— stardew valley characters reacting to you asking them to be your partner.
req: The bachelor(ettes) heard that the farmer had just brought a bouquet, and they’re a little jealous, thinking it’s for someone else. At the end of the day, the farmer appears holding the flowers to their face and asks them to be their partner 🤭
Sebastian
He hears it from Sam, half-murmured, half joking: “the farmer bought a bouquet today.” and he pretends not to care; keeps staring at the screen, watching the code scroll by without actually doing anything. he swallows hard and stays silent. Sam asks what he thinks about it, but he just shrugs. his heart is racing and he feels a mix of sadness and anger at himself for not having spoken up sooner about what he felt. the ache lingers all afternoon; stupid thoughts cross his mind while he uselessly tries to get back to work.
that night, you look for him everywhere but can’t find him. when you reach the dock, you see him smoking while staring out at the sea. you approach as quietly as possible, the bouquet hidden behind your back. he hears your footsteps and turns around; he meets your eyes and feels a pang in his chest, but when he notices the flowers behind your back, his face twists in confusion. you extend the bouquet toward him and gently ask if he would like to be your partner. he freezes. then laughs, breathless, stunned.
“god, yes… i thought i had lost you before i even had you.”
Sam
he spirals instantly. a bouquet? for who? someone from town? some mysterious ex? he gets confused and anxious. he plays louder than usual, misses a note, sighs deeply, annoyed at himself. he tries new tricks on his skateboard but can’t focus enough and falls two, three times. by sunset, he’s staring down the path to the farm, thinking about going to you and confessing everything at once. but he knows now it’s too late.
when you finally appear, the flowers shyly held in front of your face, he smiles automatically—until you ask him out. for a second, he just blinks. then: the biggest smile you’ve ever seen.
“wait… me? you mean me?”
“yes! who else, silly?” you say, playful. he hugs you so tightly the bouquet almost gets crushed.
Shane
he hears about it at the Saloon and feels a chill in his stomach. he thinks it’s a lie, but in a small town like this, it can’t really be a lie; people see everything and talk about everything. he takes another gulp of his beer and tells himself he doesn’t care. you deserve someone better anyway. but still, he’s quieter than usual, nursing his drink, staring at nothing.
he’s the last to leave the Saloon because he knows that the moment he’s alone in his room with his thoughts, he’ll fall apart. however, when you find him outside, in the cool, soft night air, he freezes, staring at you. you, embarrassed, step closer and offer him the flowers—and your heart.
his voice falters. “…are you sure?”
when you nod, he hugs you tightly, squeezing his eyes shut to hide the tears.
Harvey
he hears it from Vincent when Jodi brings him to the clinic. he thinks it’s just a child’s joke, but when Jodi, in a tone more certain than questioning, asks if he knew about it, he freezes for half a second. “no… i didn’t know,” his voice is low and he forces a gentle smile. a bouquet. bought today. he spends the rest of the day distracted, his heart racing for reasons he refuses to name.
when you show up at the clinic after hours, the flowers trembling slightly in your hands, he assumes he misunderstood—until you ask him. his eyes soften immediately.
“oh,” he whispers, smiling as if the world had just settled back into place. “my dear… i was so afraid i had imagined what we had.”
Elliot
he notices immediately. the empty flower stand at Pierre’s shop. the whispered rumors. he convinces himself this is the natural order of things: beauty chooses beauty. still, the sea feels lonelier that night; his heart races, aching as he stares at the horizon.
when you approach him on the beach, the bouquet raised like an offering, he goes completely still. when you confess nervously, he takes your hand reverently.
“my love,” he says softly, “you’ve written yourself into my life..”
Emily
she hears Gus and Pam talking about it at the Saloon that night. she keeps working, but her smile no longer reaches her face; she feels a strange heaviness, like a thread pulled too tight. there’s a flicker of doubt in her eyes.
when you arrive, the flowers glowing between your fingers, she sighs with joy the moment you ask. she laughs, claps once, and hugs you.
“i knew it!” she says fondly. “but it still feels magical.”
Haley
she hears and pretends she doesn’t care—but she does. much more than she’d like to admit. all day she’s distracted, strangely quiet, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. when you show up at her house, the bouquet partially hiding your nervous smile, she almost scoffs—until you ask, and her expression completely softens.
“oh,” she says, breath caught in her throat. “i thought… never mind.” instead, she cups your face with both hands and smiles brightly before pulling you into a delicate kiss.
Penny
it breaks her heart quietly. she tells herself you deserve to be happy, even if it isn’t with her. she spends the afternoon reading, but can’t focus on a single page. when you approach her by the riverbank, the flowers carefully raised, she looks up, surprised. you take a deep breath before confessing; when you ask her to be your partner, her eyes fill with tears.
“i was so afraid to hope,” she admits, her voice trembling as she stands. she holds the bouquet as if it were something precious and hugs you tightly, happy tears rolling down her cheeks.
Leah
she hears and feels a sense of loss even before it’s confirmed. she tells herself it’s fine, you never really had anything. still, it hurts. when you arrive at her cabin, she opens the door and looks at you in complete shock; you with the bouquet raised like a question, she sighs softly. you look at her with shining eyes and she smiles, slow and genuine.
“i almost let myself believe i’d lost my chance,” she says. then she kisses you, a firm, certain kiss, as if choosing you too.
For your three hundred thing! Perv!Sam Winchester with the one bed trope!! (Of course you don't have to if you don't wanna!)
An Entire Plan Just To Have You
Pairing: Pervert!Sam Winchester x Female Reader
Summary: When Sam has feelings for you but lacks the courage to tell you, there is only one thing he can do: come up with a plan to get you two together—and it starts tonight.
Word Count: 1,124
Tags/Warnings: mentioning of panties kink, Sam being his usual methodical self, kinda Dark!Sam
The only reason Dean had stayed behind at a different motel was because Sam had suggested it, claiming he’d already checked and found there weren’t two rooms available—specifically, none with two twin beds in one—so he’d have to find another place, leaving the two remaining rooms for you and him. Dean didn’t ask questions, though he did eye Sam suspiciously. He simply dropped the two of you off at the motel before driving on to the next nearest hotel.
The truth was, Sam hadn’t checked anything. He’d been hatching a plan in his head ever since he learned you’d be joining the hunt. He’d harbored feelings for you for a long time but never had the chance—or the courage—to express them. Instead, he’d settled for watching you from afar, sniffing your underwear (stealing just enough so you wouldn’t suspect a thing), and faking injuries just to make you worry and drop whatever you were doing to tend to him. Yes, Sam knew it was wrong; he knew that if you ever found out about that—or about the times he’d masturbated while fantasizing about taking you passionately and roughly—you wouldn’t even look at him again. So, he quickly devised a plan.
When you arrived at the motel, he asked you to grab his bag as well and wait outside while he went to book the rooms. It wasn’t exactly gentlemanly behavior, but it ensured you wouldn’t overhear the conversation he was about to have with the clerk.
“Hi,” He greeted, glancing back over his shoulder at you as Dean drove off and you adjusted the bags onto your shoulders. He turned back to the clerk. “I need a room with a double bed.”
He felt no remorse, smiling with satisfaction as he took the room key, though he quickly wiped the smile away and feigned an awkward expression as he walked back to your side.
“What happened?” You asked when you noticed the look on his face.
“There was only one room.”
“Well, I don’t mind sharing a room.” You shrugged.
“No, I mean… There was only one room with a bed for two.”
“Oh…”
He watched your reaction closely. This was a pivotal moment; you might decide to call Dean and go to another motel, shattering his plan—but instead, he just saw you shake your head.
“It’s fine, it doesn’t matter.”
“Are you sure?” He asked, just to keep you from getting suspicious.
“Yes, it’s already paid for and Dean has already left. Let’s just get this over with.”
You headed toward the rooms, and Sam followed with a smile, catching up to walk beside you. You entered the room and dropped your bags on the floor before looking at the bed and placing your hands on your hips. But for Sam, there was still one more step in his plan—one that could cost him everything, yet one he had to take to ensure you didn’t suspect a thing.
“You know… I can use the couch.” You looked at him with a sigh, as if his idea were silly, but he pressed on to ensure you wouldn’t suspect a thing. “Really. It looks comfortable.” He gave a small laugh, acting as though the idea might be uncomfortable for him, but implying he’d do it just to put you at ease.
You clicked your tongue and took off your jacket.
“Nonsense. We’re both adults.”
With that, you headed to the bathroom, closing the door behind you. Sam smiled again as he took off his own jacket. He could already imagine the feel of your soft skin brushing against his under the sheets—perhaps just because he shifted position and you happened to be close by.
By the time you came out, Sam was already in his sleepwear.
“I’ll go to the bathroom, and you can get changed in the meantime.”
You nodded; before he went in, he glanced at you as you bent down to open your bag and pull out your pajamas. He shook his head with amusement and stepped into the bathroom.
When he emerged, you were already in bed, under the covers, with your back turned to him. He approached like a predator stalking its prey, climbing onto the bed—making it creak—and shifting the sheets to slide underneath. He gazed at your shoulder and the strap of the thin shirt you were wearing. He grew bolder, moving his nose closer to deeply inhale the scent of your hair—not so strongly that you’d notice, but enough to let your fragrance fill his senses. He was tempted to let out a groan but held it back. He didn’t think you were asleep yet; your breathing didn’t match that of someone who had already drifted off.
He lay on his side, watching you intently. Even in the darkness, he could make out your silhouette and the way it shifted and moved with your breathing. He made sure you were asleep before proceeding with his plan and moving closer to you, slowly draping an arm over your stomach and subtly pulling you toward him. He slid his other arm beneath your head and buried his face in your hair, finally breathing in your scent just as he had wanted.
You slowly opened your eyes upon waking. Sunlight was already streaming in through the blinds and curtains. You blinked and stretched, feeling well-rested, but you couldn’t move far because something strong was holding you back. Frowning slightly, you took a better look at your surroundings. Your head was resting on Sam’s chest; your arms were wrapped around him, and his were around you. You looked on in confusion. You didn’t know at what point in the night you had ended up like this, but it felt surprisingly right, so you decided not to move—not even when Sam woke up, rubbed his eye, and looked down at you curiously before smiling.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
“I see we moved around during the night.” He joked. You laughed softly, still half-asleep.
“It seems so. Though I swear I didn’t expect it.”
“And do you feel okay like this?”
You smiled and nodded.
“I’d be lying if I said no.” You admitted shyly.
He stroked your hair, and you rested your head back against his chest. In truth, none of this had been accidental. His plan from the start was for you to wake up in his arms—as if you felt so comfortable with him that you subconsciously sought out his touch and protection. He had stayed awake for most of the night, shifting you at key moments until you were in your current position. His plan had worked, and you remained completely unaware of it all.
Summary Dean knows about Sam’s crush on you and not so subtly forces you to share a bed.
Warnings None really just cute fluff and embarrassment.
a/n lol I’m rewatching Gilmore girls and I keep mixing Sam with the name Dean when writing oops. Anyways it’s proofread so dw all names are correct.
♡ ⊹ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ✧ ♡ ⊹ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ✧
“Dibs on one!!” Dean shouts as he tosses himself in the air, landing starfish on the rickety bed in front of you. You would have laughed at how comical his actions were if you weren’t so full of nervousness, your stomach felt like a washing machine set to high.
Without word you walked over to the other bed, scared that if you protested Sam would end up offering you the bed and taking the floor for himself, knowing the gentleman he is. As you began laying your stuff out beside the bed - some jewellery and a sack of salt- you missed the knowing smirk and thumbs up Dean sent to Sam, and the death glare sam returned.
Later that night after changing into your pijamas , or the closest thing that counted - an old faded top and some shorts- you heard the brothers bickering. Just as you turned the corner from the bathroom to the main room, their quiet argument and flailing hands stopped as soon as they saw you, Sam landing one final petty slap to Deans chest as Dean sent you a cheesy grin. Weird? Whatever.
You returned a confused and tired smile before sliding into bed, hoping your nonchalant body language covered the fear and slight excitement wracking your body.
A few hours had passed now, Dean was snoring a few feet over spread out on his own bed, while Sam had yet to join you, sitting on a chair in the corner consumed with reasearch.
By this point you felt he may never join you… maybe he didn’t want to, was pulling an all nighter really easier than sharing a bed with you for one night? Or maybe he’d just slip in while you were asleep, maybe that would be better anyways, at least it wouldn’t risk him hearing the hammering coming from inside your chest.
At that moment he gently places the book down, removes his jacked and jeans, sliding into shorts. You’d seen him like this plenty of times, but each time was just as encapsulating.
“let me take that side”.
“What?” The statement completely taking your attention off his body, was Sam really going to stand here and b—
“It’s the side closest to the door. You can take the one by the wall.. you know, just incase”
Oh
You blushed at the idea of Sam caring about you.
As stupid as that was, you knew he cared about you. He always made sure you were safe on hunts. But that’s just the way Sam is, this wasn’t special treatment for you, that’s what you had to tell yourself. You hate false hope when it came to love.
“Yea sure, thank you” you slid over to the other side allowing him room to join you.
Sam felt guilty that you have to share with him, equality guilty and nervous. He knows he’s big, really big, knows his size must be an annoyance for you, taking up more of the bed leaving you with unsatisfying sleep. So he does everything to make sure you are as comfortable as you possibly can be, hoping that maybe just maybe, sleeping next to him will be a positive experience for you… Maybe, you’d want to do it again some time.
