fernsplace

[fernsplace]

taglist!

i've been wanting to get more integrated into the spn fandom on tumblr, so i've created a taglist which you can find here ⤑ TAGLIST! don't be shy & feel free to message me! i'm looking to make some more spn friends!

i'm super super glad that a lot of you have been enjoying my fics :) thank u sooooo much!

my preacher's daughter series is almost complete & will be out soon!!!

me bc people like my fics:

[fernsplace]

took a break from my preacher’s daughter fic to write samandy :)

CHAMPY! *ೃ༄

summary: the hunters decide to take short break from hunting. with nothing to do, sam & his boyfriend take a trip to a beach in vermont. pairing: sam winchester x andy gallagher (samandy) word ct: 1.2k content: sam and andy smoke weed by the lake. things get silly. mention of dean and cas. sam and andy being adorable. note: i originally wrote this as a part of the summer snapshot challenge by @ambiguous-avery , but i got carried away & strayed away from the requirements haha. (i swear i'll try again) butttt so many good works have come out of it so far, and i wanna give credit where credit is due! any1 who reads this should read the works that come out of this challenge because they're all bangers!!!!

the sky was a dark grey, but unthreatening. a calm breeze made the trees wave. like they were greeting those who entered the mountain state.

a particularly brutal vampire nest upstate forced the hunters out. sam, dean, nor cas wanted anything to do with monsters at the moment. so, when dean mentioned taking a short break, sam felt relief wash over his body.

dean and cas had been wanting to go to maine. cas had said something about a state park—a location characterized by peace and simplicity, he explained. dean on the other hand, had a much less poetic reason for his choice. he wanted to go for the food.

sam, left to his own devices—and without a car—stayed impatiently in a rundown motel for a night. one he had dean drop him off at.

“oh, c’mon, sammy. reading the lore is not a vacation.” dean complained through the passenger window of baby. sam grumbled to himself. of course he knew that, but what else did he have to do?

he was in god-knows-where vermont. no car. no cash. and his boyfriend was somewhere in oklahoma.

—

the next morning, sam stared at himself in the mirror. toothbrush in his mouth, wondering what the hell he was doing. he hadn’t heard from andy in a week. this was typical, and not entirely worrying, but he missed him.

some vacation this was. he got a rare break from hunting, but had nothing better to do, cooped up in a rickety old motel room that reeked of mildew.

just when sam was about to send a fourth i miss you text, the familiar sound of a van rattled outside his door. eyes wide and eager, he spit into the sink and grabbed his duffle.

—

andy leaned out the driver's window, sunglasses crooked, hair a mess, grin wide.

“get in, loser. we’re going to the beach!” he called.

sam rolled his eyes, but the ache in his chest resolved. he slid into the passenger seat, duffel thudding to the floor.

“how’d you know where to find me?”

sam reached his hand across the console, lacing his fingers with andy’s. he brushed his thumb over the boy’s knuckles. his skin was soft and tender.

“i have your location, idiot.” he teased, shifting the gear into drive. the van coughed and lurched down the road like it might give up at any moment.

—

they drove west, winding through backroads lined with trees. the air smelled like wet bark and pine needles, while the sky maintained its low grey color.

andy hummed along to his favorite songs. mostly songs that sam didn’t know, but that was okay with him.

—

the breeze picked up as they came closer to lake champlain. the water was dark and seemingly endless. the kind of water that made legends believable.

“i read somewhere that there was a recent sighting of champy.” andy said, arms drumming the steering wheel as they hit a stop sign.

sam glanced out the window. the lake stretched for miles, and the distant new york shoreline was blurred.

“i’m not sure i buy that he’s real.” he spoke.

andy turned to him, eyebrows furrowed. “you hunt monsters for a living. you do know that, right?”

sam smiled fondly. “I’m just saying—if cryptids were real, i feel like we would’ve at least seen bigfoot by now,” he reasoned, “a lot more sightings of him.”

andy debated it for a moment. “i say, we find out for ourselves.” he reached behind sam’s seat, searching for something as he steered with his other hand. he returned with a digital camera. sam gave a breathy laugh, “eyes on the road, love.”

—

they parked the van near a state campground, and found a grassy bank to lie down. andy rolled a joint between his fingers, then passed it to sam.

“you ever think champy gets lonely?” andy pondered. he lay with his back against sam’s chest, and his fingers toyed with sam’s. the sand beneath them was cold and soft.

“like—imagine being so famous, but he can’t really do anything about it because like—he can’t talk and all. or maybe he doesn’t even know that he’s famous!” he always rambled when he was high, and sam found it adorable.

sam hummed. “i like to think the fish are his friends.” he planted short, sweet kisses down his boyfriend’s neck. when he reached his collarbone, the boy shuddered beneath him.

andy brought his hand up, wrapping it around the back of sam’s neck, fingers tangling through his hair. he tilted his head back, allowing their lips to connect.

andy tasted a mixture of mint and marijuana. he shuddered once more when a gentle hand wrapped around his neck. his fingers danced through a mess of brown locks, and he felt sam’s breath hitch. time got fuzzy. everything was quiet, and good. really good.

a splash interrupted them.

they jumped, believing someone must’ve stumbled upon them and had gone into the lake. but nobody was there.

the water rippled.

far out. then another. closer this time. something broke the surface. it was long, dark, slithering quietly in small arches. andy bolted upright, camera in hand. he stood too fast and stumbled over his own feet.

“holy shit!” he shouted, “you fucking saw that, right?”

sam’s eyes widened as he stood. both went silent, eyeing the water. they breathed quietly, afraid to make any noise.

again, closer this time. whatever it was would soon vanish behind the curve of the south shoreline. “shit!” sam gasped, following andy toward the lake in quick strides.

“it’s him! it’s him! it’s fucking champy!” andy called, running into the water, camera waving in the air. sam stifled a laugh, but he was just as into it as the other.

“quick! get a picture!” he called. his eyes shifted back and forth from the ripples to his boyfriend. “i will! hold on, i just—i need to—“

andy tried to get further in the water, but as it got deeper, he slowed. he lost his balance when he stepped on something slippery. he snapped a picture just as the creature broke the surface a final time.

sam doubled over laughing as andy resurfaced, spitting water from his mouth.

“did you see it! i got it! i got!” andy exclaimed from the water, hair plastered over his forehead. “i swear to god it looked at me!”

sam wiped tears from his eyes, still wheezing. “it was definitely something! c’mon let’s see the photo.” he urged.

when he made it back to the shore, sam wrapped a towel around him and pulled andy into his chest. the boy was shivering and his wet shirt clung to his body. but sam was warm.

