#spn fluff

[aseafullofstars]

catnap☆ dean winchester

summary: sam's working, you're comfortable. so what if dean takes a little nap on you ?

pairing: dean x reader (gn) ft. sam | genre: fluff !! | word count: 2.2k

warnings: cute sleepy dean and a ton of cat comparisons, some lore-accurate sam research-isms :]

notes: okay so i wrote this one MONTHS ago but i never posted it because i hated it lowkey </3 but i got a second opinion and i wanted to post a lil somethin for you while i'm writing exams, so here you go :]

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It’s cold enough in the Impala that you can almost see your breath. Your fingers have been freezing for the last twenty minutes, even with your gloves on. You’ve tucked your feet up under you in the backseat of the car, but it’s not doing enough to fix the chill that’s living in your shoes. You don’t even have to touch your face to know that your cheeks and nose are freezing, probably already going a little numb from the cold.

Dean, on the other hand, looks perfectly fine. His cheeks are flushed a light pink, but other than that, he looks like the cold can’t touch him in the slightest. It’s infuriating, actually, but it’s to be expected. Dean ‘I run hot’ Winchester was not lying. His leather jacket is wrapped around your shoulders, leaving him in just a flannel and t-shirt, and he’s even got the sleeves on the flannel rolled half-way up his forearms.

He catches you glaring at him in the rearview mirror, sending you an exaggerated wink that has you rolling your eyes.

“What?” he drawls, twisting around in his seat to look at you.

“Can’t believe you’re not cold,” you mutter under your breath.

He smirks. “I already told you, sweetheart, I run-.”

“You run hot, yeah. I know,” you finish for him.

Dean’s hand comes over the seat, squeezing your thigh gently.

“Hey, we’ll be fine. Sam’ll be comin’ back soon.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you know this how, exactly?”

He winces, knowing you caught his bluff.

“Wish we could’ve gone in all three of us, ‘s all,” you add, turning your attention back to your book.

“Me too, sweetheart. Me too. Can’t let lore boy have all the fun, can we?”

That wrangles a tiny smile out of you, and Dean grins like he’s just won the lottery. You avert your eyes back to reading the cramped lines of text and scrawled notes in the margins of John’s hunting journal. Sam’s a lucky bastard, you think as you read. The library seems to be the only warm place open in the whole town today, meaning every single person was in it. They’d only had capacity for one more, so the three of you mutually agreed that Sam would be the most efficient.

You’re regretting it now, the icy air biting at your exposed skin. You tuck Dean’s jacket tighter around you and shiver, goosebumps crawling up your arm. You start rubbing your hand up and down on your arm, and if you concentrate hard enough, you can almost convince yourself it’s working. Apparently, the rustle of fabric is frustrating Dean, because he opens his car door and steps out.

“Where are you going?” you shout after him, the door slamming shut before he turns and opens yours.

“Here,” he says cheekily.

“Close the door, Dean. ‘S freezing.”

He shuts the door with a little too much force, shaking his hand to get the tingles out of it. Dean slides down the bench until he’s mostly pressed against your side, head snaking over your shoulder to peek at your journal.

“Whatcha readin’ ‘bout?” he says in a sing-song voice.

You shoot him a glare, and he grins. “Your dad’s journal.”

“Yeah, I know that. I asked what you’re readin' about.”

You make a non-committal motion with your hand. “Dunno. Anything I can find that makes any damn sense?”

Dean hums, sliding closer. “Whatcha lookin’ at right now?”

You sigh, flipping a page back and pointing to a crudely drawn picture of a wraith. “That. Think it might be one of these.”

He frowns, taking the journal from you and examining it. You squawk indigently, but his eyes have focused on the page you were reading. His tongue pokes between his teeth just a little, and you can’t help but think it’s cute. Kind of like the tongues on cats when they finish drinking water or when you scratch them in that perfect spot behind the ears.

“So, what’s the verdict? Wraith?” you ask.

“What?”

“Wraith. Yes or no?”

“Yeah, probably.”

You raise an eyebrow again, thoroughly unimpressed. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t really care?”

Dean shrugs, kissing your forehead before sliding away from you and laying down on the seat, sprawling himself across the bench.

“Sammy’s searchin’. We don’t gotta do anythin’," he says, exaggerated as he stretches.

You tuck up into the corner, back jammed between the seat and the door. It’s not perfectly comfortable, and the metal is cold on your back, but you know Dean isn’t set on leaving you here. Not when he’s got that childish twinkle in his eyes that says he’s either about to do something extremely stupid, or extremely endearing.

“Dean,” you warn. “We’re working.”

“I know.” He rolls dramatically onto his back, staring at the roof of the car and stretching his arms up to touch it. “I don’t really care.”

You shrug your shoulders helplessly. “Why not?”

He twists his head around, craning his neck uncomfortably to stare at you. “’Cause I don’t want to.”

You swat at his head, and he ducks away from your attacks.

“Be nice to me," he whines.

“I am nice to you. You’re distracting me,” you complain.

He seems to realize that he has been and sits up properly on the opposite end of the bench as you. He hands the journal back to you, watching you get comfy in the space he’s vacated. Dean’s basically radiating warmth, and given that he’s so close to you, you’re already starting to warm up yourself. The beginnings of a smile work their way across Dean’s face, and you note the way it softens as it grows. Maybe his goal was just to warm you up after all.

You stretch your legs out on the bench, poking Dean with your shoe covered feet and pushing him even further into the corner. It’s a mostly unconscious maneuver, but now that you’re aware you’re doing it, it’s a little bit fun.

“Aw, c’mon, why’re you doin’ that?” Dean whines, swatting your feet away for the hundredth time.

“You were bugging me. I’m bugging you.”

He scowls, launching himself forward onto you not unlike the cat you’ve compared him to before. The air gets punched out of your lungs, and you laugh weakly as he shimmies himself around.

“What’s this about?” you tease, kissing the tip of his nose.

“You’re bein’ annoying,” he grumbles.

You run a hand through his hair, and he melts into you like butter in a hot pan. Completely boneless, like gravity decided to pull him against you and lay him out like a shag carpet.

“Am I?” you say softly, lowering your voice for his sake.

You’re calling his bluff before he even has a chance to push it too far. He gets like this when he’s tired; a little bit more annoying, a little bit whinier, a hell of a lot clingier. If he doesn’t have anyone to tell him off (Sam), he’ll drape himself over you wherever you are. Coincidentally, a lot like the cats he’s unfortunately allergic to.

“Mhm.”

He’s already drifting a little, his warmth soaking into you. You shuffle down the seat so you’re lying flat on your back. Dean has to fold a little bit to fit, those stupid long legs of his half-hanging off the seat, but he’s comfortable enough. You take off his leather jacket, balling it up and putting it under your head like a pillow.

“When’s Sam coming back?” you murmur.

Dean shrugs, grumbling something about how he could be years, I dunno. You chuckle, hoping Sam comes back in time to see his brother completely soft and pliable under your touch. Dean’s pride would never recover, but it would be funny.

You prop the journal up on Dean’s back, adjusting constantly to make sure his deepening breathing doesn’t disrupt your research. The minutes bleed together as you read, and you barely notice the snow starting to come down on the town outside the frosted car windows. With Dean laying on you, you barely even notice the chill.

Eventually, as the afternoon starts to bleed away into evening, the words on the pages you’re reading aren’t sticking in your brain anymore. They’re blurring together in new ways, merging so badly you could make your own language out of them. You close the journal, marking your page, and set it on the ground.

