greyest-november

[greyest-november]

Gorgeous

Dumb & Poetic

Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader

You always liked the loud ones.

The guys who knew how to work a room, throw a wink, rattle a bottlecap on the table with a cocky laugh. You’d fall for them fast, just as fast as they’d forget to call you back.

There was something about their edges, the way they caught the light like shiny things you knew better than to touch, but always did anyway.

And then—Bob.

Not flashy. Not loud. Not even remotely interested in taking up space he didn’t earn.

Which, in your history of “types,” meant you almost missed him entirely.

—

You met him in the bar one night, the kind of night when the Navy pilots swarm Hard Deck like it’s their own little arena. Jake Seresin—Hangman—was holding court at the pool table, Phoenix was tossing darts with deadly aim, and Bob?

He was sitting in the corner. Reading. Reading, in a bar where everyone was busy being a headline.

You had a drink in your hand and a headache from someone else’s charm. So when you noticed the quiet guy with the soft eyes and crooked smile trying to make himself smaller in a crowd that prized the biggest personalities, something in you tugged.

“What are you reading?” you asked, easing into the chair beside him.

Bob blinked like he hadn’t expected anyone to approach him—definitely not you, in a leather jacket and lip gloss and the remnants of someone else’s kiss still cooling on your neck.

“Just, uh, Dandelion Wine,” he said, showing you the cover. “Ray Bradbury.”

You tilted your head. “You read that for fun?”

He gave you a sheepish shrug. “It’s kind of… dumb and poetic, I guess.”

You laughed. It was the first real laugh you’d had in a while.

—

You didn’t mean to fall for Bob Floyd.

But he had this way of making you feel seen—not watched, like the other guys, but understood.

He asked questions and actually waited for your answers. He remembered little things, like how you hated cold drinks without straws and how your favorite song made you cry in a good way.

He didn’t flirt in the traditional sense. He didn’t make you dizzy. He made you safe.

You weren’t used to safe. You were used to boys who recited lyrics and sonnets with the same sincerity they used to pick up the bartender two nights later.

But Bob?

Bob didn’t need metaphors.

—

It was three months in when you finally cracked.

You were sitting on the hood of his car, the stars out, the air between you easy and warm. He’d just driven you back from a beach bonfire, and you still had sand in your hair and sun on your cheeks.

“I don’t get you,” you said.

Bob blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You’re just—” you huffed. “You don’t try to be anything. You’re not pretending. You don’t even flirt right.”

He chuckled, then turned his head to face you. “And that’s a problem?”

“No, it’s just…” You bit your lip. “You’re not like the guys I usually go for.”

Bob’s eyes didn’t flicker. “Guess I should take that as a compliment or a warning.”

You looked at him, really looked. He had this steadiness to him. A kindness that wasn’t performative.

“You should take it as both,” you whispered.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

That was the thing about Bob. No dramatics. No fireworks. Just quiet understanding.

You leaned your head on his shoulder and wondered if he had any idea what he was doing to you.

—

You started to fall hard.

Not because he bought you flowers or shouted love songs from balconies. But because he held your hand like it was something sacred.

Because he showed up. Every time.

Because when you cried after a bad day, he didn’t try to fix it with a joke or a kiss. He just sat with you. Quiet. Present.

Bob Floyd never made you feel like you had to perform to be loved.

And God, you were so used to performing.

—

It was your birthday when it happened.

The bar was packed. Everyone was there. The guys were drinking, dancing, yelling over each other. You were in the middle of it, spinning in a dress that someone else once told you was “too much.”

Bob walked in a little late, glasses slightly fogged, holding a cupcake instead of a gift.

He looked awkward and adorable and entirely out of place in the chaos.

But when you saw him, you stopped spinning.

You walked straight over to him, heart thudding.

“You came,” you said.

He held up the cupcake. “I didn’t know what to get you. But you said once you loved funfetti. This one’s got rainbow sprinkles.”

You blinked back something suspiciously close to tears.

“It’s dumb and poetic,” you said softly.

He smiled. “You like dumb and poetic.”

You pulled him down by the collar and kissed him. Right there, in the middle of the noise and the neon and the glitter of a life you were finally willing to leave behind.

—

It wasn’t always perfect.

You still had a sharp tongue. You still craved drama some nights. You picked fights when you felt too seen, too safe, too loved.

But Bob never raised his voice. Never threw your chaos back at you like a weapon.

He just waited. Anchored.

And one day, you looked at him across your messy kitchen table—his hair sticking up, wearing that NASA t-shirt you stole three weeks ago—and you thought, this is the kind of love that writes poetry in action, not words.

—

You used to fall for the ones who made you feel like fireworks.

Now?

You’d take Bob Floyd every time.

The one who never needed to be loud to be important.

The one who brought you cupcakes and calm.

The one who sat beside you, even when you didn’t make sense.

The dumb and poetic one.

Yours.

Always.

[greyest-november]

✶ quiet comfort — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, chronically-ill!reader, hurt/comfort, descriptions of symptoms such as dizziness, body weakness, joint pain, nausea, pain in general, physical and mental exhaustion, frustration with symptoms, unedited, 1K words. requested !

summary : sam supports and comforts you as you struggle with your symptoms.

sam's attention is almost always locked onto you; how you're moving, when you're moving, the minute changes in your expressions, everything. even if it's just out of the corner of his eye, somehow he always notices. and especially on difficult days like today, he's faultlessly attentive, all without being overbearing when he knows you want him to back off.

so the moment you begin to shift in your spot on the couch next to him, he's no longer paying any attention to the book in his lap. and when you start to stand, the book gets placed on the arm of the couch without a second thought.

you've been resting your eyes, battling a migraine along with aching joints, nagging nausea, and limbs that shake from strain and exhaustion. but you're utterly bored and frustrated with doing nothing, and of course the remote to the tv has been placed across the room. in hindsight, you could have just asked sam to get it for you; he would've been happy to do so. and it's not as if you don't expect the dizziness—you know yourself and your current state more than well enough—but you can't help but choose to ignore it when you're frustrated like this.

you're slow about it, pausing when you stand up for a moment to make sure you won't get too dizzy to make it to the remote and back. sam stands too, without question.

"do you need something? i'll get—"

the pounding in your head stays consistent and fools you by pretending it won't get worse. but when you take a step with aching legs, the rush of dizziness decides to hate just a moment late. it wraps around your head like a damn plastic bag trying to choke the air from your lungs and pull your vision into darkness.

it's not as if you don't know what to do, though. you know that you're close enough to the couch to let your weakened knees just buckle and your body fold back into the support of the couch.

but sam's quick and firm hands catch your shoulders to ease you into the cushions with much more care and softness than you would've had otherwise.

"—woah, alright. that's alright. just take a second," he says softly, holding you up as his hand slips from your shoulder to the side of head, guiding it to his steady shoulders. "there you go," he murmurs, letting you catch your breathe and your heartbeat slow.

