Call me Ash

I just want to kiss some nerds 18 yo

[worldfullofash]

✯Introduction✯

Hey everyone, I am Ash and I write headcanons/blurbs/imagines about multiple fandoms and characters (MCU, The Hunger Games, Criminal Minds, Stranger things etc.)

The headcanons can vary depending on whatever you’re feeling like. Angst or fluff, romantic or platonic, general headcanons: you’re allowed to send in everything! Even just thoughts about a certain character are appreciated.

My first language isn’t English btw

Requests are open <3

Here’s who i’ll be willing to write for:

Criminal minds - Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia

Stranger things - Robin Buckley, Eddie Munson

Mcu - Peter Parker, Pietro Maximoff, Bucky Barnes, Bob Reynolds, the avengers or thunderbolts family dynamic

Misc - Dream of the endless, Finnick Odair

I rather do not write smut. So please respect that.

Have a lovely morning/day/night!

✯Masterlist✯

[80sfilmclub]

battle of the boyscouts.

summary on a professional level, superman respects steve rogers in a way any other hero would. on a personal level, clark would highly appreciate steve keeping away from you, his fiance. content warnings fluff. jealous!clark x meta-human!reader. steve is sweet but he loves causing drama, a habit he adopted from nat. avengers all call reader 'kid'. notes this is sososo impulsive, i don't know where i'm taking this but i hope you enjoy this 4th of july special!

—

"sweetheart, i got it."

"i know you do, honey, but the people of new york are observant. they'll either think you're another super soldier or—"

clark sets down the insane amount of luggage in his arms at your knowing gaze, arms crossed as the cab driver that had just dropped the both of you off at the cozy cabin near upstate new york gawks at your fiance.

the cab driver hedges forward. "is he...?"

you shake your head with a firm press of your lips. "nope. my fiance's just from kansas. farm boy muscles and all that." while it looks like the cabbie doesn't really believe you, you've got that edge that all new yorkers never really shed so the man nods and drives off.

with no witnesses, clark lifts all of your luggage to bring inside without breaking a sweat. you sigh as you contemplate the chaos that'll most likely ensue at the avengers compound for the fourth of july weekend.

—

a month ago, natasha romanoff had arrived in your tiny box of an apartment in metropolis without even a text of warning. it would've been something you appreciated since clark had you on your kitchen counter, gently pressing you with a hungry kiss against the overhead cabinets as dinner burned on the stove. his broad frame was settled nicely between your thighs, his lips gliding down your jaw and neck before the apartment door swings open as if the intruder had a key—

"whoops. didn't know you had company."

you gasped and peeked over clark's shoulder who instinctively tried to shield you from natasha in all her sardonic glory. "nat—?!" you had wriggled away despite clark's insistence, ducking beneath his strong arm to meet your friend in your living room. "what are you doing here? is everything okay—"

"everything's fine," nat had cut in, her sharp gaze taking in clark behind you who looks more like guard dog than protective fiance at the moment. "i just wanted to drop in. i should've called though, that was on me…"

warmth bleeds into your back when clark had stepped forward, a silent wall of support behind you. he's not unaware of your past, of your healing powers that pulled you into nick fury's orbit. while you were never made into an avenger, you were the support they all needed whether it was to be healed or just to be around someone normal. it was about a couple years ago that you finally left new york, starting fresh in metropolis as a nurse. steve had been kind enough to help the move in process a lot more smooth than it would've been alone.

"um— sorry. nat, this is clark kent, my fiance. clark, this is nat, one of my closest friends from new york although i'm rescinding that title after her break in tonight," you sigh as you wave a hand between both.

clark's still a gentleman through and through, even in the face of superspies that like to cross boundaries, and shakes nat's hand before his hand returns to your waist. "what's the occasion?"

"tony's throwing a fourth of july-slash-steve's-birthday weekend barbecue, thought our favorite nurse would like to come," nat smiles. "you can bring superman over here."

clark chokes on his spit. "i— what? i'm not— no, he's—"

you pat his chest. "honey, nat knows everything, it's literally her job. don't worry, your secret's safe with her. and i don't know, clark and i were gonna just stay in."

"sounds like fun," he cuts in and that little smile, dimple and all, knows you're about to lose this one. "i haven't gotten the chance to meet your friends, sweetheart."

every argument you have dies in the face of your fiance's eager expression and you sigh quietly to meet natasha's triumphant little grin. "yeah, okay. we'll be there. is it at the compound?"

"yeah, there's your usual room—"

"no, clark and i wouldn't wanna intrude. we'll find an airbnb or something." there's an edge to your tone that leaves no room for negotiation and natasha has enough sense to back off, nodding as she starts to head out.

when the door shuts, you groan into clark's chest who rumbles in sweet amusement as he rubs your back. "superman meeting the avengers… what can go wrong."

—

a lot of things went wrong upon entering the cabin. for one, there aren't any furniture. two, there isn't any running water. frustration begins to build but before it can erupt out of you, clark's cupping your cheek to kiss your forehead and your phone starts to ring.

"stark."

"hey, kid. don't be stubborn and bring supes on over to the compound, your room's all ready for you."

"i hate you, tony."

"no, you don't. although this confirmed my theory."

you pause. "what theory?"

"you got a thing for goody two shoes. tell me— does kent say 'language' during your rated-r rants?"

you hang up the call, cutting off tony's obnoxious laughter on the other end.

—

now that the both of you are on avengers' property, your privacy is all but secured against the general public so clark had seen no issue in just flying you and your luggage over. it's a bit unsettling to see him fly in his civilian clothes but you cling to him all the same, carried bridal style while the luggage hang from his hands. you aren't sure how he isn't losing his grip but you land in the open bay where natasha and steve is waiting to greet the both of you.

the luggage are set down first, clark still hovering and once his hands are free, his feet land with you still securely in his arms. "clark?" you prompt and your adorable, beefcake of a fiance startles as he reluctantly sets you down while nat and steve approach.

"miss romanoff," clark tips his head in polite greeting but then his voice drops slightly, taking on the 'superman' voice when he turns to steve. "captain, happy birthday."

"thank you, superman," steve greets as he offers his hand. clark takes it with a solid 'clap' and a firm shake. your eyes flitter between each of them in slight anticipation because in this moment, it isn't superman and captain america facing off.

it's clark kent and steve rogers with you caught right in the middle.

something lights up in natasha's eyes and you suddenly fear for the weekend ahead.

—

fortunately, the main living space of the compound is cleared of any superheroes in favor of setting up for the outside where the main party's happening. it leaves you and clark the space to settle in and when you step in your old room, nostalgia feels like a punch to the gut.

it's still the open space layout as before, patterned after a luxury studio apartment with your own mini kitchenette. cold and impersonal for the first few minutes of stepping in but then clark walks past you to set your luggage in, his large frame somehow bringing light to the place you could barely call home. when he turns to you, gives you that smile that you've fallen so hard for, it feels like you're back in metropolis. "what?"

you shake your head with a smile, step into clark's space and giggle at the blush that he never can tamp down when you're near, and kiss his dimple. "nothing. i just love you."

"love you too, honey."

—

after changing into something more comfortable (and doesn't smell like plane) over your bathing suits, you and clark walk hand in hand towards the noise that crests and wanes from the other side of the compound. where there had been an open field meant for training (specifically for any flight simulations or volatile powers that should not be indoors), it's been fashioned into an americana-esque backyard with an actual inlaid pool.

"what the— when did you guys install a pool?" you gape at the giant, bean-shaped pool complete with a patio and a giant cabana built above it. beside it is a familiar face manning the grill.

tony flicks his sunglasses down to peer at you above them. "a week ago. had to go all out for dear ol' cap's birthday. nice of you to join us, sweet cheeks. you gonna introduce us to your hunk of a man?"

your eyes roll but the pride in your smile is undeniable as you bring clark forward. "everyone, this is clark kent. my fiance."

an impressed whistle escapes from rhodey who tips a beer up in salute towards you. "nice rock, kid." he gives a nod to clark next. "you did good."

"gosh, thanks." clark says, rubs his neck in that sheepish way that you've found endearing every time you see it. however, it has the rest of the avengers staring in utter befuddlement. tony mouths 'gosh' in emphasis to bruce who waves his judgement away.

"cap, you got someone out for your title for boyscout," tony crows happily as he flips a patty with ease. steve, who has been lounging beneath the shade with his own lemonade, looks up from his conversation with clint and laura. when his eyes find yours then clark's, something unnameable passes through his eyes before he's striding to his feet. all six foot two of him.

clark straightens his posture. all six foot four of him.

immediately, your eyes roll. "i'm going to go say hi to the girls. you two? behave."

"honey—" clark splutters but his priority will always be you so he concedes, quietly takes the offered glass of lemonade from steve before he attempts to play nice. if he can keep civil with steve lombard at work, he can be the nicest guy in town for the super soldier that may as well be an ex with how his eyes follow you.

—

to his credit, clark gets along well with all of your friends from new york. tony's crass but he's got a heart of gold with his closest circle of friends. bruce and clint had teased him the least about his midwestern countenance while laura had been interested in his career as a journalist and as a superhero. natasha had been very impressed with his ability to juggle his secret identity on top of everything.

"so how'd she find out about your other identity?" rhodey asks later on as the two of them sit at the chaises by the pool. clark is polite but his eyes cut to you occasionally where you're splashing in the shallow end with laura and clint's kids, your laughter providing a soothing background to the chaos of tony and bruce arguing over what music to play.

"ah, well. i was fighting an imp with the justice gang, should've been an easy fight but it was evening and i'm not really at my strongest at that time. i fell on her roof and she was there reading. she… healed me." a besotted smile grows on his lips. "the day after that, she ran into me as clark but i didn't realize my biology had been something she could sense. she pulled me into an alley and just asked if i healed right."

rhodey laughs quietly. "she's a little spitfire, ain't she?"

"i wouldn't have it any other way," clark muses. the both of them turn their attention to you, nearly missing the way tony hits the top of the grill with his tongs to call out—

"soup's on!" he hollers as he gestures to the cheeseburgers laid out to the table beside him. clark gets to his feet, ready to serve you, except—

"got all your favorite fixin's," steve cuts in, that boyish half grin that's made nearly all of america swoon, as he offers you a plate. with clark's heightened vision, something ugly turns with indignance that steve did get all your favorites.

but clark will not be beat so he rushes over to the coolers, pulls out your favorite drink, and all but flies over to offer it to you. "can't forget your usual, honey," he smiles sweetly, popping the tab for you and everything. you're still halfway out the pool, one foot out and on the edge with the other still in the water, with both men offering you a plate and a drink.

"thanks, guys… mind if i dry off first?"

you carefully sidestep away from both of them, refusing to enable or participate this odd dick-measuring contest they've started. once you've dried off, you settle into an available chaise and nearly startles when steve and clark kneel on either side of you. you could barely get a word in as captain america himself carefully sets the plate down on the small table beside you and your darling fiance adds in a straw as well.

"okay, both of you shoo—" you wave them off. "seriously. i know both of you, you two can eat tony out of all of his homes so go. you must be starving."

when both men trudge off, natasha takes their place but she's got enough sense to at least wait for you to take a few bites of your food before she starts.

"you know, it's kinda cute."

"don't you start, nat."

"no, no. it is! you got america's heroes fighting for your attention like overgrown puppies. it's cute."

your eyes narrow. "… you know something."

she zips up her lips before she dives into the pool, effortless without making a splash.

you huff goodnaturedly. "show-off."

—

"come on, you two. nathan, lila, out of the pool." clint claps his hands to grab his two youngests' attention. the sun's setting behind him and even you can't deny there's a slight chill beginning to settle in.

you nod and raise your arms slightly with the intent to herd the little ones out. "you two heard your dad, let's head out. if the grown-ups say yes, we can get some s'mores started, maybe set up some lights like a campfire… what do you say?"

that gets them out and when clint gives you a thankful grin, you wave him off before padding out to clark where he's already got your towel out. "thanks, baby," you smile as he wraps it around you, bundling you into his arms to press a soft kiss to your lips.

behind your back, steve stands with a fresh towel and clark fights the urge to stick his tongue out at him. no, that'd be very immature of him.

—

despite the chill that's threatened to drive the party indoors, tony gets a bonfire started in a fire pit he had dug out from the giant warehouse storage along with some string lights from a box labeled 'christmas?'.

the kids are drawn up in a tizzy at the thought of having christmas in july, their little hands diving into the box with the sole intent of decorating the giant cabana. you're in the middle of it all, helping them all detangle the wires while tony's sent back inside to look for an extension cord of all things.

"hold on, sweetheart," you laugh as nathan tries to climb your back while you draw yourself back to your feet, watching as his little arms try to reach up and hook the lights up. in the corner of your eye, steve approaches your periphery, hands nearly raised as if he's got the intention to lift you by your hips but—

clark's hands find you first, his chest brushing against your back. "i got you, honey," he murmurs in your ear before giving nathan a little grin. you feel his strong grip brace your waist, firm but not uncomfortable, and lift you high.

then… lifts you higher.

you turn your head to see clark levitating to help you hook the lights up at eye-level. nathan gasps in excitement and nearly drops the lights in his own hand. "oops— careful, buddy," you chuckle as you hand back the wire.

"me next, me next!" lila squeals from below and you laugh as clark does as asked, nathan reluctantly set down for you to carry his older sister next while clark lifts you back up with ease.

by the time the entire cabana's decorated, the kids are returned safely to their parents.

"that was nice of you," steve hums to clark once the two of you are back on solid ground, offering two s'mores on a plate.

clark takes it, almost wary, but he sees something you don't and his spine relaxes imperceptibly. "thank you," he murmurs while he places a warm hand at the base of your spine. steve nods his head and when he turns to you, he ruffles your head.

"be good, kid," he tells you instead before he walks off.

—

although tony had intended steve's intention to be an absolute rager, it still turned out to be a family-friendly event. something that steve had been banking on.

"kid just landed," tony had remarked earlier, the both of them setting up the cabana after FRIDAY had updated him on your flight status. "you gonna say something?"

steve just chuckles to himself, readjusting the stability of the cabana's legs. "tony, i don't know how many times i have to say this. nothing ever happened between me and her."

tony's eyes roll. "i know. you two cost me $300 because of it, by the way."

"serves you right for betting on your friends' love lives, stark."

"yeah, yeah, whatever. but back to the question at hand— have you met her fiance?"

"superman? i don't know him personally, but he seems like a good man, someone good for her," steve shrugs, unsure of what tony's getting at.

"hm. sure, the media definitely paints him that way," tony says. "but as her closest friends and honestly— the closest thing she has to a family— we need to make sure he's good for her."

steve pauses for a moment, gives his friend a sidelong glance. "what do you have in mind?"

"easy." both men startle at the sudden appearance of one natasha romanoff. "make him jealous. see how he reacts when steve moves in on her, it'd be enough to see his true colors."

tony snaps his fingers. "operation: battle of the boyscouts is a go."

"… i resent that name."

—

on the morning of july fifth, the avengers compound is the ultimate postcard of serenity. sun's sitting high, a gentle breeze wafting through to carry in the scent of nature. a butterfly settles upon a blooming flower bud—

"ANTHONY EDWARD STARK."

your shrill voice cuts through the peace. the butterfly flies off.

"you tried making my fiance jealous for some inane dick-measuring contest for your own fucking entertainment—?!"

"language."

"language, sweetheart."

steve and clark share a surprised glance and right as they're about to exchange a little chuckle, maybe even bro it out with a fist bump in their matching flannel pajamas, you direct your glare to the both of them.

without a word, steve backs out with a sheepish grin while clark approaches to give you an apologetic kiss to your forehead.

"it's a habit, i'm sorry," he mutters against your hair and despite tony's stupid games, you melt in your fiance's arms. "i love you."

"i love you too, sweetie." tony takes the chance to inch away as you decompress in clark's arms but you huff against his chest. "clark, i'm gonna kill him."

"... it wouldn't be very 'superman' of me to let you get away with murder, honey."

thank you for reading! likes and reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

[wendichester]

Dearest,

Once you have the time and are in the mood, would you write a little something about jealous Sam, all huffy about the reader going to some party and finding some pictures posted on her friend's facebook, especially because they had a huge fight about Ruby and such before and now he isn't sure if they broke up.

I live for your angsty pieces, but if you feel like a more fluffy end is better suited, I'll kiss your feet.