Hands freed, you rest them in Dean’s hair. You start moving them in slow circles, brushing through the dusty brown strands of his hair and gently massaging his scalp. He hums, the sound like rough gravel, melting infinitely deeper into your embrace. It’s almost pathetic if it weren’t so damn adorable; his big bad hunter façade completely leaves his body when you lay your hands on him.

In another life, you’re cozied up on your couch, in your very safe house, very unaware of the supernatural things outside your door. You’ve got Dean with you, but instead of lying chest down across your body, he’s curled up beside you. Maybe you’ve convinced him a cat is required, despite his frequent complaints, and maybe that cat is curled up in your lap right now. Your hand rubbing it on the head between the ears, its little paws tucked around you, purring softly.

That sounds too real. Something’s not right about this picture. You freeze, half-awake, distinguishing your daydreams from reality. No cat, no house. Dean’s here, and so is the purring.

When it finally clicks, your mouth opens slightly, an amused ‘o’ on your lips. The sound is coming from Dean. He’s sort of snoring; not a proper one, but not something you can confidently say is just an inhale. It’s kind of soft, actually, the way he’s letting himself dissolve into the warmth of the car. It melts something in your soul to know that he trusts you enough to let his guard down, even when he’s working a hunt. At this point, he’s too far gone to even care who comes in and sees him.

Which is great, because Sam’s back. He slides into the passenger seat, freezing for a second and looking around when he doesn’t see you or Dean. Craning his neck and twisting his upper body, his gaze lands on you in the backseat, Dean spread out across you.

“Aren’t you two cozy,” he deadpans.

“I’m being suffocated,” you tease.

“I’m sure. He doesn’t have a good concept of personal space.”

“I heard that,” Dean grumbles.

Sam stifles a laugh in the sleeve of his jacket. “You wanna head back to the motel then?”

Dean mutters something about how he’s getting up soon, but when he doesn’t move a muscle, you answer for him.

“Yeah, Sam. Might as well. ‘S warmer in there anyways.”

Sam hums in agreement. “Thought so.”

He slides into the driver’s seat before turning to you once again. “You find anything?”

You nod, pointing to the general location of John’s journal on the floor of the car. “I have some ideas. You?”

He nods excitedly. “So, get this. Turns out we are dealing with a wraith.”

You smile to yourself, having already made that conclusion, and gesture for him to continue.

“Apparently, one of the hospital patients said she remembers seeing a specific doctor come in to see her earlier in the week. Then, three days later, she says the same exact doctor came to see her again, acting like it was the first time. After that? Chance brush of a hand when she drops something, creepy face in the mirror, then everything goes all Girl, Interrupted.”

“Nice work, Sam,” you say, at the exact same time Dean says, “You talk too much.”

Sam and you exchange a look, bursting into laughter that makes Dean groan. You apologize with a light kiss to Dean’s lips, and he settled down again as Sam pulls the car out of the lot and back toward the motel. Dean’s knocked out by the time you get there, the steady hum of the road under the Impala’s tires making a perfect white noise for him. He’s not happy about being woken when you pull into the parking lot, making a show of groaning and complaining as he stretches.

“What, did we ruin your catnap?” you tease as you pull him out of the car.

“I was not havin' a catnap,” he complains.

“You absolutely were,” you reply.

“Was not.”

“Were too.”

“Was not.”

“Dude, you totally were. You were snoring when I came back in,” Sam chimes in after unlocking the door.

“I don’t snore, Sammy. Don’t spread lies about me.”

“Yes, you do. You talk in your sleep sometimes, too,” you finish defiantly.

You and Dean follow Sam into the motel room, arguing the whole way to bed about whether or not he snores, and whether the things he talks about in his sleep are “sexy and awesome”. You and Dean collapse on one bed, Sam takes the other, and when everyone’s settled again, it doesn’t take long to fall asleep. The motel room isn’t cold, and you have the deep breathing of both brothers to listen to and help lull you to sleep.

tags : @sayras-blogg, @sweetbabygirlsworld, @spectralgalaxygauntlet, @ladycain00, @violained, @hxppythxughts-jpeg, @cloudsincalifornia, @0ccvltism, @shansonito, @bejeweledinterludes2, @thewinchesterwench, @castielscaplan, @spaghettiwoes, @andrealeahhee, @winchesterheart, @miyasfatass, @legalmente-loca-blog, @alexxavicry, @lessiesimpala, @kelseaackles, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @rafs127, @hisbabydollmae

[pieandflannel]

⋆˚𖤐｡⊹ ࣪ ˖ mystery solved

pairing: older!dean winchester x fem!reader

summary: you dressing up as daphne from scoobydoo makes your boyfriend absolutely feral

cw: 18+ smut implied.ᐟ roleplay.ᐟ doggy style.ᐟ

wc: 410

“tadaaaa” you walked into the library wearing a mauveine purple dress, lime green ascot, a bright lavender hairband and vintage amethyst versace go-go boots.

dean’s eyes lifted up from the books and you did a little twirl for him, big excited smile on your face. you knew daphne was his favourite scooby-doo character, you also knew he had a big crush on her as a kid, and probably still.

so you figured, why not dress up for him and fulfill his fantasy, especially that it was halloween.

his eyes widened slightly, lips parting as he was away to say something but nothing seemed to come out. he leaned back in his chair, eyeing you from head to toe. “wow.. i-”

and just like that, you clicked into character, the helpless damsel in distress needing help. “oh dean! there you are” you ran up to him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him out the chair.

“i need your help in solving a mystery” you batted your pretty eyes at him.

“a mystery?” he smirked but couldn’t help rising a brow, curious as to what you have planned with this little surprise roleplay of yours.

“please dean, you’re the only one that can help me” you tugged at his arm, pulling him closer to the door which lead to the hallway.

“there is something very strange happening in my room” you added.

“your room huh?” he asked, his voice raspy and eyes already dark.

you nodded with helpless puppy eyes. “yes! all my panties seemed to go missing, all of them! i’m not even wearing any right now” you spoke innocently but let’s be real here, this was total foreshadowing.

“alright let’s check that missing-panties mystery out then” dean agreed with a cheeky smirk, playing along. he gave your ass a little squeeze, discretely checking out if you in fact aren’t wearing any, the sudden action making you gasp.

and let’s just say the mystery solving turned.. rather productive.

your dress pushed up and bunching up at your waist as dean’s thick and hard cock slid in and out of your soaked pussy from behind. your face buried in the pillows, moans muffled in the feathery cushions as his hips met your ass with every filthy thrust.

by the end of all the ‘solving’ the two of you did, to put it simply – your dress was not the only thing that was a complete mess and covered in cum.

thank you so much for reading! feedback and reblogs are always deeply appreciated by the writers! <3

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[pittsick]

𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐘: sam winchester/babydoll!reader.

© 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 : 2026.

summary: you're sleepy and sleepless when wandering through the bunker before finding your boyfriend, Sam. you immediately crawl on his lap before he starts to read to you, making you fall asleep. that sounds a lot like love.

cw: fluff!!!! fem!reader. soft intimacy. sleepy comfort. established relationship. physical closeness (cuddling, lap sitting). gentle touches. petnames (baby, sweetheart). emotional vulnerability.

reblog is a creator’s best-friend, thank you!!

The bunker is quiet in the way only late nights allow it to be, the kind of silence that settles deep into the walls and makes everything feel softer, slower, like time itself has decided to take a breath. 

The lamps are dimmed low, casting warm pools of golden light across the library, and somewhere far down the hall, a pipe hums faintly like a lullaby. Sam sits curled into one of the worn leather chairs, long legs stretched out in front of him, a heavy lore book balanced in his hands. His brows are slightly furrowed, eyes scanning line after line with quiet focus, one finger absentmindedly tracing the margin as he reads.

