₊⊹𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚒𝚐 𝚂𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗*ೃ༄
3 - 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐒 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
word count; 1,924
summary; press events and long days force you and sam together in ways neither of you can avoid. something about him feels different to you—quieter and kinder—and it unsettles you. in private, walls slip, loneliness surfaces, and sam is reminded that even in a world that doesn't recognise him, you are still you.
tags; emotional vulnerability, loneliness, seeing the real you, press junkets, soft sam, almost friends almost more, unexpected chemistry
𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 ꨄ︎ 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛
𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚘3! 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎? 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎!
Sam has fought demons, ghosts, gods, and the literal Devil. Not one of them comes close to a full-day press junket.
He’s barely through the studio gates before a handler slaps a thick schedule into his hands.
“Jared, you’ve got six interviews, two photo sessions, then the joint panel with Y/N. You’re both being transported there together. No wandering off.”
A whole day with you. Trapped together.
He’s ushered into a makeup chair before he can even think of a reply. Someone powders his face, someone fixes his hair. Someone adjusts the collar of the shirt he still feels like he’s borrowing from a stranger.
Fresh coffee in hand. Perfect posture. Expression already done with the day.
You glance at him. “Please tell me you actually read the talking points this time.”
Sam opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
You give him a look that could curdle milk. “Of course you did.”
But there’s something else there today—less ice, more… reluctant tolerance.
The first interview goes surprisingly okay, mostly because Sam keeps quiet.
You do your usual charming, witty thing—banter, stories, teasing the crew—and the interviewer turns to Sam with a grin.
“So, Jared! What was your favourite part of filming episode six?”
Sam thinks. Hard.
What would Jared say? Arrogant joke? Something obnoxiously self-centered?
He clears his throat. “Um… honestly? Watching Y/N in that big emotional scene. She pretty much carried the whole episode.”
You blink. Once. Slowly.
Like someone short-circuited your brain.
The interviewer lights up. “Oh wow! That’s sweet.”
You awkwardly sip your water like it personally offended you.
But the next interviewer is sharper.
“So, you two seem to have very different working styles,” she says. “Care to elaborate?”
You answer first, voice pleasant but edged. “I show up prepared. Jared… shows up.”
Sam winces.
Interview laughs.
You don’t.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s fair. I, uh… I’m working on it.” Now you blink again. As if expecting an ego-fueled comeback that never arrives.
“Weird,” you mutter under your breath, flipping your script page. “You’re not usually this tolerable.”
“Trying something new.” Sam grins despite himself. You try not to smile.
Hours later, where the sunset is beaming down through the mossed-up velux windows at least twenty feet high, hundreds of fans and bright lights take center stage in your mind.
You take your seats side by side.
You’re adjusting your mic pack when Jared settles behind you. He looks… softer this morning. Not physically; the man is still built like someone you’d hire to carry a fridge. But something in his expression seems calmer. Gentle.
First question from a fan: “For both of you—what’s the most challenging part of filming together?”
You go first, microphone poised. “Jared refuses to take anything seriously. It’s like working with a golden retriever hyped on espresso.”
The crowd laughs. The reporter laughs. Scribbles something down. You tell yourself it’s nothing–just an off morning, maybe—but it keeps happening. Every time you jab, he doesn’t parry. He absorbs it. Owns it. When someone asks about on-set antics and you say he never takes anything seriously, he nods instead of deflecting.
Sam clears his throat. “Yeah, uh… I can see that. But honestly? Working with Y/N is probably the easiest part of my job right now.”
You stare at him. Stunned.
The moderator raises a brow.
Sam adds, softer, “She’s… really good at what she does.”
A few fans in the audience gasp like they just witnessed a confession at a wedding.
You pull your microphone away and whisper sharply, “What are you doing?”
“What?” he whispers back.
“You’re being—you’re being nice. It’s weird.”
Sam smothers a smile. “Sorry. I’ll try to be worse.”
Your lips twitch. “Please do.”
The panel ends with fans buzzing about your “unexpected chemistry,” which makes you sink lower in your seat on the ride back.
“Great,” you mutter. “Now they think you’re capable of behaving.”
Sam glances at you. “Could be worse.”
“They could think I’m unfixable.”
You stare out the window a little too long before muttering, “Don’t tempt me.”
But the edges of your voice are softer. Almost playful.
By the third interview, the room feels warmer. Smaller. You start watching him out of the corner of your eye, waiting for the performance to snap back into place. It doesn’t. He thanks crew members by name, lets you finish talking. The weirdest part? He compliments you without wrapping it in humour.
The convention hall is louder–fans buzzing, voices overlapping, energy crackling in the air. You sit beside him onstage, microphone warm in your palm, lights glaring just enough to make the crowd blur at the edges.
Someone asks a playful question about who's more difficult to work with.
You sigh theatrically. “Oh, him. Obviously.”
Laughter ripples through the room.
He leans forward slightly, mic close to his mouth. “She’s wrong,” he says easily. “She’s the one who keeps everything together. I just… try not to screw it up.”
You freeze for half a beat before recovering.
That wasn’t in the script. Not the unspoken one you’ve both been following for years.