He settles into the bed next to you, shoulder hanging of the end of the bed ensuring you have enough space and aren’t forced to put up with a sharp elbow in your ribs.
He’s as stiff as a log, not wanting to make any sudden movements that might spook you to just take the floor instead, he’d never let you do that of course, but he doesn’t want to take the chance of you offering.
Unfortunately for Sam, his neck is at a horrible angle, he’d usually be sleeping on his stomach, cuddling a pillow, but of course with you here that’s not possible, as much as he often daydreamed about you replacing the pillow.
He shuffles himself round, slowly, thinking you are already asleep, or at least drifting, but once he’s fully turned to face you he sees your eyes awake, staring at the ceiling.
“Everything okay” he whispers gently, he’s so close you feel the air brushing against your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine. Gosh you wish you could be this close to him all the time.
“Yea, all good” you smiled, facing him for a moment. His eyes are so green, his fringe lying perfectly across them. You can’t take the tension anymore and look past him, breaking eye contact.
“Goodnight Sam”
—-
You wake with a jolt, sitting up on instinct, scanning around the room trying to catch your bearings. Motel room, Deans right there, and Sam is asleep next to you. Okay, okay, it was just a bad dream.. again.
You lower yourself back into the bed pulling up the sheets in the best attempt not to wake Sam, but his arm is slung across your side of the pillow. You gently lift it to move it, he stirs. You lay back down, heart rate still high, and breathing not quite settled.
“You okay?” Sam says in a Sleepy tone, voice lower than usual. You’re not sure if he’s actually awake or talking in his sleep.
“Im fine Sammy, just a nightmare” before you can turn over Sam takes you in his arms.
His arms and body big enough to completely encapsulate you whole. He pulls you until your back is flush against his front, fitting perfectly against him, a puzzle piece exactly where it needs to be. His face nuzzled right above yours, chin lying on your head. You almost short circuit.
Is Sam doing this on purpose?
Is this him making a move?
Is he doing this in his sleep and will be disgusted when he wakes?
You knew he slept with a pillow so maybe he was just subconsciously slipping into his usual position. Yeah, that must be it.
You willed yourself to try to move back to your separate side of the bed, but how could you, Sam was just too comfy, you’d imagined this moment for months and now you were living it, and lets be honest, he’s just too damn strong to move anyways. No amount of force could have let you escape.
With the comfort of Sam’s slow breathing, and warmth radiating through his T-shirt, your eyes fell heavy, and you drifted back to sleep. This time, the nightmares didn’t return.
—
Sam awoke earlier than you, shifting in his sleep, eyes still sleepily closed. He felt you before he saw you, felt your warm presence, the gentle rise and fall of your breath,he almost instinctively cuddled up closer to you, before his eyes snapped open. He gulped.
He had you wrapped in his arms, no space between you. He heard your gentle snores and some anxiety left his body, you were still asleep, maybe you didn’t know. He has no recollection of pulling you into this position. Did he really do this in his sleep? The last thing he remembered was you saying goodnight. And now here you are, wrapped perfectly around each other like a couple who’s always slept this way.
Sam slowly slid his arm out from under you, praying you wouldn’t notice, would you think he was a creep? Utilising your forced proximity for his benefit. He dreaded that you had woke up in the night, tried to escape his grasp, if you had felt uncomfortable but sucked it up not to make a scene. He felt sick at the idea.
He scrambled to get dressed as fast he could and almost bolted out the door of the motel to get some fresh air. And some needed coffee.
Once he returned to the motel both you and Dean were up, dean was pulling on his boots while you brushed your hair. Sam sheepishly set your coffee next to you refusing to make eye contact.
Oh god- had you embarrassed yourself last night…
“Well, considering how comfy you two slept last night, I’ll be assuming I get a bed to myself from now on” Dean smirked as he stood, knowing exactly what he was doing.
Sam’s eyes went wide as you both blushed looking away from each other… oh god.
You both knew.
♡ ⊹ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ✧ ♡ ⊹ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ✧
Hope you enjoyed this short fluffy story! I copied it across from my notes so I hope it kept the right format. Let me know what you think!
I’m new to writing so please any critiques and advice is always welcome! Thanks!!! 🫶🫶🫶
Dean Winchester x toddler sister reader x sam Winchester
Synopsis; As your 4th birthday approaches, all you want is to spend it with your dad. But when he shows up only to leave again, it’s your big brother who proves he’s all you truly need.
Word count: 2.7k
Notes: reference the gif for the main scene
Warnings; daddy issues, daddy issues
“Da!”
“Da!”
You tugged at Dean's pant legs, desperate to grab his attention. Across the table, Sam looked up from his book to Dean and let out an exaggerated cough, “Dean i think she wants you” he remarked. “then she can say my name” he replied flatly without looking up from his journal. Sam shook his head“Add ‘unavailable brother’ to her therapy list” Sam muttered under his breath. Dean rolled his eyes, then finally turned his chair to face you. He leaned forward and tapped his chest in emphasis “De or dean.” He enunciated firmly. “Not ‘da’ not ‘dad’. Dean”
You stared at him with those wide, doe-like eyes. “de…” you repeated softly. “Yes, y/n?” He asked, His tone losing its edge. “I want color, and TV” you demand excitedly, yanking at his jeans. “Alright, I’ll grab you your colors,” Dean said, standing from his chair. Once you were settled in front of the TV with your Scooby color book Dean returned to the table. Sam, who had silently watched the exchange, let out a chuckle. “what?” Dean irritatedly questioned. “I just don't get why it's such a big deal to you” Sam commented. Dean exhaled sharply, trying to keep his voice low. “She knows I'm not dad, Sam.” his patience was wearing thin. “Does she?” Sam hesitated “She sees you a lot more than dad”. “Then why doesn't she call you dad? your with her as much as i am” Dean scoffed, roughly shutting his journal. Sam raised a brow “Because i was at Stanford for the first year of her life” Dean couldn’t argue and remained silent. His gaze wanders to you, engrossed by cartoons, oblivious to the conversation happening behind you.
Sam let out a heavy sigh, following Dean's gaze towards you. “Her birthday tomorrow…” his voice was laced with concern. “I know.” Dean mumbled, “you think Dad remembers?” Sam practically whispered. Dean's jaw tightened “He said he’d be back by tomorrow” Deans tone was flat, rehearsed almost. “Thats not what-“ “i don't know Sam” Dean snapped, his chair scraped against the hardwood as he stood abruptly. Without another word he turned and walked out the door, leaving Sam alone with his unspoken thoughts.
Dean's hand dragged down his face as his chest rose and fell. “Hey y/n” he heard Sam's voice call from inside. “Hi, Sammy”. Confused, he glanced over his shoulder to see the window he cracked open earlier. He hesitantly inched closer, peaking in through the blinds. Inside Sam was now sitting with you in front of the TV. You hadn’t even bothered to look up from your coloring book as you greeted him. Sam watched you for a moment “Y/n why do you call Dean dad?” Sam asked carefully. The scratching of crayons against thick paper had suddenly stopped. You shrugged dismissively “i don't know,” you said, unnaturally high-pitched. Sam knew there was something you weren’t telling him. Sam studied you and chose his next words carefully. “You know deans our brother right?”. Your shoulders slumped and your lips formed a pout.
“But… he acts like the dads on TV…” you mumbled. Sam let the silence sit, hoping you'd say more. “He's always here, he's strong, he loves me…” your voice wavered and before Sam could react, tears started to pool in your eyes. “Ok ok, I'm sorry bug, no need to cry” Sam cooed, swiftly scooping you into his lap. He rubbed slow circles into your back. After a moment Sam moved to cradle your face in his large hands, before speaking “you know brothers can do that too” he spoke gently, not wanting to upset you again. “Really?” You asked, blinking at him with those big round eyes, that never failed to make Sam's heart melt. “He’ll always be here, even when dad can't” Sam replied with a smile. His smile quickly faded when your pout had no intention of turning upside down like something was weighing you down. “What's wrong?” He asked with furrowed brows.
“Does Daddy remember my birthday tomorrow?” Sam’s heart shattered. Outside the window, Dean's head dropped. Guilt gnawing at him. he felt like he was already failing you, he was supposed to protect you from those thoughts. Sam wouldn’t shield their father’s image for you like Dean would, he couldn’t lie to you. “i don't know” Sam admitted, his voice cracking. His arms opened out to you again, waiting for you to seek comfort. But you didn't move. You stayed planted in his lap. “Dos dean….?” Your voice wavered, thick with sadness. “Of course he does” was quick to reply. “Because he's my brother” you mumbled, sam couldn’t tell if that was a statement or question but nodded his head anyway. “Because he's your brother” he repeated, lifting you gently off the floor. He pressed a kiss to your temple and held you close. “Let's get you to bed”
—————
You began to stir, the sunlight was bleeding warmth into the room and the birds chirping soothed you softly from your rest. With a yawn, You pushed yourself upright, rubbing the sleep from your heavy eyes. The faint voices caught your attention. Blinking away the last trace of sleep you turned your head. “Daddy!” You shouted, your eyes had landed on John who stood in the middle of the room between the brothers. Their conversation had halted, watching you dart towards John. “Hey kid” a rare smile tugged at his lips, as he swept you up into his arms. You wrapped yourself tightly around him“It's my birthday!” You announced. “The big 4” he added. Your smile widened, he remembered. “Do i get a gift?” You questioned, tilting your head to the side. “You know i was a little busy, but….” his hand began to rummage around in his pocket. “But this will get you whatever you want” he stated handing you a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. Sam rolled his eyes, a quiet scoff escaping him. John lowered you back to your feet “Now why don't you go play? i need to talk to your brothers” You nodded eagerly at his request, clutching the bill in your hand before scurrying off.
You had decided to occupy your time with more TV, letting their voices become background noise. Until the familiar creak of the door hinges caught your attention. The three of them were walking out the door, with their backs turned to you. You scrambled to your feet, to meet them in the parking lot. “Daddy! Where are we going?” You called out, your small feet smacking against the pavement. They hadn’t even noticed you following them. “I've gotta go to work baby” he explained crouching to your level. You frowned “But it's my birthday!” You nagged with a stomp of your foot. You tugged at his shirt and began to beg. It didn’t matter what he was saying-you just wanted him to stay. Your tantrum wore thin on John's patience “This is more important” he snapped, prying your hands from his collar with a sharp jerk. Your lip trembled uncontrollably, and before the first tear could fall you turned your heel. You ran back to the room, shoving past Sam when he tried to hold you. Sam turned back to face his dad with a cold stare. John returned the glare “Don't give me that look” John warned. “Dean help me with the bags” he ordered. Dean nodded, silently he grabbed a bag and followed their father to the truck.
John closed the tailgate with a thud then turned to Dean, his hand gripping his shoulder “Take care of your siblings” Dean nodded with a commonly repeated “yes sir” and turned back to the motel where he saw Sam standing, his arms crossed with a scowl on his face. Dean moved to stand next to him while they both watched John's truck pull out of the lot and disappear down the road. A faint sniffle broke the silence. Dean glanced down and was surprised to see your trembling form wrapped around Sammy's leg. With a sigh, Dean stepped forward, detaching you from Sam and pulling you into his arms. You didn’t resist and rather pressed your body tightly against your big brother's chest. The safest place in the world. His large hand rubs up and down your back while whispering comforting words in your ear. You shifted slightly, your head moved from resting on his shoulder to being tucked beneath his chin.
“You're my real daddy, De,” you said sternly, outweighing the tremble in your voice. Deans jaw clenched. His heart ached for you, for the little girl who had learned far too early what it felt like to be abandoned. There was nothing he could say to fix things, nothing he could do to shield you from the hurt. He just held you tighter, like it was the only thing holding you together. “Can we get McDonalds?” Your voice broke him from his trance and a small chuckle escaped his lips. “I got twenty dollars” you added, holding up the crumpled bill. A genuine laugh rumbled from his chest, shaking the heaviness of the moment. The girl who was just pulling on his heartstrings now wanted nothing more than McDonalds. Your brows furrowed in confusion, widening his smile even more. He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I'll get you all the McDonalds you want” he promised, voice steady. Dean couldn’t fix things with their father, but maybe he could be everything you needed.
→ premise: you in those damn jeans, those stupid jeans that fit you just right. your hips, your waist, your thighs. and god your ass in those jeans nearly had sam drooling. it was shameful he knew it but he couldn’t help it, not when your ass looked so prefect.
→ pairing: sam winchester x fem!reader
→ warnings: smut | 18+, anal, caught masturbating, switch!sam? [he’s dominating but also just whiny and desperate?], nicknames [angel, baby], no lube or prep really for the anal part [i lowkey didn’t wanna write it lmao], not proofread
→ a/n: kinktober 17
It was pathetic, he was pathetic he knew that and yet he just couldn't care at the moment nor help himself. You looked so good he swore it was driving him clinically insane. So good that it was making his genius brain malfunction, and his downstairs ‘brain’ run on overdrive.
He couldn't focus, could barely understand a word the witnesses were saying, it was all going in one ear and out the other. His eyes were just glued on you, on your body, on those stupid perfectly fitting jeans you wore. He felt like a hormonal teenager again, getting all worked up over a dumb pair of tight jeans on a woman. It didn't help that Sam has already been nursing a small crush on you that he’s had sense him and his brother met you.
