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uncouth-the-fifth · 1 year

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Mandy Davis, you punk ass bitch - Sam Winchester/Reader (for #samweek2023)

read it on ao3. masterlist.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader. Tags/Warnings: just fluff! Word Count: 2k Notes: for @ghostsam and @suncaptor's Sam Winchester Appreciation Week :) happy birthday baby boy!!! ily ily ily <;3 Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

The alarm clock in Bobby’s guest bedroom was a little busted, so you weren’t crazy confident that it could get you up at midnight like you wanted. True to form, you were hauled ass-first out of sleep a little after two in the morning, and staggered out of bed bleary-eyed and cursing.

What kind of sick freaks tortured themselves like this? Very, very dedicated girlfriends. Just like you’d predicted, the other side of the bed hadn’t been touched. Sam was probably still downstairs, straining his neck over a book and adding to his exhaustive research notes. Totally clueless. You groped around the floor for the spare pajama pants you’d stolen from him ages ago and hopped into them as quietly as you could. The house was serene but not quiet, filled with the natural creaks and sighs of the old wood and the flutter of the loose siding in the breeze. You knew it would be impossible to stay silent on the stupid ancient stairway, but you were determined not to wake Dean. There was no way you were letting him beat you to this like he had last year. Pouring all of your hunter chops into the task, you snuck down the stairs like a goddamn ghost, and made sure to throw Dean’s door two gloating middle fingers in the dark. Eat that, Winchester.

Every inch of the first floor was covered by safe blue darkness, except for a teeny circle of buttery lamplight that you followed to the kitchen. Before you turned the corner, you made bets with yourself about how Sam would be sitting: hunched completely over the kitchen table, that’s for sure, probably rubbing at his aching neck and glaring at what he was reading.

When you were close enough to see, you let your footsteps be heard so as not to scare him. Man, you were good. The same angle you’d pictured and everything.

Sam pried his face away from his research and squinted at his watch, then at you, sheepish. “Oh, hey… sorry. I promised that I’d be up hours ago.”

You knew he was already finding ten ways to beat himself up over it, so you drew yourself towards him with an understanding smile. “No sweat,” you waved it off, “I’m glad you’re still up. It means I get to do this.”

The first chance you got, you pounced on him, sliding up behind his chair and squeezing your arms around his shoulders. Sam made a pleased little sound that quickly became embarrassed—you scooped up his face and started smushing noisy kisses everywhere you could reach. Sam pretended to squirm and groan for your benefit, but he was a lousy actor. Just a few kisses melted him like butter.

As he relaxed, so did you. Sam wrapped a loose hand around your wrist, and you gave him one more deep kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Sammy.”

“So that’s where this is coming from,” Sam realized. He started scrubbing sleepily at his eyes, sighing and laughing without humor, “God, I didn’t even know it was May.”

You hid your evil smile in Sam’s hair. “So… I take it I beat your brother to saying it first?”

“You did,” Sam confirmed. Just by hearing his voice you knew he had on that small, dopey smile that he reserved only for you.

“Fuck yeah,” You hiss in victory. You put on a whole show to get a laugh out of him, pumping your fist and salsaing in a happy circle.

A few tired chuckles seep out of your boyfriend. He sounds beyond exhausted, and you’ve got it so bad for him that just that makes your heart throb with sympathy. Feeling stupid and in love and obsessed with him, you fall down into the closest empty seat and take Sam’s hand, wishing more than anything that the whole world would throw him a party. He deserved so much more than what this shitty world ever gave him. Even the small gift you’d managed to pull together for him didn’t feel like enough.

“I have two gifts for the birthday boy,” you tell him, holding up two important fingers. “Do you want to open them both right now?”

Sam has had a sum total of two good birthdays in his entire life, so he props a hand on his thigh and shrugs. He’s never been very eager to make a thing out of May 2nd. “Whatever you wanna do.”

You make a sound like an incorrect gameshow buzzer. “Wrong! Birthday boy makes the decisions today.”

There it is. Sam cracks an even bigger, shier smile, sinking into his seat a little bit. “Okay, okay,” he relents, “...Can I open them now?”

“Of course you can,” you flirt, and start to feel around under the table. It is your greatest joy in life to mess with Sam, and for a moment you’re flooded with that joy when you find the gift with your hand, pull it loose from where you taped it, and slap it onto the table.

Sam’s face blooms with amused disbelief. He’s been grinding away at these books for hours, and of course, his birthday gift was right under his nose this entire time. “You masterminded all of this, didn’t you?” He guesses, smile growing, “Is the second one under my chair? Behind my ear or something?”

“Close,” you admit, and gesture him in. Dutiful as ever, Sam listens, only to be pulled into a deep, loving kiss. “She’s right here,” you murmur.

It’s a really dorky gift to give him, but more than anything you want this day to be special for him. Underneath all the teasing attitude you’re throwing around, you’re overwhelmed with the urge to do something for him, to make up for the myriad of shitty birthdays he’s survived, and the strength of it could pulverize every monster in the whole damn state. A content hum drains out of him. You kiss him like you could squeeze the fear out of him with your hands, curling your fingers through the tufts of hair at his neck and stroking his scalp.

