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.
I think Dean immediately running to sit in the normal chair to make sure Sam had to sit in the clown chair is the most accurate sibling representation in media I’ve seen
summary : you try to hide a bad injury after a hunt. sam and dean patch you up, and spend the night worrying until you wake.
it’s not as hard being easy as some people might think. maybe that’s because it’s all you know how to be. the easy one, the quiet one, the peacekeeper, the blend into the background and don’t worry about me one. and it’s not that you’re weak-willed or unopinionated; there are times when you put your foot down, times when you argue, times when you’re petty or annoying or grumpy because you’re legitimately upset or possibly just a little too hungry.
one must note that easy does not mean perfect. it just means that you let sam ride shotgun despite being two years older. it means you take the couch most nights, you’re often impressively polite, and you patch up your own injuries in the bathroom before helping your brothers out. it means you let annoying little things slide, you pick up food when the other two are too tired to drive, you take care of the most tedious or boring tasks, and you tend not to get into any trouble with law enforcement or regular citizens. life is just easier for you all when sam and dean don’t have to worry about you too much.
naturally, you’ve developed quite a pain tolerance over the years of hunting and killing and nearly being killed; all three of you have. but you have become concerningly and particularly excellent at hiding wounds. it’s mostly about the breathing, you’ve decided. if you can hide the blood, move without any apparent stiffness, and keep your breathing even and normal, then sam and dean tend not to notice. they’ve got enough to worry about, you think.
but, unfortunately, there's certain things you can't quite hide, no matter how good of a little actor you can be. there's just far too much blood, more than you think you've ever bled from any one wound. it's not arterial, that much you know; you're familiar enough with basic anatomy to understand that a knife to your lower left side shouldn't be piercing any main veins or arteries. but it is soaking through your jacket and you're getting lightheaded. and you're almost to the impala, you remind yourself. you can make it that far, you're sure. if you just keep breathing, watching dean's trudging form as the distance between the two of you grows while your sluggish footsteps slow... if you just keep breathing, you're sure you can make it.
the leaves under your feet hush your footsteps, soft and soaked from this morning’s rain. dean doesn't question the fact that he can't hear you right behind him; you're quiet nearly all the time. the growing fog in your head makes you stumble. you slip, deprived of the bearings or stability you'd need to right yourself. the softened soil welcomes the crumple of your body, but your cheek scrapes on a ragged twig embedded in the ground. the dampness of the earth swallows any loudness to your fall, the little strangled noise that leaves your lips in surprise and hot white pain. the twig that draws a line of blood across your cheek doesn't even snap.
but you can't fall in complete silence; there's a rustle and a dull thud and dean's ears are attuned to listen for you and sam. he hears your grunt of pain, regardless of how quiet the sound is. he's immediately on high alert, spinning around and holding his gun at the ready. for split second, he thinks you've disappeared completely. he didn't know you'd been falling behind, twilight is ending, and your brown jacket melts into the color of the ground. but he's got keen eyes and spots you quickly.
"shit," he curses under his breath, all but sprinting back to you, long legs clearing logs and rocks without any fuss. before he's dropped to his knees by your side, he's already asking, "hey, hey, hey, talk to me, bud. what happened?"
you've managed to twist over onto your back by the time he gets there, though not without much effort. there's dirt clinging to the side of your face and wet leaves stuck to your clothes. it's become too dark for dean to see the spread of blood on your jacket.
"just a... just a cut," you breathe out. your voice doesn't sound quite right and it sets off blaring alarms in dean's head.
"where?" he demands, not harshly. his flashlight clicks on and you squint at the sudden brightness. he doesn't need you to answer. his free hand doesn't hesitate to move your bloodied jacket out of the way, and he sucks in a sharp breath before he even sees the full extent of the wound. his fingers gather up your soaked through shirt and gently peel the fabric away from your skin. "jesus, what the hell? when did this happen? just a cut?" he asks, bewildered and beyond concerned.
"b-before," you answer unhelpfully. "it's fine. help me up." you don't feel fine at all. your head pounds and your limbs are heavy and your voice is tight with pain.
dean scoffs, pulling off his jacket with an almost panicked urgency. "you were stabbed, are you crazy?" he accuses, sounding much more worried than actually angry. he messily folds up his jacket, not hesitating to push it against your wound, not so gentle in an effort to slow the bleeding. you grunt and he frowns deeper.
"more like a… a slash… less- less stabby. 's not that bad," you mumble, completely unconvincing.
dean's jaw clenches like he disagreed. "sammy'll fix you up," is all he says. "c'mon, let's get you up. you'll be just fine." dean knows that you prefer patching yourself up. he knows that you don't like letting them see you injured. but this is bad, he thinks, and his blood boils and his heart lurches at the thought that you tried to hide it.
sam, stuck in the motel with his healing broken arm, doesn’t expect much but a “we’re on the way back” sort of phone call from dean when he answers the ringing tone. dean himself is barely paying any attention to the phone. he should be paying attention to the road, but his eyes flick over to you often, and linger for too long. the first thing that sam hears over the phone is the muffled honk of a car horn.
then comes a quiet, “shit. i’m sorry, bud. you’re alright,” from dean. he doesn’t hear the little sound of pain you made when dean had to swerve the car.