“this’ll be my legacy.” andy’s teeth chattered.

he fumbled with the camera for a moment, wiping the water droplets from the screen. giddy, he opened up the photo menu to the last photo.

his lips fell into a frown. “no, no, no, no!”

panicking, andy flipped through other photos, but they were old, from some of his and sam’s date nights. sam smiled, forcing back a laugh. he took the camera into his hands and examined the most recent photo.

instead of champy, there was a blurry photo showing mostly the sky, save for a hand in the air looking for something to hold onto.

sam couldn’t hold it anymore, and his body shook with laughter. he kneeled down before his legs gave out and brought his hand to his stomach. “it’s just—you falling.” he spoke between gasps.

it took a moment, but andy allowed himself a few giggles. once he calmed down, sam wrapped an arm around him. “and the elusive champy is still… elusive.” disappointment dripped from andy’s lips.

sam placed a kiss on the top of his head. he gushed. “you’re so fucking cute.”

—

first samandy fic let’s go!!!!!!!!! i fucking love them <3

[fernsplace]

CHAMPY! *ೃ༄

summary: the hunters decide to take short break from hunting. with nothing to do, sam & his boyfriend take a trip to a beach in vermont. pairing: sam winchester x andy gallagher (samandy) word ct: 1.2k content: sam and andy smoke weed by the lake. things get silly. mention of dean and cas. sam and andy being adorable. note: i originally wrote this as a part of the summer snapshot challenge by @ambiguous-avery , but i got carried away & strayed away from the requirements haha. (i swear i'll try again) butttt so many good works have come out of it so far, and i wanna give credit where credit is due! any1 who reads this should read the works that come out of this challenge because they're all bangers!!!!

the sky was a dark grey, but unthreatening. a calm breeze made the trees wave. like they were greeting those who entered the mountain state.

a particularly brutal vampire nest upstate forced the hunters out. sam, dean, nor cas wanted anything to do with monsters at the moment. so, when dean mentioned taking a short break, sam felt relief wash over his body.

dean and cas had been wanting to go to maine. cas had said something about a state park—a location characterized by peace and simplicity, he explained. dean on the other hand, had a much less poetic reason for his choice. he wanted to go for the food.

sam, left to his own devices—and without a car—stayed impatiently in a rundown motel for a night. one he had dean drop him off at.

“oh, c’mon, sammy. reading the lore is not a vacation.” dean complained through the passenger window of baby. sam grumbled to himself. of course he knew that, but what else did he have to do?

he was in god-knows-where vermont. no car. no cash. and his boyfriend was somewhere in oklahoma.

—

the next morning, sam stared at himself in the mirror. toothbrush in his mouth, wondering what the hell he was doing. he hadn’t heard from andy in a week. this was typical, and not entirely worrying, but he missed him.

some vacation this was. he got a rare break from hunting, but had nothing better to do, cooped up in a rickety old motel room that reeked of mildew.

just when sam was about to send a fourth i miss you text, the familiar sound of a van rattled outside his door. eyes wide and eager, he spit into the sink and grabbed his duffle.

—

andy leaned out the driver's window, sunglasses crooked, hair a mess, grin wide.

“get in, loser. we’re going to the beach!” he called.

sam rolled his eyes, but the ache in his chest resolved. he slid into the passenger seat, duffel thudding to the floor.

“how’d you know where to find me?”

sam reached his hand across the console, lacing his fingers with andy’s. he brushed his thumb over the boy’s knuckles. his skin was soft and tender.

“i have your location, idiot.” he teased, shifting the gear into drive. the van coughed and lurched down the road like it might give up at any moment.

—

they drove west, winding through backroads lined with trees. the air smelled like wet bark and pine needles, while the sky maintained its low grey color.

andy hummed along to his favorite songs. mostly songs that sam didn’t know, but that was okay with him.

—

the breeze picked up as they came closer to lake champlain. the water was dark and seemingly endless. the kind of water that made legends believable.

“i read somewhere that there was a recent sighting of champy.” andy said, arms drumming the steering wheel as they hit a stop sign.

sam glanced out the window. the lake stretched for miles, and the distant new york shoreline was blurred.

“i’m not sure i buy that he’s real.” he spoke.

andy turned to him, eyebrows furrowed. “you hunt monsters for a living. you do know that, right?”

sam smiled fondly. “I’m just saying—if cryptids were real, i feel like we would’ve at least seen bigfoot by now,” he reasoned, “a lot more sightings of him.”

andy debated it for a moment. “i say, we find out for ourselves.” he reached behind sam’s seat, searching for something as he steered with his other hand. he returned with a digital camera. sam gave a breathy laugh, “eyes on the road, love.”

—

they parked the van near a state campground, and found a grassy bank to lie down. andy rolled a joint between his fingers, then passed it to sam.

“you ever think champy gets lonely?” andy pondered. he lay with his back against sam’s chest, and his fingers toyed with sam’s. the sand beneath them was cold and soft.

“like—imagine being so famous, but he can’t really do anything about it because like—he can’t talk and all. or maybe he doesn’t even know that he’s famous!” he always rambled when he was high, and sam found it adorable.

sam hummed. “i like to think the fish are his friends.” he planted short, sweet kisses down his boyfriend’s neck. when he reached his collarbone, the boy shuddered beneath him.

andy brought his hand up, wrapping it around the back of sam’s neck, fingers tangling through his hair. he tilted his head back, allowing their lips to connect.

andy tasted a mixture of mint and marijuana. he shuddered once more when a gentle hand wrapped around his neck. his fingers danced through a mess of brown locks, and he felt sam’s breath hitch. time got fuzzy. everything was quiet, and good. really good.

a splash interrupted them.

they jumped, believing someone must’ve stumbled upon them and had gone into the lake. but nobody was there.

the water rippled.

far out. then another. closer this time. something broke the surface. it was long, dark, slithering quietly in small arches. andy bolted upright, camera in hand. he stood too fast and stumbled over his own feet.

“holy shit!” he shouted, “you fucking saw that, right?”

sam’s eyes widened as he stood. both went silent, eyeing the water. they breathed quietly, afraid to make any noise.

again, closer this time. whatever it was would soon vanish behind the curve of the south shoreline. “shit!” sam gasped, following andy toward the lake in quick strides.

