grimm @studiogrimm810 - Tumblr Blog

⚝welcome to my blog!⚝

>> hey there, i’m grimm :]

good to meet ya! i’m 23 y/o witchy gal living in the u.s. and working a simple 9-5 to pay the bills

current obsession(s): bloodmary & supernatural ✓

ﾟ･*☆most recent blog update here

ﾟ･*☆requests are (kinda) closed, but asks are open! rules are here

ﾟ･*☆i do not have a posting schedule // i post when i have something good enough to do so- thank you for understanding and being patient <3

ﾟ･*☆ no pressure to buy me a coffee <3

➤ blog navigation☆*･ﾟ

works list // about me // blog laws // ao3 // taglist

➤ credits☆*･ﾟ

pictures // dividers

➤ other news☆*･ﾟ

latest one shot here ✓

completed series masterlist, here ✓

most recent blog update here ✓

> i’m not sentimental, this skin is just a rental

#supernatural #fanfiction #fandom #ao3 #requests open

oh yeah. bloodmary cannot escape my keyboard capabilities and google doc abundance

#grimm thoughts ^.^#bloodymary #mayhaps this graduates to ao3 #more likely she stays in my vault #RAHH SPACE YAOI

studiogrimm810

Like Father, Like Daughter // All Parts // Completed

pairings: sam winchester x bobby’s daughter!you

summary: you go to school, get good grades, and make your father proud, but it doesn’t feel like your life. so, you go out in pursuit of fulfillment in the form of saving people and hunting things. but while working a case in chicago, you run into sam and dean, childhood friends who helped teach you the ropes of protection, but not the freedom of the life. vowed to keep your secret from bobby, who still thinks you’re in st. louis at school, you work with the brothers to unveil a case that makes you learn to appreciate your life at school in a new light. after returning to school, things quickly fall back into place. until a familiar foe appears and ruins everything for good. tldr: you quit hunting to resume school, but you’re not as safe as you think you were // set around season 3 but cannon divergent

base content: vampires, blood, abduction, creepy men, handcuffs and starvation, anxiety, depression, childhood best friends-to-lovers, caring sam, protective dean, helicopter dad!bobby, survivors guilt, ptsd, SA*

*(chapters that include SA will be asterisked, no other notes or specifications beyond this ‘base content’ and ‘quick note’ will be included. please read at your own discretion)

*quick note: for a breakdown of what to expect each chapter, with spoilers, go here, this includes specified trigger warnings for each chapter

studiogrimm810

this series is now COMPLETED <3

thank you to elle. without your support, i would’ve never gotten the motivation to post something so dedicated. it took me a while to complete, but i hope you like the ending. i miss you and hope you’re doing well. happy late birthday xx

#supernatural #sam winchester #fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester angst

im taking a step back from this account. if i feel the drive to write again, i will, but as it stands, i dont have anything specific urges to write for supernatural

i’ll be on as a ghost for now, mainly because bloodymary has consumed my feed heheh, but i’ll be pretty inactive as far as writing goes for now

thank you all for your support and reads! love you all, and enjoy your evening ^.^

#grimm updates ^.^

Like Father, Like Daughter // epilouge

> masterlist for descriptions & warnings

chapter summary: what a peaceful drive back home, and back into the arms of your beloved // 1.3k

“So where have you been staying? Does Evelyn know? You look amazing,” you rattled off after the waitress filled up a couple coffee mugs and walked off with a polite smile. Heather took a deep breath, holding her mug with both hands.

“Slow down, I’ll tell ya’ whatever you want to know,” her polished thumb, inked with blue, swipes at the rim of the thick mug before her. “Evelyn doesn’t know,” she starts, stating carefully. “And she can’t.”

You frown.

“She’s already mourned me once, I can’t-,” she sits up a bit, “I can’t put her through that again. I’m not…” she lowers her voice, “human, anymore. I won’t age. I can’t live a normal life and she can’t know about what else is out there.” Heather shakes her head.

You look down at your coffee mug, spirals of steam swirling up at you. It makes sense, no matter how depressing.

“As for where I’m staying,” she continues, “just out and about. I find money when I need it, feed when I need to. I’ve found a balance.” Your brow furrows.

“What do you eat?” You ask cautiously. It’s not like any one answer would change anything about Heather’s existence to you, but you were curious.

Heather's lip twitches with a soft chuckle. “Men,” she nods. “The kind that deserve it.”

And that’s all she needed to say.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Would you have ever told me if I didn’t find out?”

“It’s complicated. I went back and forth a lot. I thought it’d be better to leave you alone. Since turning, I’ve learned what ‘hunters’ really think of monsters. And that too, I’ve learned it’s much more than Vampires. I was scared of what you or your family would do to me,” she admitted.

It hurt you to hear, but you understood her resignation.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that.”

Pittsburg was beautiful at night. You decided to stay in the city, find a hotel with a good bar, and eat good food. The bed in your room was like a giant cloud and your favorite movie was on cable. You ordered a couple drinks, some fancy room service, and got shitfaced 10 stories high in a fluffy, paper-white robe.

“So do you eat normal food? I’ve always wondered about that,” you asked, piercing the cut up slices of pancakes from your plate with a fork and taking a bite.

“Yeah. I don’t need to, but I still love food,” she shrugged casually, eating her own couple of pancakes. “Takes forever to get drunk, though,” she frowns with a raised brow, like ‘oh-well’.

You chew your pancakes, looking over her exposed arms, and feel a pang of jealousy. “Your skin heal up after the change?”

Heather looked down to her arms, then to your torso drowning in a thin zip-up hoodie in the late September heat. She nodded, setting her fork down to grab her coffee. You bite back a mumbled ‘lucky’, because she wasn’t lucky. She only reaped a small benefit to a debatable disadvantage.

“I don’t mind it, really,” she said as if she read your mind. “Being, ‘different’, now. It’s better than being dead,” she picks up her fork and pokes at her food some more. “Obviously, I’d rather stay oblivious to Vampires, and everything else, to begin with, but it’s not all bad, and I’ve become someone I’m really proud of despite all of it.”

Coffee washes away sticky syrup and refreshes your tongue.

“I’ve actually taken up a form of ‘hunting’ myself,” she says proudly, taking another bite. “Other vamps, predators, things of the like,” she insinuates. You smile softly, sipping down the rest of your coffee.

Lake Erie’s cool waters wash your feet, pulling you into the sand with each wave soaking up on the shore. You’d found a fairly private part of the beach to sneak away to for the night, the full moon glistening over the water. The water was calm and sand a little sharp with rocks, but still beautiful. You could almost see some illumination of Canada’s coast from where you camped out near Oak Harbor. Maybe it was just your imagination, but you felt the draw anyways. Maybe one day you’d go over and explore Toronto with Sam. You smiled, stomach twisting in anticipation at seeing him soon.

“You need to stay in touch, seriously,” you don’t want to sound too desperate, but you can’t brush off the feeling that Heather has a much more important role in your life.

“I will, I promise,” Heather says as she hugs you tight. “Be safe on your way back to Sioux Falls,” she says as she pulls away.

“I will be. If you need anything, just give me a call. You’ll be safe with my family, really,” you promise with a nod.

You watched her get into the cherry red sedan from earlier and drive away, headed back up to New York. She’d offer to let you stay with her for a while, but you’d been gone long enough and missed Sam something fierce.

As you left the diner, you’d realize you hadn’t even checked in on Evelyn like you’d planned. But Heather was there and had been since before school started, so she was in good hands.

You’d stopped by UIC even though you didn’t fully know why. You didn’t even get out of your car. Only sat and started at the entrance Dean had dropped you and Sam off for that night of the frat party.

Then stayed a night in Rockford.

Drove the long stretch across Minnesota.

And cross the town limits of Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

Familiar roads melted out of synonymous highways and interstates, landing you back where the ground felt more level and the air smelled familiar. Your windshield wipers squeaked as they brushed away gentle rain.

The view of your father’s car lot made your heart race. Excitement, anxiety, joy. Your stomach swirled with anticipation at who waited in that house for your arrival.

Gravel crunched under your tires as you pulled in and on the porch sat your father and the Winchesters, waiting just for you.

Bobby was the first to stand, hurrying to the steps and extending an umbrella before stepping down onto the lot. Then Sam, then Dean. They practically scooped you out of your car as soon as the engine was off, and ushered you inside for spaghetti, beer, and ice cream at 2 in the afternoon.

———

The next few days poured over you with comfortable conversation and mellow living. Dean was helping Bobby with some rust bucket he needed to scrap and you and Sam talked all day about your time away. Everything from the Ouija board at the steakhouse, to daydreaming of visiting Canada, and even Heather.

He hadn’t believed it at first, not fully understanding what you meant, but once you repeated yourself he smiled bright. Even brighter when you showed him a selfie taken over half-eaten pancakes.

And it was as if nothing really changed. From the night Sam found out you were hunting in Chicago, to the nights you’d opened up on the front porch, to the nightmares you had in this very bed, each time felt just as comfortably adoring as the last.

Dean had always been there for you, a confident voice that always had your back and never thought less of you.

Bobby had raised you and loved you unconditionally, learning when to give you space and when to treat you like an adult.

Sam had become your rock, a constant in your life- even from the day you met- of rationality, reason, understanding, and care.

And you had survived the impossible, healed through horrible circumstances, and braved into a new you.

Obviously, if you could’ve avoided the nest to begin with, you would’ve, but it didn’t all end bad, and you’ve become someone you’re really quite proud of despite the bad.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>masterlist for this series is here >>check out my other works here

>tag list: @ltotheucyy @lunavelha @feathers-dreams @moosewithabackstory @emisnt @madslxz @canibeyourghoulfriend

#supernatural #sam winchester #fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester angst

Like Father, Like Daughter // xxvi: just a little space

> masterlist for descriptions & warnings

chapter summary: closure wasn't exactly what you thought it might be, not with evelyn still out there alone. a little check up wouldn't hurt, but it meant leaving sam behind for a little while // 4.3k

Sam was worried. You’d moved like a zombie and barely gave him a straight look. He was plagued by the scene of finding you in that archive and it overlapped with images of the walk-in. Bloodstained skin and infected wrists binding you to a dirty shelf so that you were forced to stay down on the cool metal. All in a party dress that did nothing to cover your legs from the icy floor or your shoulders from the wall you were propped against.

You’d been completely out of it then too, before he grabbed your face and made you look at him. You had the same gloss over your eyes and the same slouch to your posture like you’d given up. He prayed you hadn’t given up again.

He saw the bloody handprints on your hips in that archive, and the shuffle to your clothing. He knew Thomas’ intentions, the way he spoke about you, the things he said to you, the way he looked at you.

Sam felt sick to think of what could’ve happened if you hadn’t gotten the upper hand or if he hadn’t gotten to you in time.

When everyone got back to Bobby’s, Sam let you sleep by yourself. It almost felt like an overstep to slip beside you in your bed and pull you in again. Especially with the nauseating fears cycling through his memory.

It was now the next morning- almost afternoon- after getting back from Dallas and he wanted to check on you. Steady steps through the hall and a gentle knock on your door pulls a soft “come in,” from your room. And he does.

Sam’s brow furrows as he first finds a duffle on your bed, half packed, and you coming out of the bathroom with a handful of products.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, frozen in the doorway.

You slow your steps, looking up at him with a sigh. “I have to go,” you lay the items on your bed and run a hand through your hair.

“What-,” he stutters, shaking his head. “Where?”

“I made someone a promise,” you look down at the pile on your bed, an anxious tremor in your hands.

“What kind of promise?” He asks, stepping forward with his face scrunched in confusion.

“To Heather,” you peek up at him. “That I’d make sure her sister is okay. I should’ve gone sooner,” you shake your head, turning around to sit on the bed. Sam hesitates, taking a breath before walking around your bed and sitting beside you. “Evelyn. She’s Heather’s younger sister. School starts next week and I found out she got accepted to Princeton,” you explain. “And I-,” you sigh. “I figured some time on the road would be good. With the nest dead, I feel safe again. Relatively," you scoff a smile but Sam doesn’t reciprocate.

“We just got back. Why do you have to do this now?” He asks. Your hand finds his and his fingers flex to wrap with yours.

“I thought killing Thomas would give me closure, but it really only did so much. I think Evelyn- Evie- is what I’m supposed to do now. Just- just check on her,” you tilt your head with a shake like you don’t fully understand yourself. “Make sure she’s-. I don’t really even know what, but as long as she’s in school, I think I’d feel better.”

Ironic.

“You told me you wouldn’t let it get too much. Dallas,” Sam starts. “I believed you and you got lost in it. You couldn’t even really hear me when I was trying to reason with you. How am I supposed to trust that you’re leaving for the right reasons this time?”

That hurt, but it was fair of him to ask. You had lost yourself in Dallas, but this was different.

“It won’t be violent. Just a check-in,” you shrug with a deep breath. “But, I do need some space. Not for anything but thought, though. I’m not gonna try anything or throw myself into a hunt on my way there,” you glance up at him with a lifted half smile, but his sad eyes only watch as his free hand picks at the charms on your wrist. “I won’t do anything stupid.” Your eyes flick down to his fidget.

His eyes look up to yours like he doesn't believe you and you sigh. He doesn’t have any grounds to believe you right now anyways.

“You’re still badly injured from the whole thing, and you haven’t talked to me about what Thomas did to you,” he pressed. You look up at him with wide eyes. “I’m not stupid. I saw the way he looked at you. The things he said,” Sam’s jaw clenches and he shakes his head, looking away to calm himself.

You nibble your lip, trying to find the right words.

“That’s part of it,” you start. Sam’s brows crunch as he fails to understand. “I need to process everything on my own. I need to clear my head, tie up loose ends, and heal in my own skin. I can’t stay here and do that properly. At the beginning, when you first found me, I needed that. I needed my bed,” your fingers grip the blanket beneath you. “My home, my family.” Your hand squeezes his. “But now I need myself. Just for a little while.” You don’t let go of his hand just yet.

