to kiss you. Just not here.
âActually, letâs go upstairs,â you say. âI want to see your room.â
Rafeâs expression softens, and when he leads you up the stairs, you slip your hand into his. It catches him off guard, especially after youâd just pulled back from affection, but mostly, it just fills him with a warmth nobody else can give him.
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Rafeâs bedroom at home is like what you saw in his dorm room. Itâs lived in, but neat.
Your breath steadies after the long walk upstairs as he shuts the door behind you. Through the cracked open window, you can hear the slow, rhythmic hush of waves rolling in and pulling back again.
You turn to face him, standing in the middle of his room, watching him as he steps towards you.
âItâs just new to me,â you murmur as he stops inches away from you, the mix of cologne and detergent and beer drifting off of him. âBeing a girlfriend.â
Rafe sees that concerned look on your face. You used to be impossible to read, but now he can really see you and heâs grateful for it.
âWhatâs wrong, baby?â he says with a teasing lilt. âYouâre doinâ great.â
You nudge his shoulder and he chuckles, pulling even closer to press a kiss on your lips. He pulls back an inch, his gaze searching yours.
âI can tell you want me to be moreâŚâ you begin, then shrug. âI wish I could kiss you in front of people without feeling awkward about it. Itâs just hard being so⌠open.â
Rafeâs forehead creases. He likes these moments, the ones where you share a piece of yourself.
âI donât need that,â he tells you, voice low.
âYou want it, though,â you reply.
His gaze softens, the tension in his jaw easing as he brings his hands up to cradle your face.
âI already got what I want right here,â he rasps.
Your heart twists in the gentlest way. Itâs still unfamiliar having someone treat you with such tenderness, reassuring you.
Itâs why you havenât gone past kissing since that night on the porch, when you decided to try for a relationship. The thought of sex with him, with someone you really care about, with someone who could break your heart, has been intimidating.
But as you stand here, held by him, heat curling in your stomach, thereâs nothing else youâd rather do.
Rafeâs knees weaken a bit when you cup the back of his neck to pull him closer for another kiss. The second he tastes your tongue, his muscles tense with arousal, with desire, with a heat heâs never felt with anyone else.
His blood burns when your hands move lower, your fingertips dipping below the hem of his t-shirt, your warm palms dragging up his stomach. You start to push up the fabric, and he does the rest, tugging the shirt off, guiding you backwards the second it hits the floor.
You meet eyes when you pull back and reach his bed, gazes locked as you shift to lie down on your back. Rafeâs stare is heavy, lustful, but most of all, thereâs a desire in it that almost overwhelms you. He wants you so badly.
Heâs already drunk off pleasure when he watches you start to pull off your top. He takes the cue to help you, tossing it away, lowering onto the bed.
Your bodies press together, skin on skin, heat on heat, kissing again, deeper and harder. Heâs been waiting for this for so long, giving you the distance you needed, and now, the elation of feeling you pull him in with such impatient desire consumes him.
Your hands trail down his firm back as you shift to spread your legs, giving him the access to grind against you. You breathe into each otherâs mouths once you feel each other, his hardness, your warmth.
He moves to his knees to give himself space to pull down your skirt. You tilt up your hips so he can slip it down your legs, leaving you in your bra and panties. He pulls off his pants, eager to put his weight on you again.
Rafeâs lips are on your neck once heâs down to his boxers, mouth hot and wet and sucking, as you lace your fingers through his hair, tightening your legs around him.
You writhe against him when he peels off your bra, his mouth dropping to your breasts, kissing and teasing, leaving your chest wet from his tongue, leaving you feeling utterly worshipped.
You push down the band of his boxers, but you canât reach low enough to pull them down.
âOff,â you whisper impatiently. Rafe smirks against your skin, then nods.
Finally, you see all of him when he peels the boxers off, your breath quickening. His eyes are on yours as he shifts to open his nightstand, the wrapper of the condom crinkling. With only your panties left between you, he presses his fingers to your heat as he hovers over you, nose nudging yours.
âYou want it?â he rasps, needing to hear you say it.
âYes,â you breathe, back arching. He rubs circles, teasing you, before he finally pulls down your panties.
He takes a few seconds to just stare at you, absorbing every beautiful part of you, before he holds himself at his base to pull the condom on. He shifts to lie over you again, propped up on his knees, kissing you softly.
This is how it should be. How it should always be. Wrapped up in Rafe, enveloped in sheets that smell like him, listening to his breath and yours. Nothing has ever felt so right before.
Rafe is slow when he enters, stretching you out with hard, but mindblowing pressure, guiding himself in until heâs completely inside you.
He stays like this for a moment, because he canât remember if heâs ever felt this complete before. He loves you, heâs known that for a while now, and feeling you so tight and hot around him, like you were made for him and he was made for you, makes him certain if he wasnât already that anything in this world, anyone in this world, is nothing compared to you.
He pulls his hips back slowly, starts to drive in and out, earning your soft moans and the feeling of your nails digging into his back. You wrap your legs around him, hooking your ankles, feeling him hit that spot over and over and over again, the bed creaking, your groans interlacing.
You hold each other like you might lose each other, but within this moment, youâre not worried about that, about not being enough, about being left behind. Because this is unlike anything youâve felt before. This isnât just physical, and you know that for sure when Rafe pulls back to look at you with pure adoration.
Your gazes are locked, and they stay that way until you both reach your climax, consumed by euphoria, by happiness, by peace.
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You donât bother getting dressed. You slip under Rafeâs sheets. He returns from his ensuite wearing his boxers, and he smiles when his eyes land on you.
His skin is still flushed as he settles next to you under the sheets, resting his head on the same pillow. You lie on your sides, facing each other, a shared blissful daze heavy in your gazes.
And you get it. Doing this with emotion attached is different. Itâs better. Even with the vulnerability that comes with it. Youâve never been the type to cuddle, but the mere thought of not having Rafe like this pains you.
You reach forward to rest your palm on his cheek, to rub your thumb over his skin, and he canât help but close his eyes. You might not always be affectionate, but when you are, itâs like a drug.
âKind of sucks that Iâve been missing out on that for so long,â you murmur.
Rafeâs lips stretch into a grin, dimples dipping into his cheeks.
You realize that youâd once said that as a part of the bet, lied to him about wishing youâd spoken sooner. At that point, you didnât think you could ever like him for real. Now, youâre falling.
âOnly kind of?â he says, lids slowly lifting. He shifts closer to you, his arm on your waist.
âIâm trying to keep you humble,â you reply playfully.
âWell, stop,â he says.
âFine,â you laugh. âIâve really been missing out. It actually pisses me off.â
Rafeâs chuckle warms you from the inside out. His fingers trace up your spine, then he splays his hand over your back and pulls you in even tighter, until you canât possibly get any closer together.
âMe, too,â he tells you. âThanks for giving me a shot.â
You tuck your head under his neck, cheek against his shoulder.
âThanks for wanting one,â you respond quietly.
He canât fathom you thinking he wouldnât want you. But he knows now how hard it is for you to accept someone choosing you. Someone staying. And he gets it because heâs lived in that same place for a long time, too.
Rafe kisses the top of your head, and then, his words slip out.
âI love you.â
You shift to lift your head and look at him, your heart skipping. And you realize right now, fully and entirely, you trust him. You trust that he means that. That heâll stay. That even though he has all the power to break you, he wonât.
âI love you, too,â you tell him. Itâs crazy how easy it is for you to say.
Rafe kisses you again and you feel so free, as if all the ways you used to guard yourself to have control actually controlled you, and theyâre gone now.
