crawling into bed with an aggressive head cold, lots of body aches, hot tea, my pup, and an episode of chef’s table on netflix to end my weekend. dreaming of summertime when the sunshine brings out the freckles on my shoulders, you can fall asleep with the windows open, and head colds are less frequent.
March 12th, a teenage girl from my town went missing on her walk to
school. Leona Joy Vans was 15, a cute kid who played clarinet for the
high school band and volunteered at the nearby animal shelter on
weekends. She dreamed of going to college for music and getting a
position with an orchestra. It was impossible not to know these things,
her parents were all over the news for days, pleading with anyone to
come forward with information, but it seemed like no one had seen or
Search parties were organized, a few of which I joined along with my
mother and brother, and the town was thoroughly combed for the girl. We
walked through woods, divers dragged the nearby lakes, and cadaver dogs
sniffed their way in circles, but there was no sign of Leona.
I need to find a man I truly feel comfortable around. Let me take my time opening up sexually. I’m tired of feeling rushed. I hate it. I want to go on dates and run errands together. Come home after getting caught in the rain and take a bubble bath. Nothing really sexual about it; we admire one another’s bodies as we embrace and kiss in the warm water that surrounds us. Dry off and make a meal together while dancing around in the kitchen to our favorite songs. We’ll cuddle up until we nod off happily inside a makeshift fort as the strung up Christmas lights peek through the sheets. I dream of weekends like this so much it hurts. / What hurts even more is that I’m stopping myself from letting it ever possibly happen because I tell myself I’m not good enough and I cut myself down until there’s nothing left.
The Crazy Horse Road House may not be the most romantic rendezvous, but it works for you and Sam. That’s the only thing that matters.
Between your schedule and Sam crisscrossing the country to fight the big bad, it’s amazing you’ve made any semblance of a relationship last. It takes a lot of work and patience to be the woman waiting on Sam Winchester. Most of the time it’s nothing more than missed dinners, broken plans and crawling into bed alone.
It’s not exactly ideal, but it’s your reality and it’s really damn lonely.
Once a month, if life is hectic and you two haven’t really gotten a chance to spend any time together, you meet here. The Crazy Horse. You spend the weekend drinking cheap beer, going to second run movies and fucking in the dirty motel across the street. Sometimes he comes alone, other times he brings his brother and you pretend that it doesn’t bother you.
Everything about Sam is a compromise, so you take what you can get.
So tonight, here you sit, three beers in, waiting. Sam’s late, big surprise.
“Hey,” a greasy, middle-aged guy parks himself on the barstool next to you. He has no shame as he gives you a good once over, eyeing you from head to toe. “Damn sweetheart, you look like you could use some company.”
“I’m good, thanks.” You flash him a tight smile and sip your beer.
“I don’t know about that. You look a little lonely over here all by yourself.” He makes himself comfortable, signaling to the bartender for another drink. “I’m Luke, what’s your name?”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “You don’t have worry about me. I’m waiting for someone.”
“You sure about that?” He moves in a little closer. “My buddies and I have been watching you for a while. Sure looks like you’re flying solo.” He nods to a small table. You follow his stare and several of the men begin to snicker and whistle.
“As flattering as all this is, I’m really not interested in anything other than my drink.” You shift in your seat, turning toward him and leaning away at the same time. You make sure to look him in the eyes, you don’t want him getting the wrong idea, you’re not a woman who’s easily messed with. This is not the first time you’ve been hit on in bar, but it never gets less uncomfortable.
“Hey now, no reason to get your panties in a punch.” He’s really not taking the hint. “Just let me buy you a beer. I we’d get along just fine once you loosen up a little.”
“Listen, I’m not going to ask you again, please leave me alone.” You cringe as he licks his lips, amused by your reaction.
“Let’s just think about this for a minute, it’s perfect sweetheart,” His hand is suddenly on your leg, his stubby fingers digging into your thigh. You suck in a sudden breath, jumping at his touch. “You’re alone, I’m alone. We could have a little fun.”
“She’s not alone.” Sam’s voice behind you is unmistakable, accompanied by his big hands on your shoulders. “Take your hands off her before I do it for you.”
Luke’s hand recoils, suddenly jumping up from his seat. He smiles shyly and shrugs his shoulders. “It’s cool man, we were just talking.”
“Well, you’re done now.” Sam moves between you and Luke, as he shuffles back his table where his friends are in hysterics.
“You picked a hell of a night to be late.” You spin around to face him.
“I can see that. You have quite the fan club.” Sam looks down you with his jaw set, not at all amused. He ticks his head, as if he’s trying to shake off how pissed he is. He throws Luke, and the table of admirers, a hostile stare.