He starts to slowly accept your perspective. “What does this mean for us?” Sam asks, dread strangling him.

“Nothing, exactly,” you shake your head, landing on his eyes and looking for assuring words. “I don’t want to lose you, but I won’t ask you to keep waiting for me. It might be weeks or it might be months-.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t care,” he breathes out with an incredulous scoff. “You can take all the time you need, and I’m gonna be right here when you get back. I promise.”

“But I can’t-.”

“You can. You can go and take the time you need, go where you want to, process what you must, but I’ll always be yours. If you’ll have me,” he insists, a sniffle breaking his confidence. “You’re not some selfless victim to me. You don’t have to try to be humble and ‘let me go’. I’m not trapped to begin with.”

A lump in your throat blocks any words to dare be spoken.

“All I ask is that you stay in touch. I need to know you’re safe and okay,” he brings up a hand to sweep away some hair to cradle your cheek.

“I will,” you whisper, vision a little blurry with salty emotion. “I really will, and I won’t lose my head. I don’t have the energy for anger right now anyways.” You sigh, leaning into his hold.

He leans in, dozens of questions lost behind his lips as he claims your own. There’s so much he wishes to know, but only so much you’re willing to give. He doesn’t want to push, so he settles for what he sees.

And all he sees is a pretty smile plastered over an exhausted frame.

———

“I don’t like this,” Bobby grumbles, the Winchesters beside him as you stand before them with a set of keys and a packed car.

“I know,” you give.

“Why can’t you just wait a few days?”

“Dad-,” you sigh, not able to repeat your reasoning for the hundredth time today. He’d reacted poorly when you announced the news last night, but he’d slowly come to with some convincing.

“I’ll be okay,” you assure, stepping up to hug him tight. His arms hold you tight, burdening the bruise on your abdomen.

“Call me every day,” he whispers by your ear, emotion threatening to waver his usually stern voice.

“I will,” you pull away, going to hug Dean next.

“You're badass, you know that?” Dean says like he hates to admit it. Like he knows the look it’ll pull from your father. Condoning.

You scoff a small laugh. “What?”

“You’re strong, stubborn. You know what you want and you get it done. I get why you’re doin’ this and I respect it, even if I hate it,” he sighs, eyes closed like he has to force the words out. You can tell it hurts him to motivate you to leave like this, and you appreciate his selflessness.

“Thanks,” you smile softly.

He tugs you into a firm hug, the kind you didn’t often get from Dean. More desperate and raw. His hand cradles the back of your head and he sways a bit. Your smile grows as you find his affection almost adorable.

You want to mock him as he lets you go with a kiss to the temple, but his shimmering eyes stamp down the tease.

“Love you, kid.”

“Love you too.”

Sam is standing off to the side with your last bag. “Ready?” He asks, following you after your nod.

You open the passenger seat for him to set the bag and you thank him, walking to the driver's side. He opens the door for you but you both wait.

“Come home when you’re ready,” he says, a gentle hand resting on your hip, pulling you in. His lips find yours instantly and he takes all he can get. Breathing in your scent, savoring your taste, letting your soft hum of content echo up to his ears.

Your hands grip his shirt as you both crave more, but it remains inaccessible for a multitude of reasons at present.

He pulls back, a little breathless, and his forehead rests against yours.

“I will,” you exhale, breath brushing over his face and he wants nothing more than to pull you right back inside and keep you another day.

But he forces himself away and he keeps his hands still as you climb in the car. He closes the door for you when you’re ready and holds his breath as you make your way out of the driveway and out of sight.

He lingers for a while just as your scent did on his skin.

———

The open road was terrifying. The miles ahead were dreadful and the road traversed behind hollowing. Your stomach swirled as you made your way to your first stop- Harvey’s Steakhouse & Bar.

Only an hour or so out now, but it felt like no progress had really been made. It still felt hours away, like you were still stalling in your first roadside motel parking lot of the trip. A simple property with a dozen rooms and you splurged on a second floor room. Your father wouldn’t approve, but you wanted the balcony.

The night before you left Sioux Falls, Dean slipped into your room and handed you a shiny, grey credit card with a name you couldn’t really pronounce and promised it would work the duration of your trip. You’d looked at him with skeptical confusion as you’d already told him and the others that you weren’t sure how long you’d be gone- that it could take months.

He only brushed it off with a wink and change of subject.

One day down and you felt awfully homesick.

The midday sun peeked out every few miles from the congestion of greying clouds in the sky. Pavement stained with damp splotches from earlier rain lead you all the way to a parking lot beaten into gravel. You parked farther from the front entrance, tires idle in neglected potholes, and took slow and steady breaths.

The view churned your stomach. You’d barely remembered what the outside of this place looked like. Too disoriented to take in a full picture during your arrival and your departure.

Unsure of how much time had passed since you pulled in, you finally worked up the courage to open your car door and step out onto the choppy waters of the parking lot. The sun had set and casted remnant beams of muted orange over the sky like party streamers, just enough light to lead you inside.

A puddle beneath you splashed as you took your steps to the front door, cool rainwater spitting up onto your legs. Without stopping, you pushed your way through the front door and the world fell silent.

Now this was a view you’d never forget. Rusty puddles by the bar, must thickening the air, glass shards sprinkled about like dust. You could almost envision ghosts of each vamp walking around you- the room ignited to life by a thin veil. Clanking chains of being dangled from a hook, sharp slurps and satisfied groans from each feed.

Maybe this was a mistake.

Your feet didn’t listen to the swimming of nerves under your skin begging you to run in the other direction, and you continued to the kitchen. You reach in your jacket to pull out a flashlight, clicking it on and squinting at the reflective steel tops of tables and appliances. The table she was left on was empty now, Dean must’ve come back for her. You wondered where she ended up. Maybe you’d ask.

A silver door, 6-inches thick, lazily draped open, emitting a stink you don’t recall. Piercing iron and stale air made you cover your nose as you stepped up to the walk-in. Your eyes landed on your spot. Then Illiani’s, then Carmen's, then Heather’s. And as you grazed back over the empty floor, you wondered who else it’d belonged to.

Swallowing a growing lump of dread in your throat, you open the bag slung on your shoulder and sit on the floor, shining the light towards the walk-in. Your back prickled at the exposed darkness behind you, but it didn’t quite itch yet.

You unpack a Ouija board, a beautiful piece of wood carved by Sioux Fall’s own, and a planchet, thrifted and cleansed by the runner up.

“Maybe this is useless,” you mumble to yourself, lining up the planchet to the center of the board. With a deep breath, you straighten your posture and look ahead. Starting with an introduction, you continue, “... I was kept here by a nest of Vampires. Just like Carmen, and Illiani,” your throat catches. “And Heather.”

Taking a breath, you wait for a flicker of the light or rustle behind you. Nothing.

“I’m here to make sure no one is stuck. For lack of better wording,” you cringe softly, looking down at your fingers. “Can anyone hear me? Even if you don’t know me, I’m only here to help. I promise.” Your eyes sting.

Nothing.

“Hello?” You look up with a shaken breath, looking around the walk-in and glancing over your shoulder. “Anyone?” You scoff with a desperate shrug.

You hold your breath, locking the release of air that would erupt a painful rush of emotion because you felt disappointed. Then your stomach twists and you feel awfully selfish. Disappointed because someone wasn’t in a dangerous position for you to help them? Were you really that desperate to redeem yourself?

“Someone?” And it broke. And you sobbed.

A pitiful, ugly thing, really. A rip of your throat and wail from your lungs. A vomit of pain and betrayal that’d been curdling your insides for so fucking long. With each tug of your cuffs and new bite in your skin, it soured the mix of emotion filling up your insides.

You released your hold on the planchet and hugged yourself close, ignoring the ache in your body from Thomas’ fucking doing, and sobbed until you only had coughs and hiccups left to spout.

It hurt. It all hurt for so goddamn long and only now did that hurt start to mesh past your skin and evaporate like steam in this room. Only now did the dam really break.

Your head fell limp on your knee and you locked eyes with the veil’s example of Heather's corpse where she took her last breath. Your head throbbed as you finally started to calm down, but your eyes couldn’t move. Nor could your arms or your legs. And neither did the planchet.

———

Motels, diners, bars, gas stations. The works. It was a sluggish move to get all the way to New Jersey. You’d spent almost a whole week only an hour outside of Detroit. You could only get so far before the painful sick of emotion shut you down again. 5 days wasted in some dump with water damage and god-awful cable. But it helped to wallow, you’d reluctantly realized.

It helped to only use the shower on your last day and eat like Dean for almost a week. And it helped to be alone. It’d hurt, but it hurt like working out a muscle cramp.

When you’d finally checked out of that place, you’d bolted and started towards New Jersey. Then crashed again in Toledo. Then Youngstown.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

By the time you’d made it across New Jersey’s state border, it’d taken you over a month.

School had already been in session by this time, and of course, that only made you feel worse. But you sucked up the guilt and carried on anyway. You had a promise to keep. Even if it took you embarrassingly long to complete.

You’d booked a hotel not far from campus, deciding to treat yourself with Dean’s silver gift, and gotten ready to play the part of a student considering a transfer. You’d ignored the echo of UIC and your unfortunate meeting of Thomas, and forced yourself down the elevator and to your car buried in the parking garage.

The day was gorgeous. A glistening sky hosting specks of birds with little clouds to hide the blue, but a temperature that almost made you miss the cool metal of the walk-in. You shook your head to dismiss the invasive thought- a failed lighthearted kinda-joke, you reckon, but still too soon.

Entering the campus was easy, you’d blended in as a student for now, but if anyone asked, you had some bullshit answers ready.

Before you’d left your hotel, you’d stalked Evie a bit to get a better grasp at her schedule. She didn’t share much about her academics, but she did post about a club she’d taken up- tennis. And with a few more searches, you found out where they would be meeting and when- today at 11:15.

Navigating your way through campus, you’d started to feel that nostalgic pang you got in UIC and you began to miss Lily again. You’ve thought of reaching out, but the idea kept getting buried by something else.

Something else like finding the tennis courts and looking for a puff of red curls cut to shoulder length.

You’d stalled by the entrance of the courts, 3 large enclosed spaces with 2 courts per fencing. There were probably 30 participants here, some scattered and playing an active skirmish, some surrounding the fencing and watching the plays, and a few off to the side chatting amongst themselves.

You weren’t sure where to start.

You tried to stay casual, looking over the courts and around to surrounding sports set ups and tracks.

Walking closer to the smaller cluster of participants, you scan them all for her hair, but find nothing.

Continuing, you catch a few eyes from participants watching the plays, but you don’t smile or wave, simply keep walking and seem as casual as possible. Just as you're reaching the other end of the stretch of courts, you see her.

Short, red curls framing a freckled face with rosy cheeks. Evelyn. You recognize her immediately from her pictures posted online and almost trip. You catch yourself, losing your sights on her for a moment to find your proper footing. As you look back up to find her again, your eyes catch an echo from across the track you’re on.

At first, you reasoned it was just a stamp on your vision, like looking at the sun dead on and trying to look at anything else right after. But the echo stays and it isn’t dull like she usually is. It isn’t a hollowed memory or morphed figment, but a bright shimmer standing yards ahead of you.

Forgetting Evelyn, you start towards the stamp, stumbling into a hurried walk across the field.

She moves, but not like she usually does- melting into the air or vanishing when you blink. She ducks down a sidewalk and back towards the parking lot. You follow, waiting until you’re out of sight before breaking into a full sprint to catch back up with her.

Dashing down the sidewalk, then weaving through cars, your head whips around, trying to find her again.

You step out from a line of cars, looking up and down the empty row, starting to believe it was a mean trick again, played by your own horrible memories.

Until a soft click of thick heels steps out. Brown ankle boots on creamy skin, speckled with espresso stars, dressed with a blue sundress and lacey vest. Jewelry- rings, bracelets, a couple necklaces- decorate her arms and neck, any scar paved over with new skin and topped with rich, sun-drunk freckles. A halo of red curls frame a face that almost makes her look like a stranger. Full cheeks, bright eyes, soft smile with a hardened brow.

“Hey, sweetie,” Heather’s voice oozes like honey.

You shake your head softly, catching your breath. “You aren’t real.” You whisper with a stuttered blink.

She winces softly, an empathetic sigh dusting her strawberry lips. “I am.” She takes a step forward and your feet keep you planted.

“H-How?” You look over her form again, warm wind twirling the loose fabric of her dress, lace lapping at her thighs like the Destin coast.

“Max changed me,” she states, the only sadness in her words entwined by her careful consideration of your reaction. “I hadn’t realized what he was doing until I woke up again and everyone was gone,” she looked away for a moment, her own emotion untying the twine a twinge.

You shivered with realization. Vampire. “Oh.”

Heather nodded, running a hand through her feathery locks as they danced in the wind. The rings on her finger clinked like champagne glasses after a toast.

“I’m so sorry,” you exhale, feeling a sting behind your eyes and tickle in your nose.

“Don’t be,” she shook her head with a light laugh like the thought was ridiculous. “You’ve spent too much time already feeling sorry. It’s a waste, truely,” she looks down at the pavement, swinging her feet as she walks to a nearby car to lean on the hood. “I should know,” she shook her head, folding her arms over her chest. You notice a tattoo of a butterfly on the back of her bicep. “I spent most of my time in that box gutting myself for each girl I survived,” she looks back up at you. “It does no good.”

You don’t respond, only shifting to keep her in your sight as she moved.

“I mean,” she smiled even though it wasn’t funny. “I was so burnt out with guilt that when I was dying on that metal floor, you know what I was thinking?” She asks, looking at you like you’d never guess it. “I was thinking; ‘Finally, someone else can deal with my death. Alone and freezing in this slice of hell’.” She nodded with a firm frown like she was disgusted with herself. “I had no clue I’d wake back up again, and that was the only thing I could think of.”

“You thought of Evelyn,” you reminded gently, still not processing Heather before you. Bright and beautiful.