"i'll grab the remote in just a minute, okay? and some of your ice packs? this heating pad doesn't seem to be doing much anymore, why don't we turn it off so we can ice instead for a bit?" he suggests, talking slow and soft and sweet, immediately sorting through the ways he might be able to help. he's even easily guessed exactly why you wanted to stand in the first place.

"yeah," you mumble back, eyes closed and dizziness luckily beginning to abate before it can get any worse. of course, you still feel like absolute shit, that dull ache of everything accompanied by sharper, jabbing pains and shaky hands. the dizziness is paired with a new wave of stronger nausea too and despite sam's sweet nearness, you wish that everything could fade away, and you could be left to silence and maybe even nothingness.

sam knows he can't fix it, but that doesn't stop him from doing everything that he can. he pulls the heating pad off of you all while managing to keep you steady in his embrace, and simple tosses it aside so no one has to get up and unplug it. he'll let your body cool down before grabbing the ice packs to avoid shocking temperature changes, and just holds you through the pain in the meantime.

he doesn't get up for the remote either to avoid jostling you because you've begun to relax just a bit in his arms. and you don't ask him to grab it, because you need this comfort right now.

"i've got you," he whispers, gentle hands soothing over your stiff neck and shoulders, then drifting down to expertly massage the places he can guess hurt the most. your still pounding head remains tucked into his neck as the worst of the dizziness fades and is replaced by another layer of exhaustion. anyone else might not think you could get more tired than you already were, but you know better. it seems you could always feel more and more tired, physically and mentally, and sometimes it only feels possible to cope with when sam is right by your side, holding you up and easing your pain, even if only by a little.

he has a certain understanding that many others don't; his chronic pain keeps him up a night, just the same as the nightmares. not to mention that he loves you more than anything, and will always do everything he can to help you.

when he thinks it's been long enough, he ever so softly slips away from you, helping you settle into the back cushions of the couch before rushing off to grab all of your ice packs. first, of course, he turns on the tv and brings you the remote, leaving you to pick anything you want as he gathers up water, a salty snack, and anything else he thinks might bring you comfort.

he arranges all of the ice packs where you ask him to, assures that you drink enough water and are satisfied by your snack. when you're settled as best as he can get you, he returns to your side, slowly sinking into the couch and pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

"i see you, babe," he tells you when the tv grows quite for a moment. "and i'm right here, and i hope you know that i want to do everything for you that i can. so just tell me if you need anything else, and it's yours."

[greyest-november]

when Brennan said "The first rule of existence is: as above, so below. People are fractal images of the universe. You are as we are. In the same way your heart feels and your mind thinks, you, mortal beings are the instrument by which the universe cares. If you choose to care, then the universe cares. If you don't, then it doesn't."

when Brennan said "It is a horrifying responsibility to think because things cannot remain the same, each and every one of us must shoulder some responsibility for how they will become different."

when Brennan said "Sometimes decisions are not difficult. Sometimes they are just hard."

when Brennan said "There is no moral. The Wolf eats you one day and until it does, the forest is beautiful."

when Brennan said "I always felt the fundamental substance of the universe is creation. None of this makes any sense, when you really break it down. It's like, none of this had to happen, but it's beautiful and art is the definition of 'this didn't have to happen, but it's beautiful.' [...] It resonates with the universe because the universe is consciousness playing with itself."

when Brennan said

when Brennan said

[greyest-november]

How dare you write something so sweet and beautiful and romantic? Utterly fantastic, thank you for sharing.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ almost human,

summary. you teach castiel what it feels like to be human.

pairing. castiel x reader genre. fluffy fluff

wordcount. 1034

It starts with pie.

Specifically, a forkful of cherry pie at some grimy roadside diner in Nebraska, under flickering neon lights and a jukebox humming something sad in the background.

Castiel squints at the plate like it’s a riddle.

“It’s dessert,” you say, nudging it closer. “It’s good. I promise.”

He lifts the fork with all the caution of a man defusing a bomb, then slips it into his mouth—and his eyes widen.

You laugh. “Right? That’s the sugar rush hitting your bloodstream.”

“It’s…” he blinks slowly, as if the flavor itself is too vast to contain. “It’s remarkable.”

“Welcome to the magic of carbs.”

He hums softly and takes another bite. Then another. By the fourth, he’s just staring at the pie like it holds the secrets of the universe.

You rest your chin in your hand. “Have you never tasted anything before?”

“I’ve consumed food, yes,” he says. “But I wasn’t… trying.”

You smile.

“Well, that’s the first lesson, then,” you say. “If you’re gonna be human, you gotta taste things. Really taste them. Let yourself feel it.”

He tilts his head, studying you the way he studies scripture.

“I want to feel everything.”

You grin. “Then come on, angel boy. You’re in for a ride.”

The second lesson is music.

You sit him down with a pair of too-big headphones and a scratched-up vinyl you found at a thrift store. You press play on Fleetwood Mac and watch his expression morph—curious, awed, confused.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asks, voice low.

“Just… listen,” you whisper. “Let it wash over you.”

So he does. Eyes closed. Brows furrowed. The slightest little sway in his shoulders.

And then—

“Do people cry when they hear this?” he asks, voice soft and stunned.

“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling. “All the time.”

“I think I understand why.”

You take him to the farmer’s market the next morning, where everything smells like fresh bread and lavender soap. He gets distracted by the honey vendor, sticking his fingers into sample jars with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred texts.

“It’s sweet,” he tells you, licking a bit off his thumb.

“That’s kind of the whole point.”

He smiles—really smiles—and your heart aches a little.

“Teach me more.”

So you do.

You teach him how to blow bubbles with gum (he pops it on his nose). You teach him to skip stones (he accidentally pelts a goose). You teach him how to drive a car (Dean nearly murders you both).

You teach him about sleep.

“You don’t need it,” you explain as you drag blankets onto the library couch, “but you might like it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will,” you say, tossing him a pillow. “Dreaming’s one of the best parts of being human.”

“What do you dream about?”

You smile faintly. “Depends on the night.”

He watches you for a long time before lying down beside you—awkward at first, arms stiff by his sides. But after a few minutes of stillness and breath and quiet, he turns his face toward yours.

“I think I’m dreaming already,” he whispers.

You blink.

“What?”

He looks at you like you’re the miracle. The soft thing. The thing worth crashing down from Heaven for.

“I mean,” he says gently, “how could this be real?”

Later that week, after a long drive and a takeout dinner that Cas insisted on ordering himself (“I’ll have... a chicken... nugget?”), you find yourselves lying in the grass behind the bunker—far from the noise, the work, the weight of hunting.

The sky above is endless. A sweep of ink and stars.

Castiel lies still beside you, arms at his sides, eyes open wide. His gaze is fixed upward, but you know he’s not looking at constellations the way you are. He’s listening. Feeling.