The panel ends to applause, but the feeling sticks with you: that strange sense of imbalance all the way through the signing line, through the hurried waves and smiles, through the moment your assistant pulls you aside to tell you the car service is delayed.
Thunder rolls overhead, loud enough to rattle the windows.
You end up in an empty conference room meant for meetings that never happened, rain pounding against the glass in sheets so thick it feels like being underwater. You drop into a chair, kicking off your heels with a groan.
He hesitates by the door, then comes in and sits across from you instead of beside you, hands folded loosely in his lap. Like he’s careful not to crowd you.
“You don’t have to like me,” he says after a moment.
You huff a quiet laugh. “Trust me. I don’t.”
Jared nods, accepting it too easily. “Yeah. I know.”
“You’re arrogant,” you say, not unkindly, but honest. “You joke when people are trying to work. You make everything about yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t realize how much that bothered you.”
Your chest tightens, sharp and unexpected. You look away, suddenly fascinated by the rain.
“You’re… different today,” you admit.
“Like I said,” Jared begins, “I’m trying to be better.” he says.
Before you can respond, the lights flicker.
Someone leans against the doorframe, clapping slowly, grin wide and far too pleased.
“Oh,” you sigh, relief washing over you, “It’s just Gabriel.”
Jared turns his head, stopping in his tracks. You glance back at him, but keep walking.
“This is great,” the Trickster drawls. “Honestly. I should throw you into alternate realities more often.”
His gaze snaps sharp. “Get out.”
“Relax,” the Trickster says, eyes flicking to you. “She’s still not buying it. Tick-tock, Sammy.”
Thunder cracks. The room goes empty.
He finds you tucked away in one of the smaller dressing rooms down the hall, the kind meant for guest appearances or last-minute changes. The door is cracked open just enough to let light spill out into the corridor.
You don’t hear him at first.
You’re standing in front of the mirror, shoulders slumped in a way he’s never seen on set. Your fingers work at the clasp of a necklace, movements practiced but tired, and when it finally comes free you let it drop onto the counter with a soft clink. Another bracelet follows. Then another.
Each piece feels like armour coming off.
Sam stays rooted to the doorway, breath caught somewhere behind his ribs.
Your makeup is still flawless, technically—contour sharp, lashes dark and heavy—but you’re already undoing it. A wipe drags across your cheek, leaving a clean streak of bare skin behind. You sigh as you do it, long and shaky, like you’ve been holding that breath all day.
“God,” you mutter to no one, rubbing at your eyes. “I hate conventions.”
The words spill out of you suddenly, like once the seal breaks there’s no stopping it.
“I hate the noise. I hate how close everyone gets. I hate the questions they ask like they own pieces of you.” You laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “And don’t even get me started on the journalists. Or the paparazzi. I swear, if one more guy with a camera shouts my name like we’re friends—”
You trail off, shaking your head.
Sam steps in quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. “Long day,” he says softly.
You glance at him in the mirror, startled, then relax when you see it’s just him. “You could say that.”
He takes the chair by the wall instead of crowding you, hands folding loosely together, posture unassuming. He watches as you wipe away the rest of your makeup, piece by piece, until the version of you that stares back is stripped bare and human.
And it hits him all at once.
The curve of your mouth when you’re tired. The faint crease between your brows when you’re overwhelmed. The way you tilt your head, studying your own reflection like you’re making sure you’re still there.
Not the woman who doesn’t know him. Not the actress who barely tolerates “Jared Padalecki.”
“I just—” you start, then stop, pressing your palms to the counter. “Sometimes I think about what it’d be like to wake up somewhere quiet. No schedule. No makeup chair. No one needing something from you before you’ve even had coffee.”
Your voice drops, softer now, more honest.
“I want a normal life,” you admit. “A house. Maybe a dog. A husband who doesn’t care what I look like when I roll out of bed.”
Sam’s chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.
You laugh again, quieter. “Is that pathetic?”
“No,” he says immediately. Too fast.
You glance back at him, searching his face for something. Mockery, maybe, or that familiar easy charm—but all you find is sincerity. Raw and unguarded.
He swallows. “I get it,” he says. Then, after a beat, quieter: “Me too.”
The words feel like a lie and the truth all at once.
You nod, turning back to the mirror, tugging your hair out of its careful styling until it falls loose around your shoulders. “Everyone thinks this life is a dream,” you murmur. “They don’t see how lonely it gets.”
Sam leans back in the chair, hands gripping the edges, knuckles whitening. He wants to tell you that he knows every version of your loneliness. That he’s held you through it. That he’s built that quiet life with you once already.
Because that’s the only way he can stay here.
You finish cleaning your face and finally turn toward him fully, meeting his eyes without the shield of a mirror between you. Something shifts subtly. Maybe fragile.
“Thanks,” you say, unsure. “For… listening.”
He offers a small smile. “Anytime.”
As you grab your bag and head for the door, Sam stays seated for a moment longer, staring at the empty mirror, heart pounding.
And you just told him exactly what you want.
✧ 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ // ✧𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 // ✧𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.ᐟ
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