Thank you,

Love,

Len

⋆｡ ˚ pictures of you with someone else

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ after a fight about ruby leaves your relationship in a strange, undefined place, sam finds party pictures of you online and realizes he has no idea whether he still has the right to be jealous. pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x reader ( f ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 1025 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty as hell warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ jealousy, relationship uncertainty, argument aftermath, insecurity, emotional tension

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ. writing this honestly crushed me a little bit, len. ugh 🤧 ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ

sam shouldn’t be looking.

he knows it—sharp and immediate and completely useless—because his hand is already on the mouse and your friend’s facebook page is already open on the motel desk. the screen is too bright for the room, washing everything in that pale blue-white glare that makes the wallpaper look sickly.

the room is quiet except for the old heater rattling beneath the window and the soft, sticky click of sam scrolling.

and there you are. tagged in three new photos from some party he didn’t know about.

not that you have to tell him. not after the fight. not after you stood in front of him two nights ago with your arms wrapped around yourself, asking him where he’d been, and sam said working the case even though you both knew there were too many missing hours in that answer. not after ruby’s name finally came out of your mouth in a tone that made his stomach drop before the argument even became real.

“you keep choosing her,” you said.

sam can still hear it. how tired you had sounded. he had hated that. hated the way it made him feel cornered because some ugly part of him knew you were right, and instead of admitting it, instead of saying i’m scared and i don’t know what i’m becoming, he got defensive. he said you didn’t understand. he said it was bigger than the two of you. he said things that sounded true and cruel at the same time, which might be the worst kind of true.

then you left. no slammed door. you just picked up your jacket and walked out with your mouth pressed tight, and sam let you because he was angry, because he was proud, because he was already half convinced you deserved someone less ruined by whatever was crawling around under his skin.

now you’re smiling in a photo with a red plastic cup in your hand.

the sight of it twists something low in him.

you look good. your cheeks are warm from the crowded room, your shoulders loose in a way they haven’t been around him lately, colored lights catching at the edges of your face.

sam stares at your smile and feels this horrible, selfish ache because he remembers when he could put that expression on you without thinking. stupid jokes over gas station snacks. his hand brushing yours over lore books. your laugh against his shoulder in the impala when dean complained about both of you being annoying.

he scrolls to the second photo.

you’re standing beside someone he doesn’t know. some guy with one hand resting on your waist. not low. not obscene. not enough that sam has any right to feel the hot rush of jealousy that climbs up his throat. it could be innocent. probably is innocent. the guy’s leaning in to hear you over the music, and you’re smiling at something off-camera, not even looking at him, but sam’s body reacts before his brain can be fair. his jaw tightens. his fingers curl around the mouse hard enough that the plastic creaks.

he zooms in. immediately hates himself for it. the hand is casual. familiar, maybe. your body is turned slightly away, but you don’t look uncomfortable. you don’t look trapped. you look fine.

you look fine without him.

that’s the part that makes him feel sick.

sam sits back, rubbing both hands over his face until his eyes burn. his chest feels too small, and there’s this ugly voice in him whispering that maybe this is what he wanted. wasn’t it? distance. freedom from his lies. space from the version of himself he keeps making worse. maybe you’re supposed to go to parties and let someone harmless touch your waist and laugh into the noise because at least there, nobody’s vanishing at midnight to meet a demon in an empty parking lot.

ruby.

even thinking her name feels wrong now. not because he doesn’t want to see her. he does. wants the certainty she gives him, the purpose, the burn of power in his veins that makes grief and fear and helplessness go quiet for a while. he wants it, and he hates wanting it, and somewhere inside all that wanting, he’s been leaving you alone with excuses that get thinner every time he uses them.

the next photo loads.

you’re laughing harder in this one, head tilted back, eyes closed, one hand covering your mouth as if someone caught you mid-sound. the guy’s still there, closer now, his hand no longer on your waist but on the back of your chair, leaning into your space with an expression sam can’t read from a frozen picture.

it could be nothing. sam knows that. he also knows nothing has been enough to ruin people before.

his stomach lurches again, sharp and mean. he imagines the guy asking if you’re single. imagines you pausing. imagines you not knowing what answer to give because sam doesn’t know either.

are you broken up?

the question lands with no mercy.

he thinks of the fight, of your face when he said maybe you should stop waiting up if you hated not knowing where he was. god. he said that. he actually said that to you. like you were unreasonable for noticing the empty side of the bed, the cold coffee, the blood on his lips.

sam closes the laptop. then opens it again. pathetic. your smile stares back at him from the screen, bright and distant and not his to reach for.

he wants to call you. wants to hear your voice, even angry, especially angry, because anger would mean there’s still a string between you he can pull without it snapping. he wants to ask who the guy is despite knowing he has no right. he wants to tell you to come back despite knowing he hasn’t earned it.

instead, sam stays in the motel room with the blue light on his face, looking at a picture of you being held, and tries to figure out when protecting the world started meaning he could destroy everything small and good that was still his.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.

[yourlocalravendork]

Obligatory beach episode 

I am currently caught in the Europe heat wave and this fic is inspired by that fact and a conversation with my friend about why can't the boys just be happy. So, beach episode baby! Thanks to my friend (I know you can see this) for this idea and is partially inspired by this meme. Also, the first fic that isn't x reader so hopefully it's all good. (I feel the song can be very Dean coded maybe?)

CW: None really? They're happy, I guess. Minor descriptions of scars, Dean being a golden retriever, Sam just wanting sleep, hating on John Winchester. Set early seasons as I am slowly getting through the show and currently on season 3. Bit of a long one because there's so much you can do with this idea.

“Sammy!” Dean's voice echoed throughout the small motel room. Sam sat bolt upright. For once, they didn't have a case and Sam had certainly been using his time wisely. How? By catching up on all the sleep he missed.

The beds weren't the best. Lumpy mattresses, creaky head boards and stains neither of them wanted to question. However, they were beds. The motel room itself wasn't that much better either with the cracked mirror and suspiciously blood coloured mark that didn't seem to come out of the bathroom tiles, no matter how hard the boys scrubbed. It was a roof over their heads though. That, and it was Florida. They'd seen a lot worse in Florida.

“Where are we?” Dean asked, far too happy for this hour, in Sam's most humble opinion. For a second, Sam just looked at him, dazed and confused. Did Dean really forget where they were? Did he hit his head last hunt or something? 

“Florida?” Sam mumbled, confusion and the last remnants of sleep lacing his voice. Like the overgrown puppy he was, Sam tilted his head in confusion. Whatever could Dean be on about. 

“Exactly, Sammy, Florida. And there's no case. And no way am I going digging for a new case right now. Not when there's sand, sea and babes out there, calling for us. Can you hear it Sammy?” Dean was practically vibrating. For a man who'd faced down monsters and said hi to death like an old friend, Dean was just an overgrown kid at the end of the day. “Come on. When was the last time you even went to a beach? Had some fun?” Sam stopped and thought about it. When was the last time he just… Stopped. There was a beach trip his friends at Stanford organised once, but even then, he kept his nose buried in some prelaw book - much to Jessica's disappointment - because Sam Winchester, according to Dean, was allergic to fun. 

Sam hardly had time to argue. Dean was dumping out his duffle bag onto the bed, disassembling guns and hiding the parts, then grabbing swim trunks (which he had for some reason) and suncream. It was settled, for once the Winchester boys were going on vacation. 

When the sea and sand came into view, Sam was out of his element. This was Dean's domain. Half naked people, drinks and a general feeling of who gives a shit (see also relaxation). John had made sure that Dean and Sam knew that everything and anything could be a monster trying to attack them, so it was hard for Sam to let his guard down. Especially with what happened to Jess, he now knew that the supernatural could certainly be anywhere. 

Dean was already picking spaces for the boys to set up. It was like he'd been planning this for months. Maybe because he had. He hadn't had the chance to feel the sand between his toes, the sea breeze in his hair, and to just be there and present with Sam. This was therapeutic; this was healing his inner child. 

A frisbee went past the two boys and, without thinking, Dean ran after it. He was like an overgrown dog bounding towards it. He managed to catch it mid air, excitedly holding it up like a trophy. The smile on his face was priceless, and as much as Sam wanted to shake his head in mild disapproval, he really couldn't. It was the first time he'd seen Dean happy in a while. Two kids came up to Dean, asking for the frisbee back - two boys, brothers most likely. Dean handed it over no problem, he wasn't going to be a dick to kids. But something in his heart broke as the two ran off to their parents. It dawned on Dean that it was a normal thing for parents to do. Taking their kids to the beach, interacting with them, loving them. Sure, John took Dean and Sam out when they were younger. Sometimes it was to a beach, but only because some spirit was pissed, and they sure as hell didn't go to get ice creams after. 

So Dean did what he did best. Shove his emotions down and don't talk of it again. 

“Come on, Sammy, we're getting ice cream,” Dean decided with that same confident voice he used on hunts. It was almost silly in this context - Dean treating ice cream as serious as choosing what ammo they needed for a hunt. Yet, despite them being fully grown adults, Dean had taken on his usual older brother mantle, making sure Sam had a good childhood. In this case, making sure Sam had at least some good memories on a beach. 

The two brothers strode with all the purpose of hunters entering a haunted house knowing they were the scariest thing there. In reality, they were just going to a small ice cream cart, not going to stop the yellow eyed demon from opening the gates of hell. 

“Go on, Sammy, my treat.” Dean nodded towards the different flavours, his mouth practically watering. How there could be so many flavours, he wasn't sure, but it just made this beach day feel a bit more magical. 

“I guess I'll have vanilla,” Sam shrugged. Dean looked at him as if he suggested that Megadeath was better than Metallica. 

“All those flavours there and you go for vanilla?” Dean questioned. 

“What? It's a good flavour,” Sam defended. He would not let his brother judge his ice cream taste. “And, for the record, it's actually a pretty sophisticated flavour even if everyone thinks it's simple.” Dean just rolled his eyes and muttered something about getting a real flavour. Despite all that, he still got Sam his vanilla ice cream while he got the ‘unicorn dream’ ice cream which looked like a kid had been handed a box of crayons and went to town on the piece of paper. 

They both sat on beach towels while they ate their ice cream. While he'd deny it til the day he died (and stayed dead), Sam cracked a small smile. This was nice. Just him and his brother, sat, eating ice cream while Dean made a mess of himself. 

“Dude, you're supposed to eat the ice cream, not wear it,” Sam teased, looking over at Dean who was covered in the sticky, sugary goodness. However, Dean looked thoroughly unbothered. 

“And you're supposed to be having fun,” Dean quipped back, mouth full of ice cream cone. That earned an eyeroll from Sam. Underneath it though was a slight fondness. He was just happy seeing his older brother happy. 

Without warning, after he'd finished his icecream, Dean took his shirt off. He stood up, looking very proud of himself, and let the sun soak his skin. 

“Going for a swim. I better see you in there at some point,” Dean practically threatened Sam. The type of confidence that Dean had was the kind Sam could only dream of. Taking off his shirt on a crowded beach like that? Sam could never. Dean on the other hand? He was almost proud of it. Spun stories about every scar he had and shamelessly showed off his physique. Sam on the other hand was quite happy to just sit back with his shirt on. 

The water was clear and cold. Just perfect, Dean thought to himself. He practically bounded into it, not caring how he looked. To others, it might have looked odd. A twenty seven year old man practically sprinting into the water like a kid. As he splashed about, the laugh he let out was free and unburdened, one that he thought died when Mary died. He was allowing himself to heal. Allowing himself to be a kid. 

He overheard a few kids arguing nearby. One of the kids had a ball under his arm, looking very official. He was clearly the group's self proclaimed ‘leader’. Bossing the rest of the boys around, he said something about not having enough people on the team and that one of them would have to sit out. 

“Hey, what's going on here then?” Dean asked, wanting to defuse this. Every kid deserved fun memories at the beach. 

“We were going to play volleyball, but we have an odd number so one of us has to sit out,” the leader said with a confidence that reminded Dean of himself. 

“Well, I'll play for one of the teams then,” he suggested, shrugging his shoulders as if he'd just solved world peace. The boys looked at him skeptically, then back at their mum's on the shore. Dean followed their gaze and saw an apologetic Sam, probably explaining that, no, Dean wasn't going to do anything inappropriate to their kids, that he was just an overgrown kid with a shitty childhood. It must've worked as they looked somewhat convinced. So that was how Dean ended up playing water volleyball with a group of local kids. 

Sam watched from the shore, quite happy with just sitting there. This was his idea of fun. Finally seeing Dean happy after all the shit they'd been through recently. Despite the fact that Dean had actively told him not to, Sam had brought a book. It wasn't anything related to hunting or lore for once. It was one that had been sitting on his bedside for years, never having the chance to actually read it, until today. That was, until, a wet, sandy Dean came running over. He practically begged for Sam to get into the sea with him, and how could Sam say no? They were already having such a fun day. 

Which was why Dean was now trying to dunk Sam under the water. Maybe a few years ago John would've had them practice holding their breath under water. Now though? This was just siblings being siblings. 

“Come on, Dean, now the salt water's gonna mess up my hair,” Sam pouted. 

“Now the salt water’s gonna mess up my hair,” Dean mocked with a grin on his face. That was all it took for Sam to go charging at him, attempting to tackle his brother into the sea. Dean's laugh echoed and even Sam found himself smiling as their bodies collided, knocking down into the ocean. For a moment, they weren't hunters, they were just two adults who never learnt how to be kids. 

“Now, if you're done bitching about your hair, I think it's time to go home,” Dean declared, standing up and brushing sand off him. As they reached Baby, he gave Sam a death glare. “You better not tread sand in the car,” he threatened. Sam held his hands up in mock surrender and got in the car with a smile that hadn't been seen since Jessica. It was at that moment, he decided that they needed to do this more often. 

[lenas-unhinged-spn]

the whole shove sam in a room and lock him in it to detox from what is essentially drugs plotline is so insane to me. i mean aside from the fact that it’s incredibly dangerous — considering he was using the blood longer-term and, not dissimilar to drug addicts, he couldn’t just be cold turkey detoxed, his body literally started dying — it’s just so terrible. shove the addict in a room with nothing but a little metal bed for forcible dangerous detox. sounds like torture to me. but nooo that’s his brother, dean just cares. in this essay i will…

[wendichester]

⋆｡ ˚ someone he’s never met

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam keeps dreaming about a stranger he can’t name, can’t find, and can’t stop drawing pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x reader ( gn ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 695 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ psychic premonitions, nightmares, implied danger, sleep deprivation, distress, obsessive sketching

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ gif cr. to @/headtraumasam

the first time sam dreams about you, he thinks it’s nothing.

a strange face caught in the clutter of sleep, no different from the hundreds of people he passes in diners and gas stations and motel lobbies without really seeing them. the dream’s blurred at the edges, softened by rain and smoke and whatever his mind decides to use to keep him from understanding it. he sees your profile beneath a flickering streetlight. the turn of your head. your hand reaching for something he can’t see.

then you look directly at him.

sam wakes with your eyes burned into his memory and his heart hammering so hard it hurts.

he lies there for a while in the dark motel room, staring at the water stain on the ceiling while dean snores faintly from the other bed. the clock reads 3:17 a.m. there’s no reason to make anything of it. he’s tired. everything’s been strange since jess. his mind doesn’t know how to rest properly anymore.

still, he reaches for the notebook on the nightstand.

he draws you before the details disappear.

his first attempt is rough. a curve of your jaw, the shape of your mouth, the faint line between your brows as you glance over your shoulder at something behind you. he presses the pencil too hard and tears the paper near your cheek. when he finally puts the notebook down, his hands are trembling.

the second dream comes three nights later.

this time, you’re running. sam can’t see where you are or what’s chasing you. he hears your shoes hitting wet pavement, your breath catching in your throat, the sharp scrape of your palm against a brick wall when you stumble. neon light flashes across your face in brief, ugly colors. red. blue. red again. there’s a sign somewhere above you, but every time sam tries to read it, the letters smear together and vanish.

you turn a corner. something reaches for you. he wakes before it touches you.

“sammy?” dean’s voice drags him back into the motel room. sam’s sitting upright, sheets tangled around his legs, lungs pulling in air too quickly. dean’s already switched on the bedside lamp, eyes narrowed with sleep and concern. “nightmare?”

sam rubs a hand over his face. “yeah.”