He had to bail on you and dean in the middle of the interviews, giving the both of you some excuse about not feeling the best and that maybe he needed some extra rest. Though in truth his pants were just getting tighter by the minute and his head getting foggier. He somehow managed to walk himself back to the motel, the short walk doing not a damn thing to clear his head. You in those fucking jeans, those jeans that hug your thighs and your wasit just right, those stupidly tight jeans that made your ass look so fucking bitable it was making him lose his mind.
Even though muffled by his t-shirt pulled up and tucked between his teeth all that filled the quiet dingy motel room were Sams whines they were so loud. He was a mess the second he unbuckled his belt and shoved his pants and boxers down his thighs. His large hand furiously stroking up and down his aching cock, pulling strangled whimpers and cries from his lips. His precum leaking out from his tip acting as lube for his hand to glide along his shaft faster, squeezing it hard as he goes.
He was already so close, it only added to his feeling of being pathetic, he really was a horny teenager now, he couldn't even last that long with his fist around his cock and his head filled with thoughts of you. You on top of him riding him as he whines, you under him your limbs an entangled mess as you pant and moan into his mouth. Him with his head buried between your thighs, you on your knees for him with your mouth stuffed full of his cock, any and all different kinds of images of you all over him. “Need you s’bad, s‘fuckin’ bad holy shit….” He hissed through his teeth in a hushed tone as his head fell back in pleasure, cries of your name and whines about how good you looked fall from his mouth like a waterfall the closer he gets to the edge.
“Hey Sam? Honey? you doing okay?” Your voice shattered the daydream going on in his head that was just about to make him cum. In shock and embarrassment his hand stills, inadvertently edging himself. The nickname only makes his cock twitch more as a short whine comes out of his mouth in response. He was caught and it should be embarrassing, humiliating even, you caught him jerking off in the middle of the day. He should be feeling anything else but what he was right now, It shouldn’t excite him that you caught him. But he was too far gone into a desperate type of head space to care at the moment.
“Oh shit!, i'm sorry i didn't mean to barge in i thought you’d be napping” you babble out, covering your face as heat spreads through your body as you turn around and move like you're about to leave. As you turn sam gets an even better almost 360º view of your body, how the jeans cling to your thighs, the waistband snug around your waist, the denim looks practically painted on your ass, they were so tight.
“Need it s’bad, please i need you s’bad yoou dont have to leave” he whines out, you had already caught him so any composure or decorum he had has been thrown out the window alongside reason. He could be completely ruining your friendship at this moment, you could be disgusted with him and reject him but he was taking that risk cause he was desperate.
Your body as if moving on its own accord, revealing your own hidden desires turns back around to face Sam, slowly taking your hands away from your face. Your breath hitches in your throat as your eyes scan over his body, his shirt tugged up and stuffed in his mouth exposing his chest, a small trail of hair leading down to where his hand is still wrapped tightly around his cock, a pleading look in his glazed over eyes. Slowly you make your way over to him spread out on the bed, your steps careful as if you were gonna spook him by moving too fast. “What- Uh- what do you need honey?” You question, still a bit confused and extremely nervous. You’d do anything to help Sam, and getting to see him like this all pathetic and desperate was a bonus that was making slick settle in your core and your thighs clench together.
“I need you, want you s’bad” he whines out dropping his shirt from his mouth as he grabs ahold of your hand when you get close enough. Placing your hand on his stiff throbbing cock with his own, you let out a small gasp at the feeling of his warm cock under your touch. “This is what you do to me, you and ya’ fucking stupid tight jeans” he hissed out, letting go of your hand and taking note of the fact you dont move it off his cock he slaps your ass hard with his big hand resting and gropping at it after it comes down.
“These damn jeans that make your ass look so good angel, so good that I couldn't focus, baby. Wanna fuck you s’bad, wanna fuck this ass” he was rambling now looking up at you with his signature puppy eyed look that made you melt. He was so hard it was getting painful, especially since he stopped himself right when he was gonna cum.
He's already thrown caution to the wind by this point, there was no going back.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
You gave in.
Willing to do whatever it took to make Sam feel better as well as the fact that all his begging had made you about just as desperate for him. He had you on his lap now, your back pressed against his bare chest. He was quick to strip you of all your clothes, eyes glued to the way he had to practically peel your jeans off your body. Your thighs were spread and laid over his legs that he had bent up, his feet planted flat on the bed.
Your head was spinning from the feeling of his rough hands exploring every inch of your body. Palming at your tits and his thumb flicking your nipples, squeezing your waist when you squirm in his grasp and grind your ass against him. His lips were mouthing and kissing along your neck, tongue poking out to lick up the side and even behind your ear, sucking patches of small hickies onto the unmarked skin. Your body relaxed more and more in his arms as Sam said; “Need you real relaxed for this angel okay? As bad as i want this i don't wanna hurt ya’” you were certainly relaxed once his thumb started rubbing circles over your bundle of nerves, sighing in a mixture of pleasure and relief. You whine softly as your pussy aches, begging for release already as your folds are dripping in slick, a trail of it sliding down your cunt to your ass even.
Lifting his hips his tip nudges at the tight ring of muscle of your ass, his precum that hasn't stopped leaking as well as his spit that coated his cock acted as your only form of lube as he bullies his thick cock inside. With a broken gasp in both pain and pleasure at the new sensation you dig your nails into the flesh of his forearm that was wrapped around your stomach holding you against him. “Sam~ Honey- Fuck!” You blabber out in a string of jumbled together moans, losing track of where you were gonna go with your sentence once his cock pushes all the way inside, your hole sucking his cock inside.
“Atta’ girl, s’good f’me angel. God your ass is so fuckin’ tight” he cries out, he was already still on edge from just his fist but this feeling was gonna send him flying over it faster than he wanted. The pleasure of his cock filing your ass as well as his thumb which hasn't stopped playing with your clit has your pussy clenching around nothing.
“Baby, m’not gonna last long, it's too much” you moan out as his hips buck up and thrust into you, settling at a fast and relentless pace not giving you any more time to get adjusted. “It’s okay baby, it’s okay, j’ cum, just cum for me angel” he nods his head frantically, moans and desperate cries fill the room and you don't know what sounds are coming from who as you clench down on him.
Your body tensing up and your eyes screwing shut as your climax washes over you, a loud wanton moan falling out of your mouth. Worry about the other residents hearing anything long since past, Sam even felt a small ego boost knowing they were hearing you scream out his name. His hips not stopping their hard thrusting, Sam too lost in pleasure with his head buried in your neck as his cock pounds your ass making you see stars as you cum.
“Feel so good angel, holy shit squeezin’ me even tighter as you cum shit~” he groans out, his deep voice sending a shiver down your spine as his breath fans across your ear. Your cum leaks out of your pussy, sliding down to Sams cock giving it even more slick for him to fuck up into you harder and faster, chasing his own orgasm.
“Gonna cum angel, but dont think im done with ya’ when i do, need to fuck that pretty pussy too. Been dreamin’ about that sense we met, need to make you all mine” he cries out as he turns your face towards his and crashes his lips against yours, kissing you like a man starved. His moans are muffled into the kiss as well as more whines of your name as he cums hard.
→ a/n: AHHHH last day of kinktober is tomorrow!! Im hoping i get to post the last day on halloween but i might not so if i dont expect it nov
Hii I loveee Nelli and the boys. Could you do one where after a hunt they were all frustrated and tired and she just acts out, and how Dean and her argue to where Sam steps in and scolds her for it. Which hurts her because he’s never the one to get on her it’s usually Dean! :)
Completely done with it
It had been a brutal, seventy-two-hour hunt in the muddy woods of Ohio, a pair of stubborn rawheads that refused to die easy.
Dean’s shoulder was aching, Sam’s ribs were purple, and all three of them were caked in dried mud, sweat, and cheap diner coffee, the brothers were at least, because Nelli was not allowed to drink coffee. Sammy’s rules.
Dean tossed his leather jacket onto the nearest chair in the main room, letting out a long, exhausted groan as his back cracked. “Man, I am gonna sleep for three days straight,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. “Or at least until the beer runs out.”
Who would have guessed that…Dean and his beer obsession…
Fourteen-year-old Nelli slumped into one of the heavy wooden chairs at the library table, her arms crossed tight over her chest, staring blankly at the map spread out in front of her. She was exhausted, running on pure adrenaline and about three hours of broken sleep, and her teenage angst was dialed up to eleven.
“Hey, kiddo,” Dean said, turning toward her as he unbuckled his gun belt. “Do me a favor. Take the weapons duffel back to the armory and start wiping down the machetes before the blood sets in and rusts the steel. I gotta check the oil on Baby before I pass out.”
Nelli didn't move an inch. She didn't even look up at him. “Do it yourself.”
Dean stopped dead in his tracks, his green eyes narrowing. He was way too tired for this. “Excuse me?”
“I said do it yourself,” Nelli repeated, her tone dripping with teenage attitude. “I'm not your maid, Dean. I just spent three days in a swamp getting eaten alive by mosquitoes while you guys did all the actual hunting. I'm not cleaning your knives.”
In Nelli's head, it was a completely valid stand. She was fourteen now. She felt like they still treated her like a little kid when it came to the danger, dragging her along just to keep her in sight, but turned her into the cleanup crew the second they got back to safety. She was sick of getting the boring, dirty work while they treated her like baggage.
“Hey, don't start with the attitude, rugrat,” Dean barked, his voice dropping into that strict, no-nonsense register. “We're all tired. Nobody gets a free pass. I asked you to do one simple job, so get your feet off the table and move.”
Nelli finally looked up, her glare sharp enough to cut glass. “No! You always do this! The second we get home, you start bossing me around like I'm six years old! 'Nelli, carry this. Nelli, clean that.' Why doesn't Sam have to do it?”
“Because Sammy spent four hours digging a grave while you sat in the truck listening to music!” Dean snapped back, stepping right up to the edge of the table, his patience completely threadbare. “I am not playing this game with you today, Nelli. I'm sore, I'm bruised, and I've got a headache the size of Texas. Take the damn bag to the armory!”
“Make me!” she shrieked, kicking the heavy wooden leg of the table so hard it rattled the lamps. “I'm not doing it! You're not my boss, Dean!”
“I am the adult here, which makes me your boss!” Dean yelled, pointing a stern finger straight at her face.
Talk about sounding like John Winchester…
“I hate you!” Nelli yelled, her voice cracking with a mix of exhaustion and childish rage as she stood up so fast her chair screeched against the concrete floor. “You're just a giant jerk who likes pushing people around!”
“That is enough, Nelli!”
The sharp, echoing roar slammed through the war room like a thunderclap.
Both Dean and Nelli froze instantly.
Sam stepped out from the hallway, setting a heavy crate of salt down on the concrete floor with a dull, forceful thud. His jaw was set tight, his tall frame towering over the space, and his hazel eyes were blazing with a rare, cold fury. He didn't look like the gentle, patient older brother who usually stepped in to cushion Dean’s sharp edges or offer a soft smile after a rough day.
He looked furious.
Nelli’s mouth stayed half-open, her chest heaving as she stared at him in absolute shock. In fourteen years, Sam had yelled at her maybe three times, and it was always because she had done something dangerously stupid on a hunt. He never yelled at her for throwing a fit. He was the one who listened. He was the one who took her side when Dean got too stubborn.
“Sammy—“ she started, her voice faltering, the cocky teenage bravado evaporating in a single second.
“Shut it, Nelli,” Sam commanded, pointing a long, rigid finger directly at her. His voice wasn't just loud; it was deep, authoritative, and laced with complete, utter disappointment. “I am sick and tired of listening to you throw a tantrum every time you don't get your way!”
Nelli flinched hard, as if he’d actually struck her. A sudden, hot prickle stung the backs of her eyes, but Sam didn't back down.
“You think you're the only one who's tired?” Sam demanded, taking two long, heavy steps toward the library table. “You think Dean and I are out here enjoying ourselves? We just spent seventy-two hours tracking two rawheads in the pouring rain, getting tossed through tree branches, and digging six-foot holes in thick mud while you sat safe in the Impala! And the second we walk through that door, Dean asks you to wipe down a few blades, and you talk to him like he's dirt on your shoe?”
“I—I didn't mean—“
“I don't care what you meant!” Sam snapped, his tone cutting her off like a knife. “He's your older brother. He takes care of you, he feeds you, he makes sure you're safe every single second of your life, and you stand there and tell him you hate him over a bag of weapons? You are acting like a spoiled, self-centered brat, Nelli, and I am completely done with it!”
Dean stood completely motionless off to the side, his own anger instantly vanishing, replaced by a look of sheer, stunned disbelief as he watched Sam lay into her.
Nelli felt her chin tremble violently. The harsh, stinging words tore through her far deeper than any of Dean’s stern barks ever could. Dean yelling was standard procedure, it was just how they operated. But Sam? Sam looking at her like she was a selfish disappointment felt like a physical weight crushing her chest.
A big, fat tear finally spilled over her eyelash, tracking down her dusty cheek. She bit down hard on her lower lip, clutching her arms tightly around her stomach as she stared at Sam, completely heartbroken and utterly stripped of all her fight.
Nelli didn't say another word. She couldn't. The sting of Sam’s words was so sharp it physically hurt. With her head hung low and tears silently streaming down her face, she picked up the heavy leather weapons duffel, her shoulders slumping under the weight, and hurried off down the hallway toward the armory without looking back.