He’s experiencing.

“You said once,” you murmur, “that souls have different sounds to you.”

“Yes.”

“What does mine sound like?”

He turns his head toward you, chest rising and falling slowly.

“It’s... soft,” he says, like he’s tasting the word. “Warm. Gentle, but not quiet. You hum.”

“I hum?”

He nods once, eyes locked to yours.

“It’s a beautiful sound. I can hear it from across a room.”

Your heart does this soft little flutter you can’t control.

“What does it mean when someone hums?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“It means they’re alive. And they care. And that they’re full of something they don’t know how to say out loud yet.”

You roll onto your side, one arm under your head. He follows your movement, mirroring you.

“Cas,” you say softly, “do you know what love feels like?”

His brows draw together. “I don’t think so. Not yet.”

You try to smile, even though something about the answer feels like a small ache beneath your ribs.

He studies your face like it holds the answer to everything.

“But I think...” he begins, voice barely louder than the breeze, “if it’s love... it might be this.”

“This?”

“You,” he says simply. “Your voice when you explain things. Your laughter when I misunderstand them. Your patience. The way you show me the world like you want me to fall in love with it.”

You blink quickly, and then a breath catches in your throat.

“And the way I feel,” he adds, his voice unsteady now, “when you leave the room. Like I’ve misplaced something vital.”

You don’t speak.

You just reach for his hand in the grass and twine your fingers between his.

It’s a little awkward—he’s not used to it—but he holds on tightly. Like he means it.

“Maybe this is love,” he whispers. “If you want it to be.”

You nod.

“I do.”

Then you lean in and kiss him—soft and slow beneath a sky of ancient stars. His lips are unsure but eager, his hand trembling just slightly where it cups your cheek.

It’s his first kiss.

You can feel it.

When you pull back, breathless and smiling, he looks at you like he just witnessed a miracle. Like you are the miracle.

“I think I’m learning,” he says.

“You’re doing better than most humans I know,” you whisper back.

And right then, under the infinite sky, you swear—he hums.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[greyest-november]

I love a character raised to be a weapon as much as the next guy. But what really gets me is a character raised to be a shield. Who can’t fathom being needed—or even being wanted— beyond keeping others safe. Who believe they are alive only to insure someone doesn’t die. no matter the cost. Characters who self-sacrifice not because they think they deserve it, but because no one else does deserve it, and it’s their job to protect.

Characters who’ve been told that’s why your important. Your worth something because this other person/ thing is important, and you are here solely to keep them safe.

Bonus points if it’s not a legitimate job they’ve been given. Maybe at one point it was, but now that they are free from it, they haven’t given up that mentality. No one is forcing or asking them to do this, but they need to. They need to in order to be deserving.

[greyest-november]

"came back wrong" what about Came Back Afraid. You used to be brave. Too brave maybe, defying the odds at every turn, a fighter, cocky, playing with fire, first to throw yourself at the enemy. Until one day it all caught up to you. You came back, somehow, but now you know all too intimately how it feels to lose, to die, to be destroyed. Now you flinch and freeze and cower at the slightest provocation. Who even are you now if you can't be brave? The grave may have let you go, but the mortal fear still grips you tighter than ever.

[greyest-november]

Super cute and fun idea and very well executed. I'm surprised I don't see more of these types of fics, I would love more.

There's Sam girls and Dean girls (Sam Winchester x female reader x Dean Winchester)

A case leads you to a Supernatural convention. You can't help but tease Sam and Dean about their notoriety, but then it turns out you are in the books, too. And there's some stuff in there you don't want the brothers to know about.

Read it on AO3

Rated T. 3.7k words. Sam x reader x Dean. Sexy thoughts but no sexy actions. Supernatural book series. Conventions. Awkwardness. Cheesy book covers. Secret crushes.

“It’s so… lifelike,” you say, moving your head a little so you can see better through the reflection of the glass.

“Very funny,” Sam says, and his voice tells you that he doesn’t think it’s funny in the slightest.

“I mean the hair, the shoulders, the ripped jeans, blood-dripping axe, the…”

You narrow your eyes, trying to see. “Is that a harmonica?” you ask. Sam leans over you, so close you can smell his aftershave.

“I think it’s supposed to be a knife?” he says, but he doesn’t sound sure.

“I think it’s a harmonica,” you say, turning around and he leans back, while he looks at the glass case behind you with pain in his eyes. “I mean you’re famous for your mouth organ skills,” you conclude, grinning proudly at making that sound as dirty as it does.

Sam doesn’t appreciate the joke, his face full of horror while he does the cutest little pout.

“I hate this,” he says, still looking at the book in the case behind you. Supernatural, by Carver Edlund. Whichever volume this is, it has Sam and Dean on the cover in worrying and completely impractical states of undress, fighting hordes of what are meant to be demons but look more like gremlins.

It has been your utmost pleasure in the last fifteen minutes to torture Sam with how he is portrayed on these covers. They’re ludicrous and over-the-top but if anyone could pull off the no shirt, ripped jeans, harmonica playing look it would be Sam. Or Dean.

Speaking of, he walks up in just that moment. “I hate this,” he says, echoing his brother. You don’t. You actually love this.

Sam looks at Dean. “Anything?” he asks. Dean shakes his head.

“I guess Chuck isn’t here so he can’t help us,” the older Winchester replies, and then asks immediately, voice annoyed: “How in the world is this happening again? The second time people are getting attacked by ghosts at a Supernatural convention? How?”

Sam nods, then scans the crowd moving around you in the lobby-turned-fan-shop of the hotel you’re in.

“At least Becky’s not here this time,” he mutters.

“Guys, guys, guys,” you say, raising your hands, “you are looking at this completely the wrong way.”

Both brothers look at you, Sam still like he is about to panic, Dean like he is about to punch someone in the face.

“You guys are legends here,” you tell them. “Rockstars. WWE champions.” The last one you direct at Dean, but the angry look doesn’t leave his face.

“Except nobody knows that we are real,” Sam says, “and no one can know.” You shrug.

“But still,” you say, “don’t you think it’s kind of cool? That all the people here adore you?” Another shrug, and then you add: “At least in theory.”

Sam gives a deep sigh and Dean looks at the book on display behind you.

“Alright,” he says finally, slapping his hands together. “I say we go with journalists. We’re here to cover the convention for a local paper.” Sam nods.

“Sounds good, let’s get going,” he says and starts walking.

Dean hangs back just a second, turns to you. He points at the book cover.

“My hair doesn’t look like this, does it?” he asks, voice lowered. You suppress a grin.

“No, of course not,” you say, giving an assuring nod as you pat him on the shoulder. Dean doesn’t look convinced and then you follow Sam.

Several guests in the hotel have reported sighting of people in their rooms at night, some saying they were flickering, like on an old TV. There’s been cold spots and things moving, but no one’s gotten hurt yet, except for one guy who got freaked out and fell down a few stairs, spraining his ankle.