“jess?” the question lands gently.

sam looks toward the notebook on the table, where your face’s already waiting beneath the elastic band. “no, uh… just random.” he doesn’t explain.

after that, the dreams come almost every night. never enough. always too much. he sees fragments of you in places he can’t identify: your reflection in a dirty bathroom mirror, your fingers closing around a set of keys, your mouth parting around a word the dream refuses to let him hear. sometimes you’re afraid. sometimes you’re angry. once, impossibly, you’re laughing at something outside the frame of the vision, your whole face softening with it, and sam wakes with grief sitting strangely beneath his ribs because he has no idea who you are and already knows he doesn’t want anything to take that sound from you.

he fills page after page—your eyes. your hands. the coat you wear in one dream, the necklace or chain or thin flash of metal at your throat in another. he draws the streetlight. the blurred sign. the pattern on the wallpaper behind you when you’re standing in a room that feels wrong before anything even happens.

dean catches him one morning at a diner, pencil moving over the corner of a paper placemat while his coffee goes cold. “who’s that?”

your face looks back at sam from the table, unfinished but familiar enough to make his stomach turn. “i don’t know,” he admits.

dean’s joking expression fades. sam stares down at the sketch, at the dark shadow he’s drawn behind you without meaning to, and something cold settles through him. he doesn’t know your name. he doesn’t know your town. he doesn’t know whether he has days or weeks or hours before the thing hunting you finally catches up. all he knows is that somewhere, you’re still in trouble.

and every time sam closes his eyes, you get a little closer to disappearing.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.

[satellite-evans]

don't become true

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: There are some fears even Superman can't outrun.

Word count: 4.2k+

Warnings: heavy angst

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Clark had forgotten how long he had been standing there.

The rain had long since soaked through his clothes, turning the black fabric of his dress shirt heavy against his skin, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Water streamed down his face and dripped from his jaw. At some point he had stopped distinguishing between the rain and the tears. Neither seemed interested in stopping.

The cemetery had emptied hours ago. The mourners had gone home, the flowers left behind had begun to wilt beneath the downpour, and even the groundskeepers had disappeared. Only Clark remained, standing motionless before the grave as though if he stared at it long enough reality might finally lose its nerve and take everything back.

Your name was carved neatly into polished granite, and somehow that was the thing he hated most. Not the rain. Not the silence. Not even the crushing emptiness sitting in his chest. It was the fact that an entire life could be reduced to something so small. A name. Two dates. A line of text. Clark's eyes traced the letters over and over until they blurred together, and still he couldn't look away. The stone didn't tell people who you were.

It didn't tell them about the way you laughed when something genuinely surprised you, throwing your head back without caring who was watching. It didn't tell them about the way you stole food from his plate and then acted offended when he caught you. It didn't tell them about the way you always reached for him in your sleep, your hand searching for his even when you weren't awake enough to realize it. It didn't tell them about the future you'd spent years building together. The children whose names you'd argued about. The places you still wanted to visit. The tiny apartment you'd once shared before moving somewhere bigger. The old age you were supposed to reach. The wrinkles you were supposed to earn. None of it existed here. Everything that had made you you had been reduced to carved stone and cold earth.

A strangled breath escaped him. "You were supposed to grow old."

The words vanished into the rain almost immediately, but Clark kept staring at the headstone anyway. His own voice had sounded unfamiliar. Thin. Fragile. Like it belonged to somebody else.

"You were supposed to keep making fun of my cooking." A weak smile appeared despite himself, because you always complained about his cooking. Even when you liked it. Especially when you liked it. He could practically hear your voice now, teasing him about burning breakfast again, insisting that Ma was still the superior cook. The memory arrived with such clarity that it physically hurt.

That was the part nobody warned you about. People talked about grief as though it was sadness. As though it was crying and funerals and learning how to move on. Nobody talked about the violence of remembering. Nobody talked about how a perfectly ordinary memory could suddenly drive the air from your lungs. One second, you were standing still. The next you were remembering the exact sound of someone's laugh and wondering how it was possible for the world to continue turning when that laugh no longer existed inside it.

God, he missed you.

He missed you in ordinary moments. He missed turning around and expecting to find you there. He missed hearing his phone vibrate and hoping it was you. He missed having someone to tell about his day. He missed your toothbrush beside his. Your shoes near the door. The way you stole the blankets every night and denied it every morning.

Most of all, he missed being known. That was what nobody understood. People loved Superman. They loved symbols and legends and larger-than-life heroes. But you had never loved Superman. You had loved Clark. The awkward farm boy from Kansas who still called his mother when life became overwhelming. The man who burned pancakes because he got distracted. The man who worried too much, cared too much, and carried every failure like a stone in his chest.

You had known every imperfect part of him and somehow loved him anyway. And now the only person who had ever looked at all of him and chosen to stay was gone.

Clark squeezed his eyes shut. For a moment he could almost hear your voice. It was so vivid that his heart lurched painfully against his ribs. Some foolish part of him wanted to turn around, wanted to believe you'd be standing there behind him with that familiar smile, telling him he was being dramatic and that standing in the rain wasn't going to solve anything.

But reality returned quickly. It always did. Cruel and silent and completely indifferent to his grief. The worst part wasn't even that you were gone. The worst part was discovering that the world didn't care. Cars still drove down busy streets. Children still laughed in playgrounds. People still argued about meaningless things. Tomorrow the sun would rise exactly as it always had. The Earth would continue spinning. The city would wake up and move forward. The universe had lost the best thing Clark Kent had ever known, and somehow it kept going.

A hand settled gently on his shoulder.

Clark didn't have to turn around; he recognized Lois immediately.

She stood beside him beneath an umbrella, her eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. For several moments, she said nothing. She simply looked at the grave alongside him, and Clark found himself grateful for the silence. There was nothing either of them could say that would make this easier. Lois missed you, too.

Everyone did.

That had always been the problem with you. Loving you had been effortless. You had moved through people's lives, leaving pieces of yourself behind without even realizing it. Clark had watched strangers warm to you within minutes, watched friends seek you out whenever they needed comfort, watched entire rooms brighten whenever you walked into them. You made people feel seen. Important. Loved. And now every one of those people had to learn how to exist without you.

"Clark."

He didn't answer. His eyes remained fixed on the stone, on your name, on the unbearable proof that none of this was a nightmare.

"You need to stop doing this to yourself."

Still, he said nothing.

The rain continued to fall around them, drumming softly against Lois's umbrella while soaking through his clothes. He barely felt it anymore. The cold wasn't a problem for Superman. It should have bothered Clark Kent. It didn't. Nothing seemed capable of reaching him through the numbness that had settled over everything since the day he'd lost you.

Eventually Lois sighed. "You couldn't have saved her."

A bitter laugh escaped him before he could stop it. The sound was ugly. Broken.

"I save people every day."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"I hear them, Lois. I hear people screaming from the other side of the world. I hear heartbeats through concrete. I hear accidents before they happen."

His gaze dropped to his hands. The same hands people trusted. The same hands that had pulled survivors from burning buildings and caught falling planes from the sky.

"So explain to me why I couldn't save the one heartbeat that mattered most."

Lois looked away immediately, and Clark hated himself for the relief that brought him. If she couldn't look at him, it meant she didn't have an answer. If she didn't have an answer, then maybe there simply wasn't one. Maybe there wasn't some mistake he'd missed. Maybe there wasn't a moment he could replay differently. Maybe there wasn't a version of events where he got to keep you.

The thought should have comforted him. Instead it made everything worse. Because if there was no answer, then there was nothing left to fix, nothing left to fight, nothing left but grief.

"I would've traded all of it," he said quietly. "The powers. The cape. The symbol. Every bit of it."

Rain dripped from his hair as he stared at your name carved into stone.

"I would've given it all away if it meant she stayed."

And he meant it. Every word. The world worshipped Superman. Entire cities slept easier because they believed he was out there watching over them. Children wore his symbol on their shirts. People looked at him and saw hope. Clark would've surrendered all of it without hesitation. Every ounce of strength. Every impossible ability. Every gift Krypton had given him. None of it had ever mattered as much as you.

The silence that followed stretched painfully between them.

Finally Lois spoke. "She wouldn't want you blaming yourself."

Clark shut his eyes.

"Don't."

"Clark..."

"Don't tell me what she would've wanted."

The words came out harsher than he intended. The instant they left his mouth, regret followed. Lois didn't deserve that. She was grieving too. He knew that.

But the truth was that nobody knew what you would've wanted anymore.

You weren't here to tell them.

That was the part he couldn't survive.

Not the funeral.

Not the grave.

The finality.

The realization that every conversation between the two of you had already happened. Every joke had already been told. Every argument had already ended. Every kiss, every embrace, every quiet evening spent together had come and gone without either of you realizing they were finite things. There would never be another one. Everything left between you would remain unfinished forever.

"She's not here anymore."

His voice broke completely.

For the first time since the funeral began, Clark looked exactly what he was. Not Superman. Not the strongest man in the world. Just a grieving man standing in the rain, staring at the grave of the woman he loved and realizing that all the strength in the universe couldn't change what was written on the stone in front of him.

Lois stood beside him for another moment, the steady rhythm of rain striking her umbrella filling the silence between them. Clark knew she wanted to say something else. He could hear it in the way she shifted her weight, in the hesitant breath she drew before letting it go again. She was searching for the right words, searching for something that might ease the grief carved into him. But there was nothing left to say. No combination of words could undo what had happened. No reassurance could make tomorrow easier. Tomorrow would still arrive without you in it, and the thought alone made his stomach twist.

After a while, Lois squeezed his shoulder gently. "You should go home."

Clark let out a quiet laugh that sounded more like a wounded exhale.

Home.

The word felt cruel now.

Home wasn't home anymore. It was your blanket draped over the couch because you were always cold. It was the mug with the tiny crack in the handle that he'd been trying to convince you to throw away for months. It was the half-finished novel still sitting on your nightstand with a bookmark tucked between pages you would never reach. Your jacket still hung by the front door. Your shampoo still sat in the shower. Little notes written in your handwriting still clung to the refrigerator. Every room contained evidence that you had existed, and every room reminded him that you didn't anymore.

He hadn't been able to sleep there since you died. The house felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still. As though it were waiting for you to walk through the front door at any moment. Sometimes he caught himself listening for your footsteps. Sometimes he found himself looking up whenever he heard a sound, expecting to see you rounding the corner with that familiar smile. Every single time reality returned, and every single time it hurt just as much.

"You need rest," Lois said softly.

Clark stared at the headstone.

At your name.

At the dates beneath it.

An entire life reduced to a few carved numbers.

How could he rest?

Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in the hospital. Back in that room. Back in that awful stretch of time where every second felt like an hour. He remembered the doctors' faces before they even spoke. Remembered the way the silence changed. Hope had disappeared before a single word was said, and some part of him had known it. There had been a version of Clark Kent that existed before that moment, a version that still believed everything would somehow be okay. That version was gone now. Buried alongside you.

When he didn't answer, Lois sighed quietly. "Okay."

Her voice cracked around the word.

"Call me if you need me."

Clark nodded once, not because he intended to, but because he couldn't bear to make her worry any more than she already did. Lois lingered for a few seconds longer before finally turning away. He listened to her footsteps grow fainter and fainter until they disappeared completely. Eventually even the sound of the umbrella vanished, leaving only the rain and the unbearable silence that followed.

Clark remained standing long after she was gone. Then, with a weariness that seemed to reach into his bones, he slowly lowered himself to the ground. The mud soaked through his clothes immediately. He didn't care. The earth was cold beneath him, damp and unforgiving, but none of it mattered. What was a little discomfort compared to this?

He shifted closer to the grave until he was lying beside it, resting his head against the wet grass. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend. Just for a second. Just long enough to imagine that you weren't really gone. His hand reached toward the headstone, fingertips brushing across the engraved letters of your name. He traced them slowly, carefully, memorizing the shape of every letter despite already knowing them by heart.

The ache inside him had become constant now. Not sharp enough to make him cry anymore. Not sudden enough to catch him by surprise. It was simply there, lodged somewhere deep inside his chest, woven so thoroughly into him that he no longer remembered what it felt like to exist without it. Grief wasn't something visiting him anymore. It wasn't a storm that arrived and passed. It lived here now. It woke up with him every morning and followed him to sleep every night. It sat beside him when he ate, when he worked, when he tried and failed to imagine a future that didn't hurt.

"I can't sleep without you."

The confession escaped before he could stop it.

A sad smile tugged weakly at his lips as he stared at your name carved into the stone.

"Of course you already know that."

You always fell asleep first. Usually halfway through a conversation. Your words would grow slower and softer until eventually they disappeared altogether, leaving him to smile at whatever unfinished thought you'd been trying to share. Yet even then, you always reached for him. Sometimes without waking up. Your hand would search blindly across the mattress until it found his, and the moment it did, your entire body relaxed. Like some small part of you needed that reassurance before you could truly rest.

Clark squeezed his eyes shut.

God, he missed that.

Not the grand moments people always talked about after someone died. Not the anniversaries or holidays or photographs. He missed the ordinary things. Holding your hand while watching television. Feeling your weight settle against his side when you were tired. Listening to your sleepy rambling at two in the morning when neither of you could fall asleep. The tiny, forgettable moments that had once seemed so insignificant now felt priceless. They had become the things he missed most because they were the things he could never get back.

"I never told you this," he whispered. "But sometimes I'd stay awake after you fell asleep."

A tear slipped from beneath his lashes.

"I'd just watch you."

His throat tightened painfully.

"Because I couldn't believe you were real."

The admission hurt more than he expected.

Clark had spent most of his life feeling separate from everyone around him. Different. Isolated. Like he was standing just outside a world he could see but never fully belong to. He had spent years pretending the loneliness didn't bother him. Then you had walked into his life and somehow made everything feel simple. Easy. Like belonging wasn't something he had to earn anymore. For the first time in his life, he had a place where he didn't have to be Superman. He didn't have to be a symbol. He didn't have to be anything except himself.

"You made everything quiet."

A broken laugh escaped him.

Not the world.

The world was never quiet for Clark. He heard everything. Every siren. Every cry for help. Every heartbeat. Every accident unfolding somewhere beyond the horizon. The noise never stopped. It never had.

But you had quieted something inside him.

The loneliness that had followed him since childhood.

The fear of never truly belonging.

The endless pressure of carrying the world on his shoulders.

You made it bearable.

You made him feel human.

His hand pressed harder against the wet earth, as though somehow being closer to you might lessen the ache. It didn't. Nothing ever did.

And now you were gone.

The realization struck with the same brutal force every single time. It didn't matter how often he thought it. It never became easier. It never became smaller. It remained enormous and impossible and world-ending.

"I don't know how to do this."

His voice cracked completely.

"I don't know how to wake up tomorrow. I don't know how to walk back into our house. I don't know how to keep being Clark without you."

Silence answered him.

The rain continued to fall.

The world continued to turn.

And you remained heartbreakingly absent from both.

For the first time in his life, Clark felt truly powerless. Not because he couldn't stop an asteroid or lift a collapsing building or save a city. Those things had never frightened him. This did. Because there wasn't an enemy to fight. There wasn't a disaster to prevent. There wasn't a problem to solve.

There was only loss.

And for all his strength, for all the impossible things he could do, there wasn't a force in the universe powerful enough to bring back the person he loved.

Clark curled slightly against the grave, as close to you as he could possibly get, and closed his eyes. For just a moment, he allowed himself to want something impossible. Not world peace. Not an end to suffering. Not another miracle to save humanity.

Just you.

Only you.

Clark woke with a gasp so violent it felt like his lungs had forgotten how to work.

For several terrifying seconds, he couldn't breathe. His heart pounded wildly against his ribs, each beat painful and frantic, and the dream clung to him with such horrifying clarity that he couldn't immediately tell where it ended and reality began. He could still feel the rain soaking through his clothes. Still see your name carved into polished granite. Still remember the awful helplessness of lying beside your grave, knowing there was nothing left to save, nothing left to fight for, nothing left except learning how to survive without you.

The grief had felt real.

Not the strange, distant kind of sadness dreams usually carried. It had felt real enough to break him.

Clark sat frozen for a moment, staring into the darkness as panic climbed his throat. Then his eyes focused on the room around him. White walls. Dim overhead lights. Medical equipment humming softly in the background. The familiar shape of a hospital room slowly emerged from the haze of sleep, and relief hit him so suddenly it almost made him dizzy.

His head snapped toward the bed.

There you were.

Exactly where you'd been before he fell asleep.

Surrounded by machines and monitors, an oxygen tube resting beneath your nose, your body almost swallowed by white blankets, but there. Not buried. Not gone. Not reduced to a name on a stone.

There.

Clark felt something inside him crack.