Youâve never been so happy that both of you decided to accept a silly bet, because ultimately, thankfully, this is where it led you.
Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader - formerly Sam Winchester x reader
Summary: you and Dean get a little closer, hidden feelings come to light.Â
An: finally something for my Dean. Iâm in a bit of a Dean phase rn I canât even lie, like Iâve been absorbing so much Dean content as of late so hereâs to that. Definitely gonna do a part three where they finally⌠yk.
wc: 1.9k - Dean Masterlist - part 1
You left home.
The change had been simple at first. You had cut Sam from your life in the ways that mattered. That was every way.
You supposed it was because you had accepted a long time ago that you and Sam weren't meant to be. That maybe the budding feelings you've had for his brother was the universes fucked up way of ruining the small family you had.
It hadn't. It had just opened your eyes to the bigger picture.
You were at a park, sitting on a bench watching the lives of men, women, and children who hadn't been tainted with the knowledge of too much.
You sighed, pulling your knees to your chest, praying that the approaching footsteps weren't who you thought they were.
"You ever plan on comin home?" Said a familiar voice that you had come to miss. You shrugged your shoulders. "Didn't know if I was still welcome." You replied.
Dean takes a seat next to you. You can feel the warmth of his body even through the layers of clothing he insists looked sexy.
He snorts "please. Sam and I say worse things to each other on a daily basis" he tries to comfort. You knew he wasn't truly aware of your inner turmoil.
You shook your head, looking at him, he looked like he hadn't been sleeping, and drinking too much, even for him. "I meant what I said Dean. Sam and I⌠were done. I think we have been for a long time and just refused to accept it."
Deans eyes connect with yours, his eyebrows were drawn and the frown on his face deepened. "Sam loves you"
You laughed bitterly "he left me Dean. Over and over. Would you do that to⌠someone?" 'To me' is what you meant, but you couldn't say it.
Deans expression didn't waver, but his anwser came immediately "I'd take myself out before I willingly leave⌠someone I love" 'before I willingly leave you' is what he meant but couldn't say. "I'd- I'd like to say Sam would do the same⌠but-" he couldn't finish his sentence as if finally accepting what you already had.
You swallowed harshly, understanding perfectly "right"
"Right"
 You went home with him. Against your better judgment you did.
You looked around the bunker cautiously, not ready to face Sam and the final acceptance that comes with it.
Dean noticed the caution on your face "He's not here. Left out this morning for a hunt. Shouldn't be back for a few days."
Your body visibly relaxed. What Dean refrained from telling you, was that he made Sam go because he knew you were less likely to come home if he was there.
You looked at Dean, who looked just a few pounds lighter. "Thank you for bringing me home" you said, giving him a soft smile before taking off to your room.
You spent the rest of the day there.
You were in the middle of making your bed when a knock sounded at your cracked door. You looked over and it was Dean, pushing the door open further, his apron on and a plate in his hand.
You raised your eyebrows, he cleared his throat "I uh- figured you were-" he gestured at your new change of clothes "decent, since your door was open" his ears reddened
You smiled "lucky you" you mused.
He gave a small smile, "yeah⌠well I made you dinner. Know you like my burgers so I fired up the grill" he held out the plate to you.
You walked towards him, grabbing the plate noticing how he kept the burger meat seperate from the bun and all of the toppings to the side because you hated soggy burger buns.
"Thank you Dean." You said, the smile on your face growing. "I- did you already eat? Or can I join you?"
"Uh no, I was gonna watch a movie in the Dean cave, you can join if you want." He offered.
You nodded "yeah of course"
That's how you spent the night, Dean, a snack bowl he had prepared (with the hopes of you joining him) and a cowboy movie.
You spent half of it giggling at deans dramatic but accurate reinactions of the movie.
The next half you spent asleep, head in deans lap. He had moved you because your head kept slipping from his shoulder.
His heart sank and soared at the sight of you in his lap. On one hand, the guilt from the feelings that had been eating him alive for years was gnawing at him more than ever. Sam's his brother, he'd do anything for him.
But in the other hand he couldnât deny that his brother didn't deserve you. The woman that picked him up after every fight, the one who stayed beside him even after he'd done something to humiliate her (yet again) the woman he kept proving would never be the one for him.
Dean couldn't fault you for leaving Sam. Hell he'd prayed for the day that you realized he wasn't it for you. Selfishly he prayed for the day that you looked towards him with eyes that looked at him like he hung the stars and moon for you. Because he would.
Of all the things in the world Dean would do anything for you. Anything. Even if it came down to it- betraying his brother.
He tuned out the galloping sounds coming from the tv, focus set solely on you. His thumb caressed your jaw, holding back from saying everything his heart pleaded of him.
Three words and eight letters. Except he couldn't say them, not out loud. Not to you.
 You woke up in your bed, your mind immediately reminded you of last night. You smiled to yourself at the content you felt.
It had been a long time since you felt that. Content. Not worrying yourself to the ground wondering if the man you loved truly loved you back. Now it didn't matter.
You slipped out of bed, quietly making your way to the kitchen to put coffee on. Your foot tapped impatiently, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing before realizing you needed a mug.
You moved towards the cabinet where the mugs were kept, groaning in irritation when you noticed the mugs far too out of your reach. "Seriously?" You muttered.
"Need a hand?" Deans voice infiltrated your ears. You turned around, eyes locking with Dean who looked at you with raised eyebrows.
You nod, stepping back. Dean brushed past you, effortlessly grabbing a mug and placing it in your hand. He glances as the coffee maker "enough for me?" He asks. You nod, he turns to grab one for himself.
"You always bring me back." you spill randomly.
He looks at you, confused and intrigued "what do you mean" his eyes narrow in the way they always did when he was trying to decipher something.
His gaze was heavy on you, like you could physically feel the weight of it. It made your heart flutter, the familiarity of it.
You turned away from him, opting to pour your coffee than watch his reaction to the words about to spill from your mouth. "When Sam messes up. Or when he decides that I'm no longer needed in the next chapter of his life. It's never him to come pick up the pieces" you explain as the coffee fills the cup.
Dean was caught off guard. Of course he knew that. Because something in him. Some sick and twisted part of him kept hoping that one day its be him that you come home to.
"Why?" You asked
'I'd be better for you. I bring you back because even with Sam I can't do this without you. I don't wanna. I want you to hurt anymore but I can't sit and watch you go.' It's what his heart said.
"Because you deserve better" was what slipped out. His gaze stayed heavy on your back, the weight almost felt like a plea. For everything and nothing at the same time.
Please let me down easy.
Please give yourself to me.
You placed the mug down on the counter, letting out a breath "I need more than that Dean. Tell me the truth." You knew there was more. You felt it and you knew he did too.
"I- look at me. Please" Dean softly demanded. You turned to him, his eyes were softer, shoulders sagging, body looking like it was half in, half out.
He moved closer to you, "I- I bring you back because I need you here." His hands grab yours " even if I can never have you, even if you're Sam's-"
"I'm not"
"Doesn't matter. You were and I can't have you because of it. But I'd rather have you around than not at all."
Your vision blurs, tears filling your waterline. "You can have me. For once be selfish." You pleaded with him. Dean closed his eyes, forehead leaning against yours "you still love Sam" he tells you.
You shake your head ready to object but he cuts you off "and even if you don't. You're off limits to me."
"I don't have to be" you muttered "he's your brother, but where was he when you were In purgatory? While I spent night and day trying to find you? In bed with another woman. One he loved."
Dean pulled away from you, he looked shocked. As if you had burned him. "You looked for me?" He asked breathlessly.
"I never stopped."