He looks comfortable like this, settled into something familiar, the world narrowed down to ink and paper and the steady rhythm of turning pages. Like nothing a break that focus he decided to have, to keep to himself and make it at peace.

You’re supposed to be asleep: you had every intention of being asleep. You even tried—curling up under the blankets, nestling into the soft weight of pillows, listening to the faint echo of footsteps fade as the bunker settled for the night—but sleep never quite came. Instead, you drifted in that hazy space between wakefulness and dreams, thoughts slow and soft, until the quiet started to feel too big around you. 

And so, half-awake and wrapped in that gentle drowsiness, you wander down the hall, socked feet silent against the floor, one of Sam’s oversized sweaters slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is still a mess from sleep, eyes heavy-lidded, movements unhurried and instinctive, like you’re being pulled by something warm and familiar rather than consciously deciding where to go. Everything from you is soft at that moment; quiet yawns leaving you, mumbling words that don’t totally make sense, warmth under your skin.

Sam doesn’t notice you at first. He’s too absorbed, too deep in whatever piece of lore he’s trying to untangle, lips moving faintly as he reads under his breath. It’s only when you reach him—when you pause beside the chair for a second, swaying slightly with sleepiness—that he finally glances up, startled just enough to blink in surprise. “Hey,” he murmurs softly, voice automatically lowering as if he’s afraid to disturb you further, though the bunker is already wrapped in silence. His gaze softens almost instantly when he takes you in properly—your sleepy expression, the way you’re practically leaning into the chair already, like gravity is pulling you toward him. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You don’t really answer, not with words. Instead, you make a small, quiet sound (something soft and noncommittal) and then, without asking, without hesitation, you climb onto his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

There’s no awkwardness to it, no pause of uncertainty. Just a gentle, sleepy insistence as you tuck yourself against him, knees folding over his thighs, arms slipping loosely around his middle. It’s instinctive, the way you settle there, like you’ve done it a hundred times before: because you have. Your cheek presses against his chest, right over his heart, and you let out the faintest sigh, like you’ve finally found what you were looking for. That safe place, that warmth, that love.

Sam exhales softly, the surprise melting into something all warm and fond like the sun in summer, something that lingers in the small curve of his smile. “Yeah,” he murmurs, adjusting his hold on the book so it doesn’t slip, one arm automatically wrapping around you to steady you. His hand comes to rest gently against your back, fingers splaying there in a quiet, protective gesture. “Okay. Hi to you too.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice, but it’s soft, careful, like he doesn’t want to disturb the fragile, sleepy bubble you’ve brought with you.

You shift slightly, nuzzling closer, your sweater bunching under his hand, and your fingers curl loosely into the fabric of his shirt. You don’t say anything else, just settle deeper against him, breathing slow and even, like you’re already halfway to sleep again. The steady thump of his heartbeat under your ear is grounding, comforting in a way that makes everything else feel distant and unimportant. For a moment, the only sound is the quiet rustle of pages as Sam carefully adjusts the book in his free hand, trying to find a position that won’t disturb you.

He glances down at you, really looks at you, and something in his expression softens further. There’s a tenderness there, something quiet and unspoken, the kind of affection that shows itself in small things; in the way his thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles against your back, in the way he shifts just slightly so you’re more comfortable, even if it means holding the book at a slightly awkward angle. “You’re warm,” he murmurs after a moment, almost to himself, voice barely above a whisper.

You hum softly in response, not quite forming words, your face pressing a little deeper into his chest before mumbling. “You’re so warm too.” Your legs relax fully now, draped over his, and your breathing evens out further, the rhythm slow and steady. You’re not asleep yet (not completely) but you’re close, hovering right at the edge and near the arms of Morpheus.

Sam hesitates for a moment, glancing between you and the book in his hands, like he’s trying to decide something. Then, softly, he speaks again. “You want me to read to you?” His voice is gentle, tentative in that careful way he has when he’s offering something that feels a little more personal than it probably should. “Might help you fall asleep.”

There’s a small pause, like your sleepy mind is processing the question. Then you nod, just barely, your movement slow and soft against him. “Mm,” you murmur, voice quiet and drowsy. “Yeah… please. I’d like you to.”

The word please is soft, almost slurred with sleep, but it does something to him anyway—something that makes his expression soften even more, if that’s possible. “Okay,” he says quietly, adjusting his grip on the book again, one arm still securely around you. “Okay, I can do that.” His fingers are warm against the fabric of the sweater but you swear you can feel the gentle touch of his digits against the skin of your back, then.

He clears his throat softly, just enough to settle into it, and then begins to read. His voice is low and steady, the words flowing in an even rhythm, each sentence carefully enunciated but softened at the edges. It’s not exactly light reading—lore rarely is—but the way he reads it, the cadence of his voice, turns it into something almost soothing, like a story meant to be heard rather than studied. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t skim, lets each word settle into the quiet space around you both.

You listen, at least at first. You follow the sound of his voice more than the meaning of the words, letting it wrap around you like a blanket. Your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt, then relax again, your body growing heavier against him as the last bits of wakefulness begin to slip away. His hand continues its slow, absent movement against your back, grounding you, anchoring you there.

Sam’s voice doesn’t just fill the room: it settles around you, soft and steady, like something you can lean into. He’s careful with it, instinctively lowering his tone, smoothing the edges of each word as if he knows you’re listening with more than just your ears. 

“You comfy there, sweetheart?” he murmurs without breaking the rhythm of the reading, the nickname slipping out so naturally it barely registers to him anymore. You hum in response, a quiet, sleepy sound, and press closer like it’s answer enough. It always is with you because you don’t need many words, not with him. Sam’s mouth softens into the faintest smile, eyes flicking down to you for just a second before returning to the page, his voice resuming that low, even cadence meant just for you.

You’ve always done this; gravitated toward him without thinking, like your body knows before your mind does where it feels safest. Late nights, early mornings, moments in between hunts where exhaustion settles deep into your bones—you always find your way to him, curling up at his side, leaning into his shoulder, fitting yourself into the quiet spaces he leaves open without ever needing to ask. 

And Sam, he’s learned you just as instinctively; the way your breathing changes when you’re about to fall asleep, the little sounds you make when you’re comfortable and the way your fingers curl into his shirt like you need something to hold onto, even in rest. His arm tightens just slightly around you now, a subtle adjustment, careful not to bother you. “Easy, baby,” he murmurs under his breath, more habit than thought, his voice soft enough that it blends into the rhythm of the story. “I’m here for you.”

Your body softens further, melting into him in that quiet, trusting way that still catches him off guard sometimes, not because it’s new, but because it isn’t. Because you always trust him like this, without hesitation, without fear. 

Every so often, he glances down at you, just to check. Each time, he finds you a little more relaxed, a little more distant from the waking world. Sam swallows softly, eyes lingering on your face for a moment longer than necessary, something warm and almost disbelieving flickering in his chest. Your breathing deepens, your face softens completely, and eventually, your grip on his shirt loosens into something purely instinctive. You don’t respond anymore when he shifts slightly or turns a page; you’re gone, fully asleep, tucked safely against him.

He notices the moment it happens. The exact second your body goes completely slack, your breathing settling into that deep, even rhythm. His voice falters just slightly, the words trailing off at the end of a sentence as he realizes you’re not listening anymore, not really. For a moment, he just looks at you, quiet and still, something soft and almost awed flickering across his face.

“…and that’s why the sigil has to be drawn in—” he stops, glancing down, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “—blue chalk,” he finishes quietly, even though you’re already asleep.

