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I see light at the end of this tunnel

@samwinchesterappreciation / samwinchesterappreciation.tumblr.com

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Anonymous asked:

It looks like Max might be possessed/antagonistic this episode based on the promo. If SPN brings the twins back just to kill them I stg

Sam’s been missing Max since last he saw him, obviously, but more particularly since the moment that Cas’s eyes turned gold. Last time Cas went super-powered, it’d been Lucifer hitching a ride. The time before that, he shattered Sam’s hell wall and turbo-charged himself on souls. That’s not to say Sam blames Castiel for either occurrence, not exactly; Cas meant well, both times, and Sam understands good intentions and the kinds of paths they strew. But forgiveness, or understanding, can’t do much to fix the anxiety that’s been tugging on Sam’s nerves since he and Dean woke blinking on the playpark’s dark, deserted ground. This baby that Cas has put his faith in is Lucifer’s, too. Sam can’t shake the thought of what that means: Lucifer’s hands in his chest, that voice ringing in his ears, the grimacing face lurking constantly on the periphery of his vision. It’s keeping him up at night and the more he lies awake, the easier it is to recall the sleepless, scrambling slide to the edge of his sanity precipitated by the wall collapsing. Cas wouldn’t do that to him a second time, not deliberately. But he never meant to do it before. And Lucifer… Sam knows better than anybody the devil’s taste for repetition. The idea of sending Sam through the wringer again would delight him.

He can’t talk to Dean about it because Dean’s too angry. He was mad enough when Castiel came back after months of silence; madder when he stole the Colt; and now, after he dropped them and left? Sam can’t raise the subject without prompting a tirade, which is fine because Dean’s got the right to be angry but Sam just. He’s just desperate to see Max, and he hasn’t realised how desperate until Alicia calls and says, terse, “Mom’s gone missing,” and they’re suddenly in the car heading north.

Sam hadn’t thought of talking to Max about this, about any of it. What’s between them is still new; they’re still feeling out the shape of it. He knows he likes Max, a lot, likes him more than just platonically. He thinks Max feels the same. They’ve had some real conversations. They’ve kissed, just once. But as he sits in the passenger seat and watches the streetlights slide past the window – as the rhythm of them starts to dull him into a doze – he feels the possibility of talking to Max rise like a platform underneath him. If Max is anything, he’s solid. He doesn’t judge, didn’t sneer or laugh when Sam stumbled messily into an account of what happened with Lady Bevell this year (and yeah, a great conversation to have with a crush, jeez Sam, well done). (But it might not be fair not to tell Max why he’s so fucked up.)

In the event, Max had frowned quietly, listened, and at last laid a hand warm over Sam’s. “You know that wasn’t okay,” he’d said, and Sam had said, “Yeah,” and Max, “What she did to you, I mean. Not what you did. Or didn’t.”

It had helped.

The thing about Max is that Sam’s reality can be kind of shaky, and it’s not Dean’s fault or Cas’s that sometimes his nightmares are wearing their faces, eyes shifted black or blue or gold. God knows Dean’s seen someone foreign look through Sam’s eyes, often enough that Sam worries at times about all the layers that must have built up, the masks Dean has to look through to see Sam underneath. So. Sam doesn’t blame Dean, or Cas. But the fact that Max hasn’t been tangled up in it, in any of it, that he’s just… when Sam sees Max, he knows what he’s seeing. He knows the hand on his is real and he knows, by extension, that he’s real himself. It helps. It helps, too, that Max isn’t bound up in any of the complicated tangle of loyalties that bind Sam to his brother and even to Cas. It’s not complicated, or it’s only complicated in normal ways that relate to Sam’s social awkwardness. He doesn’t have to second guess himself, to try and look three steps ahead to where what he’s saying comes to bite him in the ass. It’s just. It’s not often Sam finds someone he can talk to.

This is selfish. Max is worried, Alicia is worried, that’s why they’ve called. But once Sam and Dean have helped out with this thing with their mom, Sam’s wondering if maybe he and Max might talk.

Max’s eyes are golden, almost, clear golden-green. Sam can see them now.

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denugis

Sam/Max ficlet

[apropos of a conversation I was having with @themegalosaurus. This is one of those 12.20-never-happened Sam/Max worlds.]

Sam ducks behind the menu. It’s a pretty flimsy menu, but on the other hand Sam probably doesn’t look much like the Stanford kid he’d been in 2003.

“What?” says Max. “Ex? Vampire? Vampire ex?”

“He’s a professor at Stanford,” says Sam, “or he was. I took a Norse myth class with him. And then a Norse and Celtic thing later on, he co-taught that with one of the Celtic professors.”

“And you got an A,” says Max.

“Well, yes,” says Sam, “for my final grade. But, uh, funny story. Like, the third week of class I come in and I’m just setting up my notebook and he’s like and you can hand in your papers at the end of class and I was like papers? I’d completely forgotten we had a paper due.”

“That doesn’t sound like the anal Sam Winchester I know and mostly love.”

Sam kicks Max’s ankle under the table.

“So you wrote it during class and you printed it out by magic and you got an A.”