In the blink of an eye he was on you. His lips pressed against yours and for the first time ever your world seemed at peace. You moaned into his kiss, your hand moving to the back of his head and tangling in his hair.
"Thought you forgot about me" he muttered against your lips. You whined in response because how could he possibly think that? "I could never." You promised.
Deans tongue danced with yours, both of your breathing harsh and heavy against the others skin. It was so wrong, but it felt so right.
Dean grabbed your hips, pulling you as flush with him as possible. He pulled away from the kiss, his lust blown eyes connecting with your own "I need you to be mine now" he said. His eyebrows were pulled together and he looked two seconds from dropping to his knees.
He wasn't going to beg you. Not verbally. And even if he did, you didn't need to. The second you realized that Dean was the one, months before he'd returned from purgatory, you knew.
Your lips brushed against his, "I've been yours" you whispered back. Dean smiled, connecting your lips once again he pulled you tighter "damn right"
You could feel his touch travel through your bloodstream, it sparked feelings in you that you didn't know where possible. The touch, smell, and feeling of him made you feel like you were floating.
However, that all came crashing down when the sound of a clearing throat interrupted you. You killed away from Dean, looking towards the sound.
There he was, back two days early from his trip. Sam stood in the doorway, looking between you and Dean who made no effort to separate further than you already had.
Sam's jaw clenched "you weren't kidding" he said.
You shook your head "nope. How does it feel?" Your expression cold and hardened. You stepped towards him "I hope it hurts. I hope it shatters you. Maybe then- you will know a fraction of that hurt you caused me. Over and over again."
Sam's looked utterly crushed. His eyes connected with deans who's expression was as unreadable as it always was.
He looked back at you there were now tears in his eyes.
Iâm such a harsh gatekeeper, my family and I were playing âguess the show by the theme songâ and I was winning (duh). But supernatural came on and I literally shrank into my seat because the words almost spilled out.
Question! If I posted my Klaus mikaelson x OC here would you guys read it? Sheâs a black girl so heads up there đ¤, but Iâve been kind of wondering if anybody here would read?!????
I WILL keep it out of the x reader tag im just spreading the word as of right nowâŚ
Yes or no
Yes
No
Voting ended on14h
If so put your @ in comments and I will tag you in all future chapters ;)
Summary: Finals are approaching, which means so are the end of semester frat partiesâand for the first time ever, you were invited by a frat bro himself. The only problem? Youâve never even been kissed.
CW: None! âPractice kissâ trope, friends to⌠more, mutual pining, Sam being a jealous, cheeky sweetheart, readers nervous but Sam makes it better (as she stresses him out real bad)
WC: 4.3K
Based on this request!
The highlighter in your hand hasnât moved in at least five minutes.
Its tip sits idly against the smooth paper of your notebook, bright yellow ink bleeding into the next page. Your hand smudges the pen beneath it, ink staining the heel of your palm as it rests over the same sentence youâd abandoned moments ago, before your attention drifted somewhere else entirely.
To someone else.
Sam is sprawled sideways across the plush covers of his bed, one knee bent awkwardly to the side, the other long leg of his hanging half off the edge. He twirls his pencil loosely between two fingers, The Stanford Daily crossword spread open across his thighs, covered in partially finished answers and soft graphite smudges. His fingers tap absentmindedly to the beat of some catchy rock song humming from the radio, his foot bouncing right along with it.Â
Youâd shown up to his dorm to study. And, to be fair, you had been studying. Itâs not out of the ordinary for you to swing by his room when the library gets a little too loudâthe calm, warm sanctuary of your best friendâs space becoming one of your own. Itâs cozy. Comfortable. Watching him do little mundane tasks while you fry your brain with chemical reactions and nuclear physics equations has become, funny enough, one of your most savoured pastimes.
And usually, it works. Keeps you grounded from the mental cyclone that is university. Especially when the pressure of finals is weighing on your shoulders so physically, that youâre pretty sure youâre developing a bit of a hunch. Your chemistry exam certainly isnât about to write itself, no matter how much time you spend in the lab, and if you donât get your head wrapped around the concept of chemoselectivity within the next fourty-eight hours, you can practically kiss your entire degree goodbye.
Metaphorically, of course.
But itâs hard to keep your brain focused on chemical reagents when Samâs right there, worrying his lip between his teeth, wearing the worldâs sweetest thinking face, and blissfully oblivious to the chaos silently unfolding in your head. A chaos that currently consists 40% of organic chemistry, and 60% oh my God, his mouth.Â
âHey.â His eyes shift to yours, pencil pausing mid-spin. âWhatâs an eight letter word for âemphasizedâ?â
The question, breaking the silence, makes you raise your brows. Your highlighter finally slips from your loose grasp, rolling between the pages of your open notebook, leaving behind a wobbly, bright yellow line behind that youâll probably complain about later.
âUh,â you buffer, blinking at him. âAsserted?â
He makes an affirming sound, one that makes your heart flutter far more than it probably should, before he shakes his head.
âMmm⌠should start with an S.â He scribbles it out quickly, his eraser moving in slow, lazy strokes. The radio crackles on the mellow chord of a guitar intro, the beginnings of something by Nirvana, but it only catches your attention for a second before your focus drifts back to Sam. Sam, twirling that pencil that looks so tiny in his unfairly large hands, staring intensely at the crossword like solving it will reveal the secrets of the universe.
He chews on the inside of his lip as he thinks, pulling the corner on sharp canines, and for a second too long, you canât tug your gaze away. You trace the moles dotting his face, the shape of his mouth, the soft bow of his lips, the pink hue highlighted by the warm lamp lightâŚ
And by the time you snap out of it, heâs already looking back at you. Not just glancing this time, but holding the contact. His messy hair falls over his forehead, casting a soft shadow over his sweet face, while the lampâs glow catches in his dark pupils. He blinks slowly, tilting his head slightly, the same way a dog might when they hear something strange, before he speaks gently.
ââŚYou okay?â
Caught.
You freeze for a suspiciously long beat, staring at him with an, admittedly, pretty dumb expression; but he doesnât press. You purse your lips, debating, before youâre shifting your notebook off your lap, and crossing the small room in two short strides.Â
You sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed, facing him, both of your hands falling into your lap, threading your fingers together as you give them a small, reassuring squeeze.
âActually, I⌠thereâs something I wanted to talk to you about,â you say quickly. âYou heard of that party tomorrow night after the football game, yeah? Tomâs frat?â
Samâs brows furrow for a blink, before he softens. He lowers the newspaper slowly, setting it to the blanket beside him without looking away. His eyes turn full on attentive, damn him, the same look he wears when you ramble about something stupid, or ask him a million questions after lectures. The one that really means Iâm listening, even though youâre definitely distracting me.
âYeah?â he says simply, voice low and steady.
You swallow, gaze dropping to your hands as you squeeze them together, Samâs eyes following suit. He saw that. He always does.Â
âWell⌠Chris from physics asked me to go,â you tell him quietly. âWith him.â
Sam doesnât move. Not a muscle. Not even that little crease between his brows that always forms when heâs processing something tough, or that tick in his jaw that always shows when heâs frustrated. Just⌠nothing.
âAnd⌠I dunno, Iâm justânervous? I guess?â
For the first time since Samâs met you, the girl who borrows his hoodies without asking, who falls asleep against his shoulder during late night study sessions, whose laugh makes him stupidly giddyâhe feels something cold and unfamiliar coil in his chest. Your words play on repeat in his head like a scratched record, one thatâs too loud, too wrong, but is too out of control to shut off.
But he doesnât say that. He never would.