“Sam, It’s fine” You stand up as he snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you to him. He kisses you hard, definitely more forceful than the usual hello kiss. You squeak into this mouth when he grabs a handful of your ass, giving it a quick squeeze as he pulls away.
Sam’s marking his territory. You let him.
“You wanna leave?” He offers, still holding you against his body. You can feel his heart racing in his chest, he really didn’t like that guy touching you. His reaction, while a bit over the top, is really turning you on.
“No, don’t let that guy ruin our night. Come on,” you grab his hand and coax him back toward the bar.
It takes a few beers, a game of darts and a story about Dean shopping for the perfect mozzarella cheese, but Sam simmers downs and start to enjoy himself. You talk and drink until well after midnight. You tell him everything. The little details, that would bore anyone else, make Sam’s eyes light up. He enjoys hearing about your boring little life.
Sam’s coming back from the bathroom, when one of Luke’s friend bumps into him. Sam keep his cool, but the guy mumbles something. You know what’s about to happen, already moving toward them.
“What did you say?” Sam raises his eyebrows, his shoulders rolling back.
“Baby, just ignore him. Please, let’s just go.” You’re between Sam and another man, with two hands on Sam’s chest. The other guy is just as big as Sam.
The situation has escalated in record time.
The man eyes you up, then down, making the point that Sam can’t stop him from looking at you any way he likes. He turns to Sam and grins, “I bet I could make her squeal like a pig.”
“Shut your mouth.” Sam spits as his fist connects with the man’s face in a single, fluid motion. One quick punch and the asshole is holding his nose as blood streams down his shirt.
Next thing you know, he’s running full bore at Sam.
Your dive bar date night has officially turned into an all out brawl.
A couple hours later you’re in a dirty motel bathroom. The gash in Sam’s side looks horrific but he’s insisting that he doesn’t need a hospital.
“Can you thread the needle for me?” he implores, wincing as he gingerly pats the open wound with an alcohol soaked cloth.
“Sure,” you gulp and look away, your stomach feeling uneasy. “Are you sure we shouldn’t have someone look at it? He cut with a broken beer bottle for Christ’s sake.”
“It’s not too deep.” Sam gives you a strained grin that’s intended to dismiss your concerns. “I’ve done it before, Y/N. I’m gonna be fine.”
“Okay,” you don’t fight him. You thread the needle with fishing line and hand it to him along with a bottle of whiskey. He takes a swig, then gets down to the business of stitching himself up.
You can’t watch. You turn the TV and force yourself to watch a rerun of Forensic Files.
By the time Sam’s crawls into bed it’s almost sunrise. There’s a lot you intended to say to him, but instead you wrap your arms around him as he lays his head on your chest.
“I’m sorry.” You whisper, it wasn’t your fault, but you feel like somehow it was. “We should have left.”
“Don’t be. He was asking for it.” Sam breathes, “I’d do it again.”
When you wake up it’s early afternoon and Sam is gone. There’s a note on his pillow.
Dean called, had to leave. Didn’t want to wake you.
I’m sorry I ruined our night. I’ll make it up to you. Call me.
I love you.
Two weeks later , Sam hi-jacks you on a Sunday afternoon. He holds your hand while he drives, thumb rubbing the back your knuckles and watching how you smile at the afternoon light. He sneaks glances at you, noticing, for the first time in a long time the pink in your cheeks, delicate color on pallid skin.
He finds a old revival theater, in a town so out of the way he’d never be able to find again if his life depended on it. The tickets are cheap, but the popcorn is stale and the only thing playing is a animated kids movie he’s never heard of.
You tell him you can’t believe he’s never seen this movie and you’re definitely staying. It’s a exquisite, rundown theater, you can smell mold and new paint as you sit in ratted seats. You think it’s fantastic. He’s there with you, arm slung over her shoulders as the lights dim and your eyes tear up at the opening credits of An American Tail.
And even though I know how very far apart we are
It helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star…
Afterwards, Sam fucks you in the parking lot, you ride him in the backseat, squirming and moving your hips while he bucks up into you. Your teeth chatter over his lips, kisses hard and meant only for him. He fists the pale yellow material of you dress where it’s bunched at your hips, rough hands cupping ass while you ache with lust. Your back curves sharply, harsh gasps when his dick finds your sweet spot and all you can do is say his name. You dig fingers, clawing into his shoulder, cock buried deep, while quivering muscles tug at him. You jerk when he comes quickly with a muffled shout, mouth still pressed into your breast.
In the end it’s not the fairy tale weekend you dream of, it’s just a small moment, something private that’s only yours. There are very few romantic dinners, certainly no opera tickets or moonlit walks - no, instead you get a cheap film, a flask of whiskey and a quick fuck.
And in this life, not the ideal, not the fairy tale, but in this real existence…it’s perfect.