A breath escaped him, shaky and uneven, and before he fully realized what he was doing, he was already on his feet. The chair scraped softly against the floor as he crossed the room in a matter of seconds. His hands were trembling when he reached for yours.

Warm.

Your hand was warm.

Such a simple thing. Such an ordinary thing. Yet after the nightmare he'd just had, it felt miraculous.

Clark wrapped both of his hands around yours and lowered his head. A strangled sound escaped him, halfway between a laugh and a sob, and suddenly he was fighting tears all over again.

"Oh God."

His forehead rested against your knuckles.

"Oh God, you scared me."

The words sounded pathetic the moment they left his mouth. Selfish, too. You were the one lying unconscious in a hospital bed. You were the one fighting through whatever darkness had taken you away from him. Yet he couldn't stop the tears from coming.

Because for a few horrible moments, he'd believed he had already lost you.

He had stood at your grave. He had spoken to a stone bearing your name and imagined a future stretched out endlessly before him, a future where every morning began without you and every night ended in an empty bed. But the part that still made his chest ache wasn't the grief itself. It was the realization that life would continue afterward. The city would still wake up every morning. People would still go to work. Children would still laugh in parks. Somewhere, someone would still need Superman. The world wouldn't stop simply because yours had ended, and somehow Clark would be expected to keep moving through it as though surviving such a loss was possible.

Another tear slipped down his cheek.

"I don't want to know what my life looks like without you."

The confession lingered in the quiet hospital room. The only response came from the monitor beside your bed, its steady rhythm filling the silence between them. It should have been an ordinary sound, the kind people stopped noticing after a while, but Clark found himself listening to every single beep. Each one felt precious. Reassuring. Proof that you were still here. Still fighting. Still holding on.

His thumb brushed softly across your hand before he carefully tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so familiar it made his throat tighten. He'd done it hundreds of times before while you were reading on the couch, while you laughed at something he didn't understand, while you dozed off during movie nights with your head resting against his shoulder. For a moment he simply looked at you, really looked at you, trying to memorize every detail as though he hadn't already done so a thousand times before. The curve of your face. The slow rise and fall of your breathing. The warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips. Some frightened part of him worried that if he looked away for too long, the nightmare would return and steal all of it from him.

"I dreamed about you."

His voice was barely audible.

"I can't even tell you what happened."

He swallowed hard and looked away briefly.

"Because if I say it out loud, it feels like I'm daring the universe to make it real."

A humorless smile flickered across his face before disappearing just as quickly. Clark leaned forward and pressed a kiss against your cheek, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. When he finally pulled back, his hand remained cupping the side of your face.

He thought about everything he had survived in his life. The battles. The invasions. The disasters. Every impossible thing the world had ever thrown at him. None of them had frightened him like this. Not because they threatened him, but because none of them had ever threatened you.

"Out of all the dreams I've ever had about you," he whispered, his voice trembling despite his best efforts, "I hope this one never comes true."

The room fell quiet again.

He pulled his chair closer and intertwined his fingers with yours before settling beside the bed. He never let go. Not once.

For the rest of the night, Clark remained awake, watching over you. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the grave again. The rain. Your name carved into stone. A future without you.

And that was what terrified him most.

Not that he could imagine losing you.

That he could imagine surviving it.

The dream had shown him exactly what that future looked like: waking up every morning with grief sitting permanently in his chest and carrying it for the rest of his life. As Clark sat beside your hospital bed with your hand held tightly in his own, he found himself praying for the first time in a long while, asking for only one thing.

Please.

Don't make me learn how to live without her.

taglist : @sunlightkent @mollymal @clarkswhore-jpeg @kristne13 @slytherinscreamqueen

[samschudangel]

Snoopchester and woodstiel.

[orobaxis]

Am I allowed to eat? 

Summary: You jokingly ask Clark if you are allowed to eat in front of his parents. 

Dad Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

more kent family adventures here!

even more kent family adventures here! (pt 2 of the masterlist)

By the time you were eight months pregnant with Leia, one thing had become very clear to everyone around you: Clark would do absolutely anything for you. 

Which was precisely why the prank had been so tempting.

The prank simply appeared in your mind while sitting at the Kent farmhouse table on one warm afternoon, watching Clark pile food onto your plate for the third time before you’d even fully finished the second helping.

“Honey, you need more potatoes,” he said earnestly, already reaching for the bowl.

“Clark,” you laughed, “I’m still eating.”

“You’re eating for two.”

Ma Kent snorted softly from across the table. “At this point, that baby’s probably ninety percent mashed potatoes.”

Clark looked entirely unashamed. “They will be a very healthy, growing baby.”

You bit back a smile.

That was the thing about Clark during your pregnancy, he hovered.

Did you need water? A pillow? Another blanket? Less blanket? A snack? Different snack? Did your back hurt? Were your feet swollen? Had you rested enough? Too much? Was the baby kicking enough? Too much?

The man treated your pregnancy like the world’s most important mission.

And it made him very, very easy to fluster.

And suddenly, sitting there at the table with Ma and Pa Kent, watching your husband lovingly shovel corn onto your plate like he was personally responsible for feeding both you and the baby, the idea struck.

You looked down at your half-full plate thoughtfully.

Then, very gently, you asked, “Clark… am I allowed to have some more?”

Clark didn’t even look up.

“Of course,” he said immediately, mouth still full, already spooning another helping onto your plate. “You barely ate any! Here, have more chicken too.”

You pressed your lips together. You continued carefully, in the smallest voice you could manage. “Are you sure?”

Clark blinked at you. “Sure about what?”

“That it’s okay for me to eat more?”

Clark stared at you for a long moment. Then looked at your plate. Then at you again.

“…Yes?” He sounded deeply confused.

You nodded solemnly, “Okay,” and resumed eating.

Clark reached for the biscuits.

“You want another one?”

“Yes please.”

“Here you go, my love.” He handed it over immediately.

You sighed as your prank failed, silently waiting for another opportunity.

-

Said opportunity was when Ma Kent brought out dessert.

Her specialty peach cobbler was still warm, the smell filling the kitchen instantly.

“Oh my goodness,” you sighed dramatically. “That smells amazing.”

Ma Kent smiled warmly. “Go on, honey, have some.”

You coached your face to look anxious, worried, then slowly turned toward Clark.

“…Am I allowed?”

The room went silent.

Clark froze with the serving spoon halfway in his hand.

Ma Kent blinked. Pa Kent’s expression changed immediately into a frown.

“Allowed?” Ma Kent repeated.

You looked down shyly. “Well… I just wanted to check first.”

Clark looked like his soul had briefly left his body.

“Why would you…what do you mean allowed?” 

You kept your face perfectly straight. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Upset me?” Clark nearly choked. “Why would it upset me?”

Ma Kent’s eyebrows shot up.

Pa Kent set down his fork, slowly and very carefully.

Clark turned toward you so quickly his chair squeaked against the floor.

“Honey, what are you talking about?”

You blinked innocently. “The cobbler.”

“The cobbler…”

“Yes.”

Ma Kent turned to Clark at the same time he looked at you incredulously.

“Clark,” she said carefully, “why would she need permission to eat dessert?”

“I—she doesn’t!” Clark’s brows were furrowed with concern, slowly feeling like he was unnecessarily put on the hot seat. “Why would you need my permission to eat cobbler?!”

You shrugged lightly. “Well, you may not want me to eat any more.”

Ma Kent slowly turned toward her son.

“Clark Joseph Kent.”

Clark’s eyes widened in immediate horror.

“No! No, no, no—Ma, I swear—”

Pa Kent crossed his arms.

Clark looked even more panicked.

“I have literally never stopped her from eating anything in her life! She eats whatever she wants, whenever she wants. I've actually been actively encouraging her to eat more because she sometimes forgets in the afternoon and the doctor said…" He caught himself, and looked back at you. "What is going on?”

You tilted your head. “But maybe you didn’t want me eating cobbler specifically?”

“Why would I not want you to?!”

Clark looked moments away from a full system shutdown.

“Honey,” he said frantically, stumbling over every word, “I have never, not once, told you what you can or can’t eat. Or do. Or wear. Or…anything!”

Ma Kent was now openly suspicious. “Clark…”

“No! Ma, listen to me—I swear, she does whatever she wants! Constantly! Happily! And I support her! Enthusiastically!”

You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s true.”

Clark pointed at you wildly. “See?!”

“But maybe secretly you don’t like how much I eat?”

Clark looked genuinely devastated.

“What?! No, Ma, Pa, listen to me. I’ve never told her not to do anything she wanted! Ever! If anything, she tells me what to do!”

He turned back to his parents, fully distressed now.

“I am not controlling! Right? I’m not controlling.”

Pa Kent finally spoke, voice low. “Son…”

Clark turned toward him in absolute panic. “Pa, I swear to God, I have never denied her anything in my entire life! I don't restrict her eating. I don't restrict ANYTHING! I don't tell her what to do. I would never." Clark's voice had taken on the slightly desperate quality of a man watching a small fire and patting his pockets for something to put it out with. "She has complete autonomy over everything. Every single thing. I've never once told her she couldn't eat or do or–"

"Clark," you said.

“--have anything she wanted, I mean she went through a period in the second trimester where she wanted a very specific brand of crackers at two in the morning and I flew forty minutes to three different stores to find them, I have the receipts, I can show you the receipts–”

“Clark.”

“--and I don't know what this is right now but I need everyone at this table to understand that I am not and have never been–”

“CLARK.”

He stopped his rambling.

He looked at you.

You were smiling. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Then suddenly you were laughing so hard you had to hold your stomach.

The entire table stared at you.

“Oh no,” Ma Kent whispered, already realizing.

You wheezed helplessly, tears gathering in your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry…I was joking.”

Silence.

Clark blinked.

“…What?”

You covered your face, laughing harder. “It was a prank, baby.”

Clark stared. Ma Kent burst into laughter instantly.

Pa Kent leaned back in his chair.

Clark remained frozen. “You…”

“I’m sorry,” you laughed again. “You were just so easy to fluster.”

Clark looked deeply betrayed.

“I thought Pa was about to kill me.”

You grinned at Pa, “He was in on it,” you confessed, remembering how Pa chuckled gruffly when you told him about your plan.

Clark dropped back into his chair dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.

“I cannot believe you.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek sweetly.

“I’m sorry I scared you, honey. You're a wonderful husband," you said. "Why do you still have the receipts?"

He put his arm around you, and you could feel him giving up on the wounded dignity, the whole structure of it just gently collapsing.

"Souvenirs," he said again, quieter, “I didn’t want to forget anything about your pregnancy. And so that I could show our baby that I would do anything for them.”

You smiled at him, cupping his cheek tenderly before giving him a kiss. Clark turned pink.

"Forty minutes,” he reminded you, “Three stores."

"I know."

"In the rain."

"It wasn't raining."

"It was drizzling." Clark sighed deeply. 

You laughed, then immediately reached for the cobbler.

Clark instinctively grabbed the serving spoon and loaded a giant portion onto your plate.

Everyone at the table burst into laughter again.

Clark looked around defensively.

“What? She’s eating for two.”

-

taglist

@vql3rie @celestialend @diannelucille @minienix @evermoresivy

@nixandtonic @bl00dstained @vestafir @sweettbepbo @icybarness

@skzvibes-blog @sweetheartdiariess @blackwidownat2814 @zandra-42 @ysuftmikey

@soupiemeowmeow @bookishbabyyyy @DreamingofTomorrow @1-800-peakyblinders @kissesofstars

@qtmoonies @Casiopea2 @buckystwilight_ @buckystwilight @princess76179

@kaiparkerwife @vinecstasy @averyhotchner @angelicp0etry @multifandom-loser

@ladamari68 @httpstoyosi @jakesphere @alina02 @kaorisakamotofan

@randomfangirlof @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @animegamerfox @thychuvaluswife @clarkclit

@tayhobart @obsessedwthdilfs @kneelarhmstrung @helalokithor @loveelylani

@kissmxcheek @toplinehyunjin @jvanilly @angelbunny222 @sheslikecherrypie

@drewswife @artsymaddie @laniec03 @chaoticevilbakugo @spencellelvrr

[ohangeleyes]

tina's fanfic recommendations

i wanted to do this for so long and then i saw my beloved taggie doing this and it felt like a sign. below are my absolute favorite authors and their works of art. shakespeare aint got shit on yall.

(considering i 99% times read about sam, the list below features only sam fics) 18+ !! mdni probably gonna update overtime !!

@thesundontshineontheseeyebrows

"you should see the things we do in my dreams"

gotta start with my absolute favorite fanfic oat i'm not even kidding. i've read this at least 4 times, never get bored of it.

@theedaythatnevercomes

"breathe out, so i can breathe you in"

"revelations"

"cherry waves"

"hold me 'til i die"

i thank the universe every day for introducing me to this blog. literally EVERYTHING is amazing but these are my absolute favorite ones.

@sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth

"record" has a pt 2 on ao3 (my absolute favorite)

"pretty as a vine, sweet as a grape"

"I dreamed of the places I’ve been with you"

"you got me good (I knew you would)"

"squeaky clean"

writing genuinely feels like "home" idk how to even describe it. so so many amazing fics, if i start listing all of them i'm gonna run out of room lol.

@southernimpala

"you know i'd do anything for you"

"midnight swim"

"backseat" "frontseat"

"all that's left are your walls..."

mia=shakespeare. such beautiful writing i can never get enough.

@wvyik

"the virgin problem"

you'll always be in my mind my sweet sofi </3

@holdinggrudges

"what's my flavor?" "dripping in my favor"

old but gold. never knew i needed vampire!sam this much until i read this.

@sacr1ficialang3l

"these crosses all over my body remind me of who I used to be"

my roman empire. i still think about this fic to this day.

@kblognar

"gorgeous morning"

"cereal and coffee"

@plasticflowersinahistorycemetery

"strange eyes" pt I pt II

@chxrrywines

"mean"

"assistance"

"sexxx dreams"

other amazing authors:

@violained LOVE the fluff fics

@filthgf my fav freak

there are so many other amazing authors here that i still haven't stumbled upon on. love every one of you for taking your time and doing this. you all are amazing im so proud of each and every single one of yall. never stop doing what you love.🤍

[luvendiary]

southern siren | s.winchester

how sam finds out

sam winchester x reader. no use of y/n. 5.9k words. not proofread. partial nudity.

The moon was full tonight.

That was the only thing your mind had been able to concentrate on since the sun disappeared below the horizon two hours ago.

Even now, leaning against the hood of the Impala, your eyes kept drifting west—past the dark motel parking lot, past the empty highway, toward the unseen stretch of black water waiting somewhere beyond the trees.

Lake Michigan.

You couldn’t see it from here, but you could feel it. 

It was a short walk. This specific motel was marketed toward people who went fishing or just enjoyed having the lake nearby. 

But the ache in your muscles would not allow you to move yet. The pull sat deep beneath your ribs, ancient and aching, like a hook buried into your bones tugging steadily toward the shore. It had been getting worse for days now. Three nights without sleep. Three nights of cold sweats, restless pacing, the constant sound of water roaring in your ears no matter where you went.

Full moons always made it worse.

They woke things up.

Humans felt it too, albeit in a much lower degree than what they called “monsters”. They didn’t know the moon called to everything touched by old magic.

You swallowed hard and shut your eyes for a second.

The motel room door creaked open behind you. Then, bootsteps against gravel, walking toward you.

Sam leaned against the hood next to you, leaving enough space so you wouldn’t feel cornered. The metal dipped slightly under his weight.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The night air smelled like pine trees, motor oil, and wood. Along with the faint scent of freshwater that incited you to come closer.

“You okay?” Sam asked quietly.

I will be, you thought as you nodded your head.

Sam glanced toward the treeline, following your line of sight even though there was nothing there to see.

“You’re tired,” he said gently.

“Long hunt,” you replied, still not taking your eyes off of the horizon. Exhaustion clung to every inch of you just as much as you were sure it did to Sam. Your limbs felt heavy, your eyes dirty, and your skin wrong. Too dry. 

The lake was calling…louder each time. 

“You should come inside,” he murmured. “Get some sleep.”

Your fingers curled tighter against the edge of the hood.

Sleep.

You thought of Dean, who by now was probably having his third dream of the night. He’d barely made it through half a complaint about cheap motel pillows before collapsing face-first onto the bed with an unopened vodka bottle still in his hand.

The second you closed your eyes, you knew exactly what would happen. Dreams of dark water, waves crashing against your ribs. Drowning you, like a hug. 

You smiled subconsciously as you slowly shook your head. “You go ahead.”