Instead, he swallows, nods, and schools his expression into something carefully neutral.
âOkay, and⌠youâre going?â His voice comes out impossibly softer than usual, but in an almost manufactured, forced way. Careful-soft, the kind of tone people only use when theyâre hiding something. You try not to dwell on it.
âI mean, I think so? Maybe?â you explain, an uncomfortable frown pulling at your lips. One of his own follows.
âYou donât have to. Donât let him pressure you.â
Your jaw tightens as you shake your head, and your fingers tense hard enough to ache. Squeeze.Â
âNo, no heâs notâthatâs not what this is.â You laugh awkwardly, but it dies as quickly as it slips out. âHeâs nice enough for⌠yâknow. A frat boy. Heâs just, bold, and IâŚâ
You trail off, teeth pinching down on the inside of your cheek. Because God, why was this so damn embarrassing? It really shouldnât be, because Christ, this is Sam. But it feels a little like beginning a presentation in front of an entire lecture hall, then realizing you forgot your notecards at your seat.
Your eyes flick back up to Samâs, and something flashes across his face. Something too quick for you to decipher, gone far too fast for you to name. But if thereâs one thing it does well, itâs make your words tumble out before you can catch them.
âSam, Iâve never even kissed anyone.â Heat rushes to your face instantly. âWhat if Iâm, like, awful?â
The room goes strangely quiet.
The radio keeps playing somewhere in the background, guitar humming softly through the speakers, but you become hyper-aware of everything else. Like the sound your palms make when they slide against each other. The slow exhale of Samâs breath. The warm scent of his shampoo lingering in the room. The way heâs looking at you.
Or, the way heâs staring at you.
Because of all the things he expected you to say, that wasnât even in the top ten. Nopeâwasnât even in the ballpark. Completely left field. Not about the party, or Chris, or his boldness. He knows all about that. But the sinking, twisting feeling in his gut was bracing for something else. For you to tell him that you liked Chris. Really liked Chris. That this conversation would shift to how excited you are. That heâd have to smile and nod as you gush, pretending that it doesnât feel like a knife was jammed between his ribs.
But instead, you say that, staring at him like heâs the only person who can ease your nerves, and that? That just makes his chest ache in a whole new way. Because oh, oh fuck, he just hates how much the selfish, guilty part of him likes it.
His gaze softens, just a fraction. Not into something you can pick apart, not yet anyway, but some of that tension leaves his shoulders. Slowly, carefully, he turns to face you more fully, reaching his hand out to nudge your clenched fingers with his own, forcing them to relax.
âOh, câmon,â he tries, voice coming out lighter than his chest feels. âYou wonât be awful.â
At that, your face does something a little stupid. Your nose scrunches up like youâve just smelt something terrible, your hands lifting to scrape dramatically over your face, a whiny, pathetic sound slipping from your lips. Peering through the spaces between your fingers, you catch Samâs expression cracking. Something like warm, fond amusement breaking through the mask in a dimpled grin.
âEveryone I know has said their first kiss sucked,â you deadpan. âI mean, you told me yours was barely a peck, and then you spilled soda everywhere!â
He cringes at the memory, before leaning forward slightly. Not enough to invade your space, not without asking, but enough to rest his elbow on his knee, cheeks slightly pink from mild embarrassment creeping up his neck.Â
âOkay, maybe mine sucked,â he admits with a shrug, and a sweet laugh. âBut, yâknow. Just keep your elbows away from soda cans, and youâll be just fineââ
âShut up, Sam.â
You roll your eyes, raising two hands to plant firmly on his shoulders. Those broad, muscled shoulders, that you have to pretend not to stare (read: ogle) at. His eyes widen at the contact, his body going a little stiff, before relaxing into the touch. âThis is serious,â you complain, giving him a shake, and he sways like the jostling does anything. It doesnât, not really. He just lets you believe it does.
Heâs holding back a laugh, and you can tell. To his credit, he does an alright job, but thereâs really no denying the way heâs biting the hell out of his tongue.
âIâm gonna ask you something, and I need you to not freak out, okay? Just, think about it. Please.â His face sobers up immediately, shifting into something almost concerned, which really, really doesnât help the nerves licking up your spine. âI wanted to, um. Ask if youâd, uh⌠teach me.â
You swallow.
âYâknow. How to kiss.â
Youâre almost sure Sam stops breathing for a second.
His eyes donât widen. His lips donât part. In fact, absolutely nothing happens to that usually very expressive face of his, which is infinitely more terrifying. Itâs like every neuron in his genius brain fired at once, sent a thousand signals in every direction, before crapping out entirely.
âSam.â You shake his shoulders again, and this time, he forgets to sway. Your fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders, leaving dimples in the soft cotton of his tee shirt. âSay something.â
He blinks, once, twice, before coming back to it. Mostly.
ââŚWhat?â
Your stomach drops like a rock in water.Â
âPlease donât make me say it again,â you croak, words catching in your throat like youâve swallowed thick, sticky syrup. Your brain spiralsâheâs too stiff. Too silent. What if you ruined things? What if he kicks you out? Oh God, what if he never speaks to you again? âI⌠Iâm sorry. I know thatâsâyou donât have to, I mean, Iâd neverââ
âOkay.â
You pause, choking on your words. ââŚOkay?âÂ
Sam nods slowly, his face still really not giving you a whole lot to work with, and that only makes you spiral.
âJustâjust okay?â you sputter, your hands dropping from his thick shoulders to grip the fabric of your pants. Squeeze. Your heart picks up a frantic, erratic drum solo against your ribs. âNothing else? Yâjust blank, and then âokayâ?â
He blinks, the neutral mask finally shattering into something else, something almost defensive. But itâs the Sam-version of defensive, which as it turns out, is a whole lot cuter than it is intimidating. His brows pinch together, forming a sharp crease between them, his nose scrunching as he pulls up his hands in mock-surrender. âWell, yâknow, I⌠you told me to think about it!â
âYeah, well, not like that!â you shoot back, the strange mix of nerves, frustration, and sticky-sweet affection making your pitch pick up a fraction.Â
He winces, something like guilt painting his features. âOkay, okay, sorry. Uh.â He lets out a long, shaky exhale, and you feel it fan over your cheeks. When did he get so close? His shoulders drop with some sort of forced-calm, as his eyes search yours with a sudden, almost startling vulnerability.
ââŚYeah,â he murmurs, the word soft, barely above a breath. âYeah, of course. I mean, if thatâs what you want. Really want.â He pauses. âI mean. Itâs just⌠practice, right?â
You nod, but your throat feels too tight to speak. Right. What you really want. Practice. The words spin and dance around in your head for a moment, echoing on repeat, and thereâs something about the smooth, comforting rumble of his voice that settles your spiraling anxiety into something shallower. Calmer.
ââŚYeah. Practice.â
Sam shifts, closing just a bit of remaining distance between you. His movements are agonizingly slow, giving you every opportunity to pull away, to laugh it off, to change your mind. When you donât, his hand comes up. Those long, warm, graphite-tinted fingers gently take your hand, flipping it over to brush a soothing circle over your whitened knuckles. The touch sends a fresh, electric wave of heat rushing to your face. Damn him.
âWe can stop whenever you want,â he whispers, his gaze dropping to your mouth before flicking back up to your eyes. âOkay?â
âOkay,â you breathe out, your voice coming out far quieter than youâd intended, and he smiles. Itâs small, a subtle tug of his lips, but dimples dent his pink-tinted cheeks in a way that makes your stomach flip.