The heavy iron door of the armory clicked shut, leaving the main room in a thick, stunned silence.
Dean stood frozen for a few seconds, his hands resting on his hips, his jaw slightly slack. He looked at the empty hallway, then slowly turned his head to stare at his brother.
“Well, damn, Sammy,” Dean finally breathed, a mix of genuine shock and a half-amused, disbelieving smirk breaking across his face. “Remind me never to get on your bad side. I think you just stripped the paint off the walls.”
Sam let out a heavy, exhausted sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as the adrenaline bled out of him. He slumped into one of the chairs at the table, looking completely drained. “I'm serious, Dean. She can't keep talking to you like that. You let her get away with way too much because she's the kid, but she's fourteen now. She needs to get it together.”
“Hey, no argument here,” Dean said, walking over and grabbing two cold beers from the small fridge, popping the caps off and sliding one over to Sam. “Trust me, I was two seconds away from grounding her until she's thirty. But…” Dean paused, taking a long swig of his beer before looking down the hall with a furrowed brow. The amused smirk faded into genuine concern.
“What?” Sam asked, looking up.
“It's just... you never lay into her like that, man,” Dean said softly, leaning his hip against the table. “I mean, I'm usually the bad cop. You're the one who hands out the ice cream and tells her it's okay. You hit her pretty hard, Sammy. I think you broke her brain a little bit.”
Sam stared at his bottle, a sudden wave of guilt washing over his tired face. “I know. It's just... we're all running on empty, Dean. I lost my temper.” He looked toward the hallway, hearing the faint, rhythmic sound of a rag scraping against steel coming from the armory. “I guess I should go talk to her.”
“Give her five minutes to finish the machetes first,” Dean muttered, though his eyes stayed fixed on the dark hall, already feeling that familiar tug in his chest to go check on their kid sister.
Sam gave it a few minutes before pushing himself up from the table, taking a slow breath as he walked down the dimly lit hallway toward the armory. The heavy metal door was propped slightly open, and inside, Nelli was sitting on a wooden stool by the workbench, aggressively scrubbing oil onto a blade with a rag. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her jaw was set in a tight, angry line.
Sam leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice dropping back into its usual gentle register.
Nelli didn't look up. She just kept furiously wiping down the machete, the rag making a harsh shhh-shhh sound against the steel. “What do you want, Sam? Here to tell me I'm ruining the family balance again, or is it already time for the next lecture?”
Sam winced slightly at the bite in her voice, stepping fully into the room. “Look, bug... I came to talk. I know I came down on you pretty hard out there.”
“Oh, really? I hadn't noticed,” Nelli snapped, her tone dripping with thick sarcasm as she finally tossed the rag onto the bench and picked up a hunting knife to start on next. “I thought that was just your new fun way of saying 'welcome home.' Really sets the vibe.”
“Nelli, come on,” Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. He walked over and sat on the edge of the workbench near her, trying to catch her eye, but she deliberately turned her head away. “You know you were out of line with Dean. You were acting out, and you said some nasty stuff to him after a seventy-two-hour hunt.”
“And you sounded just like Dad,” Nelli shot back, her voice cracking slightly on the last word, though she tried to cover it with a sharp glare. “So congrats, Sam. Gold star for you.”
That hit Sam right in the chest, making him go quiet for a beat. He looked at her closely, seeing right through the snappy comebacks to the genuine hurt sitting right beneath the surface. He knew why she was throwing up walls, it was easy to roll off Dean’s stern barks because they argued like cats and dogs all day, but getting chewed out by Sam was a whole different story.
“I shouldn't have yelled at you like that,” Sam admitted softly, his voice gentle and completely serious now. “Calling you names wasn't right, and I'm sorry. I was exhausted and stressed, but that's no excuse. I snapped, bug.”
Nelli stared down at the knife in her hands, her thumbs tracing the dull back of the blade. The defensive, witty front started to crack, her lower lip giving a tiny, betraying tremble. “You've never yelled at me like that,” she mumbled, her raspy voice barely above a whisper. “Not ever.”
“I know,” Sam said softly, reaching out to gently catch the edge of her sleeve until she finally looked up at him. “And I hate doing it. But you gotta realize, Nelli... we're a team. When you're hurting or tired, we get it because we are too. But taking it out on Dean when he's just trying to keep things running... it's not fair to him, and it's not fair to you.”
Nelli sniffled, wiping her nose with her sleeve, the fierce teenage attitude completely melting away into the fourteen-year-old who was just plain wiped out. “I was just tired,” she muttered quietly, staring at her sneakers. “And my feet hurt.”
Sam let out a faint, warm huff of a laugh, reaching over to ruffle her messy hair. “I know, kiddo. We're all dead on our feet. Come on, finish up that last knife and go get some sleep. Dean's already half-asleep on the couch, but I'm pretty sure if you apologize, he won't even remember why he was mad.”
Nelli dropped the knife onto the workbench, turned around, and buried her face straight into Sam’s chest, wrapping her arms around his waist as tight as she could.
“I just... I just wished Dean would've understood that I was just tired,” she sobbed softly, her voice muffled against his shirt. She squeezed her eyes shut, a fresh wave of tears soaking into the fabric. “And now I know both of you are mad at me. You hate me, and Dean thinks I'm a jerk, and I ruined everything.”
Sam’s heart melted completely. He wrapped his long arms around her, pulling her close and resting his chin on the top of her head.
“Hey, bug, listen to me,” Sam whispered, gently pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as he rocked her back and forth. “Nobody hates you. Nobody is mad at you anymore, okay? Dean loves you more than anything on this planet, and so do I. We were all just running on empty and snapped at each other. It happens.”
Nelli sniffled, her shoulders shaking with a small hiccup as she slowly let go of his waist, looking up at him with watery eyes. “Promise?”
“Promise,” Sam said with a warm, reassuring smile. He reached over, took the last knife out of her hands, and pointed a finger down the hallway toward the bedrooms. “Now, go take a shower and get into bed. I'll finish wiping down the rest of these blades for you.”
Nelli blinked, surprised. “Really? But you said—“
“I know what I said,” Sam interrupted softly, ruffling her hair one last time. “Consider it my apology for losing my cool out there. Go on, get some sleep.”
A tiny, relieved smile finally broke through her tear-stained face. “Thanks, Sammy,” she whispered, stepping back and wiping her nose with her sleeve before heading out of the armory, ready to finally crash.
Nelli padded down the quiet corridor, her sneakers squeaking softly against the polished floor. She stepped into the main room, expecting it to be completely empty, but Dean was still there.
He was sprawled out on the heavy leather couch, one arm flung over his eyes and his boots propped up on the edge of the coffee table. The moment the heavy iron door clicked shut behind her, his ear twitched, and he pulled his arm back to look at her.
A slow, tired grin spread across his face, his green eyes glinting with familiar mischief.
“Well, well, look who survived Sammy’s wrath,” Dean said, his voice gravelly from fatigue. He sat up slowly, wincing as his sore back popped, and leaned his elbows on his knees. “I gotta admit, kid, I didn't think he had it in him. You really brought out the big guns today. I thought he was gonna make you write an essay or something.”
Nelli stopped near the end of the long library table, dragging her feet. She was completely drained, her eyes heavy and sore from crying, and her whole body felt like lead. She just wasn't in the mood for Dean's usual teasing.
She let out a tiny, miserable huff and crossed her arms, looking down at her sneakers. “It's not funny, Dean.”
Dean’s playful smile faltered, catching the soft, utterly defeated note in her voice. The snappy, sarcastic teenager from thirty minutes ago was completely gone, replaced by a fourteen-year-old who looked like she was about to fall asleep standing up.
“Hey,” Dean said, his tone softening instantly as he patted the cushion right beside him. “Come here, kiddo. I'm just messin' with you.”
Nelli hesitated for a second before dragging her feet over to the couch. She sank down onto the leather cushion beside him, her whole body practically slumping into a heavy, miserable lump.
Without a word, Dean reached over, hooked his arm around her shoulders, and hauled her right into his side. Nelli didn't fight it this time. She just let her head fall heavily against his chest, her forehead resting against the worn leather of his jacket as a long, shaky breath escaped her lips.
Dean wrapped his big arm securely around her, resting his hand on her hair and gently resting his chin on top of her head. He let the quiet of the bunker settle over them for a long moment, listening to the soft hum of the hum overhead and the steady rhythm of her breathing.
“Look, Nels,” Dean began, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly tone he only ever used when it was just the two of them. “I know. Alright? I know this life is absolute crap sometimes. I know it sucks that you don't get to have a normal room, or normal friends, or just come home from school and complain about homework instead of helping us wipe down machetes.”
He squeezed her shoulder gently, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles into her arm.
“I get why you're angry,” he continued softly. “Heck, I'm angry half the time, too. You're fourteen, you're exhausted, and you feel like you're stuck in the middle of two big brothers who are constantly telling you what to do, where to go, and how to stay safe. It's a lot to carry, kiddo. Way too much for a kid your age.”
Nelli stayed completely still, her fingers slowly tangling into the hem of his shirt. She didn't say anything, but Dean could feel the tension gradually melting out of her small frame as his words sank in.
“I'm sorry I barked at you earlier,” Dean admitted, pressing a soft, firm kiss into her messy hair. “We were all running on fumes, but that's no excuse for me to push you around. I don't ever want you to think you can't be mad, or that you have to pretend everything is fine. You get to throw a fit every once in a while, rugrat. That's your right.”
He let out a low, tired breath, shifting slightly to make sure she was comfortable. “Just... don't go thinking Sammy or I don't see you, or that we don't care. Everything we do, every strict rule, every weapon lesson, every annoying order, it's all just because keeping you safe is the only thing that keeps me and Sam going. You're our whole world, Nels. Got it?”
Nelli let out a tiny, shaky hiccup, her cheek pressing firmer against his chest as she nodded softly against him. “Got it,” she mumbled, her raspy voice barely audible over the thump of his heartbeat.
“Good,” Dean whispered, pulling the soft throw blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over her shoulders, tucking her in tight against his side. “That’s good, kiddo.”
Not even ten minutes later after she fell asleep Sam walked softly out of the hallway, holding a clean glass of water in one hand. He stopped at the edge of the rug, his tall frame leaning against the archway as he looked over at the couch.
Nelli was completely dead to the world, wrapped tight in the flannel throw blanket with her head pillowed heavily against Dean’s chest. Her breathing was slow, deep, and steady, finally asleep after such a long day.
Sam set the glass on the side table and stepped over, bending down to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from her forehead. He pressed a warm, quiet kiss to the top of her head before straightening up, making sure not to wake her.
Dean shifted slightly, keeping one heavy arm locked around her shoulders so she wouldn't slide off the cushion, and looked up at his brother with a tired, quiet smirk.
“Look at that,” Dean whispered, keeping his voice barely above a murmur. “Sleeping like a rock. Guess your big scary lecture didn't traumatize her for life after all.”
Sam let out a breathless, silent laugh, shaking his head as he pulled up a wooden chair to sit near the couch. “Shut up, Dean. I still feel terrible about it. She thought we both hated her.”
“Ah, she knows better,” Dean said, his eyes dropping down to look at her small, peaceful face. He smoothed down the top of her messy hair with his thumb. “She was just overwhelmed, Sammy. Fourteen's a rough age under normal circumstances. Add in... well, our crazy life, and it's a miracle she doesn't blow her top more often.”
Sam folded his hands, his expression turning thoughtful and a little somber as he watched her sleep. “She's growing up fast, man. Sometimes I forget she's not six anymore, asking for juice boxes and hiding behind your legs. She's got real opinions, real anger... she's starting to see how messed up everything around us really is.”
"Well, to be fair, she’s always done that.” He smiled warmly, looking down at the sleeping teenager. “Even when she was six, she’d still be a pain in our asses, in the best way possible.”
“You’re right about that,” Sam sighed, now smiling at himself. “I still can't believe I shouted at her…”
“Sam—“ dean started, but was soon cut off.
“She said we talked like Dad, Dean. Like Dad.”
Dean could practically taste the disgust in Sam’s voice. It was always there when he talked about John.
If the eldest didn’t know any better, he’d say that Nelli didn't mean it. And a part of him wanted to believe she didn’t.
But he knew, he knew, that sometimes he does sound like John. And so does Sam.
That’s something they’d never forgive themselves for. Both brothers knew what having a John Winchester in your life meant, especially at a young age, and it was something they’d never want their kid sister to experience.
They both swore she wouldn’t.
A/N: so I got this lovely request and I just HAD to get it done. It was so fun to write!
About the actual story, get ready cause the next chapter will be up in a few hours, I’m finishing the last edits so that’ll be quick.
Pairing: Sam* (Warfare) x OFC Jolene Johnson *Walsh is the last name I gave him for purposes of this story
Series Warnings: mentions of life in the military/active duty; mentions of death; mentions of cancer; parental loss; PTSD; mentions of childbirth (of another female character not the main OC); smut; dominate in bed kind of smut; oral sex, outdoor sex; family dynamics; loneliness
Rating: NSFW (18+) no minors allowed!