He lets the silence settle for a second, then exhales softly, closing the book with careful hands so the sound doesn’t startle you. The room feels even quieter now, filled only with the soft rhythm of your breathing and the faint hum of the bunker around you.

“Guess it worked,” he murmurs under his breath, the words barely audible.

His hand moves up slightly, fingers brushing gently the hair at your forehead, smoothing it back in a soft, absent gesture. There’s something almost protective in the way he holds you, like he’s very aware of how small and soft you feel curled up against him, how easily you fit there. He shifts just enough to get more comfortable without waking you, one arm tightening slightly around your back to keep you steady.

He doesn’t move to put you back to bed. He probably should—he knows that—but the thought of waking you, of pulling you out of this soft, peaceful sleep, feels wrong somehow. So he stays exactly where he is, letting you rest against him, letting the moment stretch out quietly.

After a while, he leans his head back against the chair, eyes closing briefly, though he doesn’t fully fall asleep. He just rests there, listening to your breathing, feeling the steady weight of you against him. His thumb resumes its slow, absent circles against your back, a rhythm that matches the quiet calm of the room.

Time passes like that, unmeasured and gentle.

At some point, you shift slightly in your sleep, your hand curling more firmly into his shirt again, your face pressing closer into his chest like you want to make sure he is still there, still protecting you. Sam’s eyes open immediately, attention snapping back to you, but when he sees you’re still asleep, he just relaxes again, his hand moving instinctively to soothe the small movement.

“Hey,” he whispers, so soft it’s barely sound at all. “I’ve got you, baby.” You don’t hear him; or maybe you do, somewhere deep in that soft space of sleep, because your body relaxes again, settling back into him like you belong there.

And Sam, well, he stays. Holding you, steady and warm, in the quiet glow of the bunker’s dim lights, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

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[withluvmia]

Thinking about affectionate delirious Sam during the trials ・₊✧

thinking about Sam who's delirious during the trials. he's pale, circles underneath his eyes, hair mussed yet staring up at you with a goofy grin. his eyes are filled with adoration as you desperately try to lead him to bed.

"you smell nice" he comments, one hand coming up to absentmindedly play with your hair.

"sammy come on -"

he giggles, burying his face in your hair "i love it when you say my name" he mumbles.

you share a look with Dean who only grin and step back, "your problem now" he says before disappearing to go look for clues about Metatron.

you glare after him, bastard

with a sigh you try to pull back to reason with Sam, "Sam-" you try again, "you're sick. you need sleep" you try to be stern. you really do but the way he's looking down at you melts your heart.

next thing you know, he's wrapping himself around you, clinging as he leads you two down the hall. you're basically carrying him as he leans over you, "only if you come with me" he pulls back and taps your nose, "boop"

you fight a smile, heart clenching at how adorable he's acting, wide brown eyes gazing at you like you're the only place he wants to be. his warm arms wrapped around your waist, holding you.

"sam" you try to sound stern but made no effort in moving out of his hold.

your tone makes him pout and you have to psychically look away, facade already melting. suddenly he starts peppering kisses over your face. forehead, cheek, nose with urgent aggression, "no wait, if i don't do this you'll leave me" he sounded so earnest, your heart broke a little.

he pulls back to look at you again, hands cupping your cheeks and squishing them slightly, "you know you're important to me right"

his eyes are glossy, pupils dilated. you said his name again, muffled as he squeezes your cheeks, "Sam-"

"you're like... really pretty" he tilts your face up towards the light to study you before wrapping his arms around you waist and pulling you into a tight embrace, your face now burying against his chest.

"sam, bed" you say, muffled letting out a giggle.

he hums in agreement yet makes no effort to move. he abruptly looks towards a shelving unit. a moment of silence.

"want to see me climb that?"

"no" shaking your head, you lead this affectionate and sleep deprived man to his hotel room

and when you finally make it to bed, he's quick to pull you down with him. arms around your body, your pulled in warm and snug against him. you let out a surprised laugh as he settles like a cat.

"sam i have to go help Dean-"

he mumbles something incoherently already dozing off. you sigh, defeated. hopeless. and start to stroke your fingers through his hair to which he smiles, content.

tagging @angel444riley

[starboyyspeakss]

sam sleeping like this, on his side with his arm and hand tucked underneath his pillow, is making me kinda insane bec wdum? literally wdum he would be PERFECT to cuddle with?

his head nestled gently against your chest, breath tickling your neck and collarbones. instead of the pillow, it's your body. the arm underneath the pillow is trapped underneath the warmth and weight of your body instead. sam knows his arm is going to be DEAD in the morning, but he doesn't care because he got to be wrapped around you last night. his other hand slipped underneath the shirt or whatever it is you wear to bed because he wants to feel you—the heat of you, the warmth of your skin, his thumb tracing idle patterns across your waist, down to your hips. the action paired with your fingers raking through his hair slowly lulling him to sleep. peaceful sleep—the kind he only ever finds in your arms.

and now you all may go insane with me. thank you. peace and love 🫶🏻

[theedaythatnevercomes]

Breathe Me In

(Stanford!Sam Winchester x f!reader)

Summary: Finals are approaching, which means so are the end of semester frat parties—and for the first time ever, you were invited by a frat bro himself. The only problem? You’ve never even been kissed.

CW: None! “Practice kiss” trope, friends to… more, mutual pining, Sam being a jealous, cheeky sweetheart, readers nervous but Sam makes it better (as she stresses him out real bad)

WC: 4.3K

Based on this request!

The highlighter in your hand hasn’t moved in at least five minutes.

Its tip sits idly against the smooth paper of your notebook, bright yellow ink bleeding into the next page. Your hand smudges the pen beneath it, ink staining the heel of your palm as it rests over the same sentence you’d abandoned moments ago, before your attention drifted somewhere else entirely.

To someone else.

Sam is sprawled sideways across the plush covers of his bed, one knee bent awkwardly to the side, the other long leg of his hanging half off the edge. He twirls his pencil loosely between two fingers, The Stanford Daily crossword spread open across his thighs, covered in partially finished answers and soft graphite smudges. His fingers tap absentmindedly to the beat of some catchy rock song humming from the radio, his foot bouncing right along with it. 

You’d shown up to his dorm to study. And, to be fair, you had been studying. It’s not out of the ordinary for you to swing by his room when the library gets a little too loud—the calm, warm sanctuary of your best friend’s space becoming one of your own. It’s cozy. Comfortable. Watching him do little mundane tasks while you fry your brain with chemical reactions and nuclear physics equations has become, funny enough, one of your most savoured pastimes.

And usually, it works. Keeps you grounded from the mental cyclone that is university. Especially when the pressure of finals is weighing on your shoulders so physically, that you’re pretty sure you’re developing a bit of a hunch. Your chemistry exam certainly isn’t about to write itself, no matter how much time you spend in the lab, and if you don’t get your head wrapped around the concept of chemoselectivity within the next fourty-eight hours, you can practically kiss your entire degree goodbye.

Metaphorically, of course.

But it’s hard to keep your brain focused on chemical reagents when Sam’s right there, worrying his lip between his teeth, wearing the world’s sweetest thinking face, and blissfully oblivious to the chaos silently unfolding in your head. A chaos that currently consists 40% of organic chemistry, and 60% oh my God, his mouth. 

“Hey.” His eyes shift to yours, pencil pausing mid-spin. “What’s an eight letter word for ‘emphasized’?”

The question, breaking the silence, makes you raise your brows. Your highlighter finally slips from your loose grasp, rolling between the pages of your open notebook, leaving behind a wobbly, bright yellow line behind that you’ll probably complain about later.

“Uh,” you buffer, blinking at him. “Asserted?”