âRelax for me,â he instructs. âJust a peck first, yeah? Test the waters. Then tell me how you feel.â
He waits for you to nod, then leans in, and nothing could pull you away from him then, not even your pulse threatening to pound straight out your chest. His eyes flutter closed, and it takes you a moment to realize that oh yeah, yours probably should too, and then they do, and then heâs kissing you.
Itâs just a peck. Barely there, exactly like he said.Â
Itâs not like the movies, where thereâs a dramatic swell of music, or fireworks exploding somewhere in the distance. Itâs just Sam. Itâs the familiar, comforting scent of his laundry detergent and the faint, sweet trace of the coffee heâd abandoned on his desk earlier. Itâs the soft, hesitant press of his lips against yours.
But itâs enough to make your entire world feel like itâs tilted on its axis.Â
His lips are softer than youâd imagined. And that only makes you think holy shit, have I imagined this before?, and thatâs a whole new can of worms youâre not quite willing to open up yet. Not when he pulls away, far sooner than youâd like, and you find yourself wishing heâd lingered.
He doesnât go far. Your eyes take a second too long to blink back open, and when they do, heâs already looking at you. Those soft, hazel depths swirling with something so warm that you have to fight the urge to squirm.
âSee? Not awful,â he teases, his big hand squeezing yours where his fingers are still cradling your wrist. ââŚFeelinâ okay?â
âUh-huh, yes. Okay.â You nod, a too-fast, jerky movement, and his eyebrow raises, a laugh huffing from his chest.Â
âRight,â he snickers, and then his other hand is moving. Still slow, still careful, but when it lands on your cheek, you have to fight every urge to lean right into it. But that sounds very non-platonic, and this is normal, friends-teaching-friends, thank you very much, so you resist. ââŚIâm gonna do it again. Just a little more. And you tell me if itâs too much, too fast.â
You nod, and then heâs closing the space againâbut your palm lands flat on his chest, and he pauses. Confusion clouds his face, then concern, a question forming on his tongue, but youâre faster. âWhatâwhat do I do with my hands?â
The brief flash of worry melts, puddles into warmth right along with your heart, as his expression fades back into fond amusement. A faint dusting of pink blooms across his cheeks, across the gorgeous slope of his nose, and he lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, dipping his head.Â
âWhatever you want,â he says, his voice a low, raspy hum that vibrates straight through your palm still resting on his chest. He glances at your hand, then back to your eyes, tilting his head. âOr stay right there. I donât mind.â
When you donât say anything right away, a shuddering breath flowing from your parted lips, he softens. Completely.
âHey,â he whispers, thumb stroking your cheek gently. âHow about⌠you just keep âem where they are. Just like that. And then⌠just follow whatever feels right. Yeah?â
A smile tugs at your lips. âOkay. Yeah.â
This time, when he closes the distance, itâs not as hesitant. He tilts his head slightly, his warm palm gently guiding yours to do the same, and when his lips brush yours, the kiss is different entirely. Itâs no longer a testing, fleeting peck.Â
His lips part slightly against yours, soft and yielding, and for one terrifying, wonderful second, the world narrows down to nothing but the heat of his mouth and the gentle, grounding pressure of his hand cupping your jaw. He has to duck his head to reach you, so you let yours fall back just slightlyâit should be awkward, cramped, but God, itâs really not. He hums, a sound that feels a little like approval (and Christ you hope it was), and then his hand in yours slides away.
Not quickly, or harshly, only the opposite. It never leaves you completely, trailing warm, teddy-bear soft fingertips along your forearm until they dip, circling your waist. Now itâs your turn to hum, and he responds by adding just a little more pressure against your lips. Tilting your face a little further to align with his. Your body sings with the touch, head going all airy, mouth tingling, pulse fluttering, and holy shit, youâre really kissing someone.Â
Youâre really kissing Sam.
Inevitably, your mind starts to reel. How do you breathe? Do you pull back? Is that rude?âbut Sam must feel it in the way a shaky exhale warms his cheek, because his lips part from yours just long enough to drag a breath into your abused lungs. Then heâs right back on you all over again.Â
Yes, your body soars, a dumb, happy sound tumbling into his parted lips, high-pitched and giddy. His thumb dimples into the plush flesh of your hip, his lips popping off of yours. He chuckles, sneaking one more kiss to your cheek.
âAwh,â he coos, heat climbing up your neck. âThat was cute.âÂ
You donât quite have the capacity to tell him to shut his trap, considering that youâre pretty sure your brain tapped out two Sam-kisses ago, but your body moves of its own accord. The arm that isnât smushed between your chests slings around his neck, fingers threading into the messy hair at his nape, and then youâre pulling him in.Â
The enthusiasm at which he reciprocates pushes your body back, but oh, he catches you, strong arm still circling your waist, fingers pressing into your skin. He feels impossibly bigger that way, half-looming over you, broad and steady, never imposing. His neck is fever-hot beneath your fingertips, and you can feel the rapid, fluttering pulse pattering a frantic rhythm at his throat.Â
Heâs feeling it too.
And that, that alone, has a fresh wave of electricity buzzing through your veins. Your mouth parts, instinct taking over, as he swipes his hot tongue along your lower lip. He doesnât push through the seam, not even if your body was begging for itânot yet, anywayâbut that little taste has your fingers tugging softly in his hair. Your body screams closer, closer, closer, your chest pushing against his, all that Sam-warmth of his a very welcome comfort.
âDonât know what you were sâworried about,â he hums, breath hot against your lips. âYouâre a natural, sweetheart.â
The words do something to your stomach, something gooey, something gratifying, a strange mix of heated flush and goosebumps rising on your skin.Â
âYeah?â you purr, Sam responding by pulling you in further, shifting you up-right, letting both hands settle at your waist. Your body smushes so close to his, that you may as well be straddling those tree trunk-thick thighs of his.
In an utterly, completely platonic way, of course.
As it turns out, once you begin kissing Sam, itâs just about impossible to stop. You alternate between pecks and deep, long kisses. Itâs not as sloppy as you imagined, and maybe less⌠wet, but that could just be him. Sam kisses with a force that could be mistaken for passion, or even reverence, sweet and gentle and fuck, the back of your mind just keeps rattling about how right it feels.Â
âYou taste so good,â he breathes, and you mmm-hmm your agreement, unwilling to part too long, just as his tongue swipes across your lip again. Fucking-fuck.Â
âYou planned this, didnât you? Tasteâtastinâ like heaven.â You donât have time to fluster, not with how he mouths at you. All you can do is whine. âSâthat strawberry, honey?â
You donât have the breath to deny it, not when his mouth continues moving against yours with just devastating, sweet enthusiasm. He kisses you like heâs been waiting months, years to do it, and maybe, just maybe, he has. One hand slides up your back, slipping into your hair, tangling with the locks and holding you flush against him as the kiss deepens. It turns heavy, all consuming as you melt into him, a soft, breathy sound escaping your lips. And oh, Samâs done.
His tongue finally, finally slips past your lips, tasting of black coffee and the sweet berry chapstick thatâs smudged against his own mouth. Itâs intoxicating.
Your brain croons, because this, this is it, you realize. It settles that Samâs kisses are the best youâll ever have, and youâll just have to live with that forever.
Screw Chris.
The grip on your waist tightens as he angles his head, deepening the kiss until your mind goes entirely, blissfully blank. You can forget forming thoughts, your brain all gooey and useless in such a perfect way, something you werenât even sure was possible. Itâs heated, slightly messy in the best way, and youâre pretty sure heâs stolen your ability to breathe entirely.
Itâs right in the middle of one of those searing, mind-numbing kisses when your brain, the torturous, unorganized organ that it is, suddenly misfires entirely. A synaptic impulse jumps the gap, and your eyes fly open.
