Hear me out, Sam Winchester x reader based on the song Wagon Wheel(apologies I’m having a country phase)
Either Sam or Reader desperately trying to get back to the other because they miss each other sm. could take a turn or it could be fluff
Wagon Wheel - Sam Winchester
A/N - hi @sweetiecelin my lovely moot sorry this took me so long i was camping but i have the writing bug again and i'm also in a country phase (it's not a phase!!) so take this *thrusts fic at you* simp sam winchester. like, he will die without her kind of simping. very codependant relationship. dean is very unhappy to be there. southern reader.
word count - 917
The bunker is quiet with the sound of your absence. The sound of the electric kettle you’d bought to make tea in the mornings, the sound of your laughter after a particularly bad joke from Sam or Dean in the afternoon, the sound of your soft snores as you snuggle into Sam’s arms in the night, the absence of them all creates an awfully loud silence that seems to threaten to smother the Winchester boys.
You’d been gone a week. Sam barely remembers why you’d left. Something about an old friend needing help, and you’d rushed away before he could offer to go with you in the old yellow Mustang you insisted you kept, despite the fact that you rode in the pitch black Impala with him and Dean pretty much every time you left the place the three of you all called home.
Sam misses you. It isn’t actually that revolutionary of an idea. Sam misses you when you leave the room he’s in, Sam misses you when you take your hand from his when playing FBI on cases, he misses you when you’re asleep and he misses you when you’re awake. Sam could miss you professionally, in the Olympics, score gold and set a new world record for missing you. Sam misses you a lot. But this is different. The ache in his bones is from missing you. You’ve been gone a whole week. He’s starting to feel like a dog left at home while its owners go on vacation, the way he’s staring longingly at the door all times of the day, his tail between his legs and a low whine in the back of his throat. Metaphorically, of course. He isn’t actually whining at any point (Yes he is. But he’s made Dean swear never to bring it up again, never to tell you, and he’s been more careful to make sure his brother wasn’t around ever since. Not that Sam would admit he’s been whining.)
You’re gone and it’s changed the way Sam goes to sleep. He no longer sleeps his full 8 hours, not without your waist to sling a heavy arm over. A pillow just doesn’t cut it, even if he puts an unwashed shirt of yours that still smells like you over it as a pillow case. You’re gone and it’s changed the way Sam wakes up. He no longer wakes to the feeling of kisses to his eyelids, to his nose, to his cheeks, to his ears, to his lips. The smell of the coffee that you’d somehow managed to slip out from under him to make doesn’t fill his senses either. Sam spends his waking hours moping around the bunker.
Dean’s sick of it. Everytime you call he’s complaining about Sam, and though it makes you stifle a giggle that your 6’5” boyfriend has been keening like a sad puppy dog, you have to admit you miss him too. You’re just as pathetic and needy and whiny (Yes, you can admit it. Yes, it makes you think you’re both more mature and more well-adjusted than Sam.) as your boyfriend back home. You call Sam at least once a day, usually two, three, or even four times a day. Yeah, you miss him.
Which is why, when you walk through the bunker doors, you drop your duffle and you’re running through the bunker to your shared room, hat flying off your head as you’re jumping into his waiting arms. The bouquet of flowers that you’d picked back in Tennessee clutched tightly in your hand squished up against Sam’s back, mostly wilting from the lack of water on your 14 hour drive.
“Hi.” You whisper into his shoulder. He’s lifting you off of the floor, and then your legs are wrapped around his waist, hoping to push your very being into him, hugging each other as tight as humanly possible. If you could crawl into his skin and never leave him again, you would, and so would he.
“I missed you.” He mumbles into your hair. You laugh, because you know that he missed you, he hadn’t stopped telling you over the phone, and also because you’d missed him. Missed the way he smelled, like salt and iron, lighter fuel and smoke, something sweet and something distinctly Sam. Missed the way his hugs seem to cover every inch of your skin. Missed the way he’s kissing you now, like you’re something delicate, like you’re something to be worshiped, something to be adored, like you’re the air in his lungs, like if he doesn’t kiss you now, he’ll never get the chance again.
“I missed you too.” Sam missed the way your southern accent seemed to get deeper every time you went to the south. The twang of your thickened South Carolina accent is something he can never get enough of, because it only lasts for the week after you leave the southern states.
“I missed you more.” You hand him the twisted, wilted, squished dogwood flowers, smirking.
“I don’t think that’s possible.” He’s smiling at the back and forth now.
“I don’t know, I think it might-”
“God, shut up.” You both turn to Dean at the door, and then you’re laughing again and the breath is gone from Sam’s lungs. And then your forehead is pressed against his, and Sam might have a stroke. And then you’re kissing him, and Sam has died and gone to heaven. You pull back, looking at him.
