Summary:You find it hard to deal with the fact Sam wants to work with the BMoL which causes a slight strain on your relationship with him.
Characters: Sam x Reader, Dean
Warnings: S12 SPOILERS, mentions past torture, angst, fluff, feels, Winchester boys being cute af
A/N:This idea has been brewing for a while, just wanted to show some Sammy love! Enjoy guys xx
Sam sat there phone in hand, just staring at the blank screen waiting for a reply from you, for a text, a call- anything. He just wanted to know you were alright, that things could get sorted out between the pair of you.
Last night, after Sam had admitted he too had started working with the British Men of Letters, you couldn’t stand there and act all calm and collected. Not when that same organisation were responsible for torturing and almost killing your boyfriend. You were the one who saw him look so broken and hurt as Toni had made you watch all the horrific things they put him through in another room, you chained up and completely helpless to rescue him.
So, after a pretty heated argument, you left to clear your head. Sam hated fighting with you, after all you’d been through together ever since you were kids, getting into hunting, starting a relationship after the angels fell and all the chaos before, after and in between - you’d always had each other.
“Still no word?” Dean wandered through the doorway, taking a seat opposite his brother, pulling him out of his thoughts.
A/N: This was a random idea that came to me in the middle of the night. I woke up out of a dead sleep and had to write it down before I forgot it. I’m considering turning this into a series. Let me know what you think! Feedback is greatly appreciated (even if you only click the like button. It means a lot!). This actually won’t follow the show, but I’m going to try to incorporate as much as possible. (I thought of this after watching the episode “Stuck In The Middle (With You)”. Warnings: Angst, mentions of past neglect Summary: While heading back to the bunker, Mary makes a detour that makes her daughter question everything. Word Count: 1247 Tags below the cut
There was a flash of blue light and suddenly Castiel was healed. I was checking him for injuries while the others talked to Crowley. I helped Cas stand after Crowley disappeared. “You okay?” I asked. “Yes.” He nodded. “I’ll be fine.” “Let’s hit the road before anything else happens.” Dean suggested. We agreed and headed for our vehicles. Sam and Dean climbed into the Impala while Mom climbed into her car. I helped Cas into the passenger seat of my car before walking over to the others. “Be safe.” I told. “I’ll see you guys at the bunker.” “Okay. You guys be safe too.” Sam said. “Keep an eye on Cas and let us know if anything weird happens.” “Will do.” I smiled before heading back to my car. I started my car as the boys pulled out and Mom followed behind them. Mom had been acting strange all evening. I had some suspicions, but I didn’t want to voice them to my brothers. We had enough to worry about. “You mind if we make a pit stop?” I asked Cas. “Not at all.” He shook his head. “Can I ask where we are going?” “I’ll tell you when we get there.” I answered. I could make out the Impala’s taillights in the distance and Mom’s not far behind them. Suddenly, Mom turned off at the exit and I slowed down before following her down the winding ramp. “Where’s Mary going?” Castiel asked me. “We’re about to find out.” I muttered under my breath. “Should I call your brothers?” He questioned. “No.” I said quickly. “We can handle this.”
“ When I was six years old, I gave my first blowjob. “It’s a game”, he said. “Don’t you want to play?” It was too big, and I threw up on him. He said I’d do better the next time.
When I was seven years old, I watched a group of fellow second graders cheer as a boy in my class tried to kiss me. He hugged me from behind, giggling all the while. I threw sand in his eyes, and was sent to the Principal.
When I was eight years old, I had an elderly teacher ask me to stay behind in class. He carried me on his shoulders, and called me pretty. “Teacher’s Pet!” my friends declared, the envy visible on their faces. They ignored me at lunch that day.
When I was nine years old, an older girl on the school bus would ask me to lift my skirt up for her. She was pretty and kind, and told me that I could only be her friend if I did what she said. I wanted to be her friend.
When I was ten years old, a relative demanded that he get a kiss on the cheek every time we met. He was large and loud, and I proceeded to hide under my bed whenever I learnt that he was visiting. I was known as a rude child.
When I was eleven, my auto-man told me that we would only leave if I gave him a hug every day. He smelled like cheap soap and cigarettes.
When I was twelve years old, I watched as a man on the street touched my mother’s breast as he passed us. She slapped him amidst the shouts of onlookers telling her to calm down. She didn’t calm down.
When I was thirteen years old, I exited a restaurant only to see a man visibly masturbating as he walked towards me. As he passed, he winked lasciviously. My friends and I shifted our gazes down, aghast.
When I was fourteen, a young man in an expensive car followed me home as I walked back from an evening class. I ignored his offer to give me a ride, and I panicked when he got out, only to buy me a box of chocolate that I refused. He parked at the end of my road, and didn’t go away for an hour. “It turns me on to see you so scared.”
When I was fifteen, I was groped on a bus. It was with a heart full of shame that I confided in a friend, only to be met with his anger and disappointment that I had not shouted at the molester at the time when it happened. My soft protests of being afraid and alone were drowned out as he berated my inaction. To him, my passiveness and silence were the reasons why things like this continue to happen. He did not wait for my response.
When I was sixteen, I discovered that Facebook had a section of inbox messages named ‘others’, which contained those mails received from strangers, automatically stored as spam. Curious, I opened it to find numerous messages from men I had never seen before. I was propositioned, called sexy, asked for nudes, and insulted. Delete message.
When I was seventeen, I called for help as a drunken man tried to sexually harass me in a crowded street. The people around me seemed to walk by quicker.
At eighteen, I was told that sexism doesn’t exist in modern society. I was told that harassment couldn’t be as bad as us women make it out to be. That I should watch what I wear. Never mind you were six, never mind you were wearing pink pajamas. That I should be louder. But not too loud, a lady must be polite. That I should always ask for help. But stop overreacting, there’s a difference. That I should stay in at night, because it isn’t safe. You can’t get harassed in broad daylight. That I should always travel with no less than two boys with me. You need to be protected.