You pull back abruptly, your hands falling to grip his shoulders again as if to steady yourself. Youâre panting, lips tingling, face so hot you feel as though you could melt like ice cream in the middle of summer.Â
Sam blinks, dazed, those sweet, hazel puppy eyes blown wide. âWhat? What is it? Did Iââ
âStressed,â you blurt, breathless, voice carrying just a little too loud through the heavy air of the dorm room.
Sam freezes. His face falls. Hazy warmth clears the way for sharp, genuine concern. Both hands drop from your waist as though he was burned, cupping your cheeks instead, his thumbs brushing below your eyes as he scans your face for any sign of a spiral. âHey, hey, itâs okay,â he soothes. His voice drops into that protective, heart-breaking register he uses when youâre on the verge of a panic attack, or sobbing over some organic chemistry lab. âBreathe fâme, okay? Iâm sorry, we can stop, I shouldnât have pushedââ
âNo, no, Sam, listen,â you interrupt, grabbing his wrists to still his frantic, stupidly-comforting motions. âThe crossword. Eight letters. Starts with S.â
He stares at you. Pauses. Then, slowly, the pieces click into place.
The concern in his eyes dissolves completely, into something so profoundly fond, so overwhelmingly soft, that it almost hurts your chest to see. A slow, dimpled grin spreads across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, as a disbelieving laugh tumbles from his lips, and his forehead drops against yours.
âOh my God,â he whispers, the vibration of his chuckle buzzing against your skin. âYou, Jesus, I have my tongue in your mouth, and youâre thinking âbout the crossword?â
âItâit was bugging me!â you defend weakly, though a smile is already beginning to tug at your own lips. You can still feel the tingle of his. âAnd, yâknow, it fits!â
âUh-huh,â he murmurs, his gaze dropping back to your mouth. The fondness in his eyes darkens, slow and languid, slipping into something more heated. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw one last time. âYeah. It does, sweetheart.â
Before you can say another word, long before you can register his big man-paws sliding back down to cradle your waist, he closes the distance. He shuts you up completely, mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that doesnât feel platonicâand sure as hell doesnât feel like practice.Â
Not at all.
AN: Okay sooo, got side tracked by this adorable ask, oops! Have some sweet, fluffy Stanford Sam (who, Iâve come to realize that you guys absolutely adore. Me too, my friends).
Anyways, should be returning to my roots, writing absolute filth soon, I promise! I just have absolutely no focusing ability recently, lol. Also, side note, the chemistry stuff in here is just stuff I vaguely remember, so itâs probably definitely wrong.
This might just be the MOST ADORABLE FIC IVE EVER READ OH MY GOD!!! I DONâT EVEN HAVE WORDS IM JUST LIKE⌠INJECT IT INTO MY VEINS- FEED IT TO ME FOR BREAKFAST, LUNCH, AND DINNER!!
Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader - formerly Sam Winchester x reader
Summary: you and Dean get a little closer, hidden feelings come to light.Â
An: finally something for my Dean. Iâm in a bit of a Dean phase rn I canât even lie, like Iâve been absorbing so much Dean content as of late so hereâs to that. Definitely gonna do a part three where they finally⌠yk.
wc: 1.9k - Dean Masterlist - part 1
You left home.
The change had been simple at first. You had cut Sam from your life in the ways that mattered. That was every way.
You supposed it was because you had accepted a long time ago that you and Sam weren't meant to be. That maybe the budding feelings you've had for his brother was the universes fucked up way of ruining the small family you had.
It hadn't. It had just opened your eyes to the bigger picture.
You were at a park, sitting on a bench watching the lives of men, women, and children who hadn't been tainted with the knowledge of too much.
You sighed, pulling your knees to your chest, praying that the approaching footsteps weren't who you thought they were.
"You ever plan on comin home?" Said a familiar voice that you had come to miss. You shrugged your shoulders. "Didn't know if I was still welcome." You replied.
Dean takes a seat next to you. You can feel the warmth of his body even through the layers of clothing he insists looked sexy.
He snorts "please. Sam and I say worse things to each other on a daily basis" he tries to comfort. You knew he wasn't truly aware of your inner turmoil.
You shook your head, looking at him, he looked like he hadn't been sleeping, and drinking too much, even for him. "I meant what I said Dean. Sam and I⌠were done. I think we have been for a long time and just refused to accept it."
Deans eyes connect with yours, his eyebrows were drawn and the frown on his face deepened. "Sam loves you"
You laughed bitterly "he left me Dean. Over and over. Would you do that to⌠someone?" 'To me' is what you meant, but you couldn't say it.
Deans expression didn't waver, but his anwser came immediately "I'd take myself out before I willingly leave⌠someone I love" 'before I willingly leave you' is what he meant but couldn't say. "I'd- I'd like to say Sam would do the same⌠but-" he couldn't finish his sentence as if finally accepting what you already had.
You swallowed harshly, understanding perfectly "right"
"Right"
 You went home with him. Against your better judgment you did.
You looked around the bunker cautiously, not ready to face Sam and the final acceptance that comes with it.
Dean noticed the caution on your face "He's not here. Left out this morning for a hunt. Shouldn't be back for a few days."
Your body visibly relaxed. What Dean refrained from telling you, was that he made Sam go because he knew you were less likely to come home if he was there.
You looked at Dean, who looked just a few pounds lighter. "Thank you for bringing me home" you said, giving him a soft smile before taking off to your room.
You spent the rest of the day there.
You were in the middle of making your bed when a knock sounded at your cracked door. You looked over and it was Dean, pushing the door open further, his apron on and a plate in his hand.
You raised your eyebrows, he cleared his throat "I uh- figured you were-" he gestured at your new change of clothes "decent, since your door was open" his ears reddened
You smiled "lucky you" you mused.
He gave a small smile, "yeah⌠well I made you dinner. Know you like my burgers so I fired up the grill" he held out the plate to you.
You walked towards him, grabbing the plate noticing how he kept the burger meat seperate from the bun and all of the toppings to the side because you hated soggy burger buns.
"Thank you Dean." You said, the smile on your face growing. "I- did you already eat? Or can I join you?"
"Uh no, I was gonna watch a movie in the Dean cave, you can join if you want." He offered.
You nodded "yeah of course"
That's how you spent the night, Dean, a snack bowl he had prepared (with the hopes of you joining him) and a cowboy movie.
You spent half of it giggling at deans dramatic but accurate reinactions of the movie.
The next half you spent asleep, head in deans lap. He had moved you because your head kept slipping from his shoulder.
His heart sank and soared at the sight of you in his lap. On one hand, the guilt from the feelings that had been eating him alive for years was gnawing at him more than ever. Sam's his brother, he'd do anything for him.
But in the other hand he couldnât deny that his brother didn't deserve you. The woman that picked him up after every fight, the one who stayed beside him even after he'd done something to humiliate her (yet again) the woman he kept proving would never be the one for him.
Dean couldn't fault you for leaving Sam. Hell he'd prayed for the day that you realized he wasn't it for you. Selfishly he prayed for the day that you looked towards him with eyes that looked at him like he hung the stars and moon for you. Because he would.
Of all the things in the world Dean would do anything for you. Anything. Even if it came down to it- betraying his brother.
He tuned out the galloping sounds coming from the tv, focus set solely on you. His thumb caressed your jaw, holding back from saying everything his heart pleaded of him.
Three words and eight letters. Except he couldn't say them, not out loud. Not to you.
 You woke up in your bed, your mind immediately reminded you of last night. You smiled to yourself at the content you felt.