Beside you, Sam exhaled softly rubbing a hand over his face, exhaustion finally slipping through the cracks in his composure.

The breeze shifted again, carrying the scent of the lake with it now. Your lungs seemed to expand on their own, big and bountiful.

Sam studied your profile carefully.

“You should get some rest too,” you murmured absentmindedly.

Sam was silent for a moment.

Then, softer this time, “I will.”

You frowned faintly, finally dragging your gaze away from the horizon to look at him.

Moonlight caught against the tired shadows beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted enough to collapse standing up. There was dried blood still smeared near his jaw from the hunt earlier, and his flannel hung open slightly at the throat, wet with sweat and dirt. Yet, he was still here.

“You don’t have to stay out here,” you said.

“I know.”

You knew what he meant. Gentle and caring Sam, always looking out for you. Had it been any other night, or sometime where your mind wasn’t occupied with thoughts of the lake and the moon, you might have argued. Tell him how you can take care of yourself, make it ten times harder for him. But tonight, you just looked away.

With the moon up, your inhibitions were down. 

She hung massive overhead now, pale and watchful, casting silver across the motel parking lot until everything looked drowned beneath it.

For a second, you could almost imagine the lake itself staring back at you. Crawling at you. Dragging itself up the forest, across the street and into the parking lot. Picking you up, and holding you down. 

Your breathing had started to change without you noticing—slower and deeper. Like waves.

Sam noticed immediately. “You okay?”

You swallowed, and honesty came in the shape of a whisper.

“No.”

Sam straightened slightly beside you, concern sharpening through the exhaustion. “What do you need?”

The question nearly undid you.

Because the terrifying thing was—you knew exactly what you needed. Its freezing depths wrapping around your body until the ache inside you finally stopped.

Your fingers trembled against the Impala’s hood.

“I don’t know if I can ignore it tonight,” you admitted quietly.

You felt Sam shift beside you.

Another gust of wind swept through the parking lot, colder this time, and your eyes fluttered shut involuntarily.

You could hear waves now.

When you opened your eyes again you were surrounded by the forest. The faint sound of Sam calling out your name a few steps behind you.

Your legs moved without your permission, as if they themselves couldn’t wait to turn into one. 

Branches clawed at your arms as you moved through the forest, slow and dreamlike beneath the silver wash of moonlight.

“Hey—hey, wait.”

Sam’s voice echoed somewhere behind you, though it was distant and muffled. Like hearing someone speak from the opposite side of deep water. 

Your bare feet sank into damp earth and dead leaves. Every step closer made the ache inside your body ease just a little more. The lake was near now. You could smell it fully—cold freshwater and stone and moonlit depth.

Your heartbeat slowed to match the rhythm of waves.

Your name being called barely registered.

Your bare feet sank into damp earth and dead leaves. Every step closer made the ache inside your body ease just a little more. The lake was near now. You could smell it fully—cold freshwater and stone and moonlit depth.

Your heartbeat slowed to match the rhythm of waves.

Your lips parted soundlessly.

You were so close. You could feel it, the moon, the lake and you, all singing in unison. Calling to each other.

Sam stepped directly into your path.

You stopped automatically.

His chest rose and fell hard from running, hair disheveled, flannel hanging open as he reached for your arms carefully but firmly.

“Hey,” he breathed, trying to catch your gaze. “Hey, look at me.”

His hands were warm. Too warm.

Your eyes dragged slowly from the lake to his face.

Everything about him looked blurred at the edges except his eyes.

Worried hazel fixed entirely on you.

“You need to stop,” he said softly. “Just—just breathe for a second, okay?”

You stared at him blankly.

His words were slipping past you like water through open fingers.

“Please don’t be mad,” you whispered.

Sam blinked, confusion flashing briefly across his face. “Mad? Why would I be mad?”

“You can’t come with me.”

His grip tightened slightly—not painful. Grounding.

“You’re not making any sense right now.” His voice stayed painfully gentle despite the fear creeping into it. “Come back to the motel with me.”

The lake called louder.

You could feel it against your skin now.

Inside your bones.

“Please,” Sam insisted quietly. “Just let me take you back.”

But his voice couldn’t compete with the water.

Your gaze drifted past his shoulder toward the shoreline again.

“Stay with me,” you murmured suddenly.

His brow furrowed as he leaned his head down, trying to catch your gaze again. “Please, just let me take you to—”

“You’ll hate me,” you whispered.

Sam’s expression softened instantly, confusion giving way to something wounded.

“I could never hate you.”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a second.

The moon pulsed white behind your eyelids. When you opened them again, your mouth opened along with them. A soft melody came pouring out of your lips as you gently pushed past Sam.

The sound wrapped around him instantly. Gently and tender, like a lullaby, inviting you to a sweet dream.

Your voice flowed through the trees like moonlight over water, low and aching and impossibly beautiful. Every note seemed to sink beneath Sam’s skin, pulling at something deep inside his chest. His hands loosened around your arms without him realizing it.

The lake answered you.

Waves rolled softly against the shoreline in perfect rhythm with your song.

You stepped onto the sand slowly, your movements graceful in a way that no longer looked entirely human. The moonlight clung to your skin, silver across your throat and shoulders.

Sam stood frozen several feet behind you. His exhaustion disappeared beneath the haze settling over his mind.

You reached for the hem of your shirt, and pulled it over your head slowly. 

Sam’s breath caught quietly.

Your jeans followed next, pushed down your legs with slow, absent movements until you stood in only your underwear at the edge of the lake, pale moonlight spilling across every inch of your skin.

The song grew softer then.

You lifted your hands toward the necklace resting against your collarbone. The silver chain trembled faintly between your fingers before you unclasped it.

Turning back toward Sam, you crossed the short distance between you both. His eyes would not leave you. He looked like he wanted to say something, but did not want to interrupt your song. 

You took his hand gently and placed the necklace into his palm.

His fingers curled around it automatically.

Warm skin against cold silver.

“Sweet Sam,” you whispered softly, the melody still woven through your voice. “Please don’t hate me.”

Sam opened his mouth slightly, but no words came out. He could only stare at you, and your eyes clouded over with moonlight.

Then you turned away again, and slowly began your descent into the lake.

The water embraced you instantly.

Your song echoed across the dark surface as waves climbed higher up your body; your thighs, your waist, your ribs.

Sam remained rooted to the shoreline, breathing slow and shallow, unable to look away.

Moonlight danced across the water around you like shattered glass.

The melody softened more and more as you moved deeper.

Your shoulders disappeared beneath the surface,then your throat, followed by your chin. Your lips were the last thing visible above the water, still singing softly toward the moon.

Then, silence covered the shoreline. Like a dream vanishing. The only proof of you having been there were the fading ripples on the surface of the water.

Instantly, the haze around Sam’s mind shattered.

His breath caught sharply.

For one disoriented second, he simply stared at the empty water.

Then panic crashed into him all at once.

“No—”

He stumbled forward immediately.

“Hey!”

Waves splashed violently around his legs as he rushed into the freezing lake fully clothed.

His heartbeat slammed painfully against his ribs now.

Your name tore from his throat raggedly.

Nothing answered him.

Only black water stretching endlessly beneath the moon.

Fear twisted sharply across his face.

You hadn’t resurfaced.

“Come on,” he breathed frantically, moving deeper into the lake. “Come on, come on—”

Water soaked through his jeans, his flannel, dragging heavily at his body as he pushed farther out.

“Don’t disturb the water, Sam,” your voice came from a few feet away. Only your head being visible from the depths. 

Sam froze completely.

Beneath the moonlight, your skin seemed almost pearlescent, glowing softly silver beneath droplets of water. Your hair floated around you in dark waves while the lake itself curled gently against your shoulders like it belonged to you. Or perhaps, like you belonged to it.

For a moment, Sam forgot how to breathe.

“What–” was his breathless response. He was sure the exhaustion had gotten to him. This must be a dream, one of the many he’s had with you.

You slowly got closer to him. Drifting slowly, as if the water was carrying you—making way for you.

“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” you said.  

Your voice sounded different now. Still yours, but fuller somehow. As if the lake carried the sound toward him.

Water rippled softly around you as you drifted closer, moonlight following your movements across the surface. He still couldn’t fully see beneath the waterline—only the outline of your shoulders, your collarbones glistening silver, strands of wet hair clinging to your skin.

His chest heaved unevenly.

“What… what are you?”

Pain flickered across your face instantly.

“I wanted to tell you,” you whispered. “I wanted to tell both of you so many times.”

You stopped a few feet away from him. Close enough now that Sam could see how your eyes reflected light strangely beneath the moon, almost luminous in the darkness.

“But I was scared.”

Your fingers disappeared beneath the surface briefly, disturbing the black water around you.

“Hunters don’t exactly react well to things like me.”

Sam opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You gave a tiny, trembling smile that broke his heart immediately.

“I tried so hard to hide it.”

The water shifted again, and this time Sam noticed it.

Something moved beneath the surface behind you.

His brow furrowed faintly as his eyes dropped lower.

The moonlight pierced through the dark water just enough for him to catch the shape of it. A long pearlescent tail, covered in shimmering scales that reflected silver and blue beneath the moonlight, moving slowly beneath the lake.

Sam staggered backward immediately, the motion happening before he could stop it.

Shock crashed visibly across his face as he stumbled toward the shallower water.

His boot slipped against a rock beneath the surface and suddenly he fell backward hard into the lake with a splash.

“Sam!”

You moved toward him instantly, panic flooding your face.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out quickly. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you, I just—”

Sam pushed himself up onto his elbows in the shallow water, breathing hard.

His soaked flannel clung heavily to his skin now as he stared at you like his mind couldn’t fully process what he was seeing.

You stayed several feet away from him now.

“I wanted you to know,” you kept saying softly, voice beginning to shake. “I did, I swear. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

Your tail curled beneath the water anxiously, sending ripples across the lake.

“I tried to be normal.”

The confession came out painfully small.

“I tried so hard.”

Sam’s eyes dropped again involuntarily as more of your tail caught beneath the moonlight.

His eyes scanned every inch of you. From the pearlescent scales to the translucent fins drifting like silk through the dark water. Beautiful enough to make something inside him ache. 

He stopped when he reached your eyes. There's so many things he could’ve said about your eyes, so many things hiding within them. But what stood out to him the most was the clear terror they reflected. You look terrified, not dangerous, and nothing close to monstrous.

“Please say something,” you whispered.

Your voice cracked softly at the edges now.

“I know this is bad, I know this is—”

“You’re beautiful.”

The words slipped out of Sam before he could think.

You froze completely.

Sam stared at you wide-eyed from where he sat half-submerged near the shore, breathing unevenly. 

God, it was true.

Moonlight turned your skin silver. Your eyes glowed softly against the darkness, and beneath the water your tail moved with slow graceful motions. Looking at you, he understood how men died at the hands of sirens. He would gladly do so now, if you’d just ask him to.

Your lips parted slightly.

“You’re not afraid of me?” you asked quietly

Sam swallowed hard, his fingers tightening unconsciously around the silver necklace still clutched in his hand.

Then slowly, carefully, he sat up straighter in the shallow water.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he said quietly.

Your eyes searched his face desperately, as if waiting for the lie hidden somewhere inside it.

Sam shook his head faintly.

“I could never—”

His voice caught slightly on the words.

You stared at him for another heartbeat.

Then suddenly a small, breathless laugh bubbled out of you.

The sound washed over the lake softer than your song had, and Sam felt something tight inside his chest loosen instantly at the sight of your smile.

You drifted closer without even seeming to realize it.

The water carried you gently toward him until you were only inches away, your hands resting carefully against the lakebed near his knees.

Your torso rose partially from the water now.

Moonlight slid across your skin in silver ribbons, droplets clinging to your collarbones and shoulders like scattered pearls. Up close, Sam could see the faint shimmer beneath your skin itself—not glitter, not scales, but something luminous buried underneath you.

Your tail moved slowly beneath the surface behind you, powerful enough that each subtle motion sent ripples through the water around both of you. Yet, you still looked at him like you were waiting to be abandoned.

“You really mean that?” you asked softly.

Sam looked at you for a long moment.

Then he lifted the necklace slightly between his fingers.

“You trusted me with this.”

Your gaze softened immediately.

“Bobby’s,” you admitted quietly. “He gave it to me when I was little. Got it on a hunt, or perhaps went to a witch about it. I forget, really. It helps me not turn whenever I touch water. As long as I have it on, I’m good.” 

You lifted your tail above the water to prove your point. 

A sharp sting passed through Sam’s chest. Of course Bobby knew, why wouldn’t he? But the knowledge of this being something that existed previous to this very moment somehow made something ugly stir in his chest. He wasn’t sure why just yet.

“—yeah! You would not believe the things those fuckers get up to!” your laughter ebbed over the sentence. You found Sam’s disbelief in the lack of dolphin’s good intent highly amusing.

“There is no way dolphins are evil.”

You chuckled and shook your head as your fingers played  with the wet gravel beneath you. “See? This is exactly why they keep getting away with it.”

A grin tugged helplessly at Sam’s mouth.

The two of you had shifted farther onto the shore now, where the wet sand turned cold and packed beneath your hands. Somewhere along the way, exhaustion had disappeared entirely. Your tail stretched behind you, only the translucent fin still submerged beneath the water. Tiny waves lapped softly against it every few seconds, making the pearlescent scales shimmer silver-blue beneath the moon.

Sam tried very hard not to stare. Still, he was failing pretty miserably.

“So you’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that dolphins just… attack other fish for fun?”

“Yes.”

“And they get high?”

“Yes.”

“That can’t be true.”

“It absolutely is true.”

“You’re lying.”

You pointed accusingly at him. “You land people have a wildly inaccurate understanding of marine life.”

Sam laughed quietly under his breath. Although the debate on dolphin morality was highly interesting, his true interest lied in you. He could not stop staring at you, as hard as he tried. He was sure you would be uncomfortable by it, but you had not given any sign of it. Instead, you were smiling and laughing—something he found entrancing. He had not heard you or seen you this happy for a while now. 

“Okay, but this explains a lot.”

Your eyes narrowed immediately. “Uh oh.”

“No, seriously.” He started counting off on his fingers. “You hiss when the water pressure is low. The fact that you always know when storms are coming before anyone else. The shower thing.”

You smiled faintly.

“Dean is always so pissed about that…” you said as you stared up at him.

“Oh god,” Sam chuckled. “Dean. He’s going to freak out.”

You huffed, “yeah probably.”

“He’s gonna ask if you know Aquaman.”

“I do know Aquaman.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

You burst out laughing. “I’m kidding. Though it is notable to mention that you were more willing to believe Aquaman is real than the whole dolphin thing. Also I don’t hiss.”

Sam huffed, a small laugh escaping him as he softly threw sand at you. “Shut up.”

You grinned, sharp and beautiful beneath the moonlight.

For a moment Sam just watched you quietly.

Your hair spilled damp over your shoulders. Your skin still carried that soft pearlescent glow from the lake, and every subtle flick of your tail sent silver ripples across the shoreline.

“Does it hurt?”

Your brows pulled together faintly.

“The transformation, I mean.”

Understanding softened your face immediately.

“Oh.” You glanced toward your tail. “Sometimes.”

Sam frowned.

“When I fight it, mostly.” Your voice quieted a little. “Keeping legs during full moons gets harder the older I get. It’s similar to the ache you feel after exercising, you know?”

He nodded, lost in thought.

“Your voice earlier,” he said carefully.

The change in you was immediate.

Your smile vanished.

Your fingers stopped moving through the gravel.

The lake itself seemed quieter somehow.

Sam noticed the way your shoulders tightened slightly.

“What about it?” you asked softly.

Sam frowned faintly at your tone. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

You looked away from him toward the dark water, moonlight reflecting strangely in your eyes.

“I hate it.”

The confession caught him off guard.

Your fingers curled tightly around the rocks in your palm.

“I love singing,” you admitted quietly. “I always have.”

Your voice softened further. “But I can’t.”

Sam stayed silent.

You swallowed hard before continuing, as a wave rolled gently against your tail. “You heard what it does to people.”

Sam remembered the haze that wrapped around his mind. The way your song had pulled at him like a tide he’d willingly drown inside.

“But it’s like an instinct. It’s something we’re born with, and it’s a part of who we are. Suppressing it…it feels wrong. I just wish I could do it freely.”

Sam stayed quiet for a moment after that. The teasing smile that had lingered on his face softened into something more thoughtful as he watched you absently drag your fingers through the wet gravel beside you. Tiny stones clinked softly against each other with every movement, mixing with the sound of waves rolling onto the shore.