He makes an affirming sound, one that makes your heart flutter far more than it probably should, before he shakes his head.

“Mmm… should start with an S.” He scribbles it out quickly, his eraser moving in slow, lazy strokes. The radio crackles on the mellow chord of a guitar intro, the beginnings of something by Nirvana, but it only catches your attention for a second before your focus drifts back to Sam. Sam, twirling that pencil that looks so tiny in his unfairly large hands, staring intensely at the crossword like solving it will reveal the secrets of the universe.

He chews on the inside of his lip as he thinks, pulling the corner on sharp canines, and for a second too long, you can’t tug your gaze away. You trace the moles dotting his face, the shape of his mouth, the soft bow of his lips, the pink hue highlighted by the warm lamp light…

And by the time you snap out of it, he’s already looking back at you. Not just glancing this time, but holding the contact. His messy hair falls over his forehead, casting a soft shadow over his sweet face, while the lamp’s glow catches in his dark pupils. He blinks slowly, tilting his head slightly, the same way a dog might when they hear something strange, before he speaks gently.

“…You okay?”

Caught.

You freeze for a suspiciously long beat, staring at him with an, admittedly, pretty dumb expression; but he doesn’t press. You purse your lips, debating, before you’re shifting your notebook off your lap, and crossing the small room in two short strides. 

You sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed, facing him, both of your hands falling into your lap, threading your fingers together as you give them a small, reassuring squeeze.

“Actually, I… there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” you say quickly. “You heard of that party tomorrow night after the football game, yeah? Tom’s frat?”

Sam’s brows furrow for a blink, before he softens. He lowers the newspaper slowly, setting it to the blanket beside him without looking away. His eyes turn full on attentive, damn him, the same look he wears when you ramble about something stupid, or ask him a million questions after lectures. The one that really means I’m listening, even though you’re definitely distracting me.

“Yeah?” he says simply, voice low and steady.

You swallow, gaze dropping to your hands as you squeeze them together, Sam’s eyes following suit. He saw that. He always does. 

“Well… Chris from physics asked me to go,” you tell him quietly. “With him.”

Sam doesn’t move. Not a muscle. Not even that little crease between his brows that always forms when he’s processing something tough, or that tick in his jaw that always shows when he’s frustrated. Just… nothing.

“And… I dunno, I’m just—nervous? I guess?”

For the first time since Sam’s met you, the girl who borrows his hoodies without asking, who falls asleep against his shoulder during late night study sessions, whose laugh makes him stupidly giddy—he feels something cold and unfamiliar coil in his chest. Your words play on repeat in his head like a scratched record, one that’s too loud, too wrong, but is too out of control to shut off.

But he doesn’t say that. He never would.

Instead, he swallows, nods, and schools his expression into something carefully neutral.

“Okay, and… you’re going?” His voice comes out impossibly softer than usual, but in an almost manufactured, forced way. Careful-soft, the kind of tone people only use when they’re hiding something. You try not to dwell on it.

“I mean, I think so? Maybe?” you explain, an uncomfortable frown pulling at your lips. One of his own follows.

“You don’t have to. Don’t let him pressure you.”

Your jaw tightens as you shake your head, and your fingers tense hard enough to ache. Squeeze. 

“No, no he’s not—that’s not what this is.” You laugh awkwardly, but it dies as quickly as it slips out. “He’s nice enough for… y’know. A frat boy. He’s just, bold, and I…”

You trail off, teeth pinching down on the inside of your cheek. Because God, why was this so damn embarrassing? It really shouldn’t be, because Christ, this is Sam. But it feels a little like beginning a presentation in front of an entire lecture hall, then realizing you forgot your notecards at your seat.

Your eyes flick back up to Sam’s, and something flashes across his face. Something too quick for you to decipher, gone far too fast for you to name. But if there’s one thing it does well, it’s make your words tumble out before you can catch them.

“Sam, I’ve never even kissed anyone.” Heat rushes to your face instantly. “What if I’m, like, awful?”

The room goes strangely quiet.

The radio keeps playing somewhere in the background, guitar humming softly through the speakers, but you become hyper-aware of everything else. Like the sound your palms make when they slide against each other. The slow exhale of Sam’s breath. The warm scent of his shampoo lingering in the room. The way he’s looking at you.

Or, the way he’s staring at you.

Because of all the things he expected you to say, that wasn’t even in the top ten. Nope—wasn’t even in the ballpark. Completely left field. Not about the party, or Chris, or his boldness. He knows all about that. But the sinking, twisting feeling in his gut was bracing for something else. For you to tell him that you liked Chris. Really liked Chris. That this conversation would shift to how excited you are. That he’d have to smile and nod as you gush, pretending that it doesn’t feel like a knife was jammed between his ribs.

But instead, you say that, staring at him like he’s the only person who can ease your nerves, and that? That just makes his chest ache in a whole new way. Because oh, oh fuck, he just hates how much the selfish, guilty part of him likes it.

His gaze softens, just a fraction. Not into something you can pick apart, not yet anyway, but some of that tension leaves his shoulders. Slowly, carefully, he turns to face you more fully, reaching his hand out to nudge your clenched fingers with his own, forcing them to relax.

“Oh, c’mon,” he tries, voice coming out lighter than his chest feels. “You won’t be awful.”

At that, your face does something a little stupid. Your nose scrunches up like you’ve just smelt something terrible, your hands lifting to scrape dramatically over your face, a whiny, pathetic sound slipping from your lips. Peering through the spaces between your fingers, you catch Sam’s expression cracking. Something like warm, fond amusement breaking through the mask in a dimpled grin.

“Everyone I know has said their first kiss sucked,” you deadpan. “I mean, you told me yours was barely a peck, and then you spilled soda everywhere!”

He cringes at the memory, before leaning forward slightly. Not enough to invade your space, not without asking, but enough to rest his elbow on his knee, cheeks slightly pink from mild embarrassment creeping up his neck. 

“Okay, maybe mine sucked,” he admits with a shrug, and a sweet laugh. “But, y’know. Just keep your elbows away from soda cans, and you’ll be just fine—”

“Shut up, Sam.”

You roll your eyes, raising two hands to plant firmly on his shoulders. Those broad, muscled shoulders, that you have to pretend not to stare (read: ogle) at. His eyes widen at the contact, his body going a little stiff, before relaxing into the touch. “This is serious,” you complain, giving him a shake, and he sways like the jostling does anything. It doesn’t, not really. He just lets you believe it does.

He’s holding back a laugh, and you can tell. To his credit, he does an alright job, but there’s really no denying the way he’s biting the hell out of his tongue.

“I’m gonna ask you something, and I need you to not freak out, okay? Just, think about it. Please.” His face sobers up immediately, shifting into something almost concerned, which really, really doesn’t help the nerves licking up your spine. “I wanted to, um. Ask if you’d, uh… teach me.”

You swallow.

“Y’know. How to kiss.”

You’re almost sure Sam stops breathing for a second.

His eyes don’t widen. His lips don’t part. In fact, absolutely nothing happens to that usually very expressive face of his, which is infinitely more terrifying. It’s like every neuron in his genius brain fired at once, sent a thousand signals in every direction, before crapping out entirely.

“Sam.” You shake his shoulders again, and this time, he forgets to sway. Your fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders, leaving dimples in the soft cotton of his tee shirt. “Say something.”

He blinks, once, twice, before coming back to it. Mostly.

“…What?”

Your stomach drops like a rock in water. 

“Please don’t make me say it again,” you croak, words catching in your throat like you’ve swallowed thick, sticky syrup. Your brain spirals—he’s too stiff. Too silent. What if you ruined things? What if he kicks you out? Oh God, what if he never speaks to you again? “I… I’m sorry. I know that’s—you don’t have to, I mean, I’d never—”

“Okay.”