Word Count: 10,909
Author's Note: Hey everyone! Before you jump in, please take a quick look at the disclaimer, listed on the series masterlist below. This story isn’t meant to glorify the military or injuries in combat. It’s about the messy, complex realities that come with service, and the ways those ripples reach the people waiting back home. This fic was inspired by real stories and experiences shared with me by people I care deeply about, whom I’m incredibly thankful for their honesty and trust. I also want to acknowledge that Warfare is based on real-life events and Sam being based on a real individual. This story is meant to exist separately from that. It’s my own exploration of the fictionalized version of Sam as seen in the film. That said, the real man behind the inspiration has shared his experiences with incredible candor and reflection, and I’d honestly encourage everyone to seek out his perspective and listen to his story firsthand. Since there’s not much canon info on Sam (we don’t even get a last name!), a lot of what you’ll see here comes from my own interpretation and imagination. This story also started from an anonymous request, so to that anon: thank you! You unknowingly kicked off something I’ve become really proud of. As this fic grows and evolves, I’m excited to keep exploring these characters, their flaws, and all the chaos and tenderness that comes with them. Thanks for being here at the start of it all. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I’ve loved bringing it to life. Peace and Love ~ Mae
Series Masterlist | Trailer | Next
Sam
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
An unpaid babysitter. That’s exactly how Sam felt. Like an unpaid babysitter.
It wasn’t that he lacked a bond with his squadmates; far from it. They had been forged in fire, traveled to hell and made it back, with their shared survival being a hard-won badge of honor. Their deployments had plunged them into the deadliest corners of the world, but nearly all had come back intact. That was the point, wasn’t it? To endure. To survive.
So when the rare gift of a one-month reprieve arrived, Sam had thrown himself into it with a hunger born of exhaustion and relief. He went home.
He spent long, days back home in the proximity of his mother and father, and with his grandparents who still smelled faintly of pine and old leather. He returned just in time to catch his baby sister coming back from her first semester in college. A moment frozen in time, his smiling face catching her tears as she sobbed into his arms, overwhelmed by his safe return home from deployment. The annual blue fish festival came and went like clockwork, and Sam kayaked out to Cedar Island every day, tracing the shoreline, drinking in the unspoiled beauty of a world untouched by the chaos he’d left behind.
Every second of it felt like an odd liminal space. Time to allow for physical healing, such as that bum shoulder that continued to flare up every now and again from when his arm came out of socket. It was also nice to get a brief sanctuary from the constant gunfire, drills, and endless heavy lifting. A life he’d knowingly signed up for, yet never truly imagined he’d have to endure.
Sam had enlisted in the Navy back in January 1998, a decision born of quiet desperation. College wasn’t for him. No matter how much his mother hoped it would be. Sure, he’d always been good at math, exceptional even, but the idea of a life behind a desk, crunching numbers in starched pants, felt suffocating. It was the opposite of what he craved. Intensity.
From boyhood, athletics had been his refuge: Football, baseball, lacrosse. Fields where he thrived. After a long conversation with his grandfather, a stoic World War 2 veteran who shared Sam’s love of the outdoors and quiet strength, he marched straight into his college’s recruiting office. Then to his advisor, to officially withdraw from classes. Twenty-one years old, Navy SEAL training bound.
He was deep in his first real deployment when the news came. They allowed them to watch the footage, a grim silence settling over the barracks. Few moments in his life had made his stomach drop like this. Sure, there had been the Tower of Terror at Disney World on his sister’s birthday, or that nerve-wracking first kiss from a girl in biology class. Those had been thrilling in a different way. Exhilarating even.
But nothing could have prepared him for the cold, unyielding truth: five more years locked into a contract with Uncle Sam, and a nation shattered, still reeling from a terrorist attack that changed everything. The ground beneath his feet had shifted, the world he knew rewritten overnight. His mission was now stark and unforgiving. Seek retribution, or die trying.
And yet, despite the weight of it all, Sam loved his job.
There was something inherently him about it. The relentless challenges, the physical barriers that pushed his body to the edge, and the mental battles that demanded he stare down doubt and failure only to prove himself wrong again and again. The isolation that came with grueling training or distant deployments, the sharpened instinct to think fast and act faster. Skills he’d been honing since he was a boy racing through the woods behind his grandfather’s cabin.
There was also comfort in the routine. The uniform chosen for him, the simplicity of a life stripped of needless fuss and pretense. Sam was a straightforward man. Never one to waste energy on appearances or tangled relationships outside the Walsh family. He’d been respectful enough, sure, but his high school romance faded before he left for college. Prom pictures were never even printed.
He’d had the difficult conversation with Rachel. The girl who had once been everything to him. He was bound for Yale, she for Duke, and neither had the patience or will for long distance. Worse, by senior year, she had grown possessive, her jealousy suffocating. The night she slapped him across the face still stung, but it was the cold shoulder she gave him at graduation that cut deeper.
College held little respite. There was the girl in his Latin class. Well-bred, polished, from a family whose wealth had bought her a place he’d earned through raw grit and high SAT scores. She had a patronizing charm, dismissing his hometown as “charming,” which in her world meant run-down and insignificant. Worse, she acted as if he were a stranger to the world outside his bubble. As if he’d never glimpsed life beyond the school walls. Maybe her nanny and butler had shielded her from real people growing up. But just like Rachel, she had eventually suffocated him with expectations and condescension. He ended things before the walls closed in completely. Not that she wouldn’t have ended things herself the day he’d dropped out of college. She certainly would’ve.
And then… there was his truest commitment: The United States Navy.
He’d watched too many of his brothers-in-arms buckle under that relentless pressure. The weight so many men in uniform carried silently. He understood the practical reasons behind it all. Marriage brought better housing, extra pay, a touch of normalcy in a life ruled by chaos. Having someone waiting for you at home softened the edge of danger, made the thought of dying a little less unbearable knowing you’d been loved. It offered a tether to the world beyond the battlefield, a promise that life might continue, even if you didn’t.
But for Sam, it was wholly unnecessary, not to mention, deeply unfair.
He could never, ever live with himself if he tangled someone else’s heart in the storm of his existence. His life was a minefield of risk, passion, and obsession. Not the kind of world you brought someone innocent into. The brutal reality of his job – the kind nobody outside the military could understand – meant that any hope, any love, could be shattered in an instant. A poorly made bomb under the desert sun, a stray bullet halfway around the world, a mission gone sideways. It was sickening to even imagine some pretty girl waiting for him at the end of the day, only to be met with a solemn knock on the door, a folded flag, and a letter from his superior.
That kind of heartbreak wasn’t something he’d subject anyone to. Not a sweet daughter, not a hopeful sister, not a woman brave enough to love a man built for war. Loneliness was a small price to pay compared to the burden of dragging someone else into that. Sam Walsh refused to be the man who gave loneliness as a gift, and loss as a legacy.
Which was why he couldn’t help but roll his eyes every time one of his squadmates eagerly launched into plans to find a girl during their scheduled training at Little Creek. Their initial training had taken place in California, but this latest cycle was stationed on the East Coast, six long months in Virginia before they’d be redeployed to the Middle East. At least it had the silver lining of keeping him in the same time zone as his family, a small mercy in a life defined by distance and unpredictability.
But it also meant the familiar weight of responsibility settled heavier on his shoulders. The steady, weary burden of supervisor to a group of young men who drank away their worries every night at the same bar. While they sought oblivion in cheap beer and reckless laughter, Sam remained the reluctant anchor, watching over their foolishness, constantly preventing their irresponsibility from turning into a larger issue. He wasn’t interested in distractions or fleeting connections; not when the lives of his squadmates depended on his vigilance. The role wasn’t glamorous, but it was necessary, and it left him isolated.
So, he settled in for the thirteenth straight night at the same bar just off base, exactly as he had every night before. The place wasn’t flashy, but it had character. An older joint with walls lined by faded photographs and relics of a bygone era. The worn leather seats, the faint scent of spilled whiskey, the faint hum of old rock on the jukebox, all unmistakable signs of a sanctuary for those who’d seen too much.
Behind the bar stood Randy, an older man with a gruff demeanor, the kind of presence you couldn’t miss. His skin was weathered, leathery, and marked by an anchor tattoo. The silent emblem of a former SEAL. Randy owned the place and had never quite managed to leave the military behind. It took him all of ten seconds to read Sam’s posture. The tightness in his shoulders, the quiet exhaustion behind his eyes, before sliding a free drink his way.
Their conversations were terse at first, the kind of tight-lipped exchange only soldiers could understand. No need for unnecessary words when experience spoke volumes. But over the past two weeks, something had shifted. Randy’s edges softened, and a more personal warmth crept into their talks.
Randy’s wife, Loretta, was a force of nature. She had gone to high school with Randy and stood steadfast through his trainings and deployments, a pillar of strength in a brutal world. Somewhere along the line, ovarian cancer had struck her down, and she fought the battle mostly alone. On top of that, she’d taken in the child of one of Randy’s squadmates after the girl’s mother died from a hemorrhage during Randy and her father’s deployment. A quiet act of compassion that echoed in the bar’s worn corners. Loretta reminded Sam eerily of his grandmother. Full of sass, unbreakable strength, and a warmth that wrapped around you like a well-worn blanket. They were infinitely more worth his time than an alcohol driven exchange with a woman he’d never see again.
Sam sat at the bar, nursing no more than two beers, exchanging quiet moments with Randy and Loretta. Meanwhile, the rest of his men drank themselves into oblivion, chasing loose girls who haunted the bar’s sticky floors looking for husbands, or simply making fools of themselves around the pool table in the next room.
He was mid-conversation with Randy, casually recounting the day’s grueling task. His skin, no longer salty from the morning’s plunge into cold bay water, now carried the faint scent of Old Spice as he wrapped one hand around a cold beer bottle. The other hand animatedly traced the memory of their jump from the plane into the churning water below, when the bar door swung open with a soft creak.
Normally, his eyes would have snapped to the entrance without hesitation. Years of training had wired him to scan every room, constantly assessing threats, reading every shadow and silhouette. But tonight, surrounded by familiar faces, his fellow soldiers, and in a place where the owner’s reputation for looking out for the downtrodden was well-known, Sam didn’t bother. He barely registered the footsteps growing louder in his peripheral vision.
That is, until Randy’s attention shifted abruptly.
Sam had come to know the man’s playful stoicism well. The kind of gruff exterior that lasted all of five seconds before it melted into teasing ribbing or quiet kindness. So when Randy’s rough face broke into a warm, almost tender smile, his mustache twitching with amusement, it caught Sam off guard. Randy stepped over and settled just to Sam’s right, leaning in close with a gravelly voice that carried a hint of affection.
“You take a wrong turn gettin’ back to the Creek, lil’ missy?”
It was the kind of greeting that meant you missed me, coming from Randy’s mouth.
The voice that answered was unmistakably feminine, yet edged with a roughness that was rare. A touch deeper than most women Sam had known, carrying a hint of grit and resilience like someone who’d been tempered by life’s hard lessons. She had that kind of presence that could hold her own in any room, standing toe-to-toe with men without flinching.
“I was gone for all of two weeks, old man,” she scoffed.
Sam’s head whipped toward her like his mother’s lazy Susan spinning at Sunday lunch after church. What he saw nearly sent his beer bottle tipping over.
All auburn hair. Wild, curly, and impossibly vibrant cascading down past her shoulders, framing a face dotted with pale freckles that caught the dim bar light. Her wide green eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, and her full lips curved into a smile that was equal parts challenge and invitation. She stood a good head shorter than him, a fact that made his palms sweat for reasons he didn’t fully understand. There was something about women who were smaller, something primal, protective, almost like a deep-seated cave-man instinct that stirred inside him.
She wore tight boot-cut jeans that hugged her toned legs, the obvious outline of worn leather boots just peeking out from beneath the cuffs. Her tank top clung snugly to her athletic frame, revealing lean, defined muscles beneath curves that hinted at strength rather than softness. Her nails were kept short and practical, with no frills or polish. Her makeup was minimal, subtle shadows and a light sweep of mascara, nothing flashy or overtly artificial. Something he figured most of his squadmates wouldn’t even notice, and he only had the eye for given he’d grown up with a sister. The only note of femininity was her fiery red hair, a wild cascade that seemed to have a life of its own. She was every bit a tomboy, unapologetically tough and real, the kind of woman who didn’t need to soften herself to fit in.
“Retta’s gonna wanna know all about it, you know,” Randy said, his voice low and teasing as his gaze settled fully on the woman.
Sam might as well have disappeared. The moment she stepped into the room, Randy’s world shifted its center of gravity. As if everyone else blurred into the background, Sam included. Their familiarity was unmissable. The kind of closeness built over years, not months. They spoke with glances more than words, and for a brief moment, it was as if the rest of the bar didn’t exist.
That’s when Sam noticed it. The resemblance. It was subtle at first. A strange sense of déjà vu, but then it hit him all at once. The same wild curls. The same sharp, glinting green eyes that danced with mischief. The same tomboy swagger, like she’d grown up climbing trees and outrunning boys twice her size. His gaze drifted behind the bar, to the cluster of old photographs near the register, tucked just to the right of the liquor shelf. He’d seen them a dozen times in passing, but hadn’t really looked at them. A couple of Christmas snapshots. One of a grinning teenager holding a fish half her size on a kayak. Another, much older image of a toddler perched on a much younger Loretta’s lap, curls like wildfire and eyes already full of trouble.
He hadn't paid much attention before. Observation was instinct for him, even when he wasn’t actively scanning for threats, he still registered details. That’s just how his mind worked. But in that moment, something clicked into place.