“it’s him! it’s him! it’s fucking champy!” andy called, running into the water, camera waving in the air. sam stifled a laugh, but he was just as into it as the other.

“quick! get a picture!” he called. his eyes shifted back and forth from the ripples to his boyfriend. “i will! hold on, i just—i need to—“

andy tried to get further in the water, but as it got deeper, he slowed. he lost his balance when he stepped on something slippery. he snapped a picture just as the creature broke the surface a final time.

sam doubled over laughing as andy resurfaced, spitting water from his mouth.

“did you see it! i got it! i got!” andy exclaimed from the water, hair plastered over his forehead. “i swear to god it looked at me!”

sam wiped tears from his eyes, still wheezing. “it was definitely something! c’mon let’s see the photo.” he urged.

when he made it back to the shore, sam wrapped a towel around him and pulled andy into his chest. the boy was shivering and his wet shirt clung to his body. but sam was warm.

“this’ll be my legacy.” andy’s teeth chattered.

he fumbled with the camera for a moment, wiping the water droplets from the screen. giddy, he opened up the photo menu to the last photo.

his lips fell into a frown. “no, no, no, no!”

panicking, andy flipped through other photos, but they were old, from some of his and sam’s date nights. sam smiled, forcing back a laugh. he took the camera into his hands and examined the most recent photo.

instead of champy, there was a blurry photo showing mostly the sky, save for a hand in the air looking for something to hold onto.

sam couldn’t hold it anymore, and his body shook with laughter. he kneeled down before his legs gave out and brought his hand to his stomach. “it’s just—you falling.” he spoke between gasps.

it took a moment, but andy allowed himself a few giggles. once he calmed down, sam wrapped an arm around him. “and the elusive champy is still… elusive.” disappointment dripped from andy’s lips.

sam placed a kiss on the top of his head. he gushed. “you’re so fucking cute.”

—

first samandy fic let’s go!!!!!!!!! i fucking love them <3

absolutely chugging through my preacher’s daughter fic i can’t wait to publish it! it’ll be a few chapters long :)

[fernsplace]

✰ COZY STUDY TIME

→ summary: you love the fact that you went to Stanford with your best friend, now he can help you with your essays while you nap on his lap.

⤿ stanford!sam winchester x best friend!reader / cw: eventual best friends to lovers, fluff, casual intimacy, studying together, reader is also a hunter, sam is a puppy in love, maybe more but I don't remember lol.

⤿ word count! 1k (this is short but i'm thinking of writing a part 2...)

lina yaps: sooo I know I usually only write for Dean and Sam isn't even on the list of characters I write for, but I wanted to share the fact that since the first time I watched Supernatural I've been a Sam girl, I defend Sam tooth and nail and I simply love him so much. After many times rewatching it I ended up becoming more attached to Dean and becoming completely obsessed with this man while Sam continued to be my favorite character, even so I always found myself having an easier time writing romantic things for Dean. But then I had this idea while studying for my last exams and I finally had to write for my sammy.

You’d always said Sam Winchester gave the best back rubs.

Though to be fair, you’d also said he gave the best hugs, helped with the worst essays, and had the best judgment—except for that time he thought spaghetti and pickles would be a “fine” combination because you didn’t have anything else in the dorm kitchen.

“Sam,” you grumble, half-asleep, your voice muffled by his thigh. “Please don’t use such big words. I can feel my brain giving up.”

A warm chuckle rumbles through him above you. You’re stretched across the length of his dorm bed, your head resting comfortably on his lap. He’s leaned against the wall with your laptop in front of him, long fingers typing away with that casual brilliance that has always made you both proud and exasperated.

“It’s literally your assignment,” he says, glancing down at you with an amused grin, fingers pausing just long enough to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yeah, but you’re better at it. And I’m sleepy.”

“Are you always this manipulative when you’re tired?”

You squint up at him, one eye half-lidded. “Only with you.”

His lips twitch.

You’ve known Sam Winchester since you were nine years old. Your dad and his dad were both hunters, both stubborn, both terrible at being parents. Dean had always been a kind of older brother figure, but Sam? Sam was yours. Your person. The one who stayed up late researching monsters with you, who fell asleep next to you in the backseat of a dusty Impala on cross-country hunts, who once held your hand so tight during a banshee exorcism that your knuckles ached the next day.

The one who looked at you when you were fifteen and said, “I don’t want to do this forever,” and you just nodded because you’d been waiting for him to say it out loud first.

Stanford had been his dream. You’d just made it your own.

You weren’t exactly sure when his room had become more yours than your own. When your books started showing up on his shelf. When his drawers started having your socks. When his sheets started smelling faintly like your lotion, and neither of you said a thing about it.

And now, Friday evenings looked like this.

Sam working on your American Literature paper. You, curled up beside him, one leg over his, eyes fluttering open every few minutes just to admire his jawline in the low lamp light.

He’s halfway through a sentence when he notices your breathing even out again.

“You’re asleep, aren’t you?” he whispers, almost to himself.

You don’t answer.

He smiles, soft and small. The kind of smile he only ever gives you when no one else is looking.

His fingers slow on the keys, then still. He places the laptop to the side, careful not to wake you, and lets one hand drift into your hair, combing through it gently. You make a faint sound—more content than conscious—and nuzzle deeper into his lap.

He swallows.

You’ve always been affectionate. Since you were kids, you’d leaned into him like a sunflower leans toward light. Rested your head on his shoulder, held his hand in motel beds, tugged on his hoodie sleeves until he laughed and let you wear them. It was never weird. It was never anything.

Except now, sometimes, it feels like something.

He doesn’t know when that changed.

Maybe it was the night you showed up at his door soaked in rain, crying about a failed test, about the fear of never being normal enough to be able to live a normal life and a missed call from Dean, and he just held you, heart aching in a way it hadn’t since he left hunting behind.

Or maybe it was last week, when you walked out of the bathroom brushing your teeth, hair messy and shirt half-tucked, and he thought, God, this looks like home.

His thumb brushes your cheek.

You mumble in your sleep, brow scrunching slightly before smoothing out again.

“I’m almost done with your paper,” he murmurs, as if you can hear him. “It’s not bad. You actually had some good points… not that you’ll remember them.”

His fingers trace the line of your jaw.

He shouldn’t do this. Not like this. Not when you’re so close. So soft. So impossibly familiar.

But maybe that’s just it.