It had been a long time since you felt that. Content. Not worrying yourself to the ground wondering if the man you loved truly loved you back. Now it didn't matter.
You slipped out of bed, quietly making your way to the kitchen to put coffee on. Your foot tapped impatiently, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing before realizing you needed a mug.
You moved towards the cabinet where the mugs were kept, groaning in irritation when you noticed the mugs far too out of your reach. "Seriously?" You muttered.
"Need a hand?" Deans voice infiltrated your ears. You turned around, eyes locking with Dean who looked at you with raised eyebrows.
You nod, stepping back. Dean brushed past you, effortlessly grabbing a mug and placing it in your hand. He glances as the coffee maker "enough for me?" He asks. You nod, he turns to grab one for himself.
"You always bring me back." you spill randomly.
He looks at you, confused and intrigued "what do you mean" his eyes narrow in the way they always did when he was trying to decipher something.
His gaze was heavy on you, like you could physically feel the weight of it. It made your heart flutter, the familiarity of it.
You turned away from him, opting to pour your coffee than watch his reaction to the words about to spill from your mouth. "When Sam messes up. Or when he decides that I'm no longer needed in the next chapter of his life. It's never him to come pick up the pieces" you explain as the coffee fills the cup.
Dean was caught off guard. Of course he knew that. Because something in him. Some sick and twisted part of him kept hoping that one day its be him that you come home to.
"Why?" You asked
'I'd be better for you. I bring you back because even with Sam I can't do this without you. I don't wanna. I want you to hurt anymore but I can't sit and watch you go.' It's what his heart said.
"Because you deserve better" was what slipped out. His gaze stayed heavy on your back, the weight almost felt like a plea. For everything and nothing at the same time.
Please let me down easy.
Please give yourself to me.
You placed the mug down on the counter, letting out a breath "I need more than that Dean. Tell me the truth." You knew there was more. You felt it and you knew he did too.
"I- look at me. Please" Dean softly demanded. You turned to him, his eyes were softer, shoulders sagging, body looking like it was half in, half out.
He moved closer to you, "I- I bring you back because I need you here." His hands grab yours " even if I can never have you, even if you're Sam's-"
"I'm not"
"Doesn't matter. You were and I can't have you because of it. But I'd rather have you around than not at all."
Your vision blurs, tears filling your waterline. "You can have me. For once be selfish." You pleaded with him. Dean closed his eyes, forehead leaning against yours "you still love Sam" he tells you.
You shake your head ready to object but he cuts you off "and even if you don't. You're off limits to me."
"I don't have to be" you muttered "he's your brother, but where was he when you were In purgatory? While I spent night and day trying to find you? In bed with another woman. One he loved."
Dean pulled away from you, he looked shocked. As if you had burned him. "You looked for me?" He asked breathlessly.
"I never stopped."
In the blink of an eye he was on you. His lips pressed against yours and for the first time ever your world seemed at peace. You moaned into his kiss, your hand moving to the back of his head and tangling in his hair.
"Thought you forgot about me" he muttered against your lips. You whined in response because how could he possibly think that? "I could never." You promised.
Deans tongue danced with yours, both of your breathing harsh and heavy against the others skin. It was so wrong, but it felt so right.
Dean grabbed your hips, pulling you as flush with him as possible. He pulled away from the kiss, his lust blown eyes connecting with your own "I need you to be mine now" he said. His eyebrows were pulled together and he looked two seconds from dropping to his knees.
He wasn't going to beg you. Not verbally. And even if he did, you didn't need to. The second you realized that Dean was the one, months before he'd returned from purgatory, you knew.
Your lips brushed against his, "I've been yours" you whispered back. Dean smiled, connecting your lips once again he pulled you tighter "damn right"
You could feel his touch travel through your bloodstream, it sparked feelings in you that you didn't know where possible. The touch, smell, and feeling of him made you feel like you were floating.
However, that all came crashing down when the sound of a clearing throat interrupted you. You killed away from Dean, looking towards the sound.
There he was, back two days early from his trip. Sam stood in the doorway, looking between you and Dean who made no effort to separate further than you already had.
Sam's jaw clenched "you weren't kidding" he said.
You shook your head "nope. How does it feel?" Your expression cold and hardened. You stepped towards him "I hope it hurts. I hope it shatters you. Maybe then- you will know a fraction of that hurt you caused me. Over and over again."
Sam's looked utterly crushed. His eyes connected with deans who's expression was as unreadable as it always was.
He looked back at you there were now tears in his eyes.
I saw this edit and it makes me think that they should make a movie or tv show about two young women who befriend each other and find out they are both being courted by charming vampires until they realize the vampires in question really are dangerous and violent monsters, so they team up to take them down and become vampire huntresses together (+ they fall in love).
Does this make me weird đ? Itâs giving demon Dean and soulless Sam and Iâm here for it in the best ways
I can't view them BC I don't have Instagram and it keeps redirecting me to the app store but I'm pretty sure I know what you're talking about and the predator/prey stuff isn't really my thing but...this is kinda hot.
Explicit/16+ - predator/prey, hunting, free use - gn!reader
I feel like they wouldn't do the whole dressing up thing naturally but would 100% hunt you down if they couldn't find you one day, then when you tell them you're into it, they go all out.
They get the gear, they "release" you into the forest somewhere in the middle of Oregon where no one will find you and get to work.
They split up and make it a competition, whoever finds you first gets to fuck you. And if they can keep you quiet, they can keep you, but if you're too loud, the other one will find you and they'll both use you however they like.
When they're like this, they're ruthless fucking killers and they will stop at nothing.
They'll keep you in the forest for as long as you can stand, not caring about creature comforts, only wanting to fuck you until you break.
wordcount: 1622
summary: having to do a presentation in front of a classroom full of teenagers feels a lot less terrifying when there's a six foot four moose standing beside you, willing to do anything and everything to make it easier for you.
warnings: fluff, deer!reader (fem), moose!sammy, idiots in love figuring out n being oblivious, highschool life is Hell, reader implied to have social anxiety, sammy is a sweetheart, dean teasing because heâs a through n through messy older brotherâ think thatâs all for now !!!
The announcement should've come with a warning. A waiver or something, maybe a small note explaining exactly why high school teachers enjoyed inflicting psychological warfare upon their students. Because standing in front of a classroom full of teenagers and willingly drawing attention to yourself? Sounded suspiciously similar to public execution. Unfortunately, your teacher seemed to disagree. "Project presentations will be worth thirty percent of your grade for this semester" The collective groan that swept through the classroom felt somewhat validating. Good. At least everyone else understood how shitty the situation was. "You guys can choose your own partners"
The room immediately erupted into movementâ chairs scraped, people called out to friends, someone nearly tripped over a backpack. Meanwhile, you simply turned your head and Sam was already looking at you.
"Hm?" He tilts his head in a silent question.
You barely had to reply, simply nodding with a soft: "Mhm"
That settled that.
Throughout the morning, working with Sam was surprisingly easy. You'd expected at least one argument, one disagreement or at least one moment where you had to remind him that not every project required the same level of dedication as a NASA launch. Instead, the two of you easily slipped into a rhythmâ research during lunch, planning during free periods, library sessions after school.
Sam handled information like he was born for it. Facts, sources, organization. Meanwhile, your contributions mostly consisted of listening to him ramble on and on about different concepts. In your defense, it was mesmerizing. He put such dedication and care into learning, explaining everything to youâ not to make you feel bad about not knowing it already, but to let you into his little world of knowledge. "You color coded the concepts?"