“dean?” sam says, voice plainly worried. dean sounds off. “what’s going on?”
“sammy,” dean breathes, uncharacteristically afraid, “they’re bleeding bad. need you to be ready to stitch ‘em up when we get there. five minutes.”
“where? how bad?” sam asks in a rush, already standing and searching for a medical kit. there’s one on the coffee table.
“lower left side,” dean answers, voice a bit more sure when he can actually give a solid, factual answer. then it falters. “just– bad. real bad. they’re barely awake.”
“dammit,” sam mutters. he wants to ask what happened, but dean sounds like he’s driving recklessly through the panic of your injury. he doesn’t want to add anything else for him to think about. “you sure you shouldn’t be headed to the hospital?”
dean shakes his head, then glances at you and your heavy lidded eyes. “nearest one’s too far. you’re closer.”
“okay. alright. just– just drive safe and keep them talking,” sam says at the risk of angering dean in his precarious mental state. asking him to drive safe is a bit silly, and he already knows to keep you talking.
but dean doesn’t retort, he just spares you another glance. “keep those eyes open for me,” he urges, leaving it up to sam to hang up the phone. he only does so in order to focus on gathering the right supplies for you. and when the impala pulls up into the parking space right in front of tonight’s motel room, sam’s waiting outside by the pale yellow door with a janky metal ‘17’ on the front. he’s at the passenger’s side before dean’s even turned the car off.
you’re leaning against the car door, so he’s precise and careful when he opens it, reaching in with one hand first and cupping the side of your neck to keep you steady while he slips in closer to you.
“hey,” he says gently, hiding his fear. he’s not sure he can deal with all this shit without you. you’ve always been such a steadying presence. dean’s jacket that you keep clutched to your wound with shaky hands is all bloodied, and the only thing sam knows is that dean said it’s real bad.
dean’s there, opening the door the rest of the way so that sam can bend down and pull you into his arms. first goes your head to his chest, then his arms wrapping around your shoulders and tucking under your knees.
“there we go,” sam murmurs, wincing softly when the movement pulls a groan of pain from your lips. “can you talk to me?” he’s swift and gentle in his movements, getting you through the door and to the bed with the least amount of discomfort for you that he can.
“it’s okay, sammy,” you mumble in response to his request. of course that’s what you’d say. dean frowns, barely able to hear your words despite how close behind sam he hovers.
“yeah,” sam agrees, laying you out on the bed, pulling the ruined jacket away from your wound and gently moving your own clothing out of the way. it’s not a pretty sight, but the bleeding’s slowed enough for him to see that maybe it’s not as bad as they thought. stitches should do the trick, you’re just all messed up from the blood loss. “it is okay,” he confirms, “you’ll be okay.”
as he soaks a clean rag with alcohol, sam wonders when the last time he’s stitched you up was. it must’ve been a while ago. he even can’t easily think of the last time he helped you deal with any injury. right now, it’s his job to stay calm and patch you up, but the way you said it’s okay, sammy, made him want to act a bit like the baby of the family. he wants to hug you. it doesn’t make him feel small, though, just extra responsible for making sure you’ll be alright. you’re always taking care of him and dean, even if it’s just in the smaller ways, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t fix this for you.
dean’s hands are far more tender than usual as he holds yours. sam cleans your wound, and you don’t react much. it worries them both, but sam assures that it’s not as bad as it seemed before.
the cast over sam’s wrist and forearm doesn’t make giving you stitches all that easy, but he manages. his big hands are somehow always much nimbler than dean’s, the stitches he produces less crude. but no matter how used to the feeling of a few stitches you are, once he gets to the sixth, you’re not sure you can stay awake any longer. you hate the feeling of the needle and thread going through your skin.
you give dean’s hand a weak squeeze. “’m gonna pass out,” you slur in warning. his eyes widen in worry. sam tries to stay focused, but his frown deepens. he’d much rather you didn’t, but he thinks you’ll be alright.
“hey, hey, hey, no. stay with us,” dean urges, brushing his fingers over your forehead. “you’re fine now, just stay awake, bud. look at me.” you meet his gaze with drooping eyelids and a weak frown. you feel bad for making him worry like this.
“’m sorry,” you mumble, “so tired.” you close your eyes against his wishes, and your hand goes limp in his.
“dammit,” sam whispers, noticing the way your muscles all go slack. dean’s not so quiet when he curses, standing up angrily. as sam finishes the stitches, dean paces, hands in fists.
“it’s my damn fault, sammy,” he growls. if sam looked up, the tears in dean’s otherwise angry eyes would betray his blatant concern for you. “i wasn’t paying attention.” sam worries now that dean’ll start throwing things. he doesn’t deal well with his little siblings getting hurt.