Heather closed her mouth, looking down at her feet for a moment. “I guess,” she takes a deep breath. “When I woke up, I was starving. And alone. Again. But I made it work. I figured out pretty damn quick what had happened to me and I knew what I had to do with it.” She looks up at you again. “And I did just that. I followed them, Felix and his ‘sons’ and killed them off as I could. Max being my last,” she pauses, waiting for it to click.

…Red curls flash again as you open your eyes, there's a clack, presumably when your cuffs settle on the floor…

…It didn’t matter how you found it, or how annoyingly long it took you to pick the lock of the cuffs, or even how the vamps somehow forgot to secure the door…

The flashes of red you saw in the office building you and Sam were taken too…

“You-?”

“I was following them and saw that they’d taken you and your guy,” Heather shrugged with a deep breath. “I helped the best I could, but I got hurt on the way out. Vin did a number on me, I had to get out of there.”

“You opened the door,” you hadn’t heard anything she’d said. She nodded with a somber smile. You felt faint, stumbling to lean against the hood of someone’s red sedan with Heather. She straightens up.

“You okay?” She asked softly.

“I thought you were dead,” you choke out, looking down at the shimmery cherry paint. You were almost angry. You look up at her again and can’t help yourself. You throw yourself into her, your trembling arms wrapping around her hair and burying your face in the pillow of her curls. She stumbles with a light grunt, but hugs you back, sturdy arms holding you close as she rocked back and forth a bit.

Your eyes don’t close as you hug her, still too shocked to blink and risk her vanishing again. You pull away, hands on her shoulders. You smile, giggling because you can’t believe it. She laughs back, which makes you laugh more, which makes her laugh even more.

Overwhelming giddy joy poisons the air around you two and you relish in the reunion. For so long, Heather had been your biggest regret. Now, she stood before you, glowing like an angel and breathing fresh, warm air with you.

One way or another, you’d both seemed to make it out alive.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>masterlist for this series is here >>check out my other works here

>tag list: @ltotheucyy @lunavelha @feathers-dreams @moosewithabackstory @emisnt @madslxz @canibeyourghoulfriend

#sam winchester #supernatural #fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester angst

Like Father, Like Daughter // xxv: smudged mirrors

> masterlist for descriptions & warnings

chapter summary: sam takes down vin and finds you- a sight nauseatingly reflective of the walk-in // 3.8k

It killed Sam to watch you take care of him. Especially now. The bites sunken into his skin hurt more than he’s wanting to accept and he’s practically willing his blood cells to pick up its production line. He had to shake away this fog and get his head in the game, or else he feared you’d do something reckless and stupid in the name of his protection.

#supernatural #sam winchester #supernatural fanfiction #fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester angst

Like Father, Like Daughter // **xxiv: crossing the line

> masterlist for descriptions & warnings

chapter summary: tonight, it would all be over, but closure was painfully pricey // 5.5k

*please read with caution, this part includes SA & attempted*

#supernatural #sam winchester #supernatural fanfiction #fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester angst

Like Father, Like Daughter // xxiii: snowfall

> masterlist for descriptions & warnings

chapter summary: waking under the hand of your captors once again feels just as familiarly oppressing, and now sam was caught in the mix // 3.3k

#supernatural #sam winchester #fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic #fandom #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester angst

like father, like daughter WILL be completed soon. i’m working on editing the last few parts. i had no clue how exactly to write the ending and it’s taken me forever.

once the next chapter is posted, all others will be posted on the following days.

i promise, this series will be completed before june.

i’m so sorry to those i’ve left hanging, i hope you enjoy the completion of this series <3

#grimm updates ^.^

GUYS. GUYS. THE BUCKET IN EPISODE 2!!!!

#the amazing digital circus #tadc kinger #the amazing digital circus kinger #kinger my beloved #tadc #candy carrier chaos #not grimm’s usual content lol

Like Father, Like Daughter // xxii: room 8

> masterlist for descriptions & warnings

chapter summary: back at another random motel, you take care of sam and try to take accountability for your reckless approach // 3.1k

“They only had one double queen left,” Dean says, leaning through the open window of the back seat of the Impala. “So, you two lovebirds get the room with the king,” Dean hands you the motel key with a chipped ‘8’ painted on with a wink.

#supernatural #sam winchester #fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester angst

Like Father, Like Daughter // xxi: dallas

> masterlist for descriptions & warnings

chapter summary: it's time to follow the lead, all the way to texas, despite your mixed feelings that you can't seem to figure out // 3.9k

Voices argue downstairs, and even through the thick wooden door you can make out some of the words.

Your father was pissed at John’s audacity, again, for overstepping and inviting you on a hunt before running it by Bobby first. He swore that if it weren’t for those damn boys of his, Bobby would chase John off his property with a cocked sawed-off anytime his neck peeked the corner.

“You have no business bringing this up again!” Bobby shouted with the familiar slam of a glass of whiskey against his desk. Like a judge and his gavel.

John’s response is calmer, only raising it when his own ego is the victim, and you couldn’t hear it. You didn’t want to anyways. After how the last hunt ended, you were more than okay with hanging back.

You only told your father about John’s offer out of respect.

Sam and Dean were sent out to town on an errand, so it was just you locked upstairs by yourself, forced to listen to the bicker of two men who should never have crossed paths to begin with.

It was exhausting…

…Familiar strong voices- Singer and Winchester- hack away at each other at varying volumes of confidence. It echoed the vocal brawl in the levels of intensity. Dean was calmer, more level, and speaking out of rationality. Bobby was loud, scared, and pulling from protectiveness.

Except this time, unlike John, Dean only gets defensive when Bobby questions his concerns for you.

“You can’t use her to get your revenge. If you wanna get yourself killed goin’ after those things, then by all means. But don’t get my girl wrapped up in your-.”

“This ain’t about me, Bobby,” Dean barks back. “I am thinking about her. About the rage she had when I saw her in that walk-in. The guilt she feels for just surviving. She looks like she’s recovered fine, but that isn’t your girl up there. That isn’t the woman we know, that’s who she’s become. I don’t want her to come with us, but I’m not gonna be the one to lie to her.”

Dean's words meant a lot. The way he so loudly understands you. The way he, and Sam, have grown to respect you enough to keep their concerns visible, but not impactful of their image and value of you.

Frozen in thought, imagining the scene downstairs, you don’t hear footsteps up the hall until a tiny knock against your open door startles you out of your distraction.

“Hey,” Sam greets gently, a tired look of acceptance on his face.

“Hey,” you straighten your posture and clear your throat, picking up pace as you pack a small bag. He steps into the room, looking down at your bag, and stopping at the edge of your bed.

“You really doing this?” He asks, looking back up at you with his soft puppy-dog eyes that can’t hide a damn thing when he looks at you.

“Did you come up here to talk me out of it?” You keep your eyes down, hands busy, shoulders squared.

His head shakes, fingers resting on your bed post and thumb caressing the hand carvings of simple protection sigils he’d helped you etch. “No,” his fingers slack, task dropped as he focuses on what to say next. “Just wanted to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”

You scoff quickly, dropping your hands to the duffle beneath, and look up at him. “I know what I’m getting myself into,” you mock defensively. His face remains soft. You sigh, shaking your head and looking back down, regret eating at the bite you took at him. “I can’t just let this go.”

“I know,” he nods, rounding the end of the bed to stand right by as you still face the bed. “Just promise me you won’t let this consume you,” he almost whispers, tilting his head to get a better look at you. “Promise me that you’ll come to me if it gets to be too much.”

“I promise,” you turn your head to him and his hand finds its home along your jaw. He steadies you as he kisses your forehead, thumb searching for sigils over your skin.

“Bobby’s not happy, but you’ve got me and Dean on your side. Always,” he vows, pulling back just enough to get a good look at you. “What do you need to pack?”

It really doesn’t take long to get everything squared away. A couple sets of outfits, a bag of toiletries, and a packed computer bag equipped with a notebook and pens. You’d pondered on taking a book with you, but you knew it wouldn’t make it back in time for its due date with the Sioux Falls Library, so you tossed it aside and made a mental note to run it by on your way out tomorrow.

With a quick zip of the bag, you drag it from the bed and Sam immediately reaches for it. “Anything else?” He asks, silently insisting on taking it for you. You shake your head and follow him downstairs.

In the study, Bobby turns his attention to the couple's descent, anxiety and disapproval mixing over his features in a way you haven’t quite seen directed at you before. He walks to the bottom of the steps, meeting you both and you step off.

He starts with your name, a simple plea that wraps up all of his worries in one, quick breath. It’s enough to make your stomach churn. “You can’t be serious. Please don’t do this,” he’s quiet. Not scared and desperate, not firm and demanding, just quiet.

“Dad-.”

“Baby girl, just think about this for a moment-.”

“I have,” you force out with a tired shrug. “Constantly. Since I first woke up in that damn fridge, I have been trying to figure a way out. And even if I’m here, I’m still there. A piece of me will always be there until I can cut it off completely.” He hears himself so loudly in her words. “I know the cycle you fear me repeating. I fear it too. But I can’t let it go, I just can’t.”

“First step is admittance,” Dean chimes in from the kitchen archway, a drink in hand. You look over at him with a raised brow and Bobby closes his eyes with a deep breath of annoyance. Dean widens his eyes and lazily raises his hands like he’s sarcastically surrendering. “Tough room,” he takes back another swig and returns back into the kitchen.

“He’s kinda right,” you reckon. “I have a goal- a list and a lead. And two, maybe three,” you hold out just enough for him to catch the cadence, “hunters on my side. I can do this and I’ll be careful.”

Bobby’s jaw tenses and he sighs. “Of course I’m comin’ with you, I ain’t lettin’ you go without me,” his voice is strained, but you can still hear the bits of love behind it. It pains him to see you go back out into the world of hunting, but he can’t say he doesn’t understand. And he’d never say it, but he’s almost proud of how levelheaded you seem about it all.

“Okay,” you nod.

Bobby steps out of the way and Sam resumes his path to the Impala, loading your duffel in the trunk. You follow him out, leaning against the post of the front porch as you watch him lock the trunk back and walk towards you.

With a few words, Sam takes your hand and leads you to the porch swing, holding you close and rocking it soothingly as you two enjoy the simple calm before the storm.

———

The drive gives you ample time to think, to plan. To go over your list of names and prepare for confronting them again.

Felix, Max, Vin, Dylan, Thomas.

From your time trapped, you’d gathered bits and pieces of information. Like how Felix acted as Thomas’ father. Whether they were actually related or not, you were unsure, but there was definitely favoritism for Thomas and plenty of excuses made on his behalf. How Felix reacted when Thomas killed Rae pretty much summed it up.

Max seemed to be the quiet, loyal type. He didn’t speak much, and didn’t feed on you, but instead seemed to favor Heather. He pushed Rae’s rule with Heather. Somehow, your disgust for Max clouded your hatred for Dylan.

Dylan was the blonde with a smart mouth. He’d call out Rae on any inconsistency in her speech, as if he’d log everything anyone would say to him just so he could bash them later for it. He seemed to relish in correcting his so-called ‘companions’. His hands wandered when he fed on you, and most of the bites on your thighs were from him.

Vin was loud, greedy, and sloppy. He’d not only feed for sustenance, but for the ‘way it coated his mouth’. He was utterly obsessed with biting fresh skin and pulling first. He’d praise the contrast of your cool skin with the warmth of your blood. He’d, more often than not, have to be pulled off from you or one of the others for drinking too much.

Thomas was vile. Not much needed to be said about why he was last on your list. You could take your time with him, you wondered, and hack his head off with barbed wire like Sam had done with that one vamp that was after him- according to Dean.

Given the proper devices and tools, you could really get creative, but you tried to focus on just a sharp swipe through their spinal cords to keep yourself from the ledge of losing yourself in the revenge.

Maybe daydreaming would be enough. Maybe their skulls cracking as their heads leave their body and land on the concrete would be enough. Maybe you being the last thing they saw would be enough.

You could only hope.

The sun has long since set, headlights guiding the way past the Texas stateline, down 36 and towards Dallas. Oddly, you weren’t feeling as buzzed as you thought you would. Your hands didn’t shake, stomach didn’t twist, mind didn’t wander. You were zeroed in like a hungry lioness with a litter to feed who’d just spotted a gazette.

Even the closer you got, with the horizon of the downtown Dallas skyline just past the concrete valleys you traversed, you only felt ready, refreshed, justified.

Sam checked in every so often, unadmittedly finding your stark calm eerie, but even then, your overwhelming ‘okay-ness’ was enough to settle him.

Exiting the interstate, Dean winds the vehicle past streets with little-to-no sign of life. A closely abandoned township with neglected buildings and rotting trees left to starve in cracked sidewalks with never-enough soil. A few cars dotted the littered street and a store every other block had a flickering ‘Open’ sign posted in the window.

The duo of vehicles soon slowed by the third or fourth ‘Open’ business which was a dingy cafe with a once properly paved parking lot that is ground into gravel. Only a few other vehicles occupy the lot, scattered along the perimeter in no particular order due to the erased lines. A red pickup truck with tinges of rust like stretch marks across the paint caught your attention, the bed covered with a lazy tarp anchored with carabiners.

Dean escorts the group inside, spotting his source occupying a booth towards the back- an older man with a loosely-groomed beard peppered with age and a simple assortment thrown together from any hunter's wardrobe.

Quick greetings and little contribution from you, the man, who you now know as Dwayne, debriefs the group with his findings. He doesn’t have much to relay, nothing worth listening for anyways, but the moment he slips a piece of paper to Dean, your focus hones in.

Pleasantries were made and coffee was drunk, this piece of paper was now the next step and you felt the first bundle of nerves lining your stomach. Each strand of new conversation itched away and a thin rope holding back your anxieties and Sam could feel it.