“More like I wrote it in two hours flat that afternoon at the library and snuck it into his mailbox at five to five and no A.”

“A B+? Sam, I know you’ve been through rough times, Lucifer and all that, but I never guessed you got a B+ on a paper once in college. You know you can talk to me about this stuff, right?”

Sam does know, actually, and he’s not quite sure what to do with that yet.

“It wasn’t so much the B — it was a B, I’ll have you know — it was the comment. It began For heaven’s sake, pull yourself together and went on from there. I mean, he thought it had some good ideas. And he liked my other papers for the class. But still. For heaven’s sake, pull yourself together.

“You’re pulled together. There’s the big-name hunter thing. And you color code your undershirts and then there are those wild card-cataloguing nights you have. And the cool boyfriend. People are awed by you having such a cool boyfriend. You could go over there and impress the hell out of him.”

“I’m not a college kid any more. Officially, I’m a legally dead mass murderer. One of the many reasons I never fill out those class report forms in reunion years.”

“And he could be a vampire.”

“Yeah, there’s that, too. I’m in favor of we just pay up and sneak out.”

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Sam came back from his morning run to find he’d missed several text messages. His heart jumped in his chest before he even read them, wondering what he missed, what was wrong, if someone was hurt or dying or needed his help.

Jody (1 hour ago)

Happy birthday! (Claire and Alex wish you a happy birthday too.)

Sam blinked and checked the date on his phone to confirm that, yes, it was May second, before sighing in relief. He skimmed through all the messages quickly, just to make absolutely sure no one was dying.

Donna (1 hour ago)

Happy birthday! 😊 🎉

Mom (33 minutes ago)

Happy birthday, Sam. Call me later, if you’re not too busy.

There were a handful of others, but Sam wasn’t paying attention after the one from his mom. He wore a stupid grin on his face as he made himself breakfast, not thinking too hard about why his mom’s text made him so happy. It was nice to just be happy for a minute.

His phone buzzed at the table. He hated having his phone out while eating, but it might be important. It buzzed again as he was checking it.

Alicia (now)

Please respond to Max’s texts. He’s stressing tf out.

Alicia (now)

Also happy birthday ✌

Sam scrolled through his notifications, finding a long string of texts from Max at the bottom among the others he hadn’t really read.

Max (2 hours ago)

Happy birthday dude.

Max (2 hours ago)

Over the hill am I right?

Max (2 hours ago)

I have something for you later ;) 🍆

Max (2 hours ago)

If you want, I mean.

Max (2 hours ago)

I don’t know if you really do birthdays or if it’s a family thing or what.

Max (2 hours ago)

But hmu if you want your gift.

Max (2 hours ago)

Sorry if this is weird.

Sam couldn’t help but snicker. He liked when Max stumbled and lost his cool. It made Sam feel less like an awkward old man (even if he did have to google “hmu” and what the eggplant emoji meant).

I’ll call you later tonight.

he answered quickly. Then he called his mom like she asked, before waiting for an answer.

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semirahrose

In case ur still taking requests for the 5 sentence fics: sam getting flirted with by a handsome dude & sam being really awkward & flustered but liking it and being cute and blushy!♡ bonus points for Dean seeing and being all smh but ok with it!!

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“Nah, just gimme a minute, this is gonna blow your mind,” Max Banes says, casually grabbing Sam’s hand, turning it palm-up, and going at it with a fine-tipped Sharpie pulled from his jacket pocket, “and I swear you’ll never do it any other way.”

Dean blinks and Sam flushes bright red even in the dim lighting in the back corner of the bar; Max, for his part, steadies Sam’s hand with his left and draws an intricate sigil with his right.

“All these symbols on the inside of the star, woven into the design, they’re to ward off other stuff, too—not only demons, and if you get the tat in the right ink, you can add some extra protection, see? I know this guy down in Nebraska…”

While Sam and Max animatedly discuss the significance of each of the alterations to Max’s buffed up anti-possession tattoo, Dean watches from the counter, huffs a soft laugh into his beer, and relaxes; it’s been too long since he’s seen Sam uncomplicatedly happy like this, and it’s something worth waiting around for.

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It’s not until Dean rolls up the stairs and out of the front door in a drift of cologne that Sam notices the date.

“Don’t wait up!” Dean yells. The door clangs shut.

Sam rolls his eyes and looks back down at the book in front of him. But his concentration’s broken. Valentine’s Day. It’s dumb, but he usually treats himself to something like the opposite of Dean’s night out; a bath, maybe a glass of whisky. A book that isn’t about lore.

Last year, he spent the evening having phone sex with Max. It had been the culmination of a lot of flirty texting that kicked off when they met in the November, and it had, Sam thought at the time, been an unexpectedly satisfying solution to the fuckton of issues that have kept him mostly celibate for the last five years. They’d followed it up with some more heavy flirting but then, two weeks later, had come that last disastrous meeting that had left Max with no mom, no sister and (quite justifiably) no wish to see Sam ever again, it seems. Sam messaged him a couple of times in the months right after, but wasn’t surprised by Max’s decision not to reply. Now, though, remembering how different things were twelve months ago, he feels a little twist of guilty responsibility. Sam knows how shit can get when you lose somebody you care about. Max is only a kid, really. Sam hopes that he’s doing okay.