The only reason you’re even checking it out is because you were just a few towns over, finishing up a case.

When you pulled into the hotel parking lot and saw the banners, Dean nearly turned the Impala around on the spot. It was only after you told him that innocent people might be getting hurt that he begrudgingly parked the car. Sam meanwhile had gone quiet and a little pale.

So often, they’re so similar but so often they’re not.

“It’s easy for you, you know,” Dean is saying to you while you are walking through the lobby, “it’s not like your every thought and private life is just put on display, for everyone to read.”

“Hey!” you say, sounding a little offended. “I must be in there somewhere, right? I’m your trusty sidekick, I don’t at least get a mention?” Sam chuckles a little.

“Probably,” he says, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Would be weird if you weren’t.” You nod.

“Damn right it would be,” you reply. “It would be downright—”

“Oh my God, you guys look great!” you hear a voice close behind you. All three of you turn around.

There’s a couple standing behind you. He’s got his arm around her shoulder and she has a hand on his chest and is grinning at you, eyes wide. They’re not in costume like the majority of the other convention goers are, but they are merched the hell out. His t-shirt has one of the book covers on it and hers the words Winchester Family Business. It’s actually kind of nice.

“Thanks,” you say instinctively, although you’re not sure why. The guy points at Sam, and goes: “Let me guess, you’re Sam, right?”

You think duh before you understand what he means. He thinks he’s cosplaying as Sam.

Sam takes a second to get it as well. “Uh yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

“Makes sense because of the height,” the girlfriend says, “but I think you’d be a better Castiel, looks-wise.”

You look at Sam just to see an entire identity crisis go over his face.

“And you,” she says, looking at Dean now. “You look great!” Her boyfriend nods. “Real strong on the whole Dean vibe.”

Dean actually looks flattered and you make sure you remember to tease him about that later.

“But,” the girlfriend says, and then her eyes land on you and you panic for a second. She shakes her head appreciatively. “You know a lot of people don’t manage to pull it off, but you’re rocking it.”

“Rocking…it?” you ask, feeling your mouth go dry.

“Yeah!” she says, her face excited and she says your name. When she sees that you’re not picking up what she’s putting down, she waves her hand, gesticulating towards you. “I mean you got her down perfectly. The hair, the outfit, the devil-may-care attitude while still being a little cutie.”

And yeah, okay, it is flattering, so you can’t really blame Dean, especially not when the guy says: “Like Faith and Buffy had a kick-ass baby! Basically the perfect woman!”

His girlfriend pokes her finger into his side, but she’s laughing. You shrug, the comparison definitely getting to you.

“I’ve often thought so,” you say. The girlfriend squeals. “That’s totally something she would say!” Looks like your character work is on point.

Of course Sam has to ruin the rainfall of compliments. “We’re actually here from a local paper,” he’s saying, and if there was a subtle way to throw him an annoyed look you would do it. “Anything… unusual happen since you guys have gotten here?” The couple look at each other.

“Not really,” she says, “but we only got here this morning. We couldn’t get time off work earlier.” So they probably can’t tell you anything regarding the sightings.

“Thanks anyway,” Dean says, and you’re about to turn away, when the woman says: “It’s a fun idea, by the way, going as the love triangle. Just makes sense.”

You freeze and you’re pretty sure so do Sam and Dean.

“The love what now?” you say after a second.

“Love triangle?” she confirms, looking at you. When she sees the clueless look on your face, she puts her hand over her mouth.

“Oh crap,” she says, “are you not that far in the books?” Then she’s motioning towards her boyfriend’s shirt. He pulls the strap of his bag away so that you can see better as you take a step closer to him.

Like you already saw earlier it’s one of the book covers, the number telling you it’s a recent one. It has Sam and Dean on it, again, half-naked, looking like they work for Rent-a-Highlander. But there’s a third figure on the cover. You step even closer to see.

It’s a woman. She’s wearing a red, skin-tight dress that’s flayed in places and has a sword in her hand. She’s also leaning her back against one of the guys, the one who’s supposed to be Sam, long hair blowing in the wind, his hand on her hip and his sculpted chest pressed against her back, while the other guy, who’s supposed to be Dean, ripped shirt barely covering anything, is facing her, cupping her chin.

Your eyes go wide. “Oh. My. God.”  

“Oh my God,” you say, again.

You can’t stop saying it, as the three of you weave your way through the crowd, Sam leading since he can see best where you’re going.

You say it again because what you just saw isn’t sinking in.

“What’s the matter?” Dean says behind you, snarkiness in his voice. “Isn't it nice to be adored?”

You whip around to throw him an angry look and promptly walk into Sam’s back, since he’s stopped. You almost jump back. Any kind of physical contact seems loaded right now.

“Let’s go over here,” Sam says, pointing to a seating group in a quiet corner. When you reach it, you plop down in one of the chairs. You’re tempted to say oh my God again but luckily Sam starts talking first. “Okay, we gotta find some people who have encountered the ghosts, assuming it is ghosts.”

He’s purposefully not looking at you, instead scanning the room. “Maybe we should split up, meet up again in an hour and see what we found.”

Okay, so he is just completely ignoring this. Very Sam. Dean, on the other hand, is not.

“That dress would just be so unpractical,” he says, apropos of nothing. “But damn, it was ripped in all the right places.” You look at him, eyes wide as saucers.

“Seriously?” you hiss at him.

“What?” he says, raising his hands. “You’ve been making fun of us from the moment we got here. I can’t do the same?”

You’re lost for words because as uncomfortable as it is, he’s not totally wrong. You’re kind of reaping what you sowed. You make a secret vow to yourself to never, ever do any sowing again.

“Guys!” Sam says, making you and Dean look at him. “Focus?” You shake your head. “Yes, you’re right. Ghosts. Hauntings. Work.” Then you take a deep breath.

You can’t get that cover out of your head. It’s so cheesy, over the top. Silly. But damn it if the idea of being between Sam and Dean like that isn’t making you feel some things. Clearing your throat, you bring yourself back to reality.

“Maybe splitting up is a good idea. And like you said, we meet back here in an hour and compare notes,” you say. Sam nods.

“Okay,” he says and then he is walking away. No see you later, no good luck. He is just walking off. What the hell?

You look back at Dean and you are about 99% sure you catch him looking at your boobs.

“I really hope you’re not imagining that dress on me, Dean Winchester,” you say, and Dean makes a face that tells you that is exactly what he was doing.

You huff, then get up and walk away too.

Love triangle is ridiculous.

For a love triangle to happen, there would need to be flirting. Maybe kissing. There hasn’t been.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

Flirting with Dean is easy and you slip into it all the time. Sometimes it’s just teasing, but other times…

Other times it takes on a different quality. Dean looks into your eyes a second longer than he needs to, until you feel your breathing getting a little heavier. He checks you out and compliments you but some of his compliments are so specific, so genuine that it flusters you.