You sat sandwiched between the window, cool night air radiating from the thick glass and onto your skin, and Sam, warmth flowing off of him like the mist of a ravenous waterfall. The heat meshed with the cool and kept you sated just enough to keep still. An encompassing palm of Sam’s brands your clothed thigh and settles you further, a calloused thumb caressing you and easing you back even more.

His touch, sweet and warm, burns away the tangled bundle in your stomach, almost massaging you back to a serenity.

With an objective clear in mind, but an ease mending the rope, the rest of the discussion is more manageable. You’re able to nod and pretend to listen without really taking in any information, not that you need any of it. You know more about this nest than this random hunter Dean has the phone number of. You’re thankful for his tip, and you make it known before leaving, but there wasn’t a syllable more you needed past the street address.

Your legs worked separately as your mind was elsewhere, and you were swiftly placed back in your spot in the back seat, watching snips of scenery pass by as more ground was covered.

The location wasn’t far.

Soon, the Impala turned onto an empty four-lane road, unkept trees moping along the sides, like they were marching with you to the skeleton of a restaurant plopped at the head of the road. Even then, with tensions high, you were still washed with a steadying calm that held your priorities high.

A warm halo from your fathers headlights illuminated your figure as you glanced over your shoulder at him and you could practically hear his complaints as the Impala turned up and into a parking lot nearby.

When the car shifted into park, you remained still, examining the shattered windows exhibiting a hollow interior. Your simple calm started to ball up into a weight in your stomach.

Dean plucked the keys from the ignition and exited the drivers side to head back to the trunk and you quickly followed, ignoring your fathers stares just yards away.

As you and the eldest Winchester gazed upon the messy arsenal, he spoke quietly. “Make sure you’re doin’ this for the right reasons.” He turns his head just an inch to get a better glance. “Not for show, not for pride.”

You stalled for beat, only long enough to acknowledge him, then reached for a machete with a short nod. It was enough for Dean.

The men followed, all arming themselves suitably and checking over their items swiftly before turning towards the building.

Memories of the 10-hour road trip all blurred together into one smeared streak of vision, lining up messily against the sight before you. It was like the melted clay that struggled to be shaped finally solidified into the setting before you. You almost felt your skull kickstart back to reality.

A sting of nerves awakened upon your skin again.

Dean led the way, you behind him, Sam notably behind you, and Bobby hesitating. You paid him no mind, though, as your steps continued to lead you right up to the sinking maws of the building.

Glass crunches to dust beneath the gaggle of footsteps amongst the group. Empty tables toppled over, booths split open, barstools practically shattered. Dean’s flashlight illuminates the space, but the eerie silence tells you all you need to know. No electricity, no working walk-in.

Not wanting to leave any stone unturned, the group still scoured the space. Every stain, break, or sign of life was worth noting, but nothing evident. Nothing but a few drops of oxidized blood spotting the bartop.

Starting to feel weighed down by the dread of this spontaneous trip meaning nothing, you pace the span of the bar, all the way down to the wall that’s speckled with little frames of sports paraphernalia for the Cowboys. Blue stars stamped in between white and blue cowboy hats, jerseys, scores, and printed pictures of the home stadium games. You got lost in the array, almost feeling displaced enough to hear a rowdy crowd and clinks of pints around the room. Laughter and cheering as the team scores, a call for another round.

You started to wonder the types of nights that were held in your steakhouse before it shut down. Dates, birthdays, promotions, parties, meetings, maybe even a proposal or two. What could’ve been home to dozens of people's happiest memories became your worst nightmare. You never looked into the place, not even sure you knew the name. But now you are itching to find out.

A loud crash stunned you out of your distant daze and you spun around, hearing the commotion rattle from somewhere in the kitchen.

“Sammy?!” Dean barks, heading towards the discourse. You follow, readying your blade.

“Baby girl, don’t-.”

But you ignored your father, entering the dimly lit kitchen, only a single ray of light sniping through the darkness from a dropped flashlight. You can barely make out the clutter of silhouettes fighting just a few feet away, and when you reach out to try and tear someone off another, a champion darts out, leaving a body to crumble to the ground with a harsh grunt, and shoves you roughly to the side. You yelp, landing into the side of a prep table and falling to your knees.

Panting to steal your breath back and clutching the freshly radiating pain in your side, you peek up to find Dean pressing his hands to Sam’s neck, the light now settled on their bond.

You’re thankful for his tip, and you make it known before leaving, but there wasn’t a syllable more you needed past the street address.

As the group exited the diner, your father placed a loving hand on your shoulder. “Wait a minute.” Everyone stopped and you bit back your attitude to look at him. “Let’s get a motel, rest up, we can check it out in the morning.”

“That could be too late, we’re going,” you said flatly, looking at the Winchesters. Dean squinted, you didn’t notice. Sam winced softly at your lack of life in your own words, you still didn’t notice. “Either of you have anything you want to say?” You shrug when no one starts moving again.

“Maybe-.” Sam starts, but Dean rips his keys from his pocket, his eyes locked on yours, and interrupts Sam.

“She’s right. We’re leaving,” Dean resumes the pace, leading the group back to the set of cars waiting patiently in the lot.

Your legs worked separately as your mind drifted elsewhere, and you were swiftly placed back in your spot in the back seat, watching snips of scenery pass by as more ground was covered.

The location wasn’t far.

Like the memories of your time at the steakhouse, the snippet of conversation slammed down at the front of your mind like angry, overdue paperwork from your boss on your desk.

Sam hesitated. He wanted to take a breather, and you ignored him. You hadn’t even realized the discussion even happened. It’s as if you floated from Sioux Falls to Dallas, Texas like a mindless spirit wandering the halls of a lonely mansion.

And now he was hurt.

“S-Sam.?” You stutter, stumbling to get on your feet, your stomach falling at the sight of glistening red in the light.

“I’m good,” he strains, sitting up with Dean’s help.

You feel your breath catch as you finally kneel by his side.

“You’re bit,” Dean bites, his ring shimmering alongside the blood staining his hands as he keeps a ripped chunk of cloth from his shirt pressed against Sam’s neck.

“It’s not that bad,” Sam reaches up to take over the pressure. Dean hesitates pulling away.

“I’m so sorry,” you shake your head, hands stuttering like your fragile voice trying to find a place to settle where they can help.

A new beam of light shines on the trio and they startle, easing when your fathers voice rains. “Got ‘im.” He panted, bloody machete in the other hand and shoulders heaving.

You were speechless, stunned. You wondered who it would be.

“Good,” Dean grits, standing and helping Sam up.

“Seriously, Dean, I’m good,” Sam said as he got to his feet, pulling away the cloth once he’s vertical. A slip trail of blood quickly follows and you reach up to guide his hand back.

“No, you’re not. Keep that there ‘till we find a place to stay tonight. Got it?” Your brows weigh down from the strict command, but scrunch up in the middle just in the right way for Sam to see how shaken you were by his injury. He held back his insistence and nodded.

Dean stepped past you two, grabbing Sam’s fallen flashlight, and exited the kitchen. You and Sam followed next, but this time, you kept Sam in front. You ignored the cloud of red with sharpening emeralds in the inky corner.

“You recognize him?” Dean asked, his eyes glued to the severed head on the ground that still hissed, teeth slick with Sam’s blood.

You carefully stepped into view, the ache along your side making it difficult, staying beside Sam- the side he was bitten- and you felt the riptide lull you back into your heartless indifference that shielded you from the emotions that crashed against the tide.

Dylan. The one with a cocky, know-it-all attitude. The one who seemed to thrive when putting a woman ‘in her place’. The one with the wandering hands and inappropriate bite placement.

It hurt to know you weren’t the one who killed him. He probably hadn’t even recognized you when he shoved you aside. He had no clue that you were the reason he was now dead. That it was your fathers blade that sliced his head off. You felt a wave of discomfort swim under your skin, like it was placed slightly off center to begin with.

You nodded, eyes blurry with the sting of tears, as your hand ran up your forearm, trying to smooth the itch of incompletion.

“That’s one of the guys from that house in the middle of nowhere Indiana,” Sam says quietly, looking over at Dean who nodded, his eyes still glued to the dead vamp.

“He hurt you?” Dean more so stated than asked.

“Yeah, he fed,” your words broke softly as the emotion tugged on the muscles in your throat, but you remained as stoic as possible. Only blinking to get rid of the well in your lids.

Dean adjusted his hold on the flashlight, spat on the ground where the head pooled blood on the aged hardwood, and marched out of the building. The act caused you to look up and watch him as he disappeared around the doorway.

You took one last look at the scowl permanently etched on Dylan’s face before leaving the building with Sam, your father following behind.

One down. Four to go.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>masterlist for this series is here >>check out my other works here

>tag list: @ltotheucyy @lunavelha @feathers-dreams @moosewithabackstory @emisnt @madslxz @canibeyourghoulfriend

#supernatural #sam winchester #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester angst

Like Father, Like Daughter // xx: force of nature

> masterlist for descriptions & warnings

chapter summary: you're learning to balance your new priorities and it almost starts to feel like normal, but hushed voices about findings of the nest ruin the thin veil you've been able to pretend worked for a few weeks // 2.9k

Surviving the walk-in was like walking a tightrope. Tiptoes ached from suspension and skin burned from tension, with one wrong move potentially threatening every falsely obstructed threat to cave over top of you as you’re buried beneath a tortured fate.

Muscle pain was constant. With being dehydrated and denied the simple stretch of your limbs, your own body started to revolt against its very existence. It was exhausted behind pinned high above your captors as they watched in lax entertainment waiting for either side of your balancing act to fall.

The familiar burn of pain echoed as you pushed yourself to land another strike on the bag Sam held in place for you. Sweat lined your forehead and matted flyaway strands to your forehead, similarly to how the hard work of the garden imprinted on your presentation.

“Good, stay straight,” Sam nodded, eyes glued to the way your arms twisted into the proper place of throwing the ideal punch. You pounce out another fist, landing it a little off center. “Good positioning, just hone back in,” he critiques.

With the last bit of renewable energy, you shoot one more hit that cements the bag around your knuckles like a Tetris piece. Air puffs out of your lungs, that you didn’t know you were holding back, and you drop your stance, staring at the bag in front of you.

“Just like that,” Sam grades, letting go of the bag as he picks up on you being spent for today. It’d been a long session, your longest since starting back, and he was starting to get worried that you were definitely pushing yourself past what the doctor prescribed.

Your wrapped fists unclench as your grasp hooks on your hip to pace. Heavy pants dried out your throat and Sam reached for your water bottle, plucking it from your gym bag and handing it over.

“Call it?” He squints quickly like it's a tic, looking you over for any flags.

You chug the water like a toddler with no discipline, gasping as the opening is pulled away by your own hand. “Called,” you pant, nodding and collecting the water stuck to your upper lip with your lower lip.

Sam exhales adoringly, looking down and swiping the rag from his shoulder to hand to you.

“What?” You continue to pant, skin glistened and flushed from the extensive work out.

He frowns like it’s nothing and shakes his head, lips relaxing into a warm smile like he knows something you don’t.

“What?” You press, rolling your eyes.

“Nothing,” he enunciates, stepping forward and hooking a palm around your torso to pull you in. “Nothing at all,” he kisses you softly, lips still curled in a smile he seems to only manage to muster when with you.

You close your eyes, taking in the moment. Any chance you get to slow down time with a simple kiss, you take it and squeeze it for all it’s got.

If it wasn’t for the doorbell on the front door of the gym, you would’ve taken advantage a little more.

“It’s late, let’s get home,” Sam picks up your shared gym bag and leads you out of the building, keeping a soft hand on our back to keep you in line with his step.

Quiet night air, cool and rain reminiscent, wraps over your heated skin that was sticky from sweat. Since you’d been cleared by your father to work your body back, it’d been a daily task that took up a majority of your time. You were dedicated to bulk back up and repair the muscle that was strained to dust in that rusty ice box.

Sam started you on steady cardio and yoga, which you fell in love with. The careful stretch of your ligaments left only concentration to take place when mirroring Sam’s movements. You could take time with each position and focus on memorizing your own body again. Especially when coming to terms with the bites that scarred your skin. When you started to work back some muscle too, it helped alleviate that day-or-two after burn that you couldn’t decide if you liked anymore.

Three times a week, you and Sam hit the gym late in the evening. It was purposeful, the goal being to avoid as many people as possible to hopefully bypass any curious stares or stunned onlookers. You weren’t about to train in sweats and a hoodie, but you also weren’t about to walk into a packed gym with only bike shorts and a sports bra. Not with your new skin. Not yet, at least.

Sam understood.

Sam always understood.

You slide into the passenger seat of your own sedan, Sam latching the door in place after you’ve settled, and watch him round the car to the drivers side.

The drive home was mellow. Sam debriefed about the work out, asking if there were any notes you wanted to make or adjustments you’d like to alter. As always- none.

Getting back in the rhythm of training again felt invigorating. Gaining your strength back, as well as your confidence and figure, was something that helped you sleep better at night. It meant you could protect yourself again. That you could take on the fuckers that dipleated you of this exact feeling.

But that wasn’t the goal. Or at least, wasn’t supposed to be the goal. You promised your father, Sam, yourself, that getting your body back only meant getting your sense of self established again. No matter how badly you wanted to march right out of this town and head back to Detroit to rip the heads off of each and every one of those vamps that touched you.

You had to keep it together.

Revenge wasn’t the lesson here.

“You with me?” Sam asked steadily, reaching out to put a gentle hand on your thigh. You startled at the touch, instinct only, and looked right at him. Your eyes scan the view the windshield framed and you realized you were home already. You don’t respond, your eyes catching the mess of green and brown strangling the life out of your flower beds. It’d been weeks since you weeded. Maybe you could do it tomorrow.

“Yeah,” your voice sounded raspy, like you weren’t ready to use your vocal chords just yet. Like the word was summoned from someone else. You clear your throat, assuming control. “I’m here,” you pronounce as your own words this time, looking back at him with an assured nod.