You pause, choking on your words. “…Okay?” 

Sam nods slowly, his face still really not giving you a whole lot to work with, and that only makes you spiral.

“Just—just okay?” you sputter, your hands dropping from his thick shoulders to grip the fabric of your pants. Squeeze. Your heart picks up a frantic, erratic drum solo against your ribs. “Nothing else? Y’just blank, and then ‘okay’?”

He blinks, the neutral mask finally shattering into something else, something almost defensive. But it’s the Sam-version of defensive, which as it turns out, is a whole lot cuter than it is intimidating. His brows pinch together, forming a sharp crease between them, his nose scrunching as he pulls up his hands in mock-surrender. “Well, y’know, I… you told me to think about it!”

“Yeah, well, not like that!” you shoot back, the strange mix of nerves, frustration, and sticky-sweet affection making your pitch pick up a fraction. 

He winces, something like guilt painting his features. “Okay, okay, sorry. Uh.” He lets out a long, shaky exhale, and you feel it fan over your cheeks. When did he get so close? His shoulders drop with some sort of forced-calm, as his eyes search yours with a sudden, almost startling vulnerability.

“…Yeah,” he murmurs, the word soft, barely above a breath. “Yeah, of course. I mean, if that’s what you want. Really want.” He pauses. “I mean. It’s just… practice, right?”

You nod, but your throat feels too tight to speak. Right. What you really want. Practice. The words spin and dance around in your head for a moment, echoing on repeat, and there’s something about the smooth, comforting rumble of his voice that settles your spiraling anxiety into something shallower. Calmer.

“…Yeah. Practice.”

Sam shifts, closing just a bit of remaining distance between you. His movements are agonizingly slow, giving you every opportunity to pull away, to laugh it off, to change your mind. When you don’t, his hand comes up. Those long, warm, graphite-tinted fingers gently take your hand, flipping it over to brush a soothing circle over your whitened knuckles. The touch sends a fresh, electric wave of heat rushing to your face. Damn him.

“We can stop whenever you want,” he whispers, his gaze dropping to your mouth before flicking back up to your eyes. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe out, your voice coming out far quieter than you’d intended, and he smiles. It’s small, a subtle tug of his lips, but dimples dent his pink-tinted cheeks in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“Relax for me,” he instructs. “Just a peck first, yeah? Test the waters. Then tell me how you feel.”

He waits for you to nod, then leans in, and nothing could pull you away from him then, not even your pulse threatening to pound straight out your chest. His eyes flutter closed, and it takes you a moment to realize that oh yeah, yours probably should too, and then they do, and then he’s kissing you.

It’s just a peck. Barely there, exactly like he said. 

It’s not like the movies, where there’s a dramatic swell of music, or fireworks exploding somewhere in the distance. It’s just Sam. It’s the familiar, comforting scent of his laundry detergent and the faint, sweet trace of the coffee he’d abandoned on his desk earlier. It’s the soft, hesitant press of his lips against yours.

But it’s enough to make your entire world feel like it’s tilted on its axis. 

His lips are softer than you’d imagined. And that only makes you think holy shit, have I imagined this before?, and that’s a whole new can of worms you’re not quite willing to open up yet. Not when he pulls away, far sooner than you’d like, and you find yourself wishing he’d lingered.

He doesn’t go far. Your eyes take a second too long to blink back open, and when they do, he’s already looking at you. Those soft, hazel depths swirling with something so warm that you have to fight the urge to squirm.

“See? Not awful,” he teases, his big hand squeezing yours where his fingers are still cradling your wrist. “…Feelin’ okay?”

“Uh-huh, yes. Okay.” You nod, a too-fast, jerky movement, and his eyebrow raises, a laugh huffing from his chest. 

“Right,” he snickers, and then his other hand is moving. Still slow, still careful, but when it lands on your cheek, you have to fight every urge to lean right into it. But that sounds very non-platonic, and this is normal, friends-teaching-friends, thank you very much, so you resist. “…I’m gonna do it again. Just a little more. And you tell me if it’s too much, too fast.”

You nod, and then he’s closing the space again—but your palm lands flat on his chest, and he pauses. Confusion clouds his face, then concern, a question forming on his tongue, but you’re faster. “What—what do I do with my hands?”

The brief flash of worry melts, puddles into warmth right along with your heart, as his expression fades back into fond amusement. A faint dusting of pink blooms across his cheeks, across the gorgeous slope of his nose, and he lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, dipping his head. 

“Whatever you want,” he says, his voice a low, raspy hum that vibrates straight through your palm still resting on his chest. He glances at your hand, then back to your eyes, tilting his head. “Or stay right there. I don’t mind.”

When you don’t say anything right away, a shuddering breath flowing from your parted lips, he softens. Completely.

“Hey,” he whispers, thumb stroking your cheek gently. “How about… you just keep ‘em where they are. Just like that. And then… just follow whatever feels right. Yeah?”

A smile tugs at your lips. “Okay. Yeah.”

This time, when he closes the distance, it’s not as hesitant. He tilts his head slightly, his warm palm gently guiding yours to do the same, and when his lips brush yours, the kiss is different entirely. It’s no longer a testing, fleeting peck. 

His lips part slightly against yours, soft and yielding, and for one terrifying, wonderful second, the world narrows down to nothing but the heat of his mouth and the gentle, grounding pressure of his hand cupping your jaw. He has to duck his head to reach you, so you let yours fall back just slightly—it should be awkward, cramped, but God, it’s really not. He hums, a sound that feels a little like approval (and Christ you hope it was), and then his hand in yours slides away.

Not quickly, or harshly, only the opposite. It never leaves you completely, trailing warm, teddy-bear soft fingertips along your forearm until they dip, circling your waist. Now it’s your turn to hum, and he responds by adding just a little more pressure against your lips. Tilting your face a little further to align with his. Your body sings with the touch, head going all airy, mouth tingling, pulse fluttering, and holy shit, you’re really kissing someone. 

You’re really kissing Sam.

Inevitably, your mind starts to reel. How do you breathe? Do you pull back? Is that rude?—but Sam must feel it in the way a shaky exhale warms his cheek, because his lips part from yours just long enough to drag a breath into your abused lungs. Then he’s right back on you all over again. 

Yes, your body soars, a dumb, happy sound tumbling into his parted lips, high-pitched and giddy. His thumb dimples into the plush flesh of your hip, his lips popping off of yours. He chuckles, sneaking one more kiss to your cheek.

“Awh,” he coos, heat climbing up your neck. “That was cute.” 

You don’t quite have the capacity to tell him to shut his trap, considering that you’re pretty sure your brain tapped out two Sam-kisses ago, but your body moves of its own accord. The arm that isn’t smushed between your chests slings around his neck, fingers threading into the messy hair at his nape, and then you’re pulling him in. 

The enthusiasm at which he reciprocates pushes your body back, but oh, he catches you, strong arm still circling your waist, fingers pressing into your skin. He feels impossibly bigger that way, half-looming over you, broad and steady, never imposing. His neck is fever-hot beneath your fingertips, and you can feel the rapid, fluttering pulse pattering a frantic rhythm at his throat. 

He’s feeling it too.

And that, that alone, has a fresh wave of electricity buzzing through your veins. Your mouth parts, instinct taking over, as he swipes his hot tongue along your lower lip. He doesn’t push through the seam, not even if your body was begging for it—not yet, anyway—but that little taste has your fingers tugging softly in his hair. Your body screams closer, closer, closer, your chest pushing against his, all that Sam-warmth of his a very welcome comfort.