Sam, on the other hand, doesn’t flirt with you at all, but then you don’t know what it would look like for Sam to flirt. Instead, he does small things he doesn’t need to do, pays attention to things that would escape anyone else's notice. He helps you take off your jacket when you’re hurt and can’t move your arms or shoulders so well, his fingers grazing your skin lightly, making it feel like they’re shooting off electricity. He stands close to you, closer than he needs to, so that you brush up against him when you move.

But love triangle? you think, as you’re talking to the third group of people that hasn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. Love triangle is just ridiculous.

The group you’re talking to is two young women and a guy. They’re nice and are happy to talk to you, but no ghost sightings.

Ironically, one of them is dressed as a ghost. “Old Halloween costume,” she grins when you complimented her on it.

You’re chatting about the convention and that everyone’s waiting for a new book to come out, while you hold a little pad and a pen in your hands, to look all journalist-y. They’re talking passionately amongst themselves about where the story is going. You can’t help yourself – you have to ask.

“So what do you guys think about the love triangle?” you ask, trying to act as unaffected as possibly.

“I know some people don’t like it,” the girl dressed as a ghost says, “but I love it.”

The guy, dark hair and glasses, nods. “Yeah,” he says, “I think she’s a great addition to the story. I mean, no offense, I like the old books too, but geez, I think we all had enough of that sausage fest.”

The second girl, short bob and freckles, laughs. “There’s only so many scenes you can have with the brothers miscommunicating while they are in emotional turmoil. These books need some sex!”

You all laugh. The books aren’t the only ones, you think.

“Plus,” ghost girl says, pointedly looking at you, “she is super hot. Have you seen those covers?”

You remember the cover, of course, remember the way Sam was grabbing your hip and Dean tilting up your face. Well, not your face, not your hip.

Whatever. This is confusing.

“But isn’t it awkward?” you ask, still not able to stop yourself. “I mean someone’s bound to get hurt, right?”

Freckles shrugs. “Maybe,” she says, “I just hope she ends up with Sam. I mean, Jesus, he’s so controlled and then there’s that scene where he thinks about what he wants to do to her? How he just wants to let his control slip, press her against the wall and make her his?”

You swallow, just as Freckles makes a head-exploding-sound. “Too hot.”

“I don’t know,” Glasses says. “I like her with Dean.”

“Dean’s too much of a playboy,” Freckles interrupts him. “He’ll never settle down.”

“That’s what makes it so romantic,” Glasses responds, leaning forward. “He’s never been in love and then he meets her and he can’t have her? Duuude.”

He sighs, then grins, before he adds: “Plus you know he must be a beast in bed.”

Laughs all around again while you pretend that you are totally fine and not turning into molten lava. To distract, you turn to ghost girl.

“Who do you think she should end up with?” you ask. Ghost girl shrugs.

“Why pick one?” she says. “She should just take both. She fantasizes about it, after all.”

You just have enough time to think holy crap, your spank bank material is in these books, when you hear Dean behind you: “Who fantasizes about what?”

You whip around, and Sam and Dean are standing right behind you.

“Nothing,” you say immediately. You turn back to the group.

“Thank you,” you say, raising your note pad that you have written absolutely nothing into. “I appreciate you talking to me.” The wave at you and then you get up.

“Anything?” you ask Sam and Dean in a low voice, hoping they won’t ask what you were talking about.

“I think I got something,” Sam says. He fills you both in: the people who have notices the cold spots are all on the same floor. So that’s where you go.

The hallways of the hotel are abandoned since everyone is downstairs at the convention. There’s no sign of any ghostly activity, at least not until you walk ahead, scanning the hallway in front of you, and suddenly Sam says your name and you feel his hand wrap around your arm.

He pulls you back and you just see a presence appear in the exact spot where you were standing a second ago. It shrieks and then disappears.

It would be scary but you are very much distracted by the fact that when Sam pulled you back he pulled you towards the wall and you are now between it and him, his heaving chest at the surprise right in front of you.

How he just wants to let his control slip, press her against the wall and make her his.

You need to take a deep breath. Sam looks down at you, his big hand still around your arm.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Mmh hmm,” you reply, since words are hard.

“That wasn’t a ghost,” Dean says, stepping closer to you two. Sam turns to him and lets go of your arm.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“Death echo,” you just manage to mutter. They both look at you.

“It was quick but I think I saw a gunshot wound,” you add, sort of proud of how steady your voice sounds now that you're saying more than two syllables. “If it was a ghost it would have attacked me. I mean, I basically walked through it.” Sam nods, thinking.

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Dean nods as well, looks at you. “Smart. That’s our girl.”

He must be a beast in bed.

And yeah, your voice probably wouldn’t be so steady after he says that, so you decide to just smile and nod.

“Death echoes are harmless, right?” Dean asks, turning to Sam. His little brother nods. “They are. They can be reminded that they’re dead, but it usually just works if someone they have a connection to does it.” You swallow to steady yourself.

“I think I might have an idea,” you say.

It's a minor spell that you learned years ago. The ingredients are basic and easy to get, and Sam says the incantation while Dean draws the pentagram on the wallpaper in the hallway.

“They’ll just think it was some fans,” he shrugs at you.

The death echo makes another appearance and the spell helps to remind it of its death. The spirit passes on, the cold spots disappear and it’s another day of work well done.

You’re almost sad to leave because the people you were talking to were nicer than the folk you run into on your normal cases.

But you’re also glad to be getting out of there. You don’t need anymore reminders of how hopeless and complicated your crushes on the two brothers are, and you certainly don’t need any more sexy ideas put in your head.

You climb into the back of the Impala, sitting in the middle, while Sam and Dean get into the front. A big sigh leaves you involuntarily.

You gotta put this behind you. Nothing good lies that way.

You notice then that Dean hasn’t started the car, so you look up, and you see both of them looking back at you.

“What?” you ask, already defensive.

“Look,” Sam says, sounding a little uncomfortable, “do we need to talk?” At your wide eyed stare, he adds: “About the love triangle thing?”

Oh God, you cannot even express how much you do not want to talk about that. So you decide to just lie.

“It’s just part of the book,” you say, doing your best to sound convincing. “I mean I know Chuck’s a prophet and all, but come on, he must have made some stuff up, you know? Besides, sex sells! Everyone knows that.”

Sam nods, but Dean doesn’t drop it.

“Right,” he says, and then sort of looks down, you don’t know at what, “so you’ve never dreamed of two pairs of strong, calloused hands running over your body, exploring every inch of you, making you feel small and desired?”

Your eyes go even wider, if such a thing is possible, because, yes, absolutely you have, but how in the world does Dean know that?

“Or,” Sam adds, suddenly not so awkward-looking anymore. He reaches his hand and Dean hands him whatever he’s been holding. Sam brings it up over the seat where you can see it, and it’s an edition of the book that has the three of you on the cover.