The exhaustion from earlier felt impossibly far away now.

A few hours ago you had both looked wrecked. Sam could barely keep his eyes open back at the motel parking lot, and you had felt like your own skin was suffocating you. But here, beneath the moon and beside the lake, it felt like neither of you could even think about sleep.

Instead, there was this strange restless energy between you both. Something warm and buzzing.

Like being teenagers sneaking out after midnight.

Sam had not felt like this in years. Maybe ever.

There was something strangely intimate about sitting here half-soaked in the middle of the night, talking quietly while the rest of the world slept.

And maybe that was why Sam found himself staring again.

Not at your tail this time, though his eyes still drifted there occasionally with quiet fascination. He was staring at your face. At the way your expression changed when you talked about things you loved, and things you didn't. 

You had always smiled around him. You joked with Dean, rolled your eyes at their arguments, teased Sam whenever he got too serious.

But this was different. This version of you felt unguarded.

Sam leaned back slightly against the sand, arms resting over his bent knees. “So you’ve really never sung around anyone?”

You shook your head. “Not intentionally.”

The lake breeze pushed damp strands of hair across your shoulder. Absentmindedly, you tucked them back as your tail shifted beneath the water.

“When I was little, Bobby used to hum a lot,” you admitted with a small smile. “He figured out pretty quickly that I liked copying sounds.”

Sam’s brows pulled together slightly. “You accidentally sirened Bobby Singer?”

You nodded. At the time it had been a terrifying experience, but now what came to mind was the way Bobby had consoled you after the fact. You couldn’t help but smile. 

“He was working on fixing up a truck or something,” you explained. “And he wasn’t paying attention to me. I wanted to play dolls, so I made him.”

You sighed softly at the memory, though there was no humor in it now. The blankness that had overtaken Bobby’s expression all those years ago still sat wrong in your chest whenever you thought about it.

“I hated realizing what I had done.”

Sam’s smile faded completely.

You stared down at your hands as you spoke, absently brushing sand from your fingertips. “At first I thought he was joking around with me. He just dropped everything and sat down on the floor beside me.” A small crease formed between your brows. “He looked… wrong.”

The waves rolled quietly behind you.

“I remember asking him if he was okay, and he just kept looking at me.”

You let out a shaky breath through your nose. “I got scared and ran.”

Sam glanced toward you again.

“I hid in the utility closet beside the kitchen.” You laughed faintly, embarrassed by it now. “Which was stupid because it was literally the first place Bobby checked.”

Despite himself, Sam smiled a little.

“He found me a few minutes later after whatever effect I’d had on him wore off.” Your gaze softened at the memory. “I thought he was gonna kill me.”

Sam’s expression shifted immediately. “Hey.”

You shrugged lightly, though your shoulders still looked tense. “I didn’t know exactly what I was back then. I just knew I’d done something bad. And monsters were the only ones that did bad things.”

The moonlight painted silver across your skin as you spoke, and Sam found himself looking at you with an ache he couldn’t quite explain.

You had been a child.

A terrified little kid hiding in a closet because you thought the only person you trusted would see you as a monster.

“He didn’t,” Sam said quietly.

Your lips curved faintly. “Of course not.”

You smiled a little more at the memory now.

“He sat on the floor outside the closet door for like an hour trying to convince me to come out.” Your voice softened unconsciously as you mimicked Bobby’s gruff tone. “‘Kid, I ain’t mad. But if you keep hiding in there you’re gonna breathe in enough bleach to kill a horse.’”

Sam laughed softly under his breath.

He could practically hear it in Bobby’s voice already. Gruff and annoyed and unbearably kind beneath all of it.

Sam had spent years around Bobby Singer. He knew the man loved fiercely, even when he tried to hide it behind insults and beer bottles. But now, sitting beside you beneath the moonlight, Sam realized just how terrified Bobby must have been when he found a six-year-old mermaid child and decided to raise her in a world built to kill creatures like you.

And somehow, against all odds, Bobby had managed to teach you kindness instead of fear.

A yawn escaped Sam’s mouth, making you realize just how long you both had been lying there.

The moon had shifted higher in the sky while you talked. The night air had grown colder too, though neither of you seemed particularly bothered by it anymore. Sam’s clothes were still damp from charging into the lake after you, and your tail remained lazily submerged beneath the water, occasionally flicking with the movement of the waves.

You smiled faintly at the sight of his exhausted expression.

“Okay,” you murmured softly. “I think it’s probably best we turn in for the night.”

Sam looked over at you immediately, like the suggestion itself disappointed him.

You pushed yourself up slightly on your elbows. “You can go ahead. I’ll catch up in a moment.”

He was quiet for a second, then he shook his head.

“Not yet.”

Your brows pulled together faintly as you looked up at him.

Sam was already staring back at you.

The teasing expression he had worn earlier was gone now. There was something softer in its place, something almost hesitant.

“Please,” he said quietly. “Just a little longer.”

The sincerity in his voice made warmth spread through your chest before you could stop it.

You smiled. “Okay.”

Relief flickered visibly across his face, subtle enough that he probably did not even realize it himself.

So you stayed.

The shoreline settled back into silence around you both after that, filled only by the hush of waves against the sand and the distant rustle of trees behind you. Sam stretched his legs out in front of him while you leaned your cheek against your folded arms, half turned toward him.

Sleepiness had started creeping back in now that the adrenaline from earlier had faded.

You watched Sam’s profile quietly in the moonlight. The tired shadows beneath his eyes. Damp hair falling over his forehead. His hand still loosely wrapped around the silver necklace you had given him hours ago.

Your necklace.

The sight of it in his hand made something ache softly inside you.

After a moment, you spoke.

“Can you keep it a secret for a little longer?”

Sam glanced down at you. “What?”

“From Dean.” You huffed a quiet laugh through your nose. “I just… I don't want him to freak out yet.”

Sam smiled faintly at that.

Dean Winchester learning he had unknowingly been living with a mermaid for years would probably become the loudest day of everyone’s lives.

“Okay,” he said. “I can do that.”

You relaxed slightly.

“But,” he added.

Your eyes narrowed immediately. “Oh no.”

Sam laughed softly.

“I have one condition.”

You tilted your head. “What’s that?”

For a second he looked oddly nervous asking. “Would you sing to me?”

You stilled.

Sam’s expression shifted almost immediately when he saw your hesitation. “You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “Forget I asked if it makes you uncomfortable, I just—”

“No.” You shook your head gently. “It’s okay.”

He fell silent.

You looked out over the water for a moment, watching moonlight ripple across the surface. Your fingers absentmindedly traced circles into the damp sand while you gathered the courage for it.

Singing had always been complicated, something you loved enough to fear. But Sam was looking at you now with such quiet trust that it made your chest ache. Somehow, for the first time in years, the idea of singing did not feel wrong.

You nodded softly.

“Okay.”

Sam settled back against the sand slowly, his head resting near your side. Close enough that you could hear his breathing over the sound of the lake.

Your tail shifted beneath the water as you looked down at him.

“You sure?”

His eyes were already half closed with exhaustion.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

So you sang.

Barely above the sound of the waves.

Sam felt it immediately.

Warmth spread slowly through his chest as your voice wrapped around him, dissolving every remaining edge of tension inside his body. Exhaustion returned all at once, heavy and comforting now instead of painful.

His eyes slipped shut.

And still your voice continued, threading through the cold night air beneath the moon.

You watched his breathing even out gradually as sleep overtook him there on the shore beside you.

A small smile tugged at your mouth.

Then, carefully, you shifted closer until your shoulder brushed lightly against his.

Birdsong dragged Sam slowly out of sleep.

For a few disorienting seconds he had no idea where he was.

The ground beneath him was uneven and cold, his clothes damp with lake water and morning dew. Sunlight filtered weakly through the trees overhead, flickering gold against his closed eyelids while waves rolled softly nearby.

Then his phone started ringing.

Sam groaned quietly, blinking awake as he fumbled blindly through the sand beside him for the device. Every muscle in his body protested the movement, though nowhere near as badly as they should have after the week you’d had.

His hand finally closed around the phone.

DEAN flashed across the screen.

Sam rubbed a tired hand over his face before answering. “Hello?”

“Dude, where the hell are you?”

Dean’s voice exploded through the speaker loudly enough that Sam immediately pulled the phone away from his ear.

Sam squinted against the morning light and pushed himself up slightly on one elbow. “Good morning to you too.”

“I woke up and you guys were gone,” Dean snapped. “Do you have any idea how creepy it is waking up alone in a motel room?”

At that, Sam instinctively turned his head, and promptly forgot how to speak for a second.

You were curled asleep beside him in the sand, close enough that your arm brushed his side. Your fingers were wrapped softly around the necklace’s silver amulet, whilst the chain was still in Sam’s grasp.

Human again.

Your tail was gone entirely, replaced by bare legs tangled slightly beneath you. Sometime during the night you must have shifted back in your sleep. Your hair spilled across your shoulder in messy waves, still faintly damp from the lake, while morning sunlight painted soft gold across your skin.

You were only wearing your underwear.

Sam’s brain stalled completely for one deeply unfortunate moment.

“…Sam?” Dean’s voice cut back through the phone suspiciously. “Why’d you go quiet?”

Sam blinked hard and immediately looked away.

“Nothing,” he said far too quickly.

You shifted slightly in your sleep beside him, brow furrowing faintly before relaxing again.

Dean groaned through the phone. “There better not be any funny business happening in Baby.”

Despite himself, Sam snorted softly.

“There’s no funny business.”

“Sam.”

“There is zero funny business,” he insisted while quickly tugging off his flannel.

Still half distracted, he leaned over carefully and draped it across you. The oversized fabric settled over your shoulders and legs while you instinctively curled deeper into the warmth without waking.

Something about the sight made Sam’s chest ache strangely.

“And Baby’s fine,” he added distractedly into the phone.

Dean went quiet for a beat.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “There is absolutely funny business happening.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean.”

“I knew it. I leave you alone for one night—”

“We fell asleep outside.”

“Uh huh.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll be back in a minute.”

“You better. If you drown, I’m not salting your corpses—.”

Sam hung up before Dean could keep going.

The shoreline fell quiet again afterward except for the distant sound of birds and the gentle wash of water against the sand.

For a moment Sam simply sat there.

Watching you sleep.

You looked peaceful in a way he had rarely seen before. No tension in your face. No exhaustion dragging at your features. Just soft breathing and sunlight warming your skin beneath his flannel.

Sam smiled faintly to himself.

Dean could wait a little longer.

[prosperousprophet]

sleepyhead ! - sleepy!sam hcs

ft;; sam winchester , gn!reader

dean ver. ◟ moodboard. ◟ masterlist.

contents & disclaimers: puppy dog sam(?), clingy sweetheart sam, not set in any particular season, fluff, intended lowercase, cheesy writing, suggestive themes, not proofread

a/n: i wrote this while listening to this, ive been thinking of this concept since his bday, also this is slightly inspired by a post i saw a while ago but i seriously do not remember what it was called, also this took me hours. sigh

sleepy!sam who hugs you from behind and tucks his face into your shoulder when he's tired

sleepy!sam who is really freaking warm.. making him perfect to nap with! :D

sleepy!sam who loves it when you let him nap with his head on your chest and you play with his hair

sleepy!sam who chronically drools, and is self-conscious of the fact

sleepy!sam who is the most adorable guy when he wakes up

sleepy!sam who (despite being sleepy) either needs 900 mg of caffeine to stay awake or 900 mg of melatonin to stay asleep, there's no in between

when sam wasn't getting up you smacked his ass to get him up and moving and he was pissed at you for the rest of the week.. lol

when sam was sleeping you took a photo of him and when he found it he was so embarrassed :(

sleepy!sam who loves cuddling with you. loves it. he loves laying on you and spooning you especially, but he isn't picky when it comes to how you guys cuddle.

sleepy!sam who gets paranoid that he's just a bit too big for you, especially when he engulfs you with all 6'4 of him. "'m i getting too heavy, baby?" he'd look up at you and ask with his big puppy eyes, and even if he was, you'd shake your head no and tell him he wasn't because how could you say no to him?

sleepy!sam who sleeps face down typically which is so cute because.. because it is idk

das it!!

[worldfullofash]

He’s such a cutie

[aropride]

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Are you now or have you ever been masterlist

Two years ago, Sam lost you.

Now you’re back among the living, granted a second chance by the fallen angel Gadreel.

But there’s one problem: you have no memory of who you are, what happened… or who Sam is.

Prologue - On the night it happens Chapter 1 - The Angel Chapter 2 - Kilgore Chapter 3 - Leaving Chapter 4 - The Wall Chapter 5 - Memories Chapter 6 - Scars Chapter 7 - The Stranger Chapter 8 - Lessons in Storytelling Chapter 9 - Fight or Flight Chapter 10 - Re-orientation Chapter 11 - Days and Days Epilogue

CWs Sam Winchester x reader, Gadreel x reader, angst, romance, memory loss, implied/referenced violence, grief & depression, canon divergent, set in season 9

[worldfullofash]

This was so beautiful

[harker-lees]

half of Sam’s appeal to me is how nice he is. He’s so sweet and gentle when he has every right to be the opposite, he makes himself smaller on purpose to seem non threatening, he speaks in a quiet voice and raises his eyebrows and keeps his hands within view of the person he’s talking to. He’s so nice :(

[satellite-evans]

no harm done with a little fun

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: You love Clark Kent more than anything, which is exactly why you’ll never stop pranking him <3

Word count: 5k+

Warnings: fluff

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Clark swears he knows you.

He knows the way your eyes light up right before you laugh, like you’re holding a secret the world isn’t ready for yet. He knows the way your fingers trace slow, absentminded patterns on his sleeve when you’re relaxed, the soft drag of your nails through the fabric like you’re anchoring yourself to him without even thinking about it. He knows the exact shift in your voice when you’re about to say something sincere, how it softens at the edges, how it wraps around him and settles somewhere deep in his chest.

He knows you.

Or at least, he likes to think he does.

What he hasn’t quite mastered yet, what still manages to catch him completely off guard every single time, is the tone you use right before you absolutely wreck him.

It starts on a quiet evening in his apartment.

The kind of evening Clark treasures more than anything. No emergencies. No rushing. No weight of the world pressing against his shoulders. Just you.

You’re curled up beside him on the couch, your legs draped lazily over his lap like they belong there. Like you belong there. The TV hums softly in the background, some show neither of you have been paying attention to for at least twenty minutes. Clark’s phone is in his hand, but he hasn’t really been reading anything for a while now.

He’s more focused on you.

On the warmth of your legs over his, the steady rise and fall of your breathing, the way your head tilts slightly when you’re comfortable. His hand rests against your calf, thumb brushing slow, absent strokes up and down your skin. It’s automatic, instinctive. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

Comfort. Peace. Domestic bliss.

The kind of quiet he never thought he’d get to have.

Then suddenly, you sit up.

Not casually. Not slowly.

Sharply.

“Oh my God.”

Clark’s entire body reacts before his mind even catches up. His head snaps up, phone forgotten instantly as his attention zeroes in on you.

“What?” he asks, already scanning your face, your posture, the room. “What happened?”

Your eyes are wide.

Too wide.

“You won’t believe this.”

Clark straightens, concern threading into his voice. “Is everything okay?”

He’s already running through possibilities. Did something happen to someone you know? Did you get bad news? Are you hurt? Are you upset?

You lean in closer, lowering your voice like you’re about to reveal something classified.

“Lois is on Tinder.”

Clark freezes.

Actually freezes.

“…what?”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding with absolute certainty. Not a hint of a smile. Not a crack in your composure. “I just saw her profile.”

Clark blinks once. Twice.

His brain tries to catch up.

“I didn’t expect that,” you continue, shaking your head slightly, like you’re genuinely disappointed. “Especially after how much she roasted Jimmy for being on it.”

Clark exhales slowly, leaning back a fraction as he processes this.

“Are you serious?” he asks, still trying to piece it together.

“Mhm.”

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly thrown off. “Wow. I mean… yeah, I didn’t expect that either.”

You hum softly, folding your hands in your lap like this is a completely normal conversation. “Right? Kind of hypocritical.”

“Yeah, I mean…” Clark trails off, brows knitting together.

Something isn’t sitting right.

He stares ahead for a moment, thinking.

Then his eyes narrow.

Slowly.

You see it happening. The exact moment the pieces start clicking into place.

“…hey,” he says carefully.