“Don’t know what you were s’worried about,” he hums, breath hot against your lips. “You’re a natural, sweetheart.”

The words do something to your stomach, something gooey, something gratifying, a strange mix of heated flush and goosebumps rising on your skin. 

“Yeah?” you purr, Sam responding by pulling you in further, shifting you up-right, letting both hands settle at your waist. Your body smushes so close to his, that you may as well be straddling those tree trunk-thick thighs of his.

In an utterly, completely platonic way, of course.

As it turns out, once you begin kissing Sam, it’s just about impossible to stop. You alternate between pecks and deep, long kisses. It’s not as sloppy as you imagined, and maybe less… wet, but that could just be him. Sam kisses with a force that could be mistaken for passion, or even reverence, sweet and gentle and fuck, the back of your mind just keeps rattling about how right it feels. 

“You taste so good,” he breathes, and you mmm-hmm your agreement, unwilling to part too long, just as his tongue swipes across your lip again. Fucking-fuck. 

“You planned this, didn’t you? Taste—tastin’ like heaven.” You don’t have time to fluster, not with how he mouths at you. All you can do is whine. “S’that strawberry, honey?”

You don’t have the breath to deny it, not when his mouth continues moving against yours with just devastating, sweet enthusiasm. He kisses you like he’s been waiting months, years to do it, and maybe, just maybe, he has. One hand slides up your back, slipping into your hair, tangling with the locks and holding you flush against him as the kiss deepens. It turns heavy, all consuming as you melt into him, a soft, breathy sound escaping your lips. And oh, Sam’s done.

His tongue finally, finally slips past your lips, tasting of black coffee and the sweet berry chapstick that’s smudged against his own mouth. It’s intoxicating.

Your brain croons, because this, this is it, you realize. It settles that Sam’s kisses are the best you’ll ever have, and you’ll just have to live with that forever.

Screw Chris.

The grip on your waist tightens as he angles his head, deepening the kiss until your mind goes entirely, blissfully blank. You can forget forming thoughts, your brain all gooey and useless in such a perfect way, something you weren’t even sure was possible. It’s heated, slightly messy in the best way, and you’re pretty sure he’s stolen your ability to breathe entirely.

It’s right in the middle of one of those searing, mind-numbing kisses when your brain, the torturous, unorganized organ that it is, suddenly misfires entirely. A synaptic impulse jumps the gap, and your eyes fly open.

You pull back abruptly, your hands falling to grip his shoulders again as if to steady yourself. You’re panting, lips tingling, face so hot you feel as though you could melt like ice cream in the middle of summer. 

Sam blinks, dazed, those sweet, hazel puppy eyes blown wide. “What? What is it? Did I—”

“Stressed,” you blurt, breathless, voice carrying just a little too loud through the heavy air of the dorm room.

Sam freezes. His face falls. Hazy warmth clears the way for sharp, genuine concern. Both hands drop from your waist as though he was burned, cupping your cheeks instead, his thumbs brushing below your eyes as he scans your face for any sign of a spiral. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he soothes. His voice drops into that protective, heart-breaking register he uses when you’re on the verge of a panic attack, or sobbing over some organic chemistry lab. “Breathe f’me, okay? I’m sorry, we can stop, I shouldn’t have pushed—”

“No, no, Sam, listen,” you interrupt, grabbing his wrists to still his frantic, stupidly-comforting motions. “The crossword. Eight letters. Starts with S.”

He stares at you. Pauses. Then, slowly, the pieces click into place.

The concern in his eyes dissolves completely, into something so profoundly fond, so overwhelmingly soft, that it almost hurts your chest to see. A slow, dimpled grin spreads across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, as a disbelieving laugh tumbles from his lips, and his forehead drops against yours.

“Oh my God,” he whispers, the vibration of his chuckle buzzing against your skin. “You, Jesus, I have my tongue in your mouth, and you’re thinking ‘bout the crossword?”

“It—it was bugging me!” you defend weakly, though a smile is already beginning to tug at your own lips. You can still feel the tingle of his. “And, y’know, it fits!”

“Uh-huh,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping back to your mouth. The fondness in his eyes darkens, slow and languid, slipping into something more heated. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw one last time. “Yeah. It does, sweetheart.”

Before you can say another word, long before you can register his big man-paws sliding back down to cradle your waist, he closes the distance. He shuts you up completely, mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that doesn’t feel platonic—and sure as hell doesn’t feel like practice. 

Not at all.

AN: Okay sooo, got side tracked by this adorable ask, oops! Have some sweet, fluffy Stanford Sam (who, I’ve come to realize that you guys absolutely adore. Me too, my friends).

Anyways, should be returning to my roots, writing absolute filth soon, I promise! I just have absolutely no focusing ability recently, lol. Also, side note, the chemistry stuff in here is just stuff I vaguely remember, so it’s probably definitely wrong.

Taglist: @spectralgalaxygauntlet @vfwwm

[s0urw00lf]

okiee finally thought of an idea! fem reader sharing a bed with sam for the first time, like usually they'd get three or one sleeps on the futon but they motel doesn't have it and they have crushes on each other–maybe wake up cuddling? suggestive is up to u!!

𝐁𝐞𝐝-𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬

Pairing: Sam Winchester x fem!reader

Summary: Dean is a little shit and you and Sam were a bed because of it.  An: my gosh. I wrote this twice because the first time I wrote it on tumblr and exited the app without saving… rookie mistake. Crashed out for ten minutes then locked back in and re wrote it. Anyway I rlly enjoyed writing this, other than the obvious trials and tribulations. May write a part two with smut… I don’t k ow I have to see how I feel later smut doesn’t usually come easily to me.

WC: 1.1k - Sam Masterlist

Being roommates with Sam wasn’t hard at all. You both had your own routines that danced around each other perfectly. Then there was Dean, who did what he wanted, when he wanted because ‘I’m the oldest’ his lifelong excuse.

Which is why he waited until he was half asleep, sprawled out in his own bed to tell Sam and yourself that there was no pull out before slipping into his own slumber.

Realistically, it shouldn’t be a problem. It wouldn’t be a problem… if you weren’t completely and hopelessly crushing on Sam.

You looked at him, hair still wet from the shower he’d just taken, muscles bulging out of his t-shirt (that you only got to see at night thanks to his love for flannels) his cheeks were flushed- probably from the shower- and his eyes moved frantically, avoiding yours as best as he could.

Your throat closed, of course he wouldn’t want to share. Your eyes traveled to the couch “I’ll uh- take the couch” you said, moving towards it.

Sam grabbed your hand, stopping you in your tracks “wha- no. Your backs still sore from the hunt. I’ll take the couch.” He said, eyes full of concern. You let out a small laugh “thanks Sam but that couch will barely fit me, and if you haven’t noticed your a friggin’ giant. I’ll take the couch my back is fine” you lied.

He said your name gently, trying to coax you to take the bed, “Sam” you said tone final, matching the look on your face.

He sighed, not in defeat but in determination. “Okay well what if we both take the bed.“

You searched his face “are you comfortable with that?” You asked. Sam gave you a look “I would’ve have offered if I wasn’t more than-“ he stopped himself with a cough “yes I’m okay with that. Only if you are of course”

That's how you ended up in bed with Sam Winchester. Your very best friend and the man you were hopelessly falling for. And because of that you were actively trying to keep your heart from jumping out of your chest.

"This isn't weird… right?" Sam whispered to you in the dark room. Yes, was your immediate thought. you were in a bed with the man you’re head over heels for, of course it’s weird. "No. Not at all. We're both adults this is… fine" you swallowed harshly.