“How ‘bout we make a point to touch up the beds tomorrow?” He picks up, leaning his head back against the headrest, watching you lightly. You nod, looking back out the window, neglected foliage illuminated by the musky tinted headlights stare back stunned like amateur actors locked in stage fright. And somehow, the rebellious orange flowers gleamed back at you with a spotlight of their own. Pigment stains your lids as you tear your eyes away and force yourself out of the car and away from the lineup of your failing garden.

———

There was a lot of work to do, so much that you almost wanted to rip it all up and start again. But that would be too easy. Besides, if you could gain your body back, the least you could do was clean up this pitiful garden.

“Where y’gonna start there, darlin’?” Bobby asks, covering an amused smile with his coffee mug as he leans over the railing of the porch. You nibble your lip, hands on your hips and brow painfully furrowed.

“Shut up,” you mumble back, surveying the overgrown mess.

“Better question is ‘when’,” Dean says only to Bobby, but you still hear. Your face drops the contemplative look and you give him a nearly emotionless camera stare. Bobby chuckles, settling the coffee between both hands and kicking a shin around the other to readjust.

“You wanna try?” You squint at Dean with a fake smile.

Dean walks around Bobby to lean against a column that frames the steps, he folds his arms over his chest with a smirk. “You don’t want that, sweetheart, I’ll just take a weedwacker to the whole damn thing and call it a day.”

You roll your eyes, folding your arms over your own chest and looking over the plants one last time with a deep breath. Pulling out a pair of gloves from the front middle pocket of your oil stained overalls, Dean gawks mockingly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I think she’s got it now,” he nods, frowning like he’s impressed. A soft chuckle from behind you causes you to whip around and look at Sam with a dropped jaw and etch of betrayal. This only makes him laugh more as he tries to straighten his lips and hold back the humor.

“Bully,” you scoff and shake your head, reaching around him to snatch his own set of gloves out of where they’re lazily stuffed in his back pocket. “You’ve lost helping privileges,” you state matter-of-factly.

Sam immediately apologizes with a left over smile from chuckles still working their way out. He reaches for the gloves again but you hold them back and up where he could reach, but he chooses to not so as to leave you with the control.

“‘Privileges’ is a mighty kind word for what you’re asking,” Dean states from behind you and you whip back around, dropping the height on the extra gloved hand.

“You dick!”

“Okay, Dean, let her work,” Bobby scolds with a raised brow, taking another sip to keep from laughing again.

“Yeah, Dean,” you mock. If you were all tweens again, you would’ve stuck out your tongue. He just winks with a shit-eating grin and pushes off of the column to head back inside, Bobby follows, announcing he needs a refill.

As the storm door smacks shut behind them both, Sam snipes back the gloves and kisses you before you can argue. “I’m assuming back my privileges,” he says against your lips, pecking your lips once more before slipping on the gloves and straightening back up. “Now, what did you decide?”

———

It takes most of the chilly morning to rip up just over three quarters of the bed's weeds and you were starting to get pretty beat. Especially after working late last night at the gym.

Sam had just walked off with another bucket to deliver to Bobby’s fire pit in the back forty, and you deemed it was now time to take a break and finish up tomorrow.

You lean back off of your heels and bring your knees up, letting the blood rush back to your feet as you admire the freshly groomed scape. You even selfishly plucked the few orange flowers that bloomed uninvited, and admired their absence especially.

“Evie.”

A slicing wind blows over your face with a hint of Autumn in its wake. It rakes through your hair and whips strands past your ears. You blame the whisper on the breeze.

Sam’s footsteps crunch over the gravel as he nears the porch. He drops the bucket and stands beside you, admiring the work accomplished as well.

“Call it?” He exhales heavily, like he’s ready for a break too.

“Called,” you nod, accepting a hand he reaches out to help you up. You groan, muscles protesting from the extensive use.

“C’mon, let’s get some lunch,” he hums, following you up the steps and reaching for the storm door, opening it for you. As soon as the hinges creak, quiet voices flowing from Bobby’s study hush. It makes you stagger, wondering why they were so quick to cut their conversation. It couldn’t be about the nest, could it?

“You forgot her.”

Another hard wind slams the storm door shut and your attention is drawn to a ghost of orange curls that dart out of view as soon as you register them. Sam’s hand holds your shoulder gently, soft words dying before they reach your ringing ears. Your attention is stolen by the breathy whisper that sounds just like…

“First word, love,” Sam enunciates with stern eyes like he’s repeating himself.

You clear your throat and sniff back some threatening tears and you shake him off with a gentle smile. “Shower. Just need a shower’s all,” you assure, tucking some hair behind your ear and staring towards the stairs. “Lunch after?” You squint in suggestion as you take the first few steps, ignoring Dean and your father in the study.

“Right,” he nods back, taking a steady, simple breath.

You retreat up the steps and get started on the familiarly simple routine to refresh yourself and take your mind off the slowly increasing problem that is Heather’s ghost.

———

Dean’s hushed voice debriefed the men as he laid out a lead he caught wind of from Dallas that was eerily similar to the strings of disappearances following your abduction. He knew a hunting buddy who swam around Texas looking for cases who gave Dean a handful of information that clicked all the dreadingly right links that made the web of your captors.

This was the first Sam was hearing about it, and although he was upset with his brother about keeping it from him, he understood that he was only trying to really keep it from you. Which, still wasn’t Dean’s choice to make, but made it easier for Sam to come to terms with the annoyance it pricked.

“And why the hell are you tellin’ me that, boy?” Bobby grumbled, keeping his voice hushed like Dean had had his.

“Becuase, I can’t let ‘em get away again. Not after what they did to her,” Dean shook his head, practically seething at just the thought of getting his hands on one of those vamps.

“Well, you can’t just go spillin’ information like that in this house, what do you think it’ll do t’her? Y’think you can’t let it go?” Bobby combats.

“We can’t just keep something like this from her,” Sam interjects, keeping his voice calm, but not quiet. He wouldn’t be keeping this from you, and he wasn’t going to act like he was even considering hiding it. Bobby gives him a stern look of warning, still, thinking he could insist on keeping it from you. No dice.

“Like what?” Your soft voice interrupts the roll of whiskey stained vocals. Dean jerks over his shoulder like he was startled by your entrance, Sam simply looks over like he was expecting it, and Bobby sighs, burying his face in his hand like he wanted to pause time and throw the brothers out of his house entirely.

Sam sighs your name, ready to let you in on the conversation, as much as he didn’t want to for the sake of keeping you safe, it wasn’t his choice to censor your right to fact.

“Sam.” Bobby warns.

“We think we found ‘em-.” Dean says for him.

“Dean!” Bobby shouts, slamming his hand on the desk and abandoning his face completely. “You want her to get herself killed?” He roars, a thicker accent breaking through the emotion.

“Daddy,” you scoff, shaking your head. “I have a right to know anything you three do. I can handle it, just tell me.” You land back on Dean, knowing he wouldn’t have it in him to sugar coat it.

“We found a string of leads that are pretty damn similar to the nest,” Dean’s voice raises throughout the sentence as he side eyes Bobby who is trying to interrupt him.

Your heart rate picks up and your lungs are wrapped with fresh elastic. “Wh-where?”

“See! She can’t handle this, Dean, now leave it-.”

“Dad!” You bite. “Just shut up. I know you’re worried, and I know you think I can’t handle this, but I can. It’s my life they stole and it’s their heads I plan to take as compensation,” you manage to get out without stuttering. “Continue,” you tick your head at Dean, wanting to hear it all.

“Dallas. I got someone in the area that picked up on it and sent it my way. I’ve had some feelers out since- well, everything,” he darts his eyes away for a moment, but centers them back on you quickly. “And he’s the first one to reach out about evidence of a nest holed up in an old steakhouse.”

You knew this day would come. When you felt a rush of vengeance fueled by the resentment you carried, and when you’d feel ready to accept that task. And how perfect was it that you’ve been training just in time to take it on? This wasn’t a decision, this was a calling.

“Okay,” you nod, eyes glazing as you run through a mental checklist of what this means and what it truly entails.

“‘Okay’? Does that mean you’re really going after some random hunter's word? Baby girl, you can’t drop all of this progress you’ve made for something so trivial. This ain’t your fight.”

“My ‘progress’ means nothing if I can’t use it to kill those bloodsuckers! So, yes, I am doing this. I’m only here at the expense of Iliani and Carmen and Heather. They don’t deserve for me to just sit back and fail them, again.” The pain in your fathers eyes hurt almost as much as the thought of ignoring this lead. “You can help if you want, but I’m leaving in the morning.”

And with that, you turn on your heel and barge back up into your room to start packing. Your appetite is gone, but you pay it no mind because there's a check-list etched into your brain and Thomas is at the very top.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>masterlist for this series is here >>check out my other works here

>tag list: @ltotheucyy @lunavelha @feathers-dreams @moosewithabackstory @emisnt @madslxz @canibeyourghoulfriend

#supernatural #sam winchester #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester angst

Like Father, Like Daughter // xix: gardening therapy

> masterlist for descriptions & warnings

chapter summary: some time passes that grants you a mundane routine and slowly healing skin. but when the boys come back from another hunt, you realize how much you miss your own strength and independence // 3.1k

The hot, midday sun beams on your back as you pick and tear at the weeds sprouting along the bed of peonies and roses you planted a few weeks ago. As you continued to heal, both mentally and physically, you found yourself gaining more energy than you spent, so you took up gardening- a dormant hobby from a semester of college when you attempted to shove out the need to hunt.

Ironic how its use has circled its way back around in your life.

Your hair was tied back and you had an old pair of overalls you used to wear when you’d shadow your father when he’d work on cars. He was quite insistent to make sure you knew at least the basics with auto care, especially when it was planned for you to travel so far for school.

The pair still had a few oil stains and little rips from catching on car parts that made the piece a perfect shield for yard work. Grass stains and streaks of dirt didn’t matter as it marred the denim further, as it only seemed to endear the clothing further for you.

It also added a layer of protection for your knees as you kneel on patches of gravel that framed the walkway of the porch.

A wiry band of headphones wrapped over your head and attached to an old ipod of yours with only about twenty songs to shuffle through. It was good enough for the hour-or-so long task and made the chore a little more enjoyable as you could really distance yourself from the reality that included the vivid memories behind each discolored scar up your arms.

You used to wear gloves and long sleeves as you tore at the weeds along the porch, desperately needing to hide the jarring reminder of why your skin was now stained in such a way, but the warmer summer became and the more healed your wounds evolved, the easier it was to distance the stomach flips that followed the reminders.

It had been just over two months since the string of continuous bites stopped, and for the most part, each scar was healed completely. Due to the dozens, though, it did take longer than you’d hoped, or really could stand. But now, as you look back, you find yourself admittedly prideful of the process you’ve made.

Beads of sweat tickled your forehead as you endured the beating sun a little longer, almost done with the left side of the porch. Your knees started to get sore and you reckoned it would soon be time for a quick break and beer inside with your father to cool off.

If you were smarter, you would’ve forced yourself out of bed, and away from your third book checked out from the Sioux Fall’s library this month, sooner. But you didn’t, and you’d completely missed the opportunity of a dewy morning and cool breeze to enjoy this morning.

You put up with it, though, favoring the rewarding task as you leaned back on your heels and looked down the mulched bed of colorful flowers that finally started to bloom. You’d carefully picked packets that would produce pinks and reds along the lattice porch covering, but it seemed that a few took a more rebellious route as pokes of orange seemed to crown out of the buds. And despite your previously rewardingly bland day, the pigment rolled over your skin like molasses, stiffening your muscles and weighing you down as the rich color stained your lids, even upon closing your eyes to distance yourself from the sharp ping.

Stained yellow cloth and a galaxy of freckles follow the image you try to turn from as Heather’s lifeless eyes make their appearance, framed with fiery hair.

Also with your abundance of free time and growingly consistent energy to spend, you’d made the questionable decision to look up Heather. Handfuls of articles littered your laptop's search engine and you combed through the links to find something- anything- from last year. And you had found it. Her graduation picture with a shimmering green gown and matching hat that lit up her eyes, and rich, lively curls that were exactly the shade of orange you’d assumed them to be in her prime. Before her life was stolen before her last breath was.

The overwhelming force of images and reminders felt like a knife to the gut. Your lungs felt uncooperative and your hands shaky. But you forced your shoulders back ahead as you loomed over the final clumps of weeds that requested your attention.

With a deep breath- that felt like it fell right through the colander your lungs had become- you wiped the back of your hand over your forehead and readied yourself back into the task of your number one distraction.

You pretended it worked as you added another handful of weeds to the pile on a small tarp, bound for a bonfire your father would light later tonight, beside you. You actively kept specific images and strings of article titles behind a steel lock on a door in the back of your mind. And just as it started to work, even just a tiny bit, a form came into your peripheral and you instantly startled off the edge your consciousness led you to.

You flinch back, looking up at the gentle form that slowly stepped into your vision on purpose so as to not tap you on the shoulder and startle you.

Smiling sheepishly, hoping to ease the tension of the spotlight aimed at you due to your reaction, Sam waited for you to pull back the headphones and speak first.

“Sam,” you breathed out, discarding the headphones and slipping the ipod out of your pocket before standing up. “You’re back early,” you smile genuinely, your heart slowing down a bit from its rapid startle.

“Yeah,” he nods with a smile, his eyes darting over your form. As you go to stand up, he reaches out and offers a hand to help that you quickly accept.

“I’m all sweaty,” you balance yourself and wipe off some stuck debris from the denim wrapped over your legs.

“I don’t care,” he shakes his head with warm eyes and a simple shake of his head. He pulls you in and you oblige with his action, wrapping your arms around his torso as he hugs you tight. You pull back to look up at him, warm sun glinting in his eyes and igniting his warm skin. He leans down and you push yourself up on your toes to meet him halfway, kissing him softly and inhaling his presence.

A wave of warmth washes over you as you register his being. It’d been over a week since you’d seen him last and this was everything you’d been missing.

His hands find home on your hips, thumbs hooking in the dips of your overalls.