You’ve always been his gravity. His calm in the chaos. The reason he stood up to his father so he could leave and go to college. The reason he didn’t run when college got hard, when he felt too different, too haunted. He’d look across the quad and see you—head thrown back in laughter, eyes bright—and suddenly it didn’t matter what was chasing him. He was still running toward something.

You.

“Sam…” you murmur sleepily, not even opening your eyes.

“Yeah?”

You shift, wrapping your arms around his waist now, head pressed to his stomach. Your voice is drowsy but warm. “Thanks for doing my homework.”

He huffs a laugh. “Anytime.”

“I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow,” you promise, already half-asleep again.

“You always say that.”

“This time I mean it.”

He leans down and presses a kiss to your hair. It’s featherlight, reverent. Your breath stutters just slightly, and he freezes.

But you don’t move.

So he exhales slowly, leans back, and lets the moment hang there between you.

Maybe you felt it. Maybe you didn’t.

Maybe one day, when the world stops spinning so fast, he’ll tell you all of it. How you were always the one. How you never needed to ask him to stay, because he never had a plan that didn’t include you.

But for now, he looks at you—curled up beside him like you’ve always belonged there—and he thinks maybe, just maybe, you already know.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

special tag for my sam moots: @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @xoswiftieprincess @acklesarchives @sunsettsam (I don't know if I'll write to Sam again at some point but if you want to be added to a possible taglist let me know <3)

[fernsplace]

writing possibly the best piece of media i’ve ever written. religious guilt. sam winchester. preacher’s daughter. let’s fucking go.

i’m not even like 1/4 of the way through & it’s already pretty long, but do people like chaptered fics more or a single really long chapter??

[fernsplace]

you talk, i’ll listen ⋆⭒˚.⋆

sam winchester x gn! reader

ꕤ summary: you crawl into sam’s lap on a quiet night and ask him to tell you lore, just to hear his voice. he doesn’t ask questions. he just holds you and talks, and for once, everything feels still.

♯ warnings: emotional comfort, canon spn lore, lap cuddling, soft! sam, gentle reader, pre-established relationship, long hair petting, no spice just pure cozy silence, my long ass paragraphs aka me trying so say big words, s5e5 mentioned?? no way.

♯ notes: first of all, thank you so much for the request @noria-fish!! i loved writing it. second of all… i need to confess that i thought junior meant freshman and had that in my bio for like four months. so if you ever thought i was smart… no you didn’t. be safe out there y’all. stay in school. learn what junior means. love u. <3

The room is dim, barely lit by the orange glow of a streetlight filtering through the slats in the blinds. You can hear the faint hum of the vending machine outside, the rustle of paper every time Sam turns a page, and the occasional creak of the old motel bedframe as he shifts his weight.

It’s quiet in a way that should be comforting, but instead just makes you feel weirdly aware of how tired you are. Not just physically. Not just from the hunt. There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t sit in your muscles, it settles in your chest. Quiet, constant. Like white noise in your head you can’t turn off.

You glance over at Sam, who’s sitting cross-legged on the far end of the bed, one of his lore books open in his lap. There’s a pen tucked behind his ear, and his hair’s still damp from the shower he took after you both got back. The sleeves of his sweatshirt are pushed up to his elbows, and his focus is deep enough that he doesn’t notice you watching him. You don’t want to interrupt him, not really, but something in you itches for closeness. Something small. Just… contact.

So you move quietly. Wordlessly. You cross the few feet between your bed and his, and when you pause in front of him, he looks up; not surprised, not questioning, just waiting. His eyes meet yours, and he must see something in them, because he doesn’t ask. He just opens his legs a little, gives you space, and lets you climb into his lap like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You curl into him slowly, legs folding up, arms slipping around his ribs as you nestle into the worn cotton of his hoodie. His book shifts slightly on his thigh, but he doesn’t move it. One of his arms wraps around your back, the other staying loose at his side. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. There’s no awkwardness. No moment of adjusting or fidgeting. Just quiet acceptance.

Your fingers find his hair. It’s still warm, still a little damp, and softer than it has any right to be. You start combing through it with your nails barely touching his scalp, slow and steady, and you feel the way his shoulders relax almost instantly. You don’t really know what makes you say it— maybe it’s the silence, or the comfort of being tucked into him like this, but your voice is soft when you ask, “Will you talk to me?”

He tilts his head slightly. “Talk?”

You nod against his chest. “Just… something. Lore. Doesn’t matter what.”

He doesn’t ask why. He just shifts a little under you, the book now resting half-forgotten beside him, and starts talking like he’s picking up a conversation you were already in the middle of.

“There was a case we took once, back in Canton, Ohio,” he says after a moment, voice low and even. “Couple kids got killed at a wax museum, and at first we thought it was a haunted object, something attached to the exhibit. But it turned out to be a pagan god. Leshi. Slavic. Old forest deity. She’d taken the form of Paris Hilton—no, seriously, because people were obsessing over her. The more idol worship, the stronger she got. Wasn’t about nature at all anymore, just fame. Power. She was feeding on the obsession.”

You shift a little, listening closer. Sam’s hand moves absently over your side, steady.

“She used to thrive on being worshipped in the old world,” he continues, “but people don’t pray to forest gods anymore. They worship celebrities. So she adapted. Possessed statues. Took the form of whoever people were fixated on. I had to chop her head off with an axe to kill her. Nothing else worked.”

He keeps going.

“She wasn’t really evil. Just… hungry. Desperate. She wasn’t getting what she used to— worship, offerings, belief, so she adapted. Found a way to survive, even if it meant hurting people. It’s not just her. There’s more stuff like that than people think. Creatures that just want to be left alone until something pushes them too far. Kitsune. Pishtaco. Shōjō. Some of them only turn violent when they’re starving, or cornered, or grieving. There’s a pattern to it. Always has been.”

You don’t interrupt him. There’s something about his voice when he gets like this, slow, thoughtful, like his mind is running ten steps ahead but he’s choosing his words carefully so you can keep up. His hand slips beneath your hoodie slightly, just enough to touch warm skin, not suggestive, not anything other than grounding. He exhales, and you feel it move through his chest into yours.

You whisper, “Thank you.”

He pauses. “For what?”

“For talking. For letting me be here.”

His hand presses a little more firmly to your back. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

But you do. You don’t say it, but you do. Because it’s not just comfort you’re asking for when you sit like this. It’s something heavier. Something you can’t explain. And Sam.. Sam never asks for you to explain it. He just holds you like your silence makes sense.