Sam reads from it, eyebrows raised. “Or lying between two big, solid bodies while their practiced mouths make you shudder in ecstacy, screaming your lust to the heavens as their manhoods undo you again and again?”

Dean guffaws.

“Damn,” he says, “you have a dirty mind.”

He turns and starts the engine, music blaring from the stereo.

You slip lower in your seat, your hands going over your face, hoping the earth will simply open up and swallow you down as the car starts moving.

“This can’t be happening,” you mutter.

You peek between your fingers and Dean is drumming on the steering wheel, while Sam grins at you.

“Pretty hot,” he says, and then turns forward as well.

You can’t help but grin a little.   

[greyest-november]

Okay hear me out, Eddie nervous on your first valentines day together wanting to make it special and only knowing how to valentines from what he's seen at school and he panics and is very eddie about the whole thing 👀

please my heart almost couldn't take this. i swore nothing over 1k but nervous and panicking eddie being all cute?? yeah i couldn't help myself. this isn't edited, sorry in advance. no warnings, just fluff.

wc: 2.2k

He feels stupid.

It's the only thought ringing through his head as he sits at the Munson's dining table, scraps of construction paper strewn over the worn wood, glue stick drying out to the side and scissors digging into his knuckles. 

It had started as a prophetic vision after a few hits from his blunt; it was quickly souring into the most ridiculous thing he’s ever done. 

The high had worn off, Eddie had glued his fingers together thrice now (seriously, how was this glue stick approved for children?), and the end product…. Well, he hated it. 

The card was tacky. The flowers were uneven. He didn’t even have the willpower nor time to make a full bouquet as he had originally wanted to while under the influence. Pink glitter was now overtaking the trailer, and he’s never seen his uncle look so damn entertained. 

“Boy, what on God’s green Earth are you going?” 

Normally, the twang of Wayne’s accent would be comforting. But right now, all Eddie could hear was held back laughter choking up his old man’s throat, and a glint in his eye that felt a lot like a taunt, and he felt the farthest from comforted in a very long time. 

“Mind your business, old man,” Eddie grumbles, tongue sticking out as he tries to reglue a corner of a paper heart he had cut out, needing it to stick down properly. He probably should have purchased glue, in hindsight. 

“Where did you get all this paper?”

“I said mind your business.”

“Is that pink glitter?” 

“Don’t you have work?” Eddie huffs, grabbing at the Valentine card he was attempting to salvage, cheeks blushing more vibrant than any of the arts and crafts supplies spread about. 

He didn’t want to admit how embarrassed he was. He didn’t want to give anyone else the satisfaction. It was his own damn fault, really – he had offered for your nightly diner dates to be on him one too many times this last month, and entirely forgotten to put away any extra cash to get you a proper Valentine. And this was his last resort. 

He’d tried to convince the local florist to discount the flowers missing one too many petals for him, he’d tried to scope out the cheapest cards available at Melvald’s. He’d begged and bartered with every option in town to simply get you something for the day of love, and in the end, he’d simply fallen short.

So now, all he had was a palm full of gritty glitter and homemade items that looked worse for wear. 

One of the kinder ladies that lived two trailers down had been happy to offer Eddie some of her scrapbooking papers, throwing in the glitter for good measure, and he still had an old glue stick from when he’d built one of his custom tabletop maps for a D&D campaign. With five hours and a dream, he was now the not-so-proud creator of three handmade paper roses, and a card hardly large enough to fit in his palm. 

When he took a step back to look at it all, Wayne was right to be snickering on the couch over it all. 

“They’re going to hate it,” Eddie laments, glaring down at his creations, “They’re going to hate it, and I’m going to get dumped on our first Valentine’s day together.”

“Don’t be so harsh on yourself, son,” Wayne tries to genuinely comfort Eddie now, leaning forward to get a better look at his last five hours of work, “I’m sure they’re gon’ be happy that you just thought of the-”

“My life is over,” Eddie interrupts, walking over to the couch to collapse dramatically.

Wayne stops him, however, throwing up a hand, “Nope. You’re not gettin’ that damn pink glitter all over my couch. Go mope in your room.”

After a brief stare-off, a whole ten seconds wasted when Eddie could be wallowing in his self-pity, Eddie does exactly that.

He hopes Wayne is right, for all their sakes. There’ll be bigger things to worry about than just glitter if you really do hate Eddie’s attempt at a sincere Valentine. 

—

It takes nearly a full minute of knocking on the Munson’s trailer’s front door before Eddie opens it for you – that’s your first sign that something is terribly wrong. 

Your next sign is when Eddie hardly adds any enthusiasm into your welcome kiss, so reserved, as though he might be in a constant state of cringing; a constant state of preparing for the worst. 

“Is something the matter?” you ask innocently enough, toeing off your shoes and shifting your bag in hand. You’d picked up a few movies for the night, a variety of cheesy rom-coms Eddie expressed a slightest bit of interest in along with a few more up his alley. A horror film that neither of you had seen that looked to have a budget of $10 and a dream, and Labyrinth. 

The latter, you’d both already seen. Neither of you would pass up seeing David Bowie in his full glory, though. 

“It’s fine,” Eddie huffs out, still refusing to meet your gaze, “Want me to put on some popcorn?” 

You can’t help but light up as you follow him in his rush to the kitchen, “God – yes, please. I also got some sour patch kids, your favorite, and-”

You cut off when you catch sight of the dining room table. 

Eddie doesn’t glance back as he reaches up to the cabinet holding the stash of popcorn he keeps around for your movie nights, “And?”��

“Eddie…” you slowly draw out in a questioning tone, looking at the mess before you, “What, uh, happened here?” 

It’s an explosion of quintessential Valentine’s day. Pink paper hearts, strips of deep reds discarded messily. A shimmering glitter covers the table, and you can’t recall any DIY projects of Eddie’s for Hellfire that might involve that. 

“What?” He’s quick to turn around at that, and you watch as all the blood drains from his face, “Oh, fuck, I-” he launches himself back around the kitchen counter frantically, grabbing at any piece of paper he can find, “Shit, I meant to clean this up earlier, I’m sorr-”

“What were you making?” 

Eddie pauses all movement, glancing up at you in fear. 

You’re not even sure what he’s afraid of. All you can do is furrow your brows, twist your lips, scrunch your nose. 

Was it meant to be a surprise of some sort?

He swallows hard, standing up straight as he shifts uncomfortably on his feet, “I….”

When no words follow, you raise a brow, trying to silently encourage him to continue on. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And oh, he’s such a bad liar. A pretty one, but a terrible one. 

There’s no sign of the stellar poker face you’ve seen him wear during Hellfire sessions, no impeccable cockiness to cover up the obvious. His wringing hands draw your attention to his knuckles, all the drying glue and glitter peeling off bit by bit.  