“A little late for yard work,” he notes, tracing his finger along the tip of your forehead, unsticking some flyaways from your skin.

“I was just about to head in for a drink,” you gesture with a light tick of your head, squinting from the sun.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean greets as he walks by, his own duffle in hand and only now do you notice Sam’s slung over his shoulder.

“Hi, Dean,” you greet back, leaning back from Sam just a bit, but Dean just keeps walking.

“Gonna raid your fridge, I’m starvin’,” Dean simply states with a smirk as he walks up the porch, two steps at a time.

You laugh softly, an ease of the weight in your chest as the Winchesters make themselves at home.

With a shared silent look, you and Sam follow him inside, rounding the hall into the kitchen and taking a beer that Dean holds out as he’s ducked in the fridge, not even looking first to make sure there was someone to accept the bottle.

“Hey, boys,” Bobby enters the room, “Darlin’,’ he places a soft hand on your shoulder as he passes you. You watch him accept the third beer Dean swipes from the fridge.

“You knew they were coming? Why didn’t you say anything?” You ask, only curious.

“They called only a little bit ago, didn’t wanna disturb your groove,” Bobby shrugs, knocking the tab of the bottle against the kitchen counter and biting a small chunk out of the wood. The bottle hisses open and he takes a sip.

Dean’s bottle cracks next as he leans against the stove, taking a sip. “We wrapped up that case in Kansas and figured we’d just stop by for a few days. Plus,” Dean flashes knowing eyes in Sam’s direction. “This one was pretty annoying about coming back to say ‘hi’.”

Sam rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his beer and facing away, a slight rush of embarrassment pigmenting his cheeks.

You smile softly to yourself, setting down your unopened beer. “Well, I’m glad it worked out,” you smile up at Sam. “I got a little more to wrap up outside, but honestly, the heat has gotten to me. I’m gonna run up and shower.”

Before following your declaration, you give Sam a quick kiss and a quiet bid to the other two in the room.

Showers stay quick. Seven minutes, usually.

You couldn’t stand the marks over your skin, the melt of muscle you once had, or the lack of sun-kissed glow you’d usually keep up with in the summer.

Hot water, almost uncomfortably so, scraped your skin with the suds of your scentless bar of body wash. Less irritation for your almost healed wounds. You missed your usual scent.

And your hair was simple. Quick squirt of soap to lather the strands, followed with a dollop of conditioner.

It wasn't as enjoyable as it used to be. You hadn't taken advantage of the private moment of peace. Hadn’t soaked up the various scents of your exfoliants, soaps, or creams. You hadn’t even taken the time to light a candle for the ritual it felt like. It wasn’t a reset anymore, it was a chore.

But you managed. Just like you had with everything else now.

You managed to shower. Managed to eat properly. And even managed with laundry and keeping your room in shape. Enough to busy your days so they pass quicker. And in turn, your body would heal quicker.

Theoretically.

The same lighter feeling of a shower remained and your skin chilled at the cool air of your bedroom. And at least you were done with the handful of ointments and wraps for your bites. All but one, the stitches on your leg that just got past its second infection.

As you opened your bedroom door, a new assortment of clothes on your body and damp hair making you feel just a bit more put together, you were blissfully reminded of Sam’s presence as you could hear him from downstairs.

It was different when he was home. You felt safer and more seen.

The stairs creak as you descend, but the men don’t hush themselves at your entrance. It’s a relief to know there are no secret reports to be made about the whereabouts of the nest that was still out there somewhere.

Sam stepped up by the steps, waiting for you with an arm draped over the railing. He smiles up at you and you can’t help but return the lift.

“I missed you,” you hummed softly, stopping two steps away from the bottom to match his height.

“I missed you too, my love,” he slithers his arms around your waist to give you a proper kiss. Lips locked as his tongue swipes softly with your own. Fingers dipped into your lower back and your own anchoring lightly around roots.

He always pulls away before it escalates beyond the heated kiss you two ache for most days, though, knowing your limits and determination not to overstep them before you are ready.

“How’re you feeling?” He asks, licking his lips lightly to savor the hint of your taste left on his skin.

“Better,” you answer honestly. “Ready to get back in the gym,” you daydream, missing the extra weight on your bones. The heft that came with each session.

“You think you’re ready for it?” He asks, his eyes soft with gentle challenge as he was also eager to work with you, almost like a personal trainer.

“Hell yeah. At least to start to get back in the rhythm,” you assure, hoping maybe it’s finally the week.

“As long as you’re cleared,” Sam shrugs, pulling you a little closer, your hips flush with his stomach as you’re still a few steps up.

You fold your lips through your teeth with only a nod, knowing that meant medically by your father. And that was a conversation for later.

“You wanna come up for a bit?” You ask, tilting your head up the steps, hoping for some alone time to just enjoy each other's presence. He nods with a warm smile, eyes grazing your face as he admires you as much as he can while he’s here. It’s gotten harder and harder for him to be on the road, knowing you were here by yourself. Well, technically not entirely alone, but he knew Bobby could only be there for you so much.

He was surprisingly docile since everything happened, especially regarding you dropping everything to hunt and lying about it, but there were still some things you would never be ready to share with your father.

Sam follows you up the steps, letting you lead him by hand to your room. He closes the door for you and climbs over your comforter to pull you into his chest.

Big arms wrap around your frame, tucking you in close enough to be instantly engulfed in his warmth and scent. This time leather and green apple, lingering evidence that he had been in the Impala and used some of Dean’s shampoo.

“Your flower beds look good. I can help you finish up tomorrow morning,” he speaks softly, letting mostly the vibration of his voice carry the communication to you through your head pressed against him.

“I’d like that,” you close your eyes, taking in the comfort of the moment and relishing in the advantage of no burnt orange staining your vision or striking emerald blinding your subconscious.

She was everywhere but here. With Sam.

Sam’s fingers run up your arm, tickling exposed skin and running over healed bites. His touch was confident and familiar, so you didn’t feel tense when he passed your scars like speed bumps, nor did he give it a second thought.

It wasn’t long until the comfort and warmth of Sam’s hold lulled you into a rare, peaceful, sleep.

———

Bobby leaned back in his desk chair, hand wrapped loosely around a glass of his trademark whiskey. He set it down once the request passed your lips and had been contemplating for almost a whole three minutes.

“Daddy?” You ask, sitting up on the edge of the couch and watching each and every movement of your fathers.

His teeth clench and he looks down at his glass, taking a deep breath. He sits up, wiping a hand down his face and nudging away the glass. “Why?” He asks without looking up. “Why do you need to start training again?”

Your brow furrows and you look down at the empty spot on his desk that he seems fixated on. You stay silent, not knowing how to answer that question. There was a conflicted swarm of responses swirling in your stomach and you felt any explanation would be the wrong one.

Simply, you wanted to feel more like yourself again. You wanted your body back- your control. So much had been stolen, not only during the time you were taken but, since the lie about spring break started. You sacrificed your own autonomy, without even knowing it at the time, when you decided to stick to the unpredictable and unreliable path of hunting.

Contradictingly, you wanted the hobby, the distraction. Something else to funnel all your energy into. Instead of spending every day tending to your garden, shadowing your fathers auto-endeavors, or reading another pointless book with a plot you couldn’t regurgitate, you could ration the practicality normalizing this task again. But, normalization of training would come with the forefront purpose of hunting.

Without moving your gaze from the empty spot on your fathers desk, you could see the striking ginger curls haloing a pale and discolored silhouette in the hall. She lingered like a coffee stain on the first page of a brand new notebook. It stung to let her schizophrenic presence even register in your mind, so you forced out an answer before her noose of guilt strangled you and tugged you right out of that room.

“I don’t feel like myself.” The silhouette’s head lolled like she was fed up with your entitlement. You drag your eyes to meet your fathers, ignoring the shift of the figure as she drops her head to the side completely- just as she does in every dream she haunts. “I just want to feel like myself again.”

The words burn like whiskey until a swirl of ivory, crimson, and emerald dissolve from your peripheral and free the tight manilla rope around your throat.

Bobby’s eyes soften as he looks over you. He would never admit it, but one of the hardest things for him about your recovery was seeing the everlasting physical difference your abduction led to. He always worried about you, he did, but what helped him sleep a little tighter at night was knowing that you could handle your own in a fight. You took to your mothers side for her charm, smarts, and looks, but when it came to endurance and brute strength, you got it from him.

He missed giving you bear hugs and bantering with light shoves or nudges. He missed not treating you like a heap of shattered glass held together by cheap super glue.

“You can’t push yourself,” he grumbled, tilting his head down to look back at his glass of whiskey as his hand wrapped around it again. He wanted the brim of his cap to cover his expression as he schooled the ache in his eyes.

“I won’t,” you promise while you still believe it.

Downing the rest of his drink with a tight hiss, he loosely clatters the glass back on the table and looks right at you again, giving an equally stern glare to Sam as well. “Take it slow, keep it civil. You’re not training to hunt or nothin’ like that. You’re training for your own defense. Keep it that way.”

And again, you agreed while you still could.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>masterlist for this series is here >>check out my other works here

>tag list: @ltotheucyy @lunavelha @feathers-dreams @moosewithabackstory @emisnt @madslxz @canibeyourghoulfriend

#supernatural #sam winchester #supernatural fanfiction #fandom #sam winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic #fanfiction #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester angst

Like Father, Like Daughter // xviii: lights out

> masterlist for descriptions & warnings

chapter summary: a thunderstorm causes a power outage in the middle of the night which leads to an end of your stubborn insistence of sleeping alone // 3.5k

Tight metal bites into your wrists as Thomas hooks the cuffs on a dangling chain from the ceiling by the bar. Your shoulders ache as his hands leave your frame, dangling you from the hook with only your toes to make up for the slack.

Your head hasn’t stopped throbbing. Everything aches: the bites, the bruising. But it’s your headache that’s killing you.

The warmth of the steakhouse, the humidity and stench of blood and sweat, it all stains your senses. It weighs in the little blood that makes it through your skull, dragging along the trudge of stream like swelled stone.

Muffled voices talk over each other, but you can barely make it out.

A harsh hand, callused and inconsiderate, grabs your waist and pulls you against their chest. He talks with another vamp across the room as he presses you against himself, booming voice rattling the oobleck your blood has morphed into. Your head pounds and you wish he’d just shut up and get this over with.

His hand travels up your side and along your arm, curling around the bend of your elbow and tugging you in. His teeth sink into the meat of your bicep and the pain shoots through your limb. As painful as it is, the sharpness of the stab almost dissolves some of the fog in your brain.

Your eyes clear up, and so does your hearing, and you scan the room. At least a dozen vamps are scattered about, talking, drinking, laughing. But your eyes land on one figure in particular. One you’d never seen here before.

Heather, with steaks of blood down her chin, mixing into the torn gash of her neck. Her dead eyes were milky and behind her, with a hand on her shoulder, was Dove.

They both stared right at you. Skin slick with blood or dried with mortem. They watched you like a nosey child watches strangers on a subway. Complete disregard of your actual being, and simply watching to observe.

The pain starts to dull as you try to choke out an apology. You want to beg for forgiveness from the mere shells of the women you’d succeeded in death. The victims’ lives of which you stole.

As a strangled cry rips from your throat, Heather's eyes shake. Back and forth like a glitch, but really just taking in your every ache and gash at a supernatural speed. They hone right back at you in a split second with a tick of her head and a pinch of fury.

Her lip twitches and her head snaps, splitting the torn gash in the side of her throat deeper as her skull fully slacks like a broken doll.

The thumping of your heart behind your ribs matches the beat in your skull and shoots you straight awake. A slick sweat over your forehead and teary eyes blurring your nearly pitch black vision of your room.

Wind whistles through the window as rain patters the roof, the sounds seemingly overpowering the volume of your white noise machine. You look up to your dresser to find that the light indicating the machine is plugged in, is off.

You must’ve forgotten.

The door to your room is closed but the bathroom door isn’t, and a glint of moonlight in the reflection of the mirror makes you freeze as you catch it in your peripheral. The spark eats you like her eyes had.

You don’t remember getting to bed. You only remember eating pizza, attempting a movie, and falling asleep before it got good. Sam must’ve carried you to bed and then went to his own room. You feel a little lonely as you remember you hadn’t had the chance to invite him in for the night. Though, you felt quite respected that he hadn’t assumed after your talk.

But you needed him.

Despite the eyes mocking you in the bathroom, or the guilt of waking Sam up, you force yourself to replay bits of the conversation from earlier. What Sam had practically vowed.

Your feet turn to ice as they land on the chilling hardwood, creaking as you stand. You sniffle, bringing a palm to your forehead to steady the rush that throbs your head tediously. Still trembling from the adrenaline and fear of your own subconscious, you step towards the door, unsure feet planting on even more icy wood that wakes you up a bit more. Though, it doesn’t help your head at all.

As you turn the knob to your bedroom door that leads into the hall, you’re startled by a silhouette standing just a few feet back. You gasp, stuttering back quickly at the presence.

“Sorry! Sorry-,” Sam rushed, reaching for the light switch in the hall. He flicked at it, but it wouldn’t ignite. “I think the power’s out. I didn’t mean to scare you, I just wanted to- to check on you,” he explains. Messy hair and sleepy eyes. Sweatpants hang low on his hips and socks on his feet, but nothing else. You flush a bit, feeling guilty already.

“I didn’t- um.” What? Mean to wake him? Because yes you did. That’s exactly what you were doing.

“You shouted. In your sleep,” Sam follows up. “Are you okay?” He asks, stepping a bit closer. You sink into yourself a bit, sniffling.

Wind slices along the roof, shaking the house with rain pelting overhead. The melodic pricks against the metal roof feel like gentle pokes at your skull, like a balm to the swell of pressure.

“I was gonna ask if-,” you swallow. “Can you sleep with me tonight?”

He relaxes. “Of course.”