You stay like that for a while, tucked into his chest, legs folded across his lap, head resting where his hoodie dips at the collar. His voice is still going, somewhere between a low hum and a quiet rhythm, talking about ancient creatures and broken hunter lore, old hunts that no one talks about anymore.

You stop listening to the actual words at some point; not because you don’t care, but because his voice gets so soft, so even, it blends into the same warm haze as the air in the room. It’s like static, like safety. The kind that makes your shoulders drop without realizing, like your body knows it’s allowed to rest now.

You keep running your fingers through his hair because it feels good. And because he lets you. You can feel the way his head leans into your touch now and then, subtle but there, like he doesn’t want to admit how much he likes it. You catch the way his voice slows when your nails graze just right against his scalp. He doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even look at you. He just lets you keep going, and you know he’s melting a little from it. The thought makes your chest ache, quiet and soft.

You don’t really get how someone like Sam can exist. Like, this is a man who has seen things; real, awful things, things that should’ve made him hard, cold, distant. And maybe with some people, he is. Maybe he needs to be. But with you, he’s just this. He’s soft-spoken, patient, so gentle you could cry if you let yourself think about it too long. The way he looks at you sometimes when you’re not talking. The way he checks his tone when you’re already tired. The way he never demands anything from you, but somehow always gives everything anyway.

You glance up, cheek still resting against his chest, and study his face from this close. His hair’s curling a little at the ends, dampness giving it weight, and there’s a crease between his brows that never seems to go away, even when he’s calm. His lips are parted just slightly as he reads, and his eyes move slow across the page. His lashes are stupidly long, almost soft-looking in the low light.

Your hand trails down to the nape of his neck, warm and solid beneath your fingers, and he lets out a breath like he forgot he was holding it.

He hasn’t said anything in a few minutes. The book’s still open, but he’s stopped reading it. His other hand has gone still on your back, his thumb just resting now. It’s so quiet you can hear the blood moving behind your own ears. You don’t know what time it is, and it doesn’t matter. The room could vanish, and it wouldn’t matter.

You whisper, “You always let me do this.”

His voice comes back just as quiet. “Do what?”

“This. Sit with you. Be… small, I guess.”

He shifts a little, not to pull away, just to see you. His hand cups the back of your head, fingers slipping into your hair like he’s scared you’ll pull away if he says the wrong thing. “You’re not small.”

“I feel small. When I’m with you.”

There’s a beat. Not awkward. Just full.

Then, still looking at you, he says, “I think you make me feel human.”

You don’t know what to do with that. Your throat goes tight in that slow, creeping way that happens when someone is too kind to you out of nowhere. You blink a few times and lean in, pressing your forehead to his collarbone, right where his heart is. He’s warm. You can feel it even through the cotton. You think about what he just said, and it echoes in your chest like a bell.

You don’t tell him you love him. You don’t need to. You think he knows.

Instead, you keep running your fingers through his hair, slower now, more like a lull than a habit, and you whisper something so quiet you don’t even know if he hears it.

“You always feel like home.”

He doesn’t answer.

But his arms pull you closer, and his lips press to the crown of your head, and his hand curls into your hoodie like he’s holding onto something he doesn’t want to let go of. And maybe that’s all the answer you need.

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[fernsplace]

SECRETS *ೃ༄

summary: you befriend a mysterious transfer student at stanford. after months of hanging out, you still know almost nothing about him. he disappears some days, showing back up worn down and tattered. you've finally had it. pairing: stanford!sam x f!reader (no use of y/n) word ct: 1.9k content: cw: suggestive ending. sam angst. fluff. soft!sam. secret identity trope. she falls first lowkey. mystery. dean mention?

you meet sam on a thursday.

he's new. sits in the back of the lecture hall, tall frame, but hunched over in his book. flannel sleeves pushed to his elbows, fingers wrapped around a coffee cup that never leaves his hand. he never comes in late, but always leaves early. there’s something about the way he listens, eyes focused, lips slightly parted like he’s starving for knowledge.

you notice him because you’re always the first to arrive. and he notices you, because you hold the door when it tries to slam shut behind you. he murmurs a quiet thanks every time. voice like molasses. eyes that linger.

you don’t talk until week three.

"hey," he says one day when you're both caught in the hallway traffic. "do you know if he uploads the slides somewhere? i missed monday."

you tell him yes. he smiles a soft smile. crooked. not practiced. not perfected.

he introduces himself as sam.

just sam.

—

you two grow closer. shared notes. study partners. he’s brilliant, but reserved. like his brain is a library and you're only allowed to check out one book at a time. he never talks about himself unless you ask directly, and even then, the answers are vague.

he has a brother, older. he travels a lot. his childhood was “weird.” he likes research. hates when people call attention to his height. doesn’t drink much. hasn’t dated in a while. religious? maybe catholic? ambiguous?

you ask him what he did before transferring here.

he shrugs. “odd jobs.” he doesn’t elaborate.

—

there’s a quiet sort of comfort that settles between you. you don’t push, and he doesn’t offer. still, he always remembers how you like your coffee. he walks you home when it’s late. he listens better than anyone ever has.

sometimes, you catch him watching you. like he's memorizing your features, as if he’s scared you’ll vanish if he looks away.

you pretend not to notice how fast your heart beats when he’s near.

—

you don’t realize something’s wrong until the night he disappears. you had left his dorm after a late night studying, forgetting your textbook on his old rug. you couldn’t be bothered to go back, mental and physical exhaustion overtaking you. so, you opted to send a quick text:

hey, forgot my textbook on your floor. can u bring it tomorrow pls?

but he never shows.

you sent another text. half teasing him for sleeping in, half pissed because you spent the entire class looking over the shoulder of the student in front of you.

a day goes by. then two.

you don’t want to seem clingy, but it’s unlike him.

he shows up again five days later. tired. bruised. there’s a thin cut across his cheekbone and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. his under eyes are sunken and dull.

you stare at him in the library, stunned.

"what the hell happened to you?"

he blinks, shrugging his shoulders. "oh. uh. got mugged."

you lift your hand to cup his cheek. thumb brushing lightly over the maroon blemishes. his eyelashes flutter softly. he lifts his own hand, placing it on yours. he tilts his head back, trying to escape your touch. he feels bad, but his pain is seering.

“jesus,” you breathe. “are you okay?”

he nods. doesn’t meet your eyes. "i’m fine."

he’s not.

—

after that, the gaps start to grow. he vanishes for days, then shows up again like nothing happened. sometimes he looks fine. sometimes he looks like he’s been dragged through hell.

he won’t let you question him. he dismisses it, changes the topic, says that he wants to go to bed and he’ll talk later.

one night, you call him out.