Loretta had mentioned her goddaughter once or twice in passing, in that offhand way older women do when talking about someone they hold close to the heart but don’t want to make a fuss over. Sam recalled the story in fragments. How Loretta watched over the baby for nearly a year while going through her own cancer remission. How she and Randy took the girl in at seventeen, after Randy’s best friend and former squadmate succumbed to cancer and left her behind. A girl they helped raise like their own. And now, seven inches to Sam’s right, stood that girl. All grown up, wrapped in denim, boots and a quiet, commanding fire.
Sam took another sip of his beer, already half-planning his exit. He figured he'd slip away quietly, give them the space they clearly hadn’t realized they needed. Sure, he’d grown to enjoy the quiet companionship of Randy and Loretta. Steady, salt-of-the-earth people who didn’t ask questions they didn’t need answers to. But he understood family. Wanted to understand what it could mean to reconnect after time apart. Even if said time was no more than a few weeks. He was just about to excuse himself when the woman let out a short, sharp laugh and pointed toward the specials board on the wall. Her voice cut through the low hum of the bar. Her voice was smoky, low, and steeped in Southern drawl.
“The hell is a Jolene?” she scoffed, brows raised as she shot a look back at Randy.
Sam blinked, caught between the sound of her voice and the curve of mock horror in her smile. It wasn’t a question so much as a challenge. Randy’s face immediately stiffened. He rolled his eyes like a man already caught red-handed. “Retta wanted to try it out while you were gone. See if it’d catch on. I told her you’d object, whole-heartedly–” he started, already reaching for a glass behind the bar.
The woman’s eyebrow lifted with a sharpness that said don’t even think about it, but Randy poured anyway. By the time the drink landed on the sticky varnish in front of her, she was eyeing it like it might grow legs and walk off the counter.
“Peach Crown and ginger ale,” Randy muttered, almost apologetically.
“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered, picking it up like it offended her on principle. She took a sip and immediately grimaced.
Sam watched the whole thing unfold like a well-rehearsed comedy bit. The moment her face puckered, Randy burst out laughing, a deep, chesty sound that filled the space like thunder.
“I told Retta that peach Crown and ginger ale were sure as shit not our Jolene,” he said between chuckles. “But you know how she is. Gets something in her head and rides it all the way into the ground, JJ.” Sam couldn’t help it, his lips twitched.
Jolene.
He’d only ever heard Randy call her “JJ,” like he’d just done now. Loretta, on the other hand, had always referred to her more distantly. Our goddaughter, even when she’d once pulled a photo from the collage behind the bar and handed it to Sam. The woman beside him now, sharp-eyed and wry-smiled, in an image where she was perched next to an overgrown german sheppard with a massive underbite.
“You seem just as stubborn as that girl,” Loretta had said at the time with a fond, knowing smile. Then she’d gone on a rambling tangent about her god daughter’s refusal to settle, her habit of running off men before they ever got too comfortable, and her fierce insistence on independence. There’d been no judgment in Loretta’s voice, just pride dressed up as exasperation. The kind that said “I’m glad she knows how to take care of herself,” in one breath but “I’d love grandbaby’s” in another.
And Sam had understood. That desire to be alone. The satisfaction in solitude. The quiet kind of self-preservation that came from not dragging someone else into the whirlwind of your life. It was the same thing that kept him here every night since he got to town. Sitting at the bar with a pair of old souls instead of chasing cheap hookups like the rest of his squad. He wasn't avoiding intimacy as much as he was protecting others from it.
He stole another glance at Jolene, who was still glaring at the fizzy drink like it had insulted her personally. Just then, Randy reached out with a chuckle, sliding the offending glass away and replacing it with a cold Sam Adams. “There,” he muttered, amused. “Let’s not pretend you’re a cocktail girl.”
Before she could reply, a familiar voice cut through the space. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Loretta’s voice rang out as she appeared from the hallway near the back, apron tied around her waist, hair pinned up in a no-nonsense bun that still managed to look elegant. “You didn’t even say hello before runnin’ your mouth.”
Jolene turned with a grin, her whole face lighting up. “I was ambushed by the board,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the specials chalked up on the wall. “You named a drink after me? A foul, fruity one at that.”
Loretta laughed as she came around the bar to wrap Jolene in a one-armed hug. Jolene leaned into the embrace with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. Their banter was seamless, practiced. A soft rhythm built from years of chosen family. “How was Baltimore?” Loretta asked, pulling back just enough to study her goddaughter’s face.
“Crowded. Loud. Full of assholes,” Jolene replied, deadpan. “In other words: Baltimore.”
Loretta gave her a light swat on the arm, shaking her head, “Everything went okay?”
Sam watched the exchange quietly, nursing the last of his beer, feeling like he was seeing something private. But not in an unwelcome way. More like he was peeking in on something maybe he shouldn’t be, but not having the strength to tear his eyes away. Then, for just a moment, Randy glanced his way. His expression was unreadable, until the corners of his mouth tugged into a wry, almost smug grin. “My goddaughter,” he said simply, voice low, eyes twinkling with quiet pride. Then he turned back to the two women without another word, fully re-immersed in their conversation, leaving Sam alone with the warm hum in his chest and the growing awareness that he was watching a hurricane of a woman.
“Victoria’s good. Baby’s good. Healthy and cute as a button,” Jolene said as she took a sip of her beer, the glass bottle balanced easily in one hand while the other reached into her back pocket. She pulled out a weathered leather bifold. Well-loved and broken in. The kind of wallet that looked like it had been sat on, sweated on, and dropped in the mud more than a few times. Sam clocked the detail absently, recognizing the same type of no-nonsense utility he lived by.
She slid a single photo out and passed it to Randy without ceremony. From where Sam sat, he couldn’t make out much. He wasn’t trying to snoop anyway. That would’ve been obvious, and the last thing he wanted was to get caught ogling over a stranger’s baby picture like some nosy neighbor. Still, curiosity tugged quietly at the edge of his attention.
“Damn, that’s a big kid,” Randy said with a short laugh, holding the photo out for Loretta.
“Twelve pounds, five ounces,” Jolene replied, deadpan. Though the way her eyes widened ever so slightly told a whole story of secondhand horror.
“Good Lord,” Loretta muttered as she took the photo, blinking at it. “You said Victoria was okay?”
Jolene leaned against the bar, raising an eyebrow as she recounted the tale, her voice dripping with dry humor. “I told Victoria not to date the linebacker in high school. Flash forward and she was screaming about a vasectomy while he was crowning.”
Sam choked on a breath. Not a full laugh, more like a stifled snort that punched out against his will, sharp and involuntary. Three sets of eyes turned to him at once. His face flushed instantly, heat creeping from his neck to the tips of his ears. He tried to clear his throat, lift his beer, act casual. Anything to disappear into the wood grain of the bar. “My bad,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.
But Jolene just smiled. Wide, amused, and undeniably dangerous. “I didn’t know we had an audience,” she said, voice laced with mischief, green eyes flicking over to him with interest.
Randy, ever the instigator, let out a low chuckle and clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “This one’s become a regular. Rolled in the day after you left. Been keeping your spot warm while you’ve been away.”
Sam rubbed the back of his neck, still red. “I wasn’t trying to listen in.”
“But you did,” Jolene hummed, taking a slow sip of her beer before leveling him with a look that was part challenge, part amusement. “You can’t help it, can you?” She tipped her head at him knowingly. “Your job’s to be observant.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “How’d you–?”
She grinned before he could finish, one of those are you serious right now kinds of expressions that made his stomach twist and his heart trip over itself. “Oh, come on,” she teased, lowering her beer and leaning one elbow on the bar. “I grew up in a SEAL household. I know one when I see one.”
Sam blinked.
“She’s not wrong,” Loretta chimed in from behind the bar, already half-laughing.
Randy smiled, clearly proud of both women. He gestured between them lazily. “Sam Walsh, meet Jolene Johnson. Our goddaughter. She’s got a talent for sniffin’ people out and sending all the men who try and look in her direction running for the hills.”
Jolene gave a mock salute, eyes never leaving Sam. “Nice to meet you, Walsh. You always eavesdrop when strangers talk about their friend’s childbirth trauma, or am I just special?”
Sam shook his head with a dry laugh, finally letting himself relax. “You’re definitely special.”
“Charmin’,” Loretta said, grinning wide now. “This one’s real charmin’ Jo, so please be a peach, and don’t run him off. I was just starting to like him.”
“Take that damn cocktail off the board and I’ll think about it,” Jolene said, gesturing to the board.
Randy chuckled as he reached for a bar towel, slinging it over one shoulder with the casual ease of someone who’d spent half his life behind a counter. “That one’s a spitfire, boy,” he said low, leaning in just slightly while the women launched into a playful debate over the drink named in Jolene’s honor. His voice dropped a notch, gravelly and knowing. “If I were you, I’d tread carefully.”
Then he straightened and looked away, giving Sam no chance to reply. But the message hung heavy in the air, sinking in deeper than any shotgun-on-the-porch, “have her home by ten” kind of warning Sam had gotten back in high school. This wasn’t about protecting some fragile girl from the big, bad sailor. This was a warning for him. Not laced with threat, but with understanding. The kind that passed between men who’d seen the world at its ugliest and knew exactly how rare women like her were. It wasn’t about guarding her heart. It was about guarding his.
Because it became obvious to him, with his limited knowledge, and now only few minutes of observing her, that Jolene Johnson obviously wasn’t delicate porcelain in need of a pedestal. She was barbed wire wrapped in beauty, and Randy, through the lens of old Navy instincts and godfather wisdom, was giving him the kind of heads-up a man only offered when he respected you enough to tell the truth: She’ll wreck you, son. And you’ll thank her for it.
Jolene smirked as she turned back toward Sam, her tone still light, but there was a flicker of something more thoughtful behind her eyes now. “So,” she drawled, propping an elbow on the bar. “What exactly did you do to charm both Loretta and Randy? Randy’s got a soft spot for anyone who’s worn the uniform, sure, but Loretta? She’s a bit more skeptical of sailors.”
Sam huffed a quiet laugh, tapping the neck of his beer bottle against the bar before lifting it. “Not really sure,” he said honestly.
Jolene didn’t reply at first, just took another sip of her own beer, her eyes scanning the room lazily. Like she wasn’t entirely invested in the conversation but also hadn’t walked away. Loretta drifted toward the back, and Randy had moved down the bar to greet someone else, leaving the two of them in a small pocket of space that felt quieter than the rest of the bar.
She didn’t look at him when she asked, “You come here to drink alone, or...?”
Sam raised a brow, reading between the lines. “Squad. Officer. You can do the math.”
Jolene grinned, turning back to him. “Ah. So you’re the responsible one.”
“Something like that.”
“Or the married one,” she said, eyes dancing as she tipped her beer to her lips again. “Playing designated wingman for the rest of the idiots while he tries not to feel guilty about his ring tan if he flirts for a few hours.”
Sam shook his head, the reaction immediate and firm. “Not a fat chance.”
That made her pause. She studied him now, properly, like she’d just decided he was worth a closer look. “No wife back home?” she asked, but there was no flirt in it. Just blatant curiousity.
“Nope,” he said, setting his bottle down. “Never had one. Never planned to.”
Her brows rose slightly, not in judgment, but something more like appreciation. “Huh. That so?”
He nodded, leaning back slightly, arms crossed over his chest. “Never felt right dragging someone into this life. Lots of my guys talk themselves into it. Better pay, better housing. Someone to come home to. Makes sense on paper. But in practice? You’re just gambling with someone else’s peace if you ask me.”
Jolene went still for a second, her smirk fading into something quieter. She tilted her bottle in a silent toast before taking another sip. “I get that,” she said, softer now. “People don’t always realize how easy it is to wreck someone when all you know is chaos.”
Sam’s eyes flicked to her, and for a beat, neither of them said anything. Something about what she said just lived there, in the space between them, mutually understood. Here were two people who had learned, maybe the hard way, that solitude wasn’t loneliness. It was survival. It was doing the right thing for another person, even if it meant you got used to the silence. A selfless act, even if it seemed unconventional.
“Well,” Jolene said, turning slightly in her stool to face him more fully, “you probably know more about me than any man should if you’ve been perched up at this bar for two weeks. Randy’s got a heart the size of Texas and a mouth to match.”
Sam chuckled under his breath, swirling the last sip of his beer in the bottle. “He does like to talk.”
“Mhm. Especially when it’s about me.” She tilted her head, watching him with those sharp green eyes. “So how even the score a little?” He raised a brow. “Let me buy you another beer, and you spill your guts so I don’t feel overly exposed here by my godparents” she offered, nodding toward the empty bottle in front of him. “After all, at least I can do to support our troops.”
That stopped him. Not because he was offended, but because he was surprised. He blinked. “You don’t strike me as the ‘buy a guy a drink’ type.”
She grinned, already waving down Loretta with two fingers. “What can I say Brown Eyes, I’m full of surprises.”
Just then, the scratch of a record starting up echoed through the bar’s old jukebox. A familiar guitar riff filtered into the space. More than a Feeling. Low, steady, and unmistakable. Jolene’s eyes flicked toward the sound, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Oh, hell yeah,” she murmured, half to herself. Shoulders slowly moving as if she was already lost in the song.
Sam glanced sideways at her. “Boston?”
“Yes sir,”
He gave a short laugh. “Didn’t peg you for the type.”
She leaned forward just enough to narrow the space between them, her tone easy. “And what type is that, exactly?”
He met her gaze, smiling softly. “The kind that listens to country.”