A harsh strike of lightning echoes a boom of thunder that flickers the lights a bit, but it settles right back into quiet darkness.

Inky black eats the color of the hall, leaving just shadows and illumination from more lightning to dance across the two. Your breathing shallows as the darkness settles like fallout and you feel Sam’s arms reach for you.

“We’re okay,” he says, kissing your head. “Just a storm.”

Your breathing quickens as the two women’s faces flash with each blink. Only, when you open your eyes again, there’s no other place to focus on where you’re certain they’re not.

“Was it a nightmare?” He asks, standing still and letting his arms keep you close. Shielding you from the dark and what it holds.

“Y-Yeah,” you stutter, leaning into him.

“C’mon, let’s lay down,” he says, waiting for the thunder to follow another strike he saw outside before letting go to lead you back to bed. After the rumble rattles the room, he leads you back to your bed and lifts the blankets for you, guiding you down before he follows. He pulls the blanket over both of you, keeping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his chest.

He’s so warm. Incredibly warm, and sturdy too.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” He asks, his voice humming through his chest that you can feel against your skin.

“Not really,” you mumble, keeping your head tucked so that you can blame the dark on the press of your face against his chest and not the inescapable reality of night without light. He smells good, like apricots and masculine deodorant. The kind that doesn’t actually have any scent notes, but just smells like it’s mocking fancy cologne. It suits him, though. A hand runs through your hair, carding through your locks and scratching lightly along the roots.

“I couldn’t really sleep anyways," he says lowly after a while. “Was trying to work up the courage to check if you were on the porch.”

You exhale a soft scoff, snaking your arm up over his waist, pulling a bit closer. He adjusts with you.

“Did you carry me to bed?”

“You were too peaceful to wake up,” he hummed, tucking your head under his chin and settling deeper into the pillow beneath him.

You close your eyes, stomach churning as Heather's slacked head stains your lids. Dull, red curls falling over her face but still saving room to beam her lifeless, curdled eyes right at you.

Sam’s hand rubs your back lightly, trying to ease the tremble over your skin.

Some time passes. Thunder rumbled and lightning struck. The rain gets more intense and Sam holds you a bit closer, if even possible. The continuous patter of rain, along with Sam’s generous hands, massages your headache further, dampening it to a mere echo of what it’d been.

You’re not sure how much time ends up passing, but Sam doesn’t stop playing with your hair or rubbing your back. He goes back and forth between the two. He probably thinks you’ve fallen asleep.

You wonder if his offer is still on the table.

You’d bet it is.

“It’s Heather.”

For a moment, you wonder if he’s fallen asleep instead.

“Heather.” Her name in his mouth feels wrong. He knows her as a victim. You knew her as a survivor- considering. “Is that who was with you?” He’s avoiding certain words and phrases, you can tell.

“Yeah. The one Dean… moved,” you mumble, idly drawing a figure eight with your fingertip on his hip. “I keep seeing her,” you whisper like you're scared of her hearing. “When I’m asleep, when I’m awake. It’s like she’s haunting me.”

He chews on your words for a moment, sorting through what he could say. “Jess haunted me for a while. Saw her in crowds, dreams. Even heard her sometimes.”

“When did she leave?”

“She hasn’t. Not really.”

“How do you deal?”

“Don’t think I do.”

You nibble your lip. “Why do you think that is?”

He hesitates with a small smile, wanting to have asked you the same. “Guilt.”

“You didn’t kill her.”

“I know where else we could use this same argument.”

You let out your lungs, ignoring the hypocrite you’re about to become. “It’s different.”

“How?” Sam nuzzles down a bit, pressing his cheek against your head and pulling up his hold. He’s squeezing you a bit awkwardly against him, but you don’t mind. The angle doesn’t hurt, and that’s what matters most to you right now.

“She should’ve-,” you stop, catching yourself before you say something too macabre. You had to be careful with how honest you were. You didn’t want him to think you were one more inconvenience away from inadvertently adding to the nest's death toll.

“Should’ve what?”

You shake your head against his chest, settling further as if to give up on the topic completely.

“Lived?” He presses, his one step too far angering you more than it should. You push back a bit to look up at him.

“Yeah. Lived.” You bite through a tight jaw.

“And what? You shouldn’t’ve?” He tests. You admire his courage.

Your face twists as you roll onto your back to stare up at the ceiling that’s drowning in shadows. Your heart still thumps, but now it’s backed up by heating irritants and not fearing adrenaline.

“That’s not fair to do to yourself,” he states, just as calmly as his previous claims. You scoff, shaking your head again.

“None of this is fucking fair, Sam,” you say like you’re running out of breath.

He lets you stew, even when another roll of thunder makes you flinch, he doesn’t reach out. He knows better.

“You know, when I first met them, they didn’t know what vampires were?” You choke, forcing the wobble in your throat back the best you could. You turn to face him, barely able to make out his features in the dark. “I did. I told them. Their weaknesses, strengths. Even came up with a plan,” you scoff. “But we fucked it up,” the ceiling catches your attention again.

Swirling popcorn patterns get lost in the darkness. Unable to make out any details above, your mind decides on an image for you: Heather lying in her own blood. Not morphed by guilt or horror. Not gory for the sake of beating a dead horse. Raw, real, exact. The precise moment just before Sam opened the door to the walk-in.

“I was their only chance,” you breathe out. And you hadn’t realized you were crying until a couple tears pool by your ear lobe. You let them itch and don’t bother to fix it. It’d be a waste of energy because everything hurts again. No need to sweep the dust bunny lining the doorway to a hoarders kitchen.

“Their deaths aren’t on your hands,” Sam spoke softly.

“They aren’t not on my hands.”

There was nothing he could say to that. At least nothing that would convince you out of your own trap of guilt.

So, he just lies there, hoping he could muster up something. Call you ridiculous, insist you did all you could, promise that your future still exists. But none of it would actually help you right now. Because reason isn’t what you need, it’s closure. And only time can even begin to start that process.

———

Despite your own isolated moment of self-hatred last night, you still woke up in Sam’s arms. Just as close as you were last night before your ‘heart-to-heart’. And either he’s oddly functional in his sleep, or has been up longer than you have, because his hand is still tangled in your hair, lightly rubbing and feeling the strands.

You don’t move, afraid to mess up the quiet moment of peace that will fade as soon as reality begins.

The white noise machine is on again, and you can hear the AC unit through the house whirling. You breathe deeply, relieved the power is back on.

“Good morning,” Sam hums, his voice rough and sleepy. He adjusts a bit, moving onto his back but keeping you on his chest. “How’d you sleep?”

“Warm.”

He chuckles. “Glad to be of service.”

Familiar silence eases its tide back over your room. You’d been lucky enough not to encounter another venomous glare from Heather or Dove during your sleep. But now it was time for consciousness to take its turn, and you weren’t too hopeful.

“Um, so,” Sam clears his throat. “Dean called an hour or so ago.” You wondered how late you two had slept in. “Him and Bobby should be back later today.”

“Ah,” you take a deep breath, rolling onto your back a bit to look back up at the ceiling, and now the patterns were distinct and you could pretend they were clouds to play pictionary with.

There was no telling where you and your father really stood as of now. You worried your routine developed with Sam would get tamped down as fear of perception by those not understanding would be far too overwhelming.

Your father surely couldn’t have been happy with the insistence of him getting out of the house followed by no ‘goodbye’ from you. You hoped he wasn’t mad, but he most likely would be. You’d barely talked to him since getting back, and Dean's words did get to you a bit. Maybe it hadn’t set in for your father that you’re safe and sound again, but maybe it hadn’t for you either.

It used to feel like Sam and Dean were the line to cross for harsh reality to set in, but now, the thought of going back to your father is what feels like the last few bricks placed in the Cask of Amontillado.

There was more than just admittance that came with talking to your father, though. The way he’d look at you, the way he’d pity and belittle like a parent would for their child. It wouldn’t be of malice, but of love and arrogance.

You went through your usual morning routine: shower, tending to your healing wounds, breakfast. And if it were any other morning, you’d migrate out to the porch for a while. However, with the anticipation of your father and Dean coming back, you wanted to stay inside and hidden until you could prepare for their entrance.

Sam tried to keep your attention on him with card games and little talks, but you kept retreating back into your own head as you prepared what you were going to say. How you were going to lay everything out, you weren’t sure, but you knew it had to be good. It had to be quick and simple, but had to hold in every ounce of meaningful word you could conjure up.

It had to start with why you left school and why you lied about it to protect him. You had to explain why- at the time- it seemed like the best way of going about the situation. And maybe further context would help. Maybe if you could backtrack a little more to when you first felt the need to lie to him, it would make more sense to him.

Then, you could tell him what that life was like on the road. How you needed to explore that course of your life to learn the acceptance of another path. Maybe you could throw in a few funny stories that happened on the road- loosen up the tension with the laughable practicality of the trip.

You could then explain how you ran into Dean at the UIC campus and the discussions that followed- the guilt that ate at you. Maybe if he knew how much it hurt to lie to him about it, he would sympathise and tell you everything was okay and forgiven.

You could relive the imprint those women's bodies left on you. You could tell your father how it was such a shock of reality, that it was what hit you out of your funk hard enough to send you packing and back home.

Maybe you could rattle off how badly you secretly wanted to tell him everything when you saw him that weekend again. How it killed you that you couldn’t confide in him or talk it over.

He would’ve been angry and you could keep blaming your failings on that one fact.

That you were too scared to confront him about it all, and still were.

That you were willing to subject yourself to all that you had just to avoid his disapproval.

And then you could realize what a horrible thought that’d be- to essentially blame all of this on him, your father who only loved and protected you all of his life.

You could sit here for days and plan what you’d say. You could write up copies and host practice presentations, scour through dictionaries and thesauruses to find the exact words that would stick by your side and explain everything for you, hope and pray and plead that he’d just understand and no longer feel the ache that you caused him.

You could do that. In a sense, you sort of have already, but it would prove to be entirely useless.

Because when your father finally walked through that front door, duffle in hand and expression exhausted yet graced by your presence, you lost every single word you had queued up.

You could only stare straight ahead, right in his eyes that held such a painfully conflicted storm, and it was all you could do to blink.

He opened his mouth to say something, but he struggled with what. His eyes dipped down a bit as he tried to form anything beyond a simple greeting, but you couldn’t find the patience to wait. Your feet moved before you asked them to and you closed the few feet of distance between you and your father, wrapping your mildly aching arms around his neck and burying your face in his chest.

The force of a sob wracked through your lungs before any tears sprouted and the whine that followed was enough to leave you feeling even more hollow than you previously were.

His hands planted around your back, cementing you against him with such a lovingly cradling force that almost hurt.

“It’s alright, baby girl.” He struggled with what to say, not really knowing what the direct issue is, or if there even was one besides the landslide of everything passively burying you before your broken dam.

“Daddy, I-,” you choked, trying to just apologize. After all half-assed rationalizations and excuses, all you could do was say that you were sorry for what you put him through. That you were sorry you shoved him away and claimed his reaction would’ve been too much. Maybe he was overbearing and excessive in some- or many- aspects, but Jesus Christ, look at what happened when you defied his approval. No fucking wonder.

“I know, it’s okay, you’re okay,” he murmurs into your hair, fingertips holding a little tighter at the raw pull of your voice. “We’re okay,” he whispers by your ear, enunciating a little sharper and hoping it will be enough.

You sob a little harder at his simple declaration, his quick acceptance of your apology before it was even vocalized. And your heart ached at the act. It seemed irrational on his end, truly, to throw away every hurt of his own just because you decided it was time.

What happened to his pain? What happened to his spite? What happened to his justification? Simply, his daughter needed him.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>masterlist for this series is here >>check out my other works here

>tag list: @ltotheucyy @lunavelha @feathers-dreams @moosewithabackstory @emisnt @madslxz @canibeyourghoulfriend

#supernatural #sam winchester #fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester angst

Like Father, Like Daughter // xvii: clearing the air

> masterlist for descriptions & warnings

chapter summary: uno games that lead to emotional confrontation make a girl feel assured, for the most part // 3.5k

Over the course of the next few days, while Bobby and Dean were working a few states away, you and Sam had slipped into a routine. Every morning, Sam would cook a simple breakfast of fruit and oatmeal, or eggs and toast. It was never anything too heavy and you usually wouldn’t be able to finish it all. But he was never deterred by your appetite and always made sure there was at least something available.

After breakfast, he would help you tend to your wounds. And with each passing day, he would soon boil down to just dressing your stitches, leaving the rest to you. He never left your side, though, just in case you were to break down like you had the first day Bobby and Dean were gone. You’d insisted you were okay to handle a shower and redressing on your own, but when one wound split and started to ooze blood, you shut down and fell into yourself.

Yoga, brought to you by yours truly, was also implemented in your road to recovery. Sam explained how it would be helpful with your sore and injured muscles. Your shoulders had been badly bruised, and maybe even hurt beyond discoloration, and still felt stiff. Almost torn. And specific poses that Sam had taught you helped loosen the tension and even alleviate some of the pain. Emphasis on ‘some’.

It was enough to keep going.

The past three days recycled the same routine. Breakfast, shower, dressing change, yoga on the front porch, passing time on the swing, maybe a movie or TV show when the sun would start to fall, then up to your room where you still insisted on sleeping alone.

Each night was extremely difficult, but when you would burst awake due to another memory you had the pleasure of gaining, you didn’t want Sam to be the one disturbed. It was hard to see him give up so much for you, a hunt with his brother, his free time that he funneled towards your recovery, and even his relationship status that you still hadn’t addressed.

You’d even started to wonder if he had vetoed the decision on his own. Maybe the lack of ending each other’s days in the same bed was enough for him to come to the conclusion on his own. Perhaps that’s why he’d yet to bring it up with you. You wouldn’t blame him, though. You’d done nothing to supply him with your silent wish of continued exclusivity. But he was kind enough to at least still be there for you. Though, that only made it feel like pity.

There were too many voices fighting each other in your mind. Too many points to be made and too little rationalities to be heard.