When you draw back, Sam’s face is bright red. He gives you this bashful look like he’s never in a million years been kissed like that, and instead of getting smug, you just feel plain happy. “I love it,” Sam confesses, “That’s the best birthday gift I’ve ever been given.”

You’re sure that’s not a tough race to beat, but hey, it’s nice to hear. Sam gives your hand a sweet squeeze before scooping your actual, physical gift off the kitchen table. The gift-wrapping resources at Bobby’s house were pretty lacking, so you got creative with some paper bags, twine, and markers, wrapping your gift in the paper and then drawing stars all over it. Sam stares at it for so long that you consider making fun of him, but even the stupid impromptu wrapping paper you came up with is something he’s never had before. You’d kind of hoped that he’d just tear into it, but Sam takes the time to carefully untie your twine knot to keep the paper intact, his long fingers moving delicately along the string.

Packed inside the paper is a set of envelopes. They have teen-you written all over them, from the color of the envelopes, the glitter pen your decorated them with, and the old stickers all over the sides. Some are creased and folded awkwardly, others have smeared pen and peeling stickers. Every single one has Sam’s name written on one side.

“This is your handwriting,” he notices, curious. “...What are these?”

“These,” you enunciate, trying to contain your excitement for his reaction, “are all the love letters I wrote for you in high school.”

Pure delight slowly transforms Sam’s face. His jaw drops, and the second he realizes the absolute treasure trove of glorious teenage embarrassment he’s holding, he slaps the letters protectively to his chest. “No—way,” he gapes, eyes sparkling. “No. There’s no way. There’s no way in hell you’d ever just give me such quality blackmail material like this.”

But you did, because for whatever reason you’re totally into this loser. Those letters are full of the cringiest, sappiest writing one can possibly imagine, back when you’d convinced yourself you were a poetry-writing god and were utterly obsessed with Sam. (Well. Some things never change, but). The two of you hadn’t started dating until much later, so you figured he’d love to see just how long he’s been driving you insane. And, yeah. Blackmail material. If anyone else but Sam ever read these, the galactic weight of your embarrassment would instantly blink you out of existence.

“That’s how much I love you,” you tell him, shrugging. That simple.

The biggest, dorkiest grin takes up his whole face, and you force yourself to relax, happy to know you’ve at least given him this one thing. Without hesitation, he fishes the first letter out of the pile and carefully peels it open. The actual letter is on plain notebook paper, and, to Sam’s utter delight, is also penned in glitter.

He clears his throat and reads the heading. “Ooh. March 6th, 1998.” His smirk is a little too evil for your liking, “We would’ve been in… tenth grade?”

You shove your face in your hands and groan.

“Dear Sam,” he says, in a high, girly voice. You smack him on the shoulder for the shitty impression of you, which just makes the laughter splitting his sides even louder. “Today, I saw Mandy talking to you by your locker—”

“Oh god.”

“She doesn’t even try to hide her stupid crush on you,” Sam reads, biting back giggles. “At least I’m subtle about it.”

Not true. You were not at all subtle about it. God, this is torture… But it’s been a long time since you’ve heard Sam sound this happy.

“I swear, Sammy, I wanted to punch her lights out so bad. She doesn’t even know you, or your family, or what we’re all really like.” Sam throws you a mean little smile at this next part, “Nobody knows you like I do.”

He loves to fuck with you just as much as you love to fuck with him, so, of course, this sends Sam into a full-body fit. He’s bent over the table wheezing for breath just a couple minutes later. You try to hold on to your shame, you really do, but he’s just too damn cute. Sam never laughs like this anymore.

You stuff your blazing hot face into his shoulder, pouting. “Are you happy, now that you’ve humiliated me?”

Sam slouches back in his chair, his whole face bright with humor. He’s so happy that he pulls you out of your chair and loops you into his lap, where you can feel every bit of his bassy laughter seeping through your back. A big, long arm seals around your waist and keeps you close to him, and while you’re distracted by his warmth and hands and cologne, he’s trapped you.

“I am,” Sam confesses, and it’s even more embarrassing how your whole body floods with butterflies. “Think you could keep reading these to me? I wanna hear them in your voice.”

Pfft. Okay. Whatever. With his stupid cute face. “Sam…” I warn.

“Authenticity! And hey,” he budges you, “I thought the birthday boy makes the decisions today?”

You make a face, just to remind him who he’s testing here. But he’s giving you the same pretty, boyish smile you wrote about in these letters a hundred times, the tension in his body gone, and the whole world is quiet just for the two of you. And yeah, it is his fucking birthday.

Sighing, you find the spot where Sam left off. He thanks you with some kisses to your shoulder that make you consider writing poetry about him all over again, and the two of you snuggle close.

“Sleep with both eyes open, Mandy Davis, you punk ass bitch. I know where you live!”

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