"you’re lying to me."

you're standing outside the dining hall, half-finished tea cooling in your hand. he freezes.

"what are you talking about?" he asks softly, eyes blinking rapidly.

“you disappear and come back with bruises. you flinch when people slam doors. you always carry a knife—don’t think i haven’t noticed. and last week, i saw you picking a lock on the back door of the chem lab like you’d done it a hundred times before.”

you had to force your eyes to stay on his. you had to be heard. you needed the truth.

sam’s jaw tightens. the silence grows thick. he shifts his weight from foot to foot. you can tell he’s uncomfortable.

you step forward, voice shaking. “i don’t care if you’re running from something, sam. i can try to help. but if you’re dangerous—”

“i’m not,” he says quickly. “i wouldn’t hurt you. ever.” he shakes his head and he locks eyes with you. he steps forward, a gentle hand mediating between you.

“then tell me.”

his eyes search yours. something breaks behind them. they’re glassy. he lets out a long, shaky breath. his mind is racing. meanwhile, you tremble with worry.

“okay,” he says. “but not here.”

—

you don’t expect monsters. you expect “i’m in a gang” or “i’m running from the cops.” hell, you thought nothing would shock you. you thought you’d come up with every possible justification for his absences.

ghosts. demons. vengeful spirits. shapeshifters. all real. and he’s been hunting them since he was a boy.

you blink at him in stunned silence. he's standing in the middle of his dorm room, fingers clenched at his sides like he’s bracing for you to scream.

instead, you chuckle nervously. has he gone insane? “that’s… absurd. you’re crazy.” he just looks at you.

“you think i’m kidding.” his voice is a bit louder now, getting defensive. your faux smile drops and you weren’t quite sure how to proceed.

he pulls a battered leather journal from his backpack and places it on the bed next to you. you pull it onto your lap and flip through the pages. it's filled with drawings. sigils. yellow notes written in a spidery hand. names, dates, locations. photos.

you brush a finger over a page titled wendigo, heart beating faster. it all seemed so sinister. so real.

you look up at him through your eyelashes, lips parted in shock.

“this is real,” you whisper.

he nods once. solemn. his eyes are almost apologetic. regretful. “yeah.”

“and you kill these things?”

he nods again, taking a slow seat next to you.

you breath a hard breath out and close the journal slowly.

“why the fuck would you come to college? aren’t you worried about like— the fucking world ending?”

you’re breathless. you run your hand through your hair and swallow hard.

he runs a hand over his mouth. “to feel normal. to be someone else for once.”

you believe him.

you shouldn’t.

but you do.

“sam…” you trail off, eyes distant. he places a gentle hand on the small of your back, his thumb brushing softly over your shirt.

“hey, listen to me.” he speaks slow and soft, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “i won’t let anything hurt you. you can trust me.”

—

you keep his secret. and in return, he keeps you safe.

he starts staying over at your dorm more. not in your bed, not at first. just in your room, sleeping on on pile of blankets on the floor, boots near the door. you offered to buy an air mattress, but he claims he’s slept on worse. you catch him murmuring in his sleep sometimes. latin, was it? other times, he startles awake gasping, eyes wide, heart pounding.

you let him stay anyway.

you ask him to teach you how to protect yourself. despite this news of monsters laying heavy on your chest— like your world has completely shrunken, you couldn’t help but be curious.

he doesn’t want to teach you, but he does. slow at first. baby steps. pepper spray. salt lines. a silver knife.

you see more of the hunter in him after that. the part of him that sharpens into something lethal when there’s a threat. the way his eyes darken when someone gets too close. the way his hand always finds yours, grounding, when things get loud.

he saves a family in the next town over. a poltergeist. doesn’t tell you until he’s back and sore and covered in bruises.

“you’re going to get killed,” you whisper, pressing an ice pack to his temple. his hand brushes along your arm.

he doesn’t argue. he thinks somehow, that he always knew god wasn’t watching over him. but it was something much more evil. maybe a demon, the devil, even. or maybe death himself.

he watches you. long and careful.

“you still like me?” he asks softly. a teasing smile sits on face.

“yeah,” you breathe. “i do.”

he leans forward then. testing. you feel his cool breath along your teeth. mint. and when you don’t pull away, his lips brush yours. slow, like he’s unsure if you’re really there.

you kiss him back. his touch is like silk. you feel your cheeks grow warm and your body melts into his. your hands reach for his hair as his move to your waist. he’s tender in his touch.

he parts his legs, allowing you to move your body closer. he needs you close. to feel you near him. you tug his hair lightly and a quiet, just barely audible groan leaves his lips.

you smile against his lips. this boy just keeps surprising you.

in this moment, you feel real. and sam, he feels normal. calm. he’s not in fight or flight. now, he’s here. and he’s yours. tomorrow, he might find himself in the middle of vamp nest, or tied up in a basement. but right now, he’s with you. he vows to himself to protect you. and to not become a monster himself.

—

lowkey not a fan of the ending, but it’s getting late. i love soft sam so much nobody understands.

planning on writing some darker, grungier fics i think!

anyway, send me some fic prompts to angel radio!

[fernsplace]

MASTERLIST ೃ༄

locked out! (s. winchester) — fluff

secrets! (s. winchester) — sam!angst, fluff

preacher’s daughter (s. winchester) — religious guilt.

COMING SOON!

── ⋆˙⟡

champy! (sam winchester x andy gallagher, samandy) — fluff

── ⋆˙⟡

send some fic prompts through angel radio!