He was silent for a second "your hearts racing" he said simply. You tensed, looking at him only to see he was already looking at you. You hadn't noticed him move at all. Which being as hyper aware of his presence as you currently are was a bit of a shock.

"You can hear that?" You asked shakily. Sam smiles "its a lot more quiet when deans not snoring" he jokes. Against your judgment you let out a shaky laugh.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" Sam asks quietly. Your eyes meet his shimmering gaze, when at night his eyes shined with the same intensity and warmth.

You shook your head 'no' not trusting your own voice. His eyes searched your face for any of your tells. He found none.

He turned on his side completely, his hand moving to your hip cautiously. You inhaled sharply, your hand moving to grab his without breaking eye contact.

"Sam" you whispered gently. " 'S this okay?" He asked. You could've sworn your heart stopped, this was more than okay. This was all you wanted.

"Yes" you answered breathlessly. Sam smiles, pulling you closer, your chest flush with his own. You could feel his breath fanning over your face.

You curl into him like your life depended on it because Sam was the one thing you wanted and the one thing you always told yourself you couldn't have.

Now here you are. Sharing a bed with him. Sharing your warmth with him. Teetering between the lines of friends and lovers.

Sam pressed a warm kiss to your forehead "you can tell your heart she's safe with me" he muttered. It was then you were absolutely sure that Sam Winchester was trying to kill you. "What does this mean?" You ask him, not having the guts to look him in the eye.

"Whatever you want," he promised. Your heart fluttered "But let's figure it out tomorrow, if we wake Dean up neither of us will sleep at all."

You nod against him, not being able to form words.

You began slipping into a deep sleep and just before sleep completely overtook you, Sam hugged you tighter "sleep well, honey"

  The next morning you woke up, to the warmth of the man who was finally yours- well not officially… not yet.

"Oh good, you're up" deans spoke from behind you. You turned your head carefully in efforts to not wake Sam. He had the most smug smile on his face, he gestured at you and Sam "I called this by the way. Garth owes me fifty bucks. Oh and you owe me a thank you." He smiled victoriously "But I'll wait until you're uh- well acquainted" he winked.

Your eyes narrowed, on Dean as he moved around the room grabbing case files and his jacket. The dots connecting faster than your brain can comprehend, "you asshole you set thi-"

"See ya later. You crazy kids behave alright?" He cut you off, just before he slipped out of the motel room with a all too knowing smirk.

"Dean!" You whisper shouted as the door closed.

Sam stirred beside you "what time is it" he asked, voice thick with sleep. You turned to look at the alarm clock on the nightstand "about seven thirty" you answer.

Sam pulls you closer "c'mere" he murmurs. You allow yourself to melt into him, any ounce of tension now gone and replaced by nothing but him.

Bravely, you pressed a kiss to his neck. His grip tightened around you. "don't" he warns. You tense again, beginning to pull away from him, afraid you had overstepped but his grip kept you in place.

You looked at him, his eyes were now open, still full of the same warmth they always were. "don't leave." He pleaded "I just- I don't want to rush… this. Not that especially." He explained.

You let out a breath of relief "okay, then let's just be. Right now. I could use a few more hours." You said, really just desperate to stay in Sam's hold a little longer.

"You and me both" he says, and you bury the feeling in your core at the sound of his voice. Now wasn't the time, but there was promise for later, and you held onto that.

You smiled as you slipped back into a slumber in Sam's arms, feeling happier and safer than you have in a long time.

[angeldolette]

⸝⸝ dean’s and bambi!reader’s first kiss with each other .ᐟ

⚠︎ fluff, pet names, english is not my 1st language

you couldn’t sleep. you had that. the only person who knew that? dean winchester. why? because he had that problem too.

dean would find you anywhere around the bunker during the middle of the night. sometimes you were just in the library reading some random book— that once you claimed you started reading it because it had “a cover with pretty colors”— in dean’s cave to watch some good tv, in some random spare room, and maybe in the kitchen eating.

tonight, dean did indeed find you in the kitchen, but not eating, at least not when he found you. you were sitting on the counter again, knees tucked up, wearing his hoodie like it belonged to you. he furrowed his eyebrows, “what’re you doing, bambi?” and you turned your head to look at him. you didn’t flinched. dean noticed that.

“i couldn’t… sleep.” you hesitated slightly, wanting to come up with a lie but knowing you couldn’t. “again?” he sighed, and you bit your bottom lip, knowing that he feels concerned about it. “m’fine.” you reassured him quietly.

“it’s not about being fine,” he said, walking towards the fridge to get a drink. “you need to sleep. your body needs sleep.” his jaw flexed as he got the whiskey bottle and got a cup from the cabinet. you were following his movements with your gaze before you looked down.

“i don’t wanna sleep,” you begin, and dean looks at you over his shoulder as he poured whiskey into the cup, “can only think about the fact that you guys could be gone and i wake up all alone again.” his gaze softens at your words.

“you’re not.” he murmured, and you furrowed your eyebrows, “i’m not what?” he sighed. “you’re not going to wake up alone.” he turned to look at you. “you’re safe with us, you know that, right?”

you stared at him for a moment, blinking slowly, like you were trying to convince yourself you believed it. “i know,” you whispered. “i just… don’t feel like it.” dean’s expression tightened. not angry at you— never at you. just frustrated at the world for doing this to you. for making you feel like you had to stay awake to be okay.

he nodded once. “okay.” the word surprised you. your head tilted slightly. “okay?” dean shrugged, eyes softening. “yeah. okay. then don’t sleep.” you blinked again, almost confused.

you swallowed, fingers gripping the edge of the counter, wanting to get up and get close to him but you didn’t feel confident enough to do it.

until you did.

after a second, you slid off the counter slowly, feet touching the floor like you were afraid it might bite. dean didn’t move, didn’t step forward, didn’t crowd you. he just waited.

when you reached him, you stepped right into his space and wrapped your arms around him. dean’s breath caught, like he hadn’t expected you to trust him that much. then, next thing you knew, his arms came around you. strong and immediate.

your body melted into him instantly.

dean exhaled through his nose and buried it in your hair, taking in your smell. one hand slid up your back, rubbing slow circles, and the other stayed at your waist. you let out a shaky breath.

“bambi…” he whispered and you smiled against his shirt, “i like that,” you murmured, lifting your head, making him look into your eyes so you could see his confused face. “the nickname.” and dean stared at you, like it hit him right in the heart.

then he gave a small, crooked smile, “yeah?” he asked and you nodded. “me too.” his gaze dropped to your lips. but he didn’t move right away. like he was waiting for you to bolt, but you didn’t. so, he removed his hand from your back and placed it on your cheek.

dean leaned closer until your noses brushed and you could feel his breath, warm and shaky. “if you don’t want–“ he started, but you shook your head before he could finish.

your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, small and trusting, and dean finally broke. he leaned in, slow and kissed you.

it wasn’t the hungry and rough kiss that he has when he wants more. it was careful, like he was terrified of doing it wrong. like he was holding something fragile in his hands and he didn’t want to crack it.

your lips were warm, soft, hesitant at first— then you melted into him, a quiet little sound slipping from you as you relaxed, like your whole body had been waiting for permission to feel safe. and he felt that.

he cupped your face in both of his hands, holding so gently. like he needed to make sure this was real. that you were real.

when he pulled back, he didn’t go far. his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven. he swallowed hard, voice rough. “you okay?” you nodded, cheeks flushed. “yeah.”

dean stared at you for a second longer, like he didn’t believe he’d actually done it before taking a breath and taking you in. “fuck.”

a / n : dean feels more nervous around her than she does around him lmao

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