You remain perfectly still.

“Wait a minute.”

You blink at him, wide-eyed. Innocent. Completely composed.

Clark turns his head toward you fully now, suspicion blooming across his face.

“Why are you on Tinder?”

There it is.

A beat passes.

A single, fragile second where you almost hold it together.

Then you absolutely lose it.

Laughter bursts out of you, uncontrollable and bright as you collapse back into the couch, clutching your stomach. Your legs slide off his lap as you curl into yourself, giggling like you’ve just told the funniest joke in existence.

Clark stares at you in disbelief.

Then groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“You did not.”

“I had to!” you gasp between laughs, kicking your feet slightly as you try to breathe. “Oh my God, your face. You were so concerned!”

“I thought something was wrong!” he protests, though there’s no real bite to it.

“I mean, something is wrong,” you manage, wiping at your eyes. “Lois being on Tinder would be shocking.”

Clark points at you. “You committed to that way too well.”

“I know,” you grin proudly.

“You had the tone and everything. I didn’t even question it at first.”

“That’s because you trust me,” you say sweetly.

“I do trust you,” he says, narrowing his eyes again. “Which is exactly why this is a problem.”

You scoot closer to him again, still smiling, still glowing with satisfaction.

“You loved it.”

“I absolutely did not love it.”

“You loved it a little.”

“I did not love it at all.”

But his mouth betrays him, the corner of it twitching upward no matter how hard he tries to fight it.

You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder like nothing happened, like you didn’t just emotionally ambush him.

“I think you’re just impressed,” you murmur.

Clark huffs softly, shaking his head, but his arm comes around you anyway. Instinct. Always instinct.

“You’re impossible,” he says, quieter now.

“And yet,” you tilt your head up to look at him, eyes soft and fond, “you’re obsessed with me.”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

“Yeah,” he admits.

Your smile softens.

For a moment, it’s just that again. The quiet. The warmth. The easy, steady rhythm of being together.

Clark glances down at you, studying your face like he’s memorizing it all over again.

“I really thought you were serious,” he says after a moment.

“I know,” you grin.

“That’s concerning.”

“You’ll recover.”

He shakes his head, but his thumb starts tracing slow patterns against your arm now, mirroring what you always do to him.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You hum contentedly, closing your eyes as you settle deeper into him.

“I know.”

The next one happens at a restaurant.

Clark had been looking forward to this all week.

Not in a casual, passing way, but in the quiet, steady way he looks forward to things that matter. He’d circled the evening in his head days ago. No deadlines. No late nights at the office. No emergencies pulling him away mid-conversation. Just you, across from him, warm lighting, good food, and the kind of uninterrupted time he never seems to get enough of.

A simple date.

Something normal.

Something safe.

He should have known better.

The restaurant is cozy, softly lit, the low murmur of conversation blending with clinking glasses and distant laughter. You’re seated across from him in a booth, your foot nudging his lightly under the table every now and then just to remind him you’re there.

Not that he needs reminding.

He’s still smiling at something you said five minutes ago.

“You’re staring again,” you point out, not even looking up from the menu.

“I’m not staring,” Clark replies immediately.

“You are,” you say, flipping a page. “You’ve been staring.”

“I’m listening.”

“You can listen without staring like I just invented something.”

Clark huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but he doesn’t deny it again.

Because he is staring.

Because it’s you.

The waitress approaches, all polite smiles and practiced ease.

“Hi there, can I get you started with something to drink?”

Clark orders first, something simple. You follow, cheerful and easy, thanking her with that bright tone that always seems to make people soften around you.

Menus shift. Decisions are made.

Clark feels relaxed.

Grounded.

Happy.

The waitress returns with the drinks, pen poised over her notepad.

“Ready to order?”

Clark nods. “Yeah, I’ll have the grilled chicken with the—”

He finishes his order without issue. Smooth. Normal. Exactly how he imagined tonight would go.

Then she turns to you.

“And for you?”

You hesitate.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

Your eyes flick to Clark.

Then back to her.

“Um…”

Clark notices immediately.

There’s a slight shift in your posture, a softness in your voice that wasn’t there a second ago.

“…Clark, is it okay if I don’t get the salad this time?”

Clark blinks.

“…what?”

There’s a brief silence.

The kind that stretches just a little too long.

You fidget slightly with the edge of the menu. “I just… I want something else today.”

Your voice is quieter now. Almost unsure.

Clark’s brain short-circuits.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, completely thrown.

The waitress’s smile flickers. Not gone, but… altered.

“Sweetie,” she says gently, eyes shifting to you, “you can order whatever you want.”

Clark feels his stomach drop.

Oh no.

No, no, no, no.

His entire body goes rigid, posture snapping upright as panic sets in.

“No,” he says quickly, hands coming up like he’s physically trying to stop the situation from escalating. “No, I don’t— I never tell her what to eat. Ever.”

The waitress looks at him.

Not aggressively.

But not neutrally either.

Clark feels like he’s under a spotlight.

“She can get anything she wants,” he continues, voice slightly too fast now. “Literally anything. I have never once—”

You glance at him again, eyes soft, uncertain.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

Clark nearly chokes.

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Of course I’m sure. Please order whatever you want.”

There’s a beat.

You nod slowly, like you’re processing his permission.

Then you turn back to the waitress, your entire demeanor shifting in an instant.

“I’ll have the steak,” you say brightly.

Clark freezes.

The waitress nods. “Great choice, honey.”

But she gives Clark a look.

A look.

Clark wants to disappear.

Physically.

Instantly.

Evaporate into the booth.

“Thank you,” you add sweetly, handing the menu back like nothing just happened.

The waitress walks away.

Clark stays completely still.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t breathe.

You last exactly two seconds.

Then you break.

Laughter explodes out of you, uncontrollable and loud as you double over slightly, covering your mouth but not nearly enough to hide it.

Clark slowly turns his head toward you.

Betrayed.

Utterly betrayed.

“You set me up.”

“I’m sorry,” you wheeze, shaking your head as you try to breathe. “I’m so sorry, I couldn’t— your face—”

“My face?” he repeats, incredulous.

“You looked terrified!”

“I was terrified,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “She was about to call someone.”

“She was not going to call someone.”

“She gave me a look.”

You grin. “She did give you a look.”

“That was not a normal look.”

“It was such a good look,” you say, barely holding it together again.

Clark groans, leaning back against the booth, one hand covering his eyes.

“I thought I was about to be reported.”

“I really thought you were going to stand up and make a speech,” you admit, still laughing. “Like, ‘I would never control my girlfriend’s dietary choices—’”

“I was preparing one,” he says, dead serious.

That only makes you laugh harder.

“Oh my God, I love you.”

The words slip out between giggles, soft and genuine despite everything.

Clark exhales slowly, lowering his hand and looking at you.

Really looking at you.

Your eyes are bright. Your smile is wide. You’re still leaning toward him, warmth and mischief and affection all tangled together in one person.

He shakes his head, but there’s no real frustration left.

Just… fond exasperation.

“You are unbelievable.”

You reach across the table, sliding your hand into his.

His instinct kicks in immediately, fingers curling around yours without hesitation.

“I had to,” you say, softer now, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “You’re too easy.”

“I am not easy.”

“You are,” you insist. “You care too much.”

Clark pauses at that.

Because… he does.

About you especially.

“I just didn’t want her to think—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head.

“I know,” you say gently.

Your thumb keeps moving against his skin, slower now. Softer.

“I know you would never actually do that.”

Clark’s grip tightens slightly, grounding himself in the reassurance.

“I wouldn’t,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

There’s a small moment of stillness.

A reset.

Then you tilt your head, smile creeping back in.

“…but you have to admit, it was a really good prank.”

Clark stares at you.

Long and hard.

Then sighs.

“…it was effective.”

You beam.

“That’s not the same as good.”

“It is to me.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh despite himself.

“You’re a menace.”

You squeeze his hand, leaning forward just a little more.

“And you love me.”

Clark doesn’t even try to deny it.

“I do. So much.”

And somehow, even after being completely set up, mildly humiliated, and emotionally ambushed in the middle of a restaurant…

He still wouldn’t trade this.

Wouldn’t trade you.

Not for anything.

The drive-thru incident is… different.

This time, you’re quiet.

Too quiet.

And Clark, unfortunately for him, is relaxed.

It’s late. The city is calmer, the roads less crowded, streetlights stretching in long golden lines ahead of you. There’s something soft about the night, something that settles into his bones after a long day. He’s sunk comfortably into the passenger seat, one arm resting along the center console, his fingers just barely brushing yours.

You’re driving.

One hand on the wheel, the other occasionally tapping lightly against it in rhythm with whatever song is playing softly through the speakers. You look good like this. Focused, calm, completely at ease.

Clark glances at you, then away, then back again.

He does that a lot.

“You’re staring again,” you murmur, eyes still on the road.

“I’m not staring,” he replies automatically.

“You are.”

“I’m observing.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s worse.”

Clark smiles to himself, turning his head slightly toward the window, but his hand shifts just enough so his fingers can properly lace with yours.

Comfort.

Easy.

Safe.

You pull into the drive-thru, tires crunching softly over the pavement as you roll up to the menu board.

“Okay,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “What do you want?”

“Just a black coffee,” Clark answers. “You?”

“Caramel latte.”

“Good choice.”

“I know,” you grin.

There’s a brief pause as you scan the menu anyway, like you’re considering changing your mind, even though you both know you won’t.

Then you pull forward to the speaker.

A crackle.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

Your voice is bright. Effortless.

“Hi! Can I get a medium caramel latte, please?”

Clark listens, half-focused, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of your hand.

Then, without hesitation, without even a flicker of warning, you add:

“And my husband would like a black coffee.”

Clark stops breathing.

Not metaphorically.

Not dramatically.

Actually stops.

Everything in him just… halts.

His brain doesn’t process it right away. It just echoes.

My husband.

My husband.

The employee’s voice cuts through the silence like nothing happened.

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s all, thank you,” you reply sweetly.

“Alright, pull forward.”

“Thank you!”

You drive forward.

Calm. Composed. Completely normal.

Like you didn’t just drop something life-altering into the air between you.

Clark sits there.

Silent.

Still.

You don’t look at him.

Not yet.

You keep your eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, lips pressed together just enough to keep from smiling.

You don’t say anything.

You just wait.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

“…husband?” Clark finally says.

His voice is quieter than usual.

Not shocked.

Not panicked.

Just… careful.

You glance at him briefly, like you don’t understand the question. “Hm?”

“You said husband.”

You hum lightly, like you’re thinking about it.

“Oh,” you shrug, casual as anything. “Did I?”

Clark turns his head fully toward you now.

You can feel it. The weight of his gaze, steady and searching.

“…you did.”

There’s something in his voice.

Something softer than you expected.

You finally look at him properly.

And that’s when it hits you.

He’s not flustered.

He’s not embarrassed.

He’s not even trying to correct you.

He just looks… stunned.

Quietly.

Deeply.

Stunned.

Like you handed him something fragile and he’s still figuring out how to hold it.

“You didn’t seem to hate it,” you say, your tone gentler now, the teasing softened around the edges.

Clark lets out a small breath, almost like a laugh, shaking his head slightly as he looks down for a second.

“I didn’t,” he admits.

And he means it.

There’s no hesitation.

No deflection.

Just honesty.

Your chest warms instantly, something soft and blooming spreading through you in a way you didn’t fully anticipate when you started this.

You swallow slightly, fingers tightening just a bit around the steering wheel.

“Oh,” you murmur.

Clark glances back at you, something quieter settling into his expression now.

He doesn’t make a big deal out of it.

Doesn’t push.

Doesn’t tease you back.

He just reaches over.

Finds your hand again.

His fingers slide between yours, warm and steady, like they always are. But this time, his thumb presses a little more firmly against your skin. Not absentminded.

Intentional.

Grounding.

Like he’s holding onto the feeling.

Like he doesn’t want it to slip away.

Neither of you say anything else.

You pull up to the window, pay, take the drinks. Routine. Normal.

But something has shifted.

Not in a heavy way.

Not in a way that demands a conversation right now.

Just… something soft.

Something real.

As you pull back onto the road, Clark is still holding your hand.

Still tracing slow, thoughtful patterns against your skin.

You don’t prank him again for the rest of the drive.

Not because you couldn’t.

But because some moments aren’t meant to be laughed through.

Some moments are meant to be held onto.

And this one?

This one stays.

Of course, you make up for that later.

Not intentionally, at first.

It starts as a normal evening. Or at least, what counts as normal for the two of you. Clark is at your place this time, having shown up a little later than planned, tie slightly loosened, sleeves already rolled up like he belongs there. Like this is just as much his space as it is yours.

You hear the sink running before you see him, the quiet rush of water as he washes his hands. There’s something so domestic about it that it makes your chest ache a little if you think about it too long.

So you don’t.

Instead, you focus on the plates in front of you.

One noticeably fuller than the other.

You bite back a smile.

“Dinner smells amazing,” Clark calls from the kitchen, voice warm and genuine in that way that always makes it sound like he means it more than anyone else could.

“Thank you,” you call back, unable to keep the brightness out of your voice.

There’s the sound of the faucet turning off, a pause, then footsteps. Familiar. Steady. Approaching.

Clark appears in the doorway a second later, hair slightly damp at the temples, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms. He looks relaxed. Comfortable. His eyes soften the second they land on you.

“Hey,” he says, quieter now.

“Hi,” you smile.

He doesn’t even think about it. Just crosses the space between you, one hand coming to rest lightly against the back of your chair as he leans down and presses a quick, soft kiss to your lips.

It lingers for half a second longer than necessary.

It always does.

“Thank you for cooking,” he murmurs against you.

“Of course.”

He pulls back, giving you one last look before moving to sit across from you.

Everything is easy.

Familiar.

Safe.

Then he looks at the plates.

And immediately frowns.

It’s subtle at first. Just a slight dip in his brows, a pause as his eyes move from his plate… to yours… and back again.

Then it deepens.

“Why is yours smaller?”

You blink, like you hadn’t noticed.

“Oh,” you say lightly, glancing down at your plate. “I accidentally didn’t make enough.”

Clark doesn’t even pause.

Doesn’t question it.

Doesn’t hesitate.

He reaches for his plate immediately, already pushing it toward you.

“Here, take mine.”

You put your hands up quickly, shaking your head. “No, no, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he says, matter-of-fact, already starting to divide the food between the two plates.

“Clark—”

“I’m not that hungry anyway.”

“You haven’t eaten all day,” you point out.

“I’ll be fine.”

There’s no drama in his voice. No performance. No attempt to make himself sound noble.

It’s just… simple.

Obvious to him.

You watch him as he carefully shifts portions from his plate to yours, making sure you have more. Not equal.

More.

He’s not even looking at you anymore, fully focused on the task like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like of course this is how it should be.

Like there was never another option.

Your chest tightens.

That soft, ridiculous feeling blooming again, the one that always sneaks up on you when he does things like this. Quiet things. Unnoticed things. The kind no one else sees.

But you do.

You see all of it.

“You’re too good,” you mumble before you can stop yourself.

Clark glances up, pausing mid-motion. “What?”

You shake your head quickly, looking down at your plate. “Nothing.”

He studies you for a second, like he’s trying to read something in your expression, but you keep your gaze carefully lowered, focusing on the food instead.

He doesn’t push.

He never pushes.

Instead, he just finishes adjusting the plates, then nudges yours a little closer to you.

“There,” he says softly. “That’s better.”

You swallow.

“Clark…”

“Yeah?”

You hesitate.

Because this was supposed to be a prank.

Another harmless moment to see how he’d react.

Something light.

Something funny.

But now it feels… different.

Now it feels like you’ve been handed something you didn’t quite prepare yourself for.

“I didn’t actually mess up the portions,” you admit quietly.

Clark blinks.

“What?”

“I made them like that on purpose,” you say, finally looking up at him. “I just wanted to see what you’d do.”

There’s a brief pause.

You brace yourself for it.

The realization. The mild exasperation. Maybe a sigh.

Instead, Clark just… leans back slightly.

Processes.

Then looks at you again.

“That’s what this was?” he asks.

You nod, a little sheepish now. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

Then, to your surprise, he slides his plate back toward himself.

Not all the way.

Just enough to even things out again.

“You could’ve just asked,” he says gently.

“I know,” you admit.

He tilts his head slightly. “You already know I’d share with you.”

“I do,” you say softly.

There’s something quiet in your voice now.

Something real.

Clark watches you for a moment longer, something warm settling into his expression.