Jolene raised her eyebrows, clearly amused. “Well, you aren’t entirely wrong there.” She smiled and looked around the room. “Namesake and all,”
Loretta slid the two beers over without a word, her expression suspiciously neutral as she moved back down the bar. Sam took one and lifted it in a quiet thanks. Jolene clinked her bottle gently against his. “To classic rock bands, the blabbermouth bartenders I call family, and a night not playing wingman or getting thrown up on by newborns.”
He smirked, tapping his bottom towards hers and taking a drink. “I gotta be honest, I am not really understanding why Randy gave me a warning when it came to you.”
“Give it a few more minutes,” she said, settling back into her seat with that same calm confidence. “Eventually they all go running for the hills faster than that Naval regime can carry them,”
He didn’t answer right away, just took a slow sip of his beer, eyes fixed on her. There was something about Jolene, something that pulled at the edges of his thoughts. Beneath that playful, teasing spirit lay a quiet stoicism. It wasn’t obvious, but it was there. “So,” she said, a sly grin tugging at her lips, “gonna fulfill your half of the bargain now that I’ve properly supplied your beer?”
He leaned back, considering. “What do you wanna know?” Sam braced himself for the usual. The generic questions he was tired of hearing: Where’re you from? Why’d you join the Navy? What’s your family like? But Jolene’s next words threw him off balance.
“What scares you the most?” she asked, her voice dropping low, eyes fixed on his like she was searching for something buried beneath the surface.
Sam blinked. This wasn’t the usual small talk. No easy, surface-level banter here. It was a quiet challenge, wrapped in casual conversation. A test he hadn’t been prepared for. He held her gaze. “I’m starting to see why they slap a ‘stanch warning’ label on you,” he said with a shaky laugh, nodding toward her.
Jolene smirked, the ghost of a sigh escaping her lips. “I just love watching you boys squirm.”
Sam’s eyes flicked down for a moment, then met hers again, steady and searching. The words didn’t come easy, but maybe here, now, they could be spoken. “Losing control,” he admitted quietly.
She nodded slowly, eyes sweeping around the bar as if taking in all the chaos in the room. “Which is understandable,” she said. “But honestly, you could’ve just said snakes, and I’d have accepted it.”
He let out a dry chuckle. “That would’ve been a lie.”
She smiled, sharp and knowing. “Sure, but if Indiana Jones can be manly and afraid of snakes, it would’ve been the perfect cop-out.”
“I’m not really one to cop out,” Sam said flatly, “You asked. I answered. Nothing to hide here.”
“Interesting,” she murmured, almost to herself, then turned away to glance at the jukebox.
Something stirred inside him. A quiet swell of pride. That simple exchange, the raw honesty beneath the banter, had done something unexpected. And in that moment, he realized he’d found a sliver of ground, to get under her skin, just enough to make her see him differently.
“Alright, I got one,” Jolene said, a wicked glint in her eye as she leaned in close. Sam felt her breath before he heard her words. Soft and sultry right against his ear. “What kind of porn you watchin’ back on base, Sailor?”
His spine straightened like he’d just taken enemy fire. Eyes wide. Beer nearly slipped from his hand. She burst out laughing, clearly delighted by the reaction. “Oh my god,” she wheezed, brushing a hand down his arm as if to apologize, though the grin on her face said she wasn’t sorry at all. “You should’ve seen your face.”
Sam shook his head, laughing despite himself. “You just ask every guy that, or am I special?”
She shrugged, still chuckling. “Depends. Do you always react like you just got caught in church with a Playboy under your hymnal?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, the flush in his cheeks rising. “Wasn’t expecting that one.”
Her hand lingered on his arm a moment longer than it needed to. Warm through the soft cotton of his t-shirt, before she pulled away and reached for her beer again. “You don’t have to answer,” she said, eyes flicking sideways with a smirk. “Although, now I’m dying to know if you’re a romantic type or more of a no-plot, guy.”
Sam leaned on the bar, recovering his composure with a slow sip. “That’s classified,” he deadpanned.
“Uh-huh,” she teased, crossing one leg over the other, boot tapping lightly against the footrest. “Guess I’ll just have to use my imagination.”
The jukebox shifted songs again, something grittier and low. A Tom Petty tune this time. Sam let out a breath. “You always this chaotic?”
Jolene lifted her bottle in a lazy mock-toast, green eyes gleaming. “I like to keep people on their toes.”
“You’re doing a hell of a job,” Sam said, his voice edged with a grin.
“I try,” she hummed, then let her gaze drift back to him. “You were the good boy in school, weren’t you? Top of the class, neat handwriting, real smart kind.” It was more of a statement than a question.
He smirked and ran his thumb over the label of his beer bottle. “Salutatorian.”
Her brows lifted like she’d just hit the jackpot. “Knew it.”
She glanced around the room, as if searching for examples. “Most guys I’ve met in uniform? Athletes. Brawlers. Or the kind who wouldn’t have made it elsewhere. Not a knock, just how it usually goes.”
Sam nodded. “I was at Yale. Accounting. Really broke my Ma’s heart when I called to say I dropped out and enlisted.”
Jolene turned fully toward him then, her posture relaxed but her expression suddenly became serious. “Why’d you do it?”
There was no teasing behind her tone. No smirk hiding in the corner of her mouth. She asked it like someone who genuinely wanted to know. He took a breath and answered. “I couldn’t stand it,” he said quietly. “The idea of dress shoes and staring at spreadsheets for the rest of my life under fluorescent lights. Felt like dying in slow motion. I wasn’t made to live like that.”
Something softened in her expression. She gave a small nod, almost to herself. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I get that.”
He chuckled. “So, what do you do?”
She tilted her head, studying him with playful suspicion. “You mean Randy and Loretta haven’t told you my full life story, including my home address and occupation?”
“They mentioned you existed, not what you did for a living,” he said, watching her closely. “Should I be nervous?”
Jolene grinned and leaned an elbow on the bar. “I run my dad’s old auto shop. Took it over when I turned eighteen and the deed got passed to me. Been mine for the last nine years.”
Sam blinked. That wasn’t the answer he expected. “You’re a mechanic?”
“Yes sir,” she said with a smirk.
He laughed, shaking his head. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“Most don’t.” She took a sip of her beer. Sam’s smile lingered as he glanced at her. Boots scuffed, jeans hugging her curves, hands strong but nimble. The curls spilling from her head being the only wildly feminine thing about her. And yet she was still effortlessly beautiful. “Let me guess,” she said, tipping her bottle slightly in his direction, her green eyes narrowing with mock-serious focus. “You’re a…” She let the moment hang, scanning his face like it held all the answers. “…Mustang man,” she declared, sitting back with a smirk, satisfied with herself.
Sam blinked, and for a second he was sixteen again. His childhood bedroom, now half-overtaken by his mother’s holiday decorations and storage bins. But on the one untouched wall, still hanging by old thumbtacks and curling at the corners, was that damn poster. A ‘69 Mustang. Canary yellow. Black racing stripes. The kind of car that felt like freedom when he was a boy dreaming of escape.
He let out a soft laugh and shook his head. “Damn.”
Jolene grinned like she’d just sunk an impossible pool shot. “I know cars,” she said simply, as if that explained everything. And honestly, it kind of did.
“That obvious?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Little bit,” she teased, taking a slow sip. “You’ve got Mustang energy. Classic. American made. Requires a lot of maintenance so they aren’t everyone’s cup of tea. Which, is great for keeping my lights on.”
Sam raised an eyebrow, amused. “So is that how you pick your men? By what kind of classic car they’d like?”
“No,” she drawled, tapping a nail against her bottle. “But it does help to weed out the Corvette guys from the pool. Too high maintenance. I don’t like pretty boys.”
He laughed. It wasn’t just her confidence, or the way she talked like she didn’t owe the world an explanation. It was that strange, electric comfort between them, the sense of being understood without having to explain too much. “So,” he said, glancing at her over the rim of his bottle. “What kind of car are you?”
She tilted her head and thought for a moment. “‘72 Bronco. Matte blue paint job. Dog hair in the back seat. Radio’s a bit wonky, but the engine runs like hell.”
He smiled. “Sounds about right.”
“Damn straight it does,” she said, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. The jukebox clicked again, this time rolling into Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man.” Neither of them spoke for a moment, letting the lyrics drift over them, the melody threading into the space between. “You know,” she said quietly, “I’ve always loved this song.”
He nodded. “Hard not to.”
“Yeah,” she murmured. “I prefer people who tell it to me straight. No bullshit.”
Her voice had softened, losing its playful edge for a beat, but then she looked back at him with a spark in her eye. Before Sam could come back with some dry remark, Randy’s voice cut in from the other side of the bar like a grenade tossed into their calm little bubble. “Well I’ll be damned,” he said, setting down a bar towel and squinting like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You’re still sittin’ here. And he’s still breathing.”
Jolene didn’t even blink. “Brown Eyes hasn’t given me a reason to send him packing. Yet.”
Randy let out a wheezing laugh, clearly delighted. “Brown Eyes, huh?”
“Shove off, Randy,” she said, shooting him a look, but the edge in her voice was dulled by the faint curl of a smile tugging at her lips.
“Terms of endearment,” Randy grinned, eyes dancing with mischief as he turned to Sam. “I think little Jo might actually like you son.”
Jolene arched her brow. “Keep talkin’ and I’ll sic Loretta on your ass. You know she’s still mad about you forgetting her birthday last year.”
Randy raised both hands in mock surrender. “Now that’s just playing dirty.”
Sam watched them with a faint smile. The back-and-forth carried that undeniable thread of history. Years of bickering and belonging, the kind of bond you didn’t earn overnight. There was nothing forced about it. Just love, worn in like an old leather jacket. And Jolene, for all her fire and sharp tongue, fit into it like she'd always been part of the frame. Like she was carved out of that same solid stuff. Randy gave Sam a knowing look before wandering off down the bar, shaking his head and chuckling under his breath. Jolene turned back to Sam, raising her bottle in a mock toast. “Sorry about him. He’s been impossible since 2002”
“I like him,” Sam said, resting his forearm on the bar. “He reminds me of my Grandpa.”
Jolene turned to him, a sly brow raised. “Is your grandpa also nosy as hell?”
“Not exactly,” Sam said with a short laugh, lifting his beer. “But he’s got that fake sternness. Gruff voice, arms crossed like he’s gonna lecture you, then turns around and slips you a twenty.”
Jolene nodded toward Randy, who was now fussing over a glass rack like it had personally offended him. “Yep. That’s Randy. Barks like a dog, but he’s made of marshmallow.” She paused, taking a long sip of her beer, then glanced at Sam from the corner of her eye. “And, I assume your Grandma keeps asking where the kids are?”
“Every time I go home,” Sam muttered, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter how short the trip is. That woman finds time to pull me aside, ask if there’s ‘a nice girl’ back at the base. That would imply I’ve got time and interest, and everyone knows that’s not happening.”
Jolene let out a low chuckle. “God, thank you. Finally, someone who gets it.”
Sam turned, amused. “Let me guess. You’re dodging the same questions?”
“Like it’s a national sport,” she replied. “Retta still thinks I’m going through a ‘rough patch’ that’s lasted, oh… five years and counting.” He laughed, and she grinned as she continued. “They all think you’re broken if you don’t want the white-picket fence. Husband, kids, minivan. That whole suffocating checklist.”
Sam swirled the last inch of beer in his bottle, watching the amber swirl in the glass. “Yeah. Like wanting something different means something’s wrong with you.”
Jolene leaned her chin into her palm, expression softening. “It’s not that I’m against love or anything. I just don’t want to compromise who I am to have it.”
“That’s it,” Sam said, more earnest than he meant to. “I’ve seen what happens when people build a life around someone else. Then that person leaves, or dies, or just… disappoints. And suddenly, they don’t know who they are anymore.”
Jolene nodded slowly, and for the first time, her playful mask slipped. “Yeah,” she said, voice quiet. “Been there.”
They didn’t speak for a moment. “You know,” Sam said after a moment, glancing sideways at her, “this isn’t how I expected my night to go.”
Jolene arched a brow, playful as ever. “That a good thing?”
He gave a slow, honest smile. “No complaints here.”
She held his gaze for a beat, eyes steady and expression unreadable, before turning her attention back to her beer. Her fingers trailed lazily along the condensation on the bottle. “You’re an honest man,” she said softly. “Maybe that’s why I haven’t sent you packing yet.”
Sam tilted his head, smirking. “But we should give it time, right? At least that’s what you keep telling me.”
“You catch on fast, Brown Eyes,” she hummed, lips curling in amusement.
They settled into something easy then. A rhythm that didn’t require effort or posturing. Just good beer, low music, and conversation that flowed as naturally as the tide. Stories from childhood. Quick jabs and playful teasing. Shared complaints about the current state of politics and civil discourse that left little room for nuance. A mutual reverence for the moment the Red Sox had clinched the World Series last October.
When she told him her dad was a born-and-raised Masshole, Sam laughed out loud. It made perfect sense, despite her Southern drawl and dusty boots, because it was still there. That same dry bluntness. That defiant charm. The kind of woman who could fix your carburetor, out-drink you in whiskey, and still steal your heart with a crooked smile. She had that New England backbone, and being a Connecticut coastal kid, Sam recognized it. He knew people like her. Only, he’d never met someone quite like her.