[fernsplace]

LOCKED OUT! *ೃ༄

summary: stanford!sam works at the front desk of his residence hall. while picking up a package, you share an awkward moment. a few days later, after a night out, you go to him when your roommate locks you out of your room. pairing: stanford!sam winchester x f!reader (“y/n” used once) content: both are 20. sam winchester is the sweetest. soft sam winchester. shy girl. nerd sam. slow burn. mutual pining. tipsy reader. no like painfully slow burn with no reward. word ct: 2.4k notes: i am a sucker for slow burns & awkward conversations. that is all. not proofread. lowercase intended.

you walk in long strides, and puddles splash the bottoms of your jeans, the denim shifting to a dark blue. you huff with frustration, bringing your umbrella down closer to the top of your head. your body shivers, the cold rain nipping at your skin despite your efforts to hold your rain jacket closed. where the fuck did this come from?

you could have sworn you’d checked the weather this morning before leaving for class.

slight breeze, seventy five, and partly cloudy.

now, it was dark and stormy, and your teeth chattered on your painfully long walk back to your residence hall. you were miserable. you had had a long day that could only be described as unfortunate.

first, you woke up that morning to the all too familiar color of red soaking through your bedsheets and the slight metallic scent of iron. after throwing your sheets into the hamper— because of course every washing machine was full— you dropped your last granola bar onto the hallway stairs that were for sure caked with a multitude of mysterious liquids and bodily fluids. luckily, lab went well. all three hours of it. no beakers dropped, no cotten balls set on fire, and no mistaking grams for ounces (not your brightest moment). afterwards, you even had the pleasure of finding a seat in the library to quietly eat your lunch.

you wish you hadn’t taken those four hours for granted, because everything went downhill from there. there was a brief moment in which you even sifted through far away memories in an effort to recall whether you had once broken a mirror or walked beneath a ladder.

in your next class, you sat down and gathered your supplies. computer, check, water bottle, check, calculator, check, ipad, check, wait— you forgot your ipad. in both classes, you were forced to face your classmates, cheeks flushed and pink, voice small when you asked for a piece of paper.

and here you were, hours later, walking back in a torrential downpour. the wind was strong. five minutes from your res hall, a particularly powerful gust blew your umbrella, flipping it inside out. in that moment, you truthfully believed that you were god’s strongest soldier.

you gasped, stumbling around as you desperately tried to fix it. the rain pelted you, temporarily blurring your vision. fuck this. you gave up, and broke out into a jog.

—

you breathed hard, soft gasps leaving your lips as you made it beneath the roof. droplets of rainwater slid down your nose and onto your lips. you licked them off… cold and fresh.

“stupid piece of sh…” you mumbled quietly to yourself as you shook the broken umbrella. you finally stepped into your building where it was warm and dry. you pulled your hood off your head. somehow, your hair was mostly dry. frazzled, but dry.

your body still shook from the cold, but the comfortable heat coming from the radiators encompassed you, and you felt like you could finally relax.

you turned to walk towards the stairway, wanting to get to the laundry room as fast as possible. there’s gotta be at least one washer open at this time of day.

but you paused in your tracks, remembering an email you’d received on your school account. your package has been delivered! your delivery may be found at… you sighed, turning around on the balls of your heels and made your way to the front desk.

there, a boy with messy brown hair sat with his nose buried in a large book. you took a short breath, suddenly very aware of your damp appearance. you stood still for a moment, but he didnt look up from his book.

“uh, hi.” you spoke softly, cheeks pink. you brushed a strand of hair from your face.

the boy’s head snapped up. “oh, hi! sorry, i, uh, didn’t see you. what can i help you with?” his eyes met yours. they were apologetic. pretty too.

“sorry to bother you. um, i just, uh, i think i got a package.” you were stumbling over your words. you were wet, your broken umbrella hung limp in your hands, and you knew your backpack was probably soaked through. you were suddenly hyperaware of everything, and you could only imagine how dumb you looked.

“no problem, just scan here.” he smiled and pushed a small black box towards you. he rose from his seat and he was suddenly much taller than he originally seemed. he closed his book to show the cover, which had constitutional law written in large font.

you fumbled around for your phone, which was in your left back pocket. the opposite one that you usually put it in. you mentally eye rolled at yourself.

“wet out there, hm?” the mail boy teased, making small talk. “just a little”. you saw the corner of his lips curl into a small smile. you pulled out your phone, hovering it above the scanner. a small ding rang out. you watched as his gaze fell to the computer in front of him, and then back to you. “y/n?”

“that’s me”. you smiled weakly, a nervous giggle escaping your lips. he gave a small nod. “i’ll be right out.” he disappeared through a door that led to the mail room. you rocked back and forth on your heels, humming softly. no song in particular, just as a means of grounding yourself. you were getting antsy, mentally walking through the steps you’d take immediately after this debacle.

grab the package, go upstairs, throw down your bag, grab hamper, walk back downstairs to go to the laundry room. or should you check to make sure there’s an open washing machine before you go upstairs? that would save you some effort, but—

“hey, you’re the girl that’s always getting absurdly large packages, aren’t you?” the mail boy broke your train of thought as he appeared with your package. you blushed again— something you seemed to be doing a lot of today. “oh, uhh, probably?” you squinted, scratching the back of your head. fuck, that’s embarrassing.

“uh, who told you that?” you forced a chuckle. he walked through the side door of the office and made his way to you. he handed you the package, which, to be fair, was absurdly large. he hovered his hands over yours, ensuring that you had a good grip. “leila. one of the other front desk attendants.” he took a step back. “uh, not to call you out or embarrass you or anything, i just… realized it was you… i guess.”

he stood there in front of you. he was very tall, but his gentle demeanor and soft hoodie made him much less intimidating than he probably should be.

your lips straightened and you sighed. “no, no— it’s chill. of course she did. uh, we’re roommates.”

of course it was leila. she’s your best friend, and apparently, your number one fan. leila is someone who makes conversation with anybody wherever she goes. no detail is lost on her, and nothing is ever too much information. you loved that about her though. seeing her speak so confidently made you feel more comfortable to do so.

“here, i’ll take this. it… probably won’t do you any good anymore.” the boy took the broken umbrella from your hand. in a split second, his eyes scanned your body. you mumbled a shy thanks. your hand was no longer cramping and you had a better grip on the box. you turned away, ready to finally go back to your dorm.

“oh, uh. it’s cat litter… by the way.” you spoke. the boy, who was making his own way back to the desk turned around. he tilted his head curiously, eyes furrowing.

“the packages. i have a cat.” the boy only chuckled. it was breathy. “i suppose that makes sense.”

you turned back around, almost getting to the stairs before you heard his voice once more, this time, a bit louder. “uh, i’m sam by the way!” he called. you simply smiled.

—

nearly every day after that interaction, you’d notice sam working at the front desk. mostly night shifts. some nights you’d catch each others’ eyes, but most days, he didn’t look up from his book.

you didn’t quite understand why, but there was small flutter of anxiety in your stomach whenever you passed.

—

you hiccuped. not loudly, just one of those tiny ones that lingers in your throat and makes your face scrunch up.

"shit," you whispered, wobbling slightly as you stepped back from the door. your dorm key had worked earlier, but that was hours ago when you dropped your jacket off before heading out to the bars. now, as you jiggled it for the fourth time, it gave a stubborn click and refused to turn.