“they’re okay. seriously,” sam insists. really though, he’s worried out of his mind. freaking out won’t help him give you effective stitches, so he just focuses on the silent promise he’s made to take care of you. “they’ll heal. the stitches will be enough,” he says, instead of asking what happened to avoid upsetting dean further. dean returns to your side just as sam finishes the last stitch. he dresses the wound with a bit of help from dean, but mostly, the oldest just combs through loose strands of your hair, picking out dried leaves and twigs. dean cleans the little cut on your face too, wiping away the dirt from when you fell.
he holds you gently upright as sam trades your bloodstained jacket and top for a simple long sleeve crewneck shirt to keep you comfortable and warm as you rest. he monitors your pulse and constantly checks your breathing, and his nervous behavior doesn’t go unnoticed by dean. but your heartbeat remains steady and the soft sound of your breathing is the only thing that can be heard at times. it’s comforting to them both, taking turns by your side, though they’re most certainly overly concerned now that your body is set to start mending.
you sleep a long while, long enough that dean starts pacing again when he tires of sitting on the edge of the other bed with his head in his hands. sam sits in a chair by your side. he dozes lightly for a bit, until the sun rises and brightens the room through half opened curtains. dean’s asleep on the couch when sam comes back around, despite the completely free bed. when he wakes, dean makes coffee for him and sam, brooding the whole while. he still looks like he’s holding back the urge to throw a rickety motel chair into the wall, but he’s a bit more blatantly anxious than angry by now. he holds your hand for a little while before you wake up.
you start to stir at 9:37 in the morning, which means you’ve been sleeping for almost ten hours. sam had checked the time when you passed out, in the midst of all his worry as he stitched you up. but no one catches the time. you, of course, are not checking the time. you’re barely awake. dean doesn’t think to check the time, he’s much more concerned about the light rustle of the bed sheets that he hears coming from your direction. and sam is drying his hands in the bathroom. he probably wouldn’t care to check the time either even if he were standing right by the clock. he hears dean say your name through the thin bathroom door, quiet and nervous. the hand towel slips off the rack in his rush to get to you.
dean’s sitting by your side, both of his hands wrapping around yours. “hey,” he murmurs, soft and glad to see your eyelids fluttering. you see the water stained ceiling of the motel room and feel the end of the bed dipping by your feet, then a big, soft hand on your shin. that’s sam. dean’s the one holding your hand.
you try to say hey back, but it comes out as a hoarse groan. your throat is very dry. so you just squeeze dean’s hand back as best as you can. one of his hands leaves yours to rest on your tired head. you look over and offer him a little smile. he feels a rush of affection as you meet his gaze like that, and a little bit of guilt for always letting you be the best of them. the quietest and the easiest. he doesn’t know what to do with those feelings, so he asks a sweet, almost teary looking sam to go grab you some water. he does so without a qualm, tries to help you take a sip, and relents with a subtle pout when you refuse the help. you’re insistent about holding that cup for yourself.
“let me help you,” he murmurs, voice all soft. he sounds extra young right now, as his hands try to hold the cup and your head up for you. you grab the cup, shaking your head despite being plagued by a pounding ache at your temples.
“mm-mm,” you hum a no, as if it bothers you that he’s trying to use his hand in a cast to help. you’re truly just that stubborn that it makes you strong enough to hold the cup with your own shaky hands. sam’s hand hovers nearby anyway. when you’ve taken a good drink, and the water starts to slosh a bit because you’re having a hard time holding it steady, dean takes it from you and sets it on the bedside table.
“you gave us a good little scare there,” he murmurs, voice gentler than usual. he doesn’t even pretend to sound annoyed. sam thinks his demeanor is a bit funny now, considering how much of a mess dean was last night and before you woke. but he easily lets it slide for right now. without a doubt, you’re his main concern.
“sorry,” you mumble, still sort of smiling.
“don’t,” sam scolds softly. “don’t be sorry.” it seems to him like you’re always willing to take the fall, fix the problem, ease the tension. right now, he’d rather you just let him and dean take care of everything for you. you look like you want to protest, keep apologizing for making them worry, but he grabs your free hand as a means to stop you. dean gives your hand a little squeeze to punctuate the same sentiment.
you have nothing to be sorry for. and they are very grateful for you. losing you scares them more than anything, and for a moment, they will both be a bit vulnerable and ask for you to do the same by holding your hands tight for just a little while.
“okay,” you murmur. you won’t be sorry. i love you, too, you’re saying.
John and God being parallels of absent fathers who leave their children and expect them to follow orders without questioning any order and raising them to be good soldiers is quite vexing to me. Because then Dean and Cas met with parallel lives except Dean will only break the rules for the people he loves oh wait Cas also does that. So understand the Michael Lucifer Dean Sam parallel but if Cas and Dean are parallel then…well Sam couldn’t be Gabe…right…? It’s not like they both ran away to get away from toxic family situations and hide their trauma and sadness and anger under a mask and showing that getting involved in a family fight is inevitable and self-sacrifice. What. Anyway Anna parallels Ru—[gunshot]