“You sure about that?” you press, grin slow spreading as you take a step closer to him, eyeing the mess he tries to shift in front of to block from your sights.

“Positive.”

“Has anyone told you you’re an awful liar, Munson?”

“I’m not ly-” 

You scooch around him effortless, dropping your bag in the process and making him yelp out as he tries to catch you. His arms are quick to wrap around your waist as you try to get a clearer view of what he had been so desperate to conceal, but even his best efforts can’t stop you. 

It’s all a bit childish from the outside. Reckless giggles, flailing limbs – even Eddie is smiling in his panic. 

“Let go of me!” 

“Then leave it alone!”

“I wanna see what you made!” 

Each screech between the two of you is overcome with laughter as he pulls you flush to his chest, caging you in and yet failing to cover your eyes. 

You spot what he was trying to hide, and all attempts to escape his hold cease. 

“Are those…” you start, a little breathless as you stare in awe. You swear, you could burn up from the warmth blooming in your chest. When his arms go the slightest bit limp, you have your answer before finishing the question, “Are those for me?” 

A small jar, one that had once held some of Eddie’s pick collection, now holds three handmade paper roses. Mingling petals of two different shades of red, with tightly rolled pieces of green paper servings at their stems. Two even have leaves, cut jagged and true to nature. 

Leaning against the small paper flower display is a card.

It’s a messier ordeal than the flowers, but you’re still prying Eddie’s forearms from your stomach in a rush to grab it. 

“Hold on,” he rushes out, no longer laughing as you get a hold of the card, “Wait, listen, I can explain. I just- I spent most of my money when we went to Benny’s for shakes last week, and I forgot I wouldn’t get any more cash before today, and I just-” he’s stumbling over his words, a mess of flying hands and wide eyes as you turn to face him, “I… I’m sorry, okay? I swear, they’re just placeholders until I get you a real gift for Valentine’s Day.” 

You’re hardly listening to him as you look down at the small paper, folded over fairly impressively to mimic one of the fancy cards from Melvard’s. It’s thinner, sure, but you’re mesmerized as you trace over the heart cut out of the center. It’s filled with pink glitter that clings to your fingertip as it passes, and you can’t help but let out a small laugh. 

And then you open the card. 

The outside was plain white save for the heart, but the inside is gorgeous. Hand drawn vines and flowers fill the empty space inside. Roses, mums, lillies – every flower you can think of is amongst the bunch. All etched out in ink, an ink you recognize from Eddie’s favorite pen, and every gentle line sketched out to make the larger picture sends your heart racing a few beats faster.

Underneath the glitter heart is a large bee, made with a speech bubble. 

“Placeholder?” you laugh breathlessly, biting your lip to stop from smiling like a fool. “You call all this a placeholder?” 

Bee mine? 

It’s so cheesy, it aches. 

Written in makeshift cursive, not quite as neat as it could have been, but clearly a valiant effort from the shy man standing before you. You can’t fathom how he’s embarrassed about this when you look up at him with fluttering lashes and a chest full of fizzling love. 

“I thought you were going to hate them,” he hoarsely whispers as he reaches a hand to the nape of his neck. 

“Hate them?” you repeat in disbelief, turning your attention back to the handmade flowers. “In what fuckin’ world would I hate these?”

You lift one of the roses from the mini jar, and sniff it on instinct. It should only smell like paper and glue, but it doesn’t – Eddie’s obviously spritzed his cologne onto the flowers.

The miniscule detail has your heart bursting. 

He’s still petrified as he stares at you, shrugging hopelessly, “I just know it’s our first Valentine’s together, and people usually go all out-”

“This is going all out, Eddie.”

You can’t imagine being capable of any more love for the boy in front of you. Genuinely – you don’t believe your bones could handle the weight of it, that your heart could take it. You’re filled to the brim with it, buzzing like summertime cicadas beneath your skin from all the vibrant emotions you have for him. For every blemish across his skin and every kink in his curls, for those big brown eyes simply staring at you now. Those knuckles covered in glue and glitter. Those lips that you can’t handle another second not kissing. 

And so you don’t. Not another second is wasted as you fling yourself forward, nearly dropping the paper flower in hand as you grab each side of his face, bringing him to you in a hard kiss. 

You hope he feels all that love. You hope the weight of it presses down on his shoulders, even if just a little, so he gets it. 

“I fucking love it, Eds,” you laugh into the kiss, pressing your forehead, “I- Honestly? I think this is the nicest Valentine I’ve ever gotten.” 

“Really?” his eyes pop open, pulling back from you slightly until you simply won’t allow it. You want him close – you need him pressed against you. “Well, shit. I thought you were going to hate them and break up with me.” 

“Me, breaking up with you? After this?” you parrot back in disbelief, shaking your head, tip of your nose rubbing against his through the action, “God, you’re an idiot, Eddie Munson. My idiot, but still.” 

He finally cracks a smile, and you lose yourself in the dimples that appear as he asks, “Does this mean you’ll be my Valentine?”

“Absolutely.”

[greyest-november]

beginning to suspect that if I ever want to have a published novel I will have to actually write a novel, which is frankly ghoulish

[greyest-november]

[greyest-november]

it’s really important to me when men put their heads in women’s laps. one of the most important things i can see on my tv. men laying their heads in women’s laps or men sitting and women standing and the man holds her around the middle and presses his face into her tummy as she hugs him around the shoulders. two very important poses. extremely soul igniting tableaux.

[greyest-november]

YOU can write whatever you want whenever however forevrr. i have to write something perfect and earth shattering and i have to do it perfectly the first time or else

[greyest-november]

truly some people have no genre savviness whatsoever. A girl came back from the dead the other day and fresh out of the grave she laughed and laughed and lay down on the grass nearby to watch the sky, dirt still under her nails. I asked her if she’s sad about anything and she asked me why she should be. I asked her if she’s perhaps worried she’s a shadow of who she used to be and she said that if she is a shadow she is a joyous one, and anyway whoever she was she is her, now, and that’s enough. I inquired about revenge, about unfinished business, about what had filled her with the incessant need to claw her way out from beneath but she just said she’s here to live. I told her about ghosts, about zombies, tried to explain to her how her options lie between horror and tragedy but she just said if those are the stories meant for her then she’ll make another one. I said “isn’t it terribly lonely how in your triumph over death nobody was here to greet you?” and she just looked at me funny and said “what do you mean? The whole world was here, waiting”. Some people, I tell you.

[greyest-november]

GOD I just want to be CREATIVE but all my energy is being used to survive

[greyest-november]

REVERSE TROPE WRITING PROMPTS

Too many beds

Accidentally kidnapping a mafia boss

Really nice guy who hates only you

Academic rivals except it’s two teachers who compete to have the best class

Divorce of convenience

Too much communication

True hate’s kiss (only kissing your enemy can break a curse)

Dating your enemy’s sibling

Lovers to enemies

Hate at first sight

Love triangle where the two love interests get together instead

Fake amnesia

Soulmates who are fated to kill each other

Strangers to enemies

Instead of fake dating, everyone is convinced that you aren’t actually dating

Too hot to cuddle

Love interest CEO is a himbo/bimbo who runs their company into the ground

Nursing home au

[greyest-november]

I don't remember where I heard this, but it stuck with me.