And it was nice. There was a stillness in him tonight that he hadn’t felt in a long time. The kind of quiet that usually came only in the wilderness. Like after a long hike, at the edge of a cliff, watching the sun disappear over pine trees and silence settle over the earth. That voice in his head, the one that always warned him to stay clear of pretty smiles and kind words, that reminded him women like this had no business waiting around for someone with boots always halfway out the door, was quiet. Maybe for the first time in years. There was no tension clawing at the back of his mind. No guilt for enjoying her company. Just the comfortable weight of now. Of this.
He found himself watching the slope of her collarbone as she tilted her head and laughed at something he’d said. Nothing lewd. Just… appreciation. A man admiring a woman who happened to be sitting far too close, whose smile came far too easily. She didn’t even seem to notice the way her boot had casually settled on the bottom rung of his barstool. Tucked right between his knees. It just moved there. And he didn’t mind.
Somewhere between stories and another round of drinks, they’d both turned their stools fully to face each other. The noise of the bar faded to the edges. His knee brushed hers every now and then, neither of them acknowledging it. Neither of them moving away, either. That subtle pressure of her boot resting between his knees should’ve meant something. Should’ve stirred that reflex he’d honed so carefully. The instinct to retreat before things got too personal, too close. But it didn’t. Instead, he felt still. Not weighed down, but settled. And God, when was the last time he’d felt anything like that?
He watched her laugh again. Head tossed back just slightly, a curl falling from behind her ear, and it hit him harder than it should’ve. Women like her weren’t supposed to exist. Not in real life, anyway. The world was full of too many illusions. Too many paint-by-numbers girls, looking for men to fill a space in their life instead of walking side-by-side with them. Too many forced conversations over cocktails he couldn’t pronounce in bars that smelled like burnt citrus and bad decisions.
But Jolene? She was as real as the engine grease stains on her jeans and sea air outside. She was all bare skin and calloused palms. Boot-cut jeans that hugged her hips just right. A tank top that wasn’t trying to be sexy, but was. Short nails, a laugh that was quick and unfiltered. Hair like wildfire and a voice that could gut a man if she wanted to with one lewd comment. He hadn’t built her in his head. She wasn’t some soft-focus fantasy that existed only on lonely nights in bunkrooms or base showers.
She was flesh and blood. Sharp wit and strong shoulders. The kind of woman who probably preferred fishing on a quiet lake to getting dressed up for dinner downtown. Who listened to Skynyrd and Zeppelin and didn’t just name-drop it to sound cool. Who changed her own damn oil and wouldn’t care if his hands were rough when he touched her. And somehow, against all odds, she was sitting here with him. Not batting lashes. Not trying to impress. Just being herself. Just existing, like it didn’t even occur to her how rare she was.
She didn’t need rescuing. She didn’t need fixing. And she sure as hell wasn’t looking for a hero. She was just a woman who knew who the hell she was. And Sam, who had spent his entire adult life learning to stay a step removed, to never get too close to something he couldn’t keep, felt something stir in his chest that he hadn’t let himself feel in a long, long time. Not infatuation. Not lust. Just a kind of… quiet recognition. A sense of, Ah. There you are. Suddenly, the jukebox clicked again, gears shifting audibly before a familiar swell of melody rolled through the bar. Jolene let out a groan, her head falling back with theatrical exasperation.
“Oh, come on,” she sighed. “I swear Randy is behind that one.”
Sam recognized the tune the moment the first notes lilted through the speakers. Dolly Parton’s unmistakable voice floating over the hum of conversation and clinking glass. He smiled, slow and knowing, as the lyrics took shape around them.
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene…
It was impossible not to look at her. This woman with that unmistakable head of long, wild auburn curls, skin kissed by sun and freckles, and those green eyes that narrowed as she gave the bar a half-hearted glare. A living, breathing embodiment of the song’s muse. Except she wasn’t the one stealing anyone’s man. Sam sure as hell wasn’t anyone’s to steal. Still… the words felt suddenly personal. The imagery, too fitting. Like the universe was in on a joke it hadn’t told him yet.
She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her tank top, clearly aware of his gaze. “If you make a single joke about my ‘flaming locks of auburn hair,’ I’m dumping this beer in your lap.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, lips twitching. But his heart was a different story. Kicking harder in his chest than it had in months. He set the beer down, leaning forward just a little. “You hate the song that much?”
“I don’t hate it,” she said, voice dry with the weight of long-suffered teasing. “I just hate hearing it every time I walk into a bar with a jukebox. You’d think being named after a song would be romantic or something. It’s not. It’s just… predictable.”
“Nothing about you strikes me as predictable.”
That earned him a brief pause. A flicker in her eyes. Not quite surprise. Not quite disbelief. But something softer. “You’d be surprised,” she said quietly.
“Try me.”
For a second, neither of them spoke. The song played on, background noise to a growing current neither one of them had planned for. And maybe that’s why it worked. Why it didn’t feel heavy or loaded or like some moment either one of them had to pretend to want or resist. It just existed without need for explanation.
Usually when a woman looked like that there was something underneath it. An edge. An expectation. Demands of him that he wasn’t willing to make, nor did he feel was morally right to lie about. But something that curled around her smile said don’t get too close. More than that, she just let him be, and that… that was something new.
“You know,” she said suddenly, chin tipping toward him. “You’re staring.”
He didn’t even try to deny it. “I know.”
Jolene didn’t laugh or deflect this time. She just looked at him. Her green eyes tracked over his features slowly. Starting at the eyes, lingering on his jaw painted with two day old stubble, the faint scar at his temple, the way his T-shirt clung across his chest and shoulders. Her gaze wasn’t lewd, but it wasn’t shy either. It was the kind that could pull a man apart, piece by piece, and catalog him with the same ease she might use when identifying the engine block on a ‘73 Camaro.
Sam felt himself shift slightly back in his seat. Not out of discomfort, exactly. Just… unfamiliarity. It wasn’t often a woman looked at him like that and made him feel like the one being seen. Because the truth was, he didn’t think of himself as particularly noteworthy. Sure, he kept in shape. It came with the territory. But he wasn’t the biggest guy on base, not by a long shot. There were plenty of men in his unit who were broader, taller, and had a muscular structure women went nuts over. The kind of guys women threw themselves at in bars. Sam had never been that guy.
His strength lived quiet in his frame. Coiled muscle that didn’t advertise itself. Shoulders that carried weight without complaint. Hands calloused from years of weapon drills. His face was… fine. Average. Probably looked a tad bit older than he was in reality, due to that unfortunate way a soldier’s fine lines set in young. The only thing he’d ever heard women consistently compliment were his eyes. Dark, almost black in low light, but much lighter when the sun was out. Something about them made people think he was serious, even when he wasn’t trying to be.
And now, here was Jolene, taking her sweet time like he was a painting she was deciding whether or not to hang in her room. “You done?” he asked softly, a half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Not yet,” she murmured, just as soft.
He blinked, caught off guard. A beat passed. Then she leaned forward, elbows on the bar, and her voice shifted into something a little warmer, a little more sincere. “You’ve got those eyes,” she said, tapping the side of her beer bottle. “Still. Quiet. But not empty. Just like you’ve got a lot to say but are choosing not to.”
Sam didn’t know what to say to that. No one had ever said anything quite like it before. It felt like a compliment, but it didn’t land like flattery. He tilted his head, watching her with new appreciation. “That’s quite a compliment.”
Jolene smirked. “I’ve been told I’m a little intense.”
He nodded. “I’ve been told I’m a little boring.”
“You’re not boring,” she said simply. “You’re calm. That’s different. Calm’s rare. I like rare.”
“Does that mean you like me?” he asked. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the need to prove anything. Not his job, and the reasons he chose it much to his family’s disdain. Not his perpetual singlessness which suffered teasing with his squadmates. Not his physical strength, as he fought to prove himself worthy of his title. Not even his interest in her. It all just simply was.
And somehow, she made that feel like enough. From somewhere near the end of the bar, Randy let out another loud chuckle, clearly still eavesdropping. “You better be careful,” Jolene said without looking up, eyes still locked on Sam’s, “He’s gonna start planning a wedding.”
“I can handle Randy,” Sam replied with a grin and a raise of his right eyebrow.
She leaned back, taking a long pull from her beer, the corners of her mouth curving as she studied him once more. “Yeah,” she said quietly, “I bet you can.”
Sam sat back, the conversation and the warmth of Jolene’s gaze settling deep in his bones. He caught himself wondering if maybe, just maybe, he should ask her out. Not the typical “date” loaded with all the usual pressures and expectations, but something simpler. A chance to see her again, share some more quiet nights talking about cars, music, and the small things that made life feel bearable.
He knew both of them wore their independence like armor. A shared understanding that relationships could be messy, complicated, and sometimes more trouble than they were worth. But maybe that was exactly why this could work. Someone who understood the value of space, who wasn’t going to demand more than he was willing to give. Someone who could be a friend, a companion through the next six months in Virginia. A steady presence he could trust, not a whirlwind to disrupt his carefully guarded calm. He swallowed the sudden nervousness rising in his chest. What’s the harm in asking?
Just as he was about to muster the courage, the side door banged open and a familiar voice cut through the mellow hum of the room. “Sam! Frank’s getting rowdy again. Probably best to pack it up before someone loses a tooth.” Erik stumbled in, eyes bright with the kind of rough energy that didn’t fit in with the quiet atmosphere Sam was enjoying.
Sam sighed, the moment slipping away. Jolene caught his expression and gave a half-smile that seemed to say, next time. He stood, trying to flag down Randy to close out as she looked at him. She rose as well, tucking her hands into her belt loops and for the first time during the evening she looked unsure how to proceed. She nodded her head towards the door.
“I better get back home. Loretta dropped by round 4 but I’m sure Chewie’s gotta go out.” she said. He recalled her mentioning her German Sheppard, earnestly named Chewbacca, that was waiting at her home. Same one from the photo behind the bar.
“Right,” he nodded behind him. “And I got some SEALs to wrangle back to base before someone breaks something or gets us banned from the bar,”
“Of course,” she replied, with a forced smile.
The bar buzzed around them. Raucous laughter, the scrape of chairs, the clatter of glasses, yet everything blurring into a noisy background hum. Sam’s throat felt tight. His mind raced with the usual self-doubt, the quiet voice that told him to keep his distance, to not get involved, to protect her from himself. But something about Jolene, her easy confidence and sharp humor, was pulling at him. Softening that guard. He swallowed hard and finally blurted out, voice rougher than he expected, “Maybe… maybe I could see you again?”
She glanced toward the door like she was weighing how much to give, then back at him with a small smile. “There’s a car show tomorrow. Maybe I’ll see you there?”
Her words hung in the air, inviting, but vague enough to keep him guessing. Sam felt the familiar itch of uncertainty creeping in. Should he just let it go, chalk it up to a fleeting moment? But something inside him urged him to try just a little harder.
He cleared his throat, nerves tightening his chest. “I should probably have your number just to make sure.”
Her eyes flickered with surprise, and for a second he thought she might say no. Instead, she pulled out a worn flip phone. Holding it out, she said softly, “If you are certain about it Sailor,”
His hands trembled slightly as he took the phone, fingers fumbling over the buttons. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this exposed. Asking for something, wanting something, without his usual protection of sarcasm or distance. Jolene watched him, her gaze steady and patient, and it made his heart beat a little faster.
When he finished, he handed the phone back, trying to keep his voice even. “There. I’m sure.”
She slipped the phone away, a shy smile playing at her lips. “Alright, Brown Eyes. We’ll see how tomorrow goes.”
She turned on her heels, ready to leave. The moment felt fragile, like a breath held too long, ready to shatter or soar. Without quite knowing why, he found himself blurting out, “Mind if I walk you out to your car?”
Her head turned around, eyes flicked up, wide and surprised. Almost like she wasn’t used to being offered such a simple kindness. She hesitated, shifting in place, and he could see the brief flicker of uncertainty in her gaze. Was it the chivalry? The attention? Or maybe just the unexpected notion of someone wanting to stick around a little longer. Then, almost shyly, she gave a small nod.
Sam’s heart skipped. He’d never been the smooth type, and moments like this usually ended with him retreating quietly. But something about Jolene made him want to push past that familiar hesitation. He turned to his squad, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the low hum of the bar’s closing crowd. “Alright guys, settle your tabs and meet me outside in five.”
The rowdy laughter and clinking glasses from inside faded as they stepped through the door, replaced by the crisp night air wrapping around them. His eyes scanned the lot and landed on an old red pickup truck, dust settled on the hood. Jolene caught his gaze and pointed with a grin. “That one’s mine.”
They started walking toward it, the silence between them comfortable, charged with something unspoken. Sam’s mind wandered. He was usually so used to keeping people at arm’s length. Jolene glanced at him, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Thanks for the company tonight,” she said quietly, her voice almost hesitant, like she wasn’t used to moments like this either.
“No, thank you,” Sam replied, voice low but steady. “It’s been... more than I thought it would be.”
Their eyes met. No games, or smirks, just an honest connection that felt rare. The kind of thing you didn’t often get to share with someone new. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the worn leather strap of her keys, jingling softly. “I guess this is goodbye, for now.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, feeling a subtle but genuine hope rising inside him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He said confidently.
She nodded, that same faint smile lingering as she turned toward her truck. Sam watched her settle in behind the wheel, the warm glow of the streetlight catching the fire in her hair. As he stepped back into the night, watching as she offered a small wave out the open window and took off down the road.