“Uno,” Sam holds up his card like a warning, eyebrows perked and eyes holding attitude.

“What?” You scoff, looking from your hand of six cards to his of only one. You’d completely spaced the last few rounds, having remembered having only three cards last.

“Dare I say it?” He teased, glancing to the notepad on his thigh with red ink scribbled over the page. Under his name were four notches, and the same under yours.

You squint, mockingly, looking at your cards and taking in the three new cards: a red seven, yellow three, and yellow skip. The discard pile was a blue three, so you placed your yellow three and hoped for the best. The second your card lands, Sam’s smile falls just a touch. Enough to tell that he’s thinking. He grabs a new card from the draw pile and lets out a soft “Ha!”, laying down a yellow one, following the discard with another “Uno”.

You place your yellow skip and then another yellow card from your hand. A few more rounds, leaning in your favor, it rounded back to you with your last card. Sam watches closely, his finger flicking the corner of his card as he awaits your discard that could lead to his potential win.

With an innocently sweet smile, you place your matching green card over the green three he had just placed. Leaning back into the arm rest of the porch swing. Sam sighs, placing his useless card on top of the pile. You celebrate with a quick clap and chuckle, finding times of winning a simple game against Sam rarer than most. He was smart, logical, unpredictable and almost psychic when it came to playing against him. Translation: you’d never play him in chess. Ever.

“Fine, fine. You pick the movie tonight,” he smiles, dimple poking his cheek, as he gathers up the cards, shuffling them back in place and giving you a quick tally across your four marks.

“I warned you, Uno favors me,” you shrug, grabbing your water bottle from the deck, taking a quick swig, then slipping it in your lap.

“Maybe it was just luck,” Sam shrugged, blaming his loss on chance and not you actually beating him.

“Denial, Sam, it gets you nowhere,” you shake your head, looking off into the car lot. Dozens of rusty shells of vehicles and scattered parts lined along each other to create a smooth terrain. Their almost forgotten presence framing the property better than any fresh, green lawn could. In the treeline along the perimeter of the lot, a flash of orange fur, most likely a fox, rushes by and takes something with its departure. Something from you. Something it had no business taking nor smarts to do so.

Your peace. It took your peace. The streak of orange stained as you closed your eyes, being assaulted with the burning image of Heather’s last breath. You took in a slow breath as you tried to ease the image out of the forefront of your mind.

This was something else that had been a part of your daily routine that you’d failed to mention. The quick, painful reminders of her that felt like a punch to the gut. Any strike of orange or emerald green would instantly bring the memory of her to haunt your selfishly peaceful recovery. You’d failed to even search for Evelyn, so you figured it was the least you deserved.

Being one of the only women saved from this nest in months, the possession of peace by those lost was manageable and rational in your mind.

“Hey,” Sam’s hand finds your knee, rubbing lightly and pulling you from the lost spot along the treeline. You look right at him, remembering where you sat and who you were really with.

“Hi,” you murmur, looking down to your lap. Your fidgeting hands find his, holding lightly and letting his warmth awaken under your hand and over your knee.

Sam only smiled warmly, invitingly, a reminder that you could tell him anything, but he wouldn’t push for you to do so. His eyes fall to the placement of his hand, letting the moment lull into a quiet peace, vocalized by the nature surrounding you two. He does so to take the pressure off of you leading the moment by sharing. He only wanted you to do so at your own discretion. He figured his held gaze on your own would feel too spotlighting. He wanted to grant you independence and control in any way he could.

The moment holds for a few minutes. A million different topics at hand to be addressed, but one holding the most space. One so eager to jump off your tongue that you could hardly eat breakfast this morning in fear of knocking it back down your throat and burying it under more obstructions that would only prolong its pleading address.

“Sam,” you hum and he looks back up.

“Yes?”

Calm, collected, casual, yet prepared and observant. So ready to aide in whatever you may request. It makes your stomach clench.

“I wanted to, um,” you clear your throat, looking down and picking at the charms of your bracelet. “I think I should address.. us,” you nibble your lip, not looking up at him just yet. “I want to know where you stand.” You look up, eyes unable to hide the vulnerability you’re revealing for him at this moment. The raw fear of rejection and fear of acceptance.

He nods once, looking down at your hands, taking them in his own fully and scooting just a tad closer. “For me? Nothing’s changed.” A punch to the gut. “I’m here if you want me- when you need me- but I’ll leave if it’s what you ask.” Your heart plummets.

Of course, he’s what you want, but the ball being delivered to your side of the court with a pretty bow by a patient player seemed still as confusing and expectant as you feared.

It wasn’t luck or chance that would fuck you over, but you and your own choices. You started to understand Sam’s Uno denial. A part of you wishing that you didn’t have the reins of another situation of your own shoved into your palms with little to no instruction on how to lead the chariot.

“Nothing?” You find it hard to believe.

“No,” he persists, answering immediately with the shake of his head. “Has it for you?” He asked like he only wanted the answer and wouldn’t mind the impacts of whatever you’d say. He asked it with no fear or inkling that he’d be upset by what you could reply with.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, looking down. He nods, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. “I think I have changed, but- but not my feelings towards you. Just-,” you find it incredibly hard to say what it is you mean.

“Just the first word,” he hums.

“Expectations. Your expectations," you settle, wanting to know what your subconscious meant.

“Are you worried my expectations have changed?” He asks, trying to help you understand yourself.

You shake your head, that explanation not feeling quite right. You think for a moment, really trying to sort through the jury of contradicting thoughts and feelings shouting over the banging gavel behind your skull. “My willingness.”

Sam squints as he tries to piece it together, retreating to his own mind for just a moment to really give it his best effort. His face relaxes as he thinks he may understand. Before he can speak, though, you blurt it out yourself.

“My willingness to meet your expectations,” you mumble. Searching for better clarification, you try again. “I’m worried my approach to this relationship has been warped by… that.. and- and it won’t be enough for you. I can’t be the girlfriend you agreed to,” you shake your head, accepting the explanation you’ve formed yourself. It makes sense. You can’t be there for him like he has for you. The woman he agreed to isn’t the one who sits across from him now. She sits with a wet blanket suffocating her and morphing her view of a relationship.

Sam is contemplative for a few moments, wetting his lips and finding the proper words to defend the situation. To address your worries and assure your jury. “I didn’t ‘agree’ to a girlfriend. I asked for you.” Breath stolen from your lungs. “Lovely, I didn’t-,” he smiles with an exhale of air. “I love you in a way that I can’t explain. I think I always have but it had never felt like the right time. Like we weren’t our proper selves. When we had that talk, it wasn’t-. At least for me, it wasn’t an agreement to test the waters of ‘boyfriend/girlfriend’. It was an ease into a commitment that I was finally ready for.” Another twist in your gut, but this time, unsettling venom doesn’t spread, only fluttering wings of colorful butterflies that liven up your interior. They cure the rot in your bones. “It was a promise to take this at a pace best for us. I don’t have ‘expectations’ of you, all I want is to love you and take care of you like you deserve. Like I’ve learned I can. I want to prove to you who I can be for you.” Swallowing the frog in your throat ripples a tremor under your skin. A shaking uncertainty that’s been blindsided by the man in front of you.

You can’t hold it back anymore, you exhale a muffled cry that wracks your body and curls your torso into yourself. It hurts and it eases all the same. Sam doesn’t apologize, or even speak, he only wraps his grip a little tighter on your hands. A grip that spans up your wrists. And leans down to press his cheek against your bowed crown. A soft kiss is pressed to your hair, and is followed by a loving whisper of no words you can make out, but still a tone that livens the butterflies even further as they pollinate your once decaying insides.

He manages to slip a hand out to rub up your back as he continues his soft prayer against your scalp. You cry a little harder, tears from not only the overwhelming support he offers, but the build up of what you’ve carried so far on your own.

You worried about loading him with too much. You’d offered him a remembered memory or two when they came to you, and let him help you with your dressings, but you tried so hard to be mindful of what you put on him. What you allowed him to take. Not only did you not want to drive him away, but you truthfully didn’t want him taking on more than he probably wanted to. What you decided he wanted to.

You slept alone in fear of pushing him away.

You kept to yourself in fear of being too much.

You capped your affection in fear of stepping out of place.

All of the above being self-proclaimed, unfair assumptions of his own wants and expectations. You’d left him out of the loop with the intention to protect and respect. But to learn of his continued commitment in spite, and if anything in growth, of your trauma was beyond anything you could’ve asked of. Beyond anything of what you felt you deserved. But maybe you could still accept it.

And after your quick, emotional dissection of his promises and assurances, only then does it realize amongst your internal jury that he said he loved you.

Sam Winchester loves you.

“Let it out, honey, it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere,” his words clear up, finally registering past the ringing and muffled emotion.

And in ignorance of your pain, you lift up, wrap your arms around him, and lean into him. The healing scars that peppered your skin cracked or split in manipulation of your maneuver, but the pain doesn’t even register as you hold Sam closer, and more purposefully, than you had in weeks. His arms are quick to wrap around your torso, gently guiding you up and over his lap to hold you a little wonkily, but securely.

Just as you start to settle against his chest, you pull away enough for your lips to find his own. A quick and eager kiss to claim what has been yours longer than you realized.

Sam’s hand cradles the back of your head, keeping you close to him as he kisses back just as hungry and needy. Something he’s needed longer than he’s realized.

He holds back the need to lengthen the kiss. To move his jaw with yours in rhythm and chase your taste. But he manages his need and pulls back when you do.

You’re panting, sniffling softly, and he reaches up to swipe away some stray tears that follow the carved stain down your cheeks.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he admits in a whisper, golden hour warming you and glazing his skin like shimmering bronze. His head blocks the setting sun, providing a halo to crown him like celestial royalty. Like the man you need. Like a reward for his heart and its capabilities.

“Me too,” you stutter a deep inhale, knowing exactly what he means.

“I mean it, y’know. All of it,” his voice is still low and breathy.

“I hope so,” you attempt a joke, unable to laugh at it yourself. He does, though, a soft chuckle that pokes his dimple in. A reward for your half-assed humor. Lucky you.

“I love you. So much,” he breathes as his smile mellows. Drunken eyes unable to take you all in, so they daze slightly. “And you don’t have to say-.”

“I love you too,” you declare, knowing without a doubt that it’s true.

“Yeah?” He asks with a lighthearted scoff of relief.

“Mhmm,” you nod, sniffling again, still oppressed by the sopping blanket that Sam is beginning to dry.

The pain starts to catch up to you and Sam picks up on it, guiding you back to your sat position and checking over your skin for any patches of red. Once in the clear, he brings his attention back to you. His left hand comes up to cradle your face again, a habit he can’t wait to coin.

“You look tired, my love,” Sam hums.

You nod, feeling the weight of today's emotions take their toll.

“Maybe we skip a movie tonight,” he chuckles softly. “Are you hungry at all?” He asks, eyes tracing over your features in active duty to file it all away to memory again. You nod and he smiles. “What sounds good?”

Your stomach growls, an appetite you hadn’t recognized in a while awakening in your gut. “Pizza,” you say truthfully, finding it odd to crave something so greasy and heavy. Something so not nutritious like what you’ve been able to stomach. Almost like you can start to prioritize want and need again in terms of food. It feels like a victory of its own. Sam must pick up on it too, because he smiles a little wider and offers your favorite pizza from the place in town. When you agree instantly, he pulls out his phone to call in a delivery.

“Wait,” you stop him before he pressed the green call button. He looks up with a raised brow. “What if we drove into town to get it?” And his smile remains, more proud than relieved now. “I- I don’t want to really go inside anywhere, but a drive sounds nice.”

“Whatever you ask,” he agrees, calling in the order and including half a dozen chocolate chip cookies in the order. When the order is placed, he hangs up and speaks again. “Twenty minutes. We can take the long way past the creek.”

“Sounds perfect,” you smile softly, taking the hand that he offers to bring you to the car. You had on one of his shirts, of course, and a simple pair of athletic shorts. Passing the front door, Sam dips in to get his sneakers and your knockoff Birkenstocks to slip on, then heading to Bobby’s truck that he left in case it was needed.

Sam opens the passenger door for you, holding your hand as you step up to settle in. You wince softly at the continuous healing sting over your skin. “Got it?” He checks before closing the door and rounding to the driver's side.

The drive is peaceful. Radio off and windows down. You breathe in the warm, quickly cooling, evening spring air and bask in the quickly setting sun. The breeze kisses your skin and the peace it exudes is taxing in an emotionally gratifying way. The simple pleasure and privilege of living in this exact moment comes with its own anchor of guilt, but Sam’s assurances echo in your mind. His consistency of wanting you to put yourself first made it a little easier to do so. Even for just this twenty minute drive.

When Sam parked in front of the pizza place, he kissed you before leaving the truck, and the domesticity of the act fluttered the butterflies once again.

You waited for him to come back, looked out the window onto your town, and breathed the fresh air you were lucky enough to take in.

The truck’s engine hummed, wind skating through the open windows and tickling your skin. Your stomach growled again and you found a smile unpreventable as you anticipated the meal Sam carried out of the restaurant.

He settled the boxes in the middle of the bench, buckling in and taking your hand as he started the drive back home.

Backing out of the spot, you looked out onto the town square, soaking up more peace and acceptance. But as Sam turned down the main road that led to the highway, a confident puff of frizzy curls framed a lifeless face with caved in pale eyes and a bloodstained neck that stood beside a stone church with big red doors. The animated corpse stood in the freshly kept lawn of the church, eyes following yours as you passed a giant oak in front of the church. When the oak swiped over her form, she vanished. Leaving the lot empty and just as lifeless as her presence made it.

Your appetite died back down after that.

Serves you fucking right.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>masterlist for this series is here >>check out my other works here

>tag list: @ltotheucyy @lunavelha @feathers-dreams @moosewithabackstory @emisnt @madslxz @canibeyourghoulfriend

#supernatural #sam winchester #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester angst

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