You know how you used to write so much more when you were younger and now it's difficult to do even a quarter of what you used to? Writing didn't get harder, you just got better.

You're making sure your characters have arcs and your plot is hitting the right points. All that good stuff. That's progress!

[greyest-november]

car’s outside (but I don’t wanna go tonight)

sam winchester x reader

summary: sam feels bad because he’s always away on hunts. you reassure him

warnings: angst, fluff, insecure sam

word count: 1.3k

requested by @fuiabarcelos

Sam came home when the hand of the clock showed way past midnight. You would like to say you noticed, but you didn’t. Like every other night, you had waited up until late for your boyfriend to return, but as much as you missed him, you had to fall asleep at some point.

Sam was quiet when he entered the bedroom. For a moment, when he saw you, he just froze and leaned against the threshold. The lack of moonlight was no obstacle for him to make out your figure under the bedsheets, curled up toward his side of the bed, leaving space as if he was there.

Sam was careful when he lifted the covers and slid under them, like a silent breeze drifting through a window.

He shuffled closer to the warmth of your body, wrapping one arm around you. In sleep, you let out a noise and scooted closer to him, pressing against his side and resting the palm of your hand over your heartbeat, just as the two of you always did.

Just like he had never left.

You weren’t an early bird. Usually, Sam was. He went out for runs, or just left bed early to get more of his day, but whenever he was home with you – which seemed to be a lot fewer times lately – you tried your best to let him sleep in.

He barely got four hours of rest anyway while he was with Dean, so whenever you could, you let him take as much time as possible. Sam always claimed to have a sort of inner clock that woke him up at ungodly times anyways, but whenever he shared a bed with you, that clock seemed to be muted.

You were preparing breakfast when Sam came down the stairs. It didn’t matter what time it was, because you were two grown adults living in your own place, and you could very well decide at what time of day to eat what, thank you very much.

Some eggs and bacon were sizzling in the pan, as two strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind. You felt the soft tickle of Sam’s breath against your skin, and the start of a stubble, while he pressed light, whispered kisses over your naked shoulder.

“Sorry I stayed away longer than I said I would,” Sam apologized softly next to your ear, voice still rough and drunken from sleep.

You blindly raised a hand to his head behind you and began scratching his scalp. Sam hummed into the crook of your neck.

“It’s okay baby,” you reassured him quietly.

“Hm, ‘s not,” Sam mumbled. Without a warning, his hold around your body tightened, and he lifted you up, twirling you around and placing you down on top of the kitchen isle. You yelped in surprise, naked thighs unsuccessfully shying away from the cold stone plate.

The freezing feeling was fast forgotten, when Sam dashed forward, hands supported on either side of your body, pressing his lips into yours.

A surprised grunt slipped past your lips when you pushed your mouth back into his. Sam’s lips felt chapped, and dry, maybe a bit bloody. They felt like the best kiss you’d ever gotten.

“Sam, the eggs are going to burn.” You protested when he pulled back to gasp for air.

Gaze fixated on you, Sam reached behind him, grabbed the dial, and swiftly turned it from a 6 to a 0. He smiled up at you, pure mischief blinking in his eyes.

“You’re insufferable,” You said, but the grin on your lips took away all the power behind it. Sam merely hummed and leaned in closer to you again. You met him halfway.

This kiss was softer, slower. An appreciation of the other’s presence and basking in it, rather than the kiss of reunion from before. You didn’t mind.

Sam had always felt perfectly shaped for you, in any way one could imagine. From the first day, he had known your lips like he had mesmerized them from an earlier life, and when he shared a bed with you, his arms hugged your body in just the way to make you feel harbored.

“How was the hunt?” You whispered. Sam’s head was resting in the crook of your neck again, as you pressed your cheek into his hair and carded your fingers through the dark strands.

Sam grunted. “I’ll never get used to you so casually asking that.”

A soft laugh escaped your throat.

Sam shifted and looked at you. “It was good,” He answered. “Missed you, though.”

He pecked your lips. You pouted. “I missed you too, baby.”

Something dark crossed Sam’s face. The corners of his mouth fell.

“You know, it’s days like these I wish I wouldn’t have to do this,” He admitted to you.

You nodded in understanding. “I know.”

Sam furrowed his eyebrows. “How can you live with this so easily? With me? I would’ve kicked myself out months ago.”

Your thumb softly smoothed out the worried line of his eyebrow. “Sam, what you and Dean do out there is so important,” You remind him. “You save people. And you love doing it.”

Sam shook his head, unconvinced. “Why are you being so understanding about this? Why can’t we fight, and you can you just yell at me to stay?”

“Would you?”

Sam didn’t answer, just averted your eyes at the question.

“Exactly.” You smiled softly. “Sam, I know I couldn’t keep you from this. And that’s why I would never ask you to give it up. I would never make you choose.”

“But it’s not how this should be. How we should be. I.” He touched his forehead softly against yours.

“Always one foot out the door. It’s not what you deserve.”

“Maybe not. But I know how much it means to you. Being out there, saving people, being with your brother. And I would never keep you from that.” You added.

Sam’s eyes flashed with an offer. “Then come with me.”

You softly shook your head. “You know you can’t ask that of me.”

He bowed his head again. “I know, I-“ He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

You tilted his chin up to look at you. His eyes were liquid, glistening in the dim light of your kitchen like warm copper. “Hey. You didn’t let me finish before.”

Your thumbs caressed his cheek, your hands holding up his head. “Maybe it is not what I deserve. But it is what I want.” You leaned closer to him. “You are what I want, Sam Winchester.”

Sam leaned his forehead against yours. “You are what I’ll always want.”

For a moment, you closed your eyes. You felt your breathing through the silence of the kitchen, the rising and sinking of your chest, and how it accommodated to move the same as Sam’s.

You felt the beating of a heartbeat. You couldn’t say if it was Sam’s, or yours. They beat the same.

“What did I do to deserve you?” He whispered. You grinned.

“You bring me souvenirs from every town you go in.”

“That’s nothing.”

You lean back and look at him. “For me, it’s everything.”

Sam’s eyes dart in-between yours, and the look that burned in them was so sincere, it almost made his heart ache. Dean had called you a witch once, Sam just called it love.

He wrapped you into another kiss.

You spent a lot of time kissing that morning.

The eggs were already cooled down by the time you served them, and the bacon was no longer crispy, but it didn’t matter. Sam was too captivated by being back home with you, to pay that much mind to the food anyway.