He glanced up from his notebook, wide hazel eyes meeting yours through the messy locks or brown hair falling over his face. "Mhm?"
"Sammy" You canât help but chuckle softly, disbelievingly fond at his logic.
"What?"
"People donât usually do that"
His eyebrows pulled together in that confused-puppy look he got all the time. "How else would you organize it?"
You stared at him, lips slowly pulling into a soft smile, shrugging. âFair enoughâ Sure, organizing the necessary points by red-orange-green depending on importance wasnât the usual way of going about it, but it wasnât like either one of you were normal in any other way so whatever.
His boyish grin arrived immediately, dimples and all. God those pretty dimples.
The first main problem appeared once yâall started practicing the speaking part of the presentation. Not the project itself, not the information, not even the note cards. The actual standing-up-in-front-of-people part.
Sam finished his section without issue. Despite being fairly quiet in class and soft spoken overall, it was fairly easy for him to openly talk about the stuff that he likes. The awkward six foot four nerd turns into a calm professor-level presenter with big words and hand gestures.
Then it was your turn. You stood, looked down at your notes, and started reading. You got a good three sentences in, maybe four before every word started tangling together. Your mouth felt wrong, the library felt too warm, too quiet, tooâ "Sorry" You immediately sat back down, heat creeping into your face. Embarrassing. Pathetic. Ridiculous. Oh my God you were gonna look so stupidâ Sam was going to do an amazing presentation and youâd just make it look awful with your trembling words and dodgy eyes.
Across the table, Sam frownedâ not judgmental, just concerned. "You okay?"
The answer came automatically. "Yeah"
His expression didn't change, which was unfortunate because by now he knew you pretty darn well. And apparently? That meant he knew when you werenât being fully honest either.
Presentation day arrived far too quickly for your liking. You spent most of the first period considering your options, they included:
A) running away
B) faking your own death
C) running away after faking your own death
None of them seemed realistic. (Unfortunately) By the time you reached your locker, Sam was already there, waiting for you like always. "Hey"
"Hi" He handed you a stack of note cards, you blinked while looking over them. Then blinked again. "...Sam?"
"What?"
You flipped through them. Most of the presentation had been rearrangedâ the longer sections, the introductions, the parts involving speaking in front of everyone⌠They were all his now. Your eyes lifted to meet his warm, expectant gaze. "You changed it"
He shifts on his feet, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck as if it werenât a huge deal for you. "A little"
"Sammy"
His huge shoulders hunching slightly into himselfâ making himself smaller like he always does. "You looked nervous" The words were simple, matter-of-factâ not pity, not judgment. Just an honest observation. The way someone might mention it was raining outside instead of confessing the sweetest, most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for you without even having to ask. You stared at him, then down at the cards and then back at him. Your chest felt weirdly tightâ not the bad kind of tight, like when trying to speak in front of the class. Tight in the âoh my God youâre such a sweetheartâ kind of way.
"Oh"
Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "If that's okay, I mean⌠I donât want to be overbearing or just assume anything or whateverâ"
You laughed softly. Because somehow he'd spent hours reorganizing an entire presentation and still looked worried you'd be upset. "Yeah" A pause, you smile softly up at him. "That's okay" The relief on his face was immediate.
After that, yâall walk together to class just like every other day. There were a couple other groups that went before you, but eventually the inevitable cameâ standing in front of the class still sucked. For the record, it sucked tremendously. (No amount of preparation could change that) Your heart hammered against your ribs, your body felt hot, the room felt too big, too loud, too everything. You glanced sideways, Sammy stood beside youâ calm, steady, ready. From the outside? It mustâve looked a bit ridiculous, the towering wall of floppy brown hair shielding your smaller, skittish frame from the classâ searing gaze. When Sam noticed you looking, he offered a small smile, the kind meant only for you. Somehow, your breathing evened out, even if it was just a little.
The presentation beganâ whenever you stuttered, he picked up the thread. Whenever you hesitated, he gave you a second to recover without making a big deal out of it. Never interrupting, never taking over, just...being there, beside you like always.
The presentation was done before you knew it, over much faster than youâd made yourself think it would last. Relief had already started settling into your bones by the moment yâall sat back down.
A couple hours later, the final bell rang. Students flooded into the hallway while you and Sam lingered behind, gathering your stuff with all the time and peace yâall used to have around each other. For a moment, it was just the two of you. "Pretty sure you carried that entire presentation" You hummed softly, glancing over at him from the notes you were stuffing into your backpack.
Sam looked up, confused like the idea had never occurred to him. "You did all of the slides"
"Still"
He shrugged, simple and easy. The answer was obvious in his mind. "That's what partners are for" Something warm settled quietly inside your chestâ comfortable, familiar, safe. Like finding shelter beneath the branches of a tree you'd known for what felt like forever but never fully trusted you could use. For a second, you wondered if maybe the guide on the field trip had been right, animals did seek familiar environments during periods of stress. For you? That had slowly become Sam Winchester.Â
When Sam got back home, the front door had barely closed behind him when Dean's voice drifted lazily from the couch. "SoâŚ"
The younger brother immediately groaned. "Dude, donât"
Dean grinned without even looking away from the TV (Something western and probably older than both of them playing on the screen) "Didn't say anything."
"You were going to" He huffs, kicking off his shoes and walking into the living room.
The blonde shrugs shamelessly. "I was"
Sam plopped down onto the couch next to him. "Don't"
Dean finally looked over, a teasing glint to his eyes. Of course he had to tease him! It was his duty as an older brother. "How'd the presentation go with your deer?"
The tips of Sam's ears immediately turned pink. "She's not my deer"
"Good" He nodded faux solemnity. "Glad to hear the six hours you spent reorganizing that presentation paid off"
Sam froze. "...What?"
"Dude" Dean scoffs, glancing over at his brother. "We share a room" A pause for dramatism because of course he does. "You were up until like one in the morning, âcourse I noticed the scribbling nâlight on"
Sam groans in embarrassment, rubbing his hands over his face. "I was just helping"
The blonde barks out a laugh. "Right"
"I was" Sam doubles down, glaring at his older brother.
"Sammy"
"What?"
"You completely rewrote some crappy project âcause you saw she was nervous" The moose shifted awkwardly, back of his neck suddenly becoming very interesting to touch. Dean pointed at him. "See?"
"What?"
He scoffs, gesturing vaguely at him. "That"
"Dude what?"
"That thing you do"
Sam frowned with puppy-like confusion, head tilting to the side. "I don't know what you're talking about"
Dean looked toward the ceiling like he was searching for strength from someone up above. "Man, you got it bad"
Requests are closed for the first time EVER 𤯠I love you guysâs requests but because I took a week or so from writing theyâve managed to pile up. I love conversations with you guys and your requests are always so good! Iâve made a few new friends since Iâve started writing more but I would like to start shifting focus back to my stories.
Twisted luck - Sam Winchester rewrite
HNTRZ - band Sam x Fem!reader
SERENDEPITY - Klaus mikaelson x fem reader
Winters heart - Bucky Barnes x fem!reader marvel rewrite (unreleased)
SOUL-TIED - Klaus mikaelson a fem!reader tvd rewrite. (Unreleased)
Thereâs so much unfinished with these stories and ideas have been coming to me like crazy, thereâs nothing I want more than to continue these stories. Now requests wonât be closed permanently, mostly until I clear my inbox, but they may take a bit longer for me to get to as they wonât be my main focus. If you donât mind feel free to send them in once theyâre open again :)
Aww thank you so much anon đŤśđź youâre literally the sweetest 𼚠my sleeping has improved tremendously writing motivation is replenished!! đ¤