"leila!" you whisper-yelled, knocking your fist lightly against the wooden door. "open up!”

nothing. silence. the girl had fallen asleep on her bed before pregame even ended. you weren’t much of a partier, leila even less so, but your some of your lab friends had begged you to go out that night.

begrudgingly, you did, although you still walked home early. you were dressed in a black mini skirt that piper, your labmate, had given you. it wasn’t much your style, but you had to admit, you looked pretty.

you sighed dramatically, letting your forehead fall against the door. your cheeks were warm, flushed, from a mixture of alcohol and the walk home. it was too late to be locked out. and it was too uncomfortable for you to sit out here like a stray cat, though you vaguely considered curling up like one in the stairwell.

you could risk spiders crawling over your body, or you could risk getting on the bad side of your neighbors and ra by pounding on the door some more.

then you remembered something—or someone.

the desk.

sam.

you froze in place. your stomach fluttered again, like it always seemed to do when his name flickered into your brain. you feel like you’ve been hearing that name everywhere lately. like you’re seeking it out.

go downstairs, ask him to let you in, easy. no big deal. except— you were slightly tipsy. not drunk. just… looser. more likely to say something stupid.

you checked your phone. 12:30am. would he be working at this hour? on a friday night?

you tried to smooth your hair, pull your jacket into place, and straighten your expression before beginning the quiet descent to the front desk.

you peeked around the corner. he was there. of course he was. book open. hoodie sleeves pulled over his palms. a soft desk lamp illuminated him in gold, and your heartbeat sped up ever so slightly.

as you stepped into view, his eyes lifted like he’d felt you coming.

you tried for a casual wave. "hey."

he blinked once, then smiled slowly, almost like the expression snuck up on him.

"hey," he said, voice soft. "you okay?"

you crossed your arms, half for warmth, half for composure. chills ran down your spine, and yet you felt hot all at once. "uh. not really. leila locked me out." you added, a little sheepishly, "i think she fell asleep."

"i tried to be responsible," you offered, shrugging, lips curved in a small, helpless smile. "came home early. didn’t lose my ID. wore two layers." you flailed your arms out, letting them hit your sides.

sam chuckled. his eyes sparkled beneath the glow of the lamp. has he always been this pretty?

"honestly? A plus."

you laughed. it made you sway a little in place.

his eyes caught it, flickering from your eyes to your shoes. “do you want to sit for a second?" he stood, making his way to the door, and leaving his book to sit open on the desk.

you hesitated, but padded over, perching on the bench by the desk. sam took a seat next to you. your knees bumped eachother. your fingers picked at your sleeves.

"you’re not gonna narc on me, are you?"

he mocked a serious look. "depends. how many drinks?"

"like... two and a half?" your gaze was fixed on the floor.

he raised a brow and tilting his head, forcing his eyes to meet yours. you felt shy, like he was really seeing you.

"okay, three." you admitted, nose scrunching.

his smile grew. he let out a heavy breath. "good. you're alright. i mean, you walked here in a straight line, right?"

“ish.” you muttered.

he huffed a laugh and shook his head, messy bangs falling over his eyebrows. "do you want me to let you back in?"

you nodded, relieved.

"yes. please. i promise i’ll owe you, like, you can meet my cat. or, i’ll buy you some— some candy?” your words came quick, stumbling from your lips. you couldn’t help but shake your head at the stupidity of what you had said.

sam went back into the office and returned with a key ring. he glanced down at you, gaze lingering just a second too long.

"you have glitter on your face."

your hand immediately flew to your cheek.

"oh god. where?"

he bent down so he could lean a little closer, eyes big and warm.

"left side. no—uh, right. here." he pointed near his own cheekbones.

"great. now i’m sparkly and locked out. just my luck."

"you’re… kind of charming, actually." he said it so casually that it took a second to register. you nearly lost your step as he offered his hand. you took it slowly, standing up.

your stomach flipped. your eyes widened slightly, meeting his. then he was already turning, pretending like he hadn’t said it.

you followed in stunned silence as he led you upstairs. once you reached the second floor, you guided him towards your dorm.

at your door, he fiddled with the keys, finally clicking the right one in. the door creaked open, casting soft yellow light over both of you. on her lofted bed, you could just barely make out the shape of leila, who seemed to be fast asleep.

you turned to thank him, your mouth already open, but he beat you to it.

"i’m glad you came to me. like—not just because i work here, but…" he trailed off, suddenly bashful.

"i'm glad, too," you whispered. you stepped inside, pausing in the doorway. "hey, sam?" you were feeling brave. or maybe this was the alcohol taking control.

he glanced up, eyes warm.

"you’re kind of charming, too." his face flushed.

"thanks," he mumbled, then looked down at his shoes like he’d said something embarrassing. after a beat, he spoke, “goodnight. i’ll see you around.”

he planted a light kiss on your cheek. heat washed over your face. “goodnight, sam.”

you smiled to yourself as you shut the door, pressing your back against it. lifting your hand, you could feel a rough patch of skin. you still had glitter on your cheek. and unbeknownst to sam, under the harsh white lights of the hallway, his lips sparkled.

—

thank you for reading! i used to write on wattpad years ago, but this is my first tumblr fic! i hope you guys enjoy :)

send me some fic prompts on angel radio!

[fernsplace]

super super quick sam doodle!! my entire sketchbook is just sam i wish i was joking

[fernsplace]

thinking about sam at stanford… his nose was always in his books and he absolutely lived in the library. buttttt that didn’t mean he didn’t have time for parties.

canonically he’s smoked weed before & i like to imagine that the first time he ripped a bong he thought he was gonna die on the floor of his friend’s dorm.

and he deffff experimented with plenty of guys. hes confident in his sexuality, but doesn’t necessarily announce it. he sort of just is

[fernsplace]

Hear me out, Mystery Spot but it’s John Winchester who’s dying over and over again but no one tries to save him and he’s there forever.

[fernsplace]

i hate when fans refuse to acknowledge sam’s queerness because this ship is literally right there

[fernsplace]

FERN .ೃ࿐

twenties. she/her. lover of lots.

PUT YOUR LIPS ON MINE...

supernatural lover. infj. sam winchester apologist & enthusiast. samandy truther.

COULD GO TO HELL BUT WE'LL PROBABLY BE FINE...

check out my works here ⤑ M.LIST!, TAGLIST! & send me some fic prompts through angel radio!