Then he reaches across the table, his hand finding yours like it always does.

“You don’t have to test that,” he says.

It’s not a scolding.

Not even close.

Just… reassurance.

Steady. Certain.

“I’m always going to make sure you’re okay.”

Your throat tightens just a little.

“I know,” you whisper.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and grounding.

“Good.”

You let out a small breath, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of you.

Then, because you’re still you, you tilt your head slightly, a hint of your usual mischief returning.

“…so you’re saying the prank worked.”

Clark exhales, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself.

“You’re unbelievable.”

You smile, squeezing his hand.

“And you love me.”

“I do,” he says, without hesitation.

Then he nudges your plate toward you again, softer this time.

“Now eat,” he adds. “Before it gets cold.”

You laugh quietly, picking up your fork.

And even though this one didn’t end in loud laughter or dramatic reactions…

You don’t feel like you lost.

Not when it ends like this.

Not when it’s him.

You’re both in his bathroom, standing side by side in front of the mirror, soft yellow light spilling over both of you. It’s late. Later than either of you planned.

Clark looks like he should've been in bed 2 hours ago.

He’s half-asleep, leaning slightly against the counter, one hand braced beside the sink while the other lazily moves his toothbrush. His glasses are off, resting somewhere behind you, and without them, he looks even softer. Less guarded. More… yours.

You glance at him through the mirror.

He looks peaceful.

Relaxed.

Defenseless.

Perfect.

You rinse your mouth, spit, and wipe the corner of your lips with the back of your hand.

Then you tilt your head slightly.

“Clark?”

“Mm?” he hums around his toothbrush, not even looking at you yet.

There’s your opening.

You watch him for a second longer, just to really take in how unsuspecting he is.

“I think I might be in love with someone else.”

Clark freezes.

Completely.

The motion of his hand stops mid-brush.

Slowly, very slowly, he turns his head toward you.

Toothbrush still in his mouth.

“…what?” he mumbles, foam making the word clumsy and quiet.

You don’t laugh.

Not yet.

Instead, you turn slightly toward him, leaning your hip against the counter like you’re about to confess something serious.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you continue, voice softer now. Thoughtful. Careful.

Clark immediately pulls the toothbrush out of his mouth, staring at you like he’s trying to figure out if he misheard.

“What do you mean you didn’t mean for it to happen?” he asks, blinking rapidly, sleep completely gone now.

You shrug slightly, eyes dropping like you’re almost shy about it.

“It just… did.”

Clark stares at you.

You can see the exact moment his brain starts racing. Trying to stay calm. Trying not to jump to conclusions. Trying to be reasonable.

“Okay,” he says slowly, carefully setting his toothbrush down on the counter. “Who?”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

You’re really committing now.

“Well…” you start, dragging it out just enough.

Clark’s hands come to rest on the counter, gripping the edge slightly.

“You can tell me,” he says, voice steady but softer now. “I just… I want to understand.”

Your chest tightens just a little at that.

Because of course he says that.

Of course his first instinct is to understand.

You look back up at him.

“He’s…” you pause, like you’re searching for the right words.

Clark leans in just slightly.

“He’s kind,” you say.

Clark’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Kind,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Like… really kind. The kind of person who helps people without thinking twice about it.”

Clark swallows.

“Okay,” he says again, quieter this time.

“And he’s strong,” you continue, eyes drifting like you’re picturing it. “Stronger than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Clark lets out a small breath through his nose.

“…right.”

“And he’s always there when people need him,” you add. “Like… always. No matter what.”

Clark looks down for a second, then back up at you.

There’s something flickering in his expression now.

Confusion.

Hurt.

But also something else.

Something familiar.

“And he makes me feel safe,” you say softly.

That one lands.

You see it.

Clark’s shoulders drop just a fraction, like something in him is bracing.

“…does he?” he asks quietly.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

Clark looks at you, really looks at you, searching your face like he’s trying to find something he’s missing.

“Do I… know him?” he asks.

You hum, pretending to think.

“I mean… kind of.”

Clark huffs a quiet, disbelieving breath.

“Kind of?” he repeats.

“Well,” you shrug, fighting a smile now, “you see him around.”

Clark’s brows pull together.

“I see him around?”

“Mhm.”

Another pause.

Then, slowly…

very slowly…

something clicks.

Clark’s eyes narrow just slightly.

“You see him… around,” he repeats, more to himself this time.

You stay perfectly still.

Innocent.

Patient.

Waiting.

Clark studies you.

Then he studies your expression.

Then he leans back just a little, crossing his arms.

“…is he tall?” he asks.

You blink, like the question surprises you.

“Very.”

Clark exhales.

“Of course he is.”

“And handsome,” you add, completely unhelpful.

Clark lets out a quiet, humorless laugh.

“Right. Naturally.”

“And he wears this… blue suit,” you continue, unable to help the small smile tugging at your lips now. “With a cape.”

Clark closes his eyes.

Just for a second.

Then opens them again, looking at you with a mix of disbelief and something dangerously close to amusement.

“…a cape.”

“Mhm.”

“And let me guess,” he says, voice flattening slightly, “he flies.”

You light up.

“Yes!”

Clark stares at you.

Silence stretches between you for exactly half a second before realization fully settles in.

“…you’re talking about Superman.”

You break instantly.

Laughter spills out of you as you double over slightly, grabbing onto the counter for support.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp. “I tried to keep it together, I really did—”

Clark just looks at you.

Then shakes his head, reaching for his toothbrush again like he needs something to ground himself.

“You are unbelievable,” he mutters.

“I had you!” you insist between laughs.

“You did not have me.”

“I did for a second!” You grin, leaning closer to him again, resting your head lightly against his shoulder.

“To be fair,” you murmur, “you should be flattered. I have great taste.”

Clark exhales slowly, but you can feel the tension leaving him now, replaced by something softer.

Something fond.

“…you’re ridiculous,” he says.

“And you love me.”

He glances down at you, lips twitching despite himself.

“I do.”

You tilt your head up, smiling at him, the teasing fading into something gentler.

“With you,” you say quietly.

Clark blinks. “What?”

“I’m in love with you,” you clarify, softer now. “So much.”

The words land differently this time.

No trick.

No twist.

Just truth.

Clark studies your face for a moment, like he’s making sure there isn’t another layer to it.

When he realizes there isn’t, something in his expression shifts.

He pulls the toothbrush out of his mouth again, sighing as he sets it aside.

“One day,” he says, though there’s no real conviction behind it, “I’m going to stop reacting.”

You smile, already knowing the answer.

“You won’t.”

He shakes his head slightly.

“…no,” he admits.

You lean into him fully now, resting your head against his shoulder, your hand coming up to curl lightly into his shirt.

“I love you,” you say softly.

Clark doesn’t hesitate.

He presses a gentle kiss to your hair, lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

“I love you too.”

And even though he knows you better than anyone…

Knows your patterns, your tells, your tricks…

He still falls for it.

Every single time.

Just like you planned.

taglist : @mollymal @kristne13 @sunlightkent @clarkswhore-jpeg @fire-joestar

[kissesfrommercuryyy]

~~ Drunk, Dazed, And Oh, So Sorry ~~

Summary: After a night out with his older brother at the bar, Sam comes home completely out of it.

Warnings: Fluff, drunken behavior, mild jealousy (staring at other women), endless apologies, ambiguous relationship, shared shower (non-sexual), cuddles.

reblogging is super helpful!!!

The bunker door didn't open so much as it ricocheted off the stone wall with a thunderous CRACK.

You flinched on the library couch, the ancient lore book in your lap forgotten. You’d been dozing off, waiting for the boys to come back from their "simple recon mission" that Dean had promised would take two hours. That was seven hours ago.

And losing.

"Sam, for the love of God, it's a doorframe, not a finishing line," Dean's voice drawled, equal parts exhausted and amused.

"I know it's not a finish line," came the slurred, deep rumble of Sam Winchester. "It's… wood. Vertical wood. Tall wood. Finish lines are like sashes or something..."

You set the book aside and padded toward the source of the noise. The sight that greeted you in the war room made you stop dead.

Dean was propping up his younger brother, who looked less like a formidable 6'4" hunter and more like a giraffe learning to roller-skate. Sam’s flannel was untucked and hanging off one shoulder, his hair was a wild, tangled mess, and his eyes were glassy, unfocused pools of hazel. He was smiling, a dopey, uncharacteristically loose grin that immediately made your stomach tighten.

"Oh, boy," you breathed.

Dean’s head snapped up. His eyes met yours, and a wave of relief washed over his features. "Thank God. Here." Without ceremony, he shoved Sam's weight toward you. "He's your problem now."

Sam stumbled, his large hands reaching out and landing heavily on your shoulders to steady himself. He blinked down at you, his smile widening. "Hey," he whispered, as if sharing a state secret. "You're real."

"I am," you confirmed, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him upright. He was a furnace, radiating whiskey heat.

"Dean, what happened? I thought it was a dry recon?"

Dean was already halfway to the kitchen, rubbing his own temples. "It was. Until the demon we were tracking decided to skip town and a waitress at the bar we were staking out decided Sam looked like a lost puppy she needed to buy a drink for. Then he bought her one back. Then three. Then a biker challenged him to a shot contest because he was 'too pretty.'" Dean grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. "Sam won. Mostly. He only puked once, behind the dumpster. Classy."

A low, pained groan rumbled from Sam’s chest. He pulled away from you slightly, only to lean his forehead against the top of your head. "She smelled like flowers," he mumbled into your hair.

Your heart did an annoying little flip-flop. "The waitress?"

"No," Sam said, his voice thick. "You. Always you." He pulled back just enough to squint at your face and hold it with both of his hands. "Are you mad? You look mad. Your nose is doing that thing."

"My nose doesn't do a thing."

"Does too. It scrunches." He brought a clumsy, giant finger up to tap the tip of your nose. "Boop."

Dean made a gagging noise from the kitchen. "I'm going to bed." He disappeared down the hall, leaving you alone with the human equivalent of a tipsy redwood.

"Sam," you sighed, guiding him toward the bathroom hallway. "Let's get you some water and then to bed."

But Sam dug his heels in, the rubber soles of his boots squeaking on the metal floor. "No. No, no, no. I have to say something first."

"You can say it sitting down."

"I have to say it standing," he insisted, trying to straighten up to his full height, which only made him wobble more. He grabbed the edge of the war room table for support. "I'm sorry."

You blinked. "For what?"

"For…" He gestured vaguely at himself, then at you, then at the door. "For the bar. For the waitress." His face crumpled into an expression of pure, tragic guilt. "I looked at her."

This again. You fought a smile. "Sam, you were undercover. It's okay to look at people."

"It's not!" he cried, his voice cracking. "Her eyes were…blue. Like water. But they weren't brown like yours." He leaned forward conspiratorially, almost toppling you both over. "I tried to find the brown. In hers. She didn't have any. Yours are brown. Did you know that? They're like… tiny little chocolate chips. It's yummy."

Your heart was officially mush. "That's… really sweet, Sam. But you're drunk."

"I'm sorry!" he repeated, louder this time. He fumbled for your hands, engulfing them in his clammy, warm palms. "I'm sorry I looked at her. I'm sorry I drank her whiskey. It was cheap. Canadian. Not as smooth as your…" he paused, searching for the word, "…essence."

"My essence?"

"It's smooth," he confirmed with a solemn nod. "And I'm sorry I puked. Dean said it was 'unprofessional.' But the biker had a shaved head and he was mean. He called Dean a 'salted pretzel.' I couldn't let that stand."

A laugh finally escaped you. "That's right, because he's NOT a pretzel. You defended Dean's honor."

"I would die for Dean's honor," Sam said, dead serious. Then his face shifted again, this time into something softer, more vulnerable. He squeezed your hands. "But I'd live for yours 'cause I'd miss you."

The air between you thinned. He was swaying, but his gaze, despite the blur of alcohol, was locked on yours with an intensity that stole your breath.

"Okay, Romeo," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "Shower first. Confessions later."

Getting Sam Winchester into the shower was a logistical nightmare comparable to planning a bank heist. He was all long limbs, uncoordinated apologies, and clothing that seemed to have multiplied.

"I can do it," he mumbled, fumbling with the buttons on his flannel. His fingers kept missing. "See? Fine. Totally… captain of this ship."

"You're the Titanic," you said, batting his hands away and undoing the buttons yourself. "And you're hitting the iceberg."

His chest was bare underneath, all smooth, warm skin and freckles. He shivered when your knuckles brushed his stomach as you pushed the flannel off his shoulders.

"Cold," he murmured, but he didn't pull away. He just watched you, his head tilted.

You turned on the water, letting it heat up. "Pants next, Winchester. Can you manage, or do you need a permission slip?"

He huffed a laugh that turned into a yawn. "You're funny when you're bossy." He unbuckled his belt, but his movements were jerky. You turned your back to give him privacy, listening to the clink of the belt buckle, the rustle of denim, and then a loud thump as he apparently fell against the wall.

"Sam?"

"I'm okay!" came the muffled reply. "The wall just… moved."

You sighed, grabbed a towel, and turned back around. He was down to his boxers, leaning against the tiled wall with his eyes closed. You took his elbow and guided him toward the steaming spray.

"Get in."

"Come with me."

The words were soft, slurred, and utterly devoid of his usual guarded hesitation. Your breath caught.

"Sam…"

"Please?" He opened one eye, a sliver of pleading hazel. "I'm sorry. I know that's… but I'm cold. And you're warm. And I won't do anything. I just… I want you there. So I don't float away."

You should have said no. You should have shoved him in, thrown a towel at him, and gone to bed. But the look on his face—so open, so honest, so desperately lonely beneath the drunken haze—undid you.

"Fine," you whispered. "But if you throw up on me, I'm telling Dean you cried during The Notebook."

"I didn't cry," he lied, as you toed off your shoes and stepped out of your sweatpants and shirt, leaving you in a tank top and underwear. "I had an allergic reaction to the… romance."

You stepped into the shower first, pulling him in after you. The hot water immediately soaked your tank top, plastering it to your skin. Sam groaned, a low, appreciative sound, as the heat hit his shoulders. He sagged, his hands coming up to brace himself on the tile on either side of your head, caging you in.

His body was a wall of wet heat, and you were suddenly, acutely aware of every inch of space between you. Which was none.

"See?" he mumbled, his chin coming to rest on top of your head. "Better. You're a genius. Have I told you you're a genius?"

"Once or twice."

"I'm sorry I didn't say it more."

You reached for the shampoo, squirting a dollop into your palm. "Head down, Sasquatch."

He obeyed, bowing his head so you could reach. You worked the suds through his long, damp hair, your fingernails gently scraping his scalp. He made a sound that was practically a purr, his whole body relaxing against yours.

"You didn't have to wear your shirt." Sam mumbled. "I wasn't going to stare and now it's ruined." You rolled your eyes as you washed his hair. "You're a man. I doubt, sober or not, you'd stare."

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, his breath warm against your wet hair.

"For what now? Being a man?"

"For not telling you." His voice was quieter, the slur fading a little, replaced by a raw, aching sincerity. "For all the times I looked but didn't say. For the waitress. For every woman who wasn't you. I'm sorry I'm such a coward when I'm sober."

Your hands stilled in his hair. "Sam…"

"I love you," he said, the words tumbling out like water over rocks. "I think I've loved you since you stole the last piece of pie from Dean's plate and didn't even flinch when he yelled. You have no survival instinct. It's adorable. And terrifying. And I love you."

You pulled back, tilting his face down so you could look at him. Water streamed down his face, clinging to his lashes. He looked like a drowned, lovesick angel.

"You're drunk," you said, but this time it came out like a prayer.

He shook his head, a small, decisive movement. "I'm honest. There's a difference." He lifted one hand from the wall, his wet fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "You don't have to say it back. Just… don't go. Stay here. In the water. With me. Please?"

You hesitated and moved your hands away from his hair.

"Okay," you whispered, as if the rest of the world was eavesdropping and you had an important secret. "I'll stay."

An hour later, the bunker was silent. You’d managed to wrangle him out of the shower, dry him off, and stuff him into a pair of soft gray sweatpants and a worn cotton t-shirt. He was a boneless, sleepy giant, sprawled across his bed, his hair still damp and curling at the ends.

You were trying to leave. You really were. You'd tucked the blanket around him, placed a glass of water and two aspirins on the nightstand, and had one foot on the floor when his arm snaked out and wrapped around your waist.

"No," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "Contract says cuddles."

"There was no contract."

"Verbal contract," he argued.