He reaches for his phone, flips it a couple of times in his hand. Hey, man. Long time no text. I was just thinking about last year. How are things? If you ever want to talk, I’m here.

He almost doesn’t send the message, worried about intruding; worried about stirring a nasty nest of memories that Max, more than likely, has been working hard to forget. But after the whisky (and the whisky, and the whisky) it starts to feel like a better idea, and once he’s sent it there’s no going back.

Later that night, he’s startled out of a fuzzy, headachy doze by his phone buzzing loud over the wood of his bedside table. His first thought is that Dean’s managed to lock himself out, but it’s a message from Max. Four messages, actually. Sam must have slept through the rest.

They’re pictures; shirtless pictures, which is nothing new. Max’s skin is pale blue-green, flash-illuminated. There are people in the background, a club. In the first picture Max is gazing fiercely into the camera, shoulders jostling at the edge of the frame. By the fourth, he’s full on making-out with a curly-haired Latino guy, and there’s somebody else’s arm around his waist.

Sam’s stomach tightens, uncomfortable. He doesn’t go in for this kind of shit. He doesn’t find it sexy, or fun. He puts the phone back down on the table, tugs the blanket tight around his shoulders and tries to go back to sleep. It’s difficult.

After a while, maybe twenty minutes, the phone starts to ring. Max looks up at him from the screen. It’s eight minutes past three.

When Sam doesn’t answer, Max just rings back. Eventually, “Hey,” says Sam, sleep-hoarse.

There’s music, loud. Max is saying something, but Sam can’t hear him.

“What?” he says, “What?” and finally there’s a bang and the music muffles down to a beat in the background, oomf oomf oomf.

“Got your message,” Max says, slurred.

“Got yours. You’re having fun.” That’s not fair. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m. No. Not really. I.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

There’s a long pause.

“I fucked up, Sam, I think I fucked up.”

“Okay. It’s okay.” Sam knows about that, about fucking up when you feel fucked-up. “We can—“

“Sam, no. I didn’t. I fucked up real bad.”

Okay. “Where are you? Do you want–”

The music sounds loud again, a door swung open.

“Hey,” says another voice, laughing. “Hey, Max’s friend.” Then Max again. “I gotta go. Don’t, uh. I’ll call you back.”

He hangs up.

Sam lies awake for the rest of the night. Dean gets in at 10 the next morning, dishevelled and happy, ribbing Sam about the wild night he spent alone with his own right hand.

Sam calls Max every day for the next week. Then he stops calling. He can take a hint.

(A coincidence, then, that three weeks later Dean walks into the library to find Sam gazing at his laptop, pale. Gas station security footage flickers onscreen. A black Jeep, fuelling up. And in the driver’s seat…

“Aw, man.” Dean says. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Max fucked up.)

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Sam + Max + tattoos, bc of course

“I meant to say,” Sam says. “That is. I should have said, at the house, at Asa’s place, before we left. I think you and Alicia should get tattoos." 

Max’s eyes narrow for a second before his face relaxes into a smile. “Oh yeah?” he says. “Anything particular you had in mind?” 

Sam isn’t the bumbling romantic embarrassment that Dean seems to think him but there’s something about this guy which makes him feel teenage, stupid and clumsy and too big for his skin. Which is dumb as fuck, considering that Max is like, what, must be coming on for ten years younger than him. Eight years, maybe. Regardless, Sam should be cooler than this. 

He should be, but he isn’t, so when Max asks about the tattoo he doesn’t produce the smooth line that he’ll no doubt think of in the shower in two days’ time. Instead, he blushes and stammers and scratches the back of his head, and answers Max’s joking question with a straight response. “Yeah,” he says, and he slides a napkin towards him over the table and digs a ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket. “Something like this.” 

Seeing Sam’s seriousness, Max frowns, and watches as he sketches a wonky approximation of the symbol that he first drew out for Dean, in a bar not dissimilar to this one, almost ten years ago. 

“It’s not, uh, it’s not fancy,” Sam says. “But it works.” 

Max puts his fingertips to the edge of the napkin, just brushing Sam’s. They linger there a moment before Sam moves his hand, allowing Max to take hold of the napkin. Max picks it up and holds it in front of him, rotates it, takes a look. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can see that it would.” He looks at Sam over the folded paper, not kidding now but earnest. “You have this?” 

Good question. 

It’s the first thing that Sam would ask, himself, the obvious thing and he knew Max would say it but he still finds himself lost for words. He looks down at the symbol, blue lines curving familiar, looks at Max’s elegant fingers framing the shape. He takes a breath, looks up again to meet Max’s eyes. 

“Dean has it,” he says. “I, uh. I lost mine.” 

Max’s eyebrows draw together in a frown. He’s not stupid. Sam can see him considering the implications; can see him choosing not to ask. This is one of the things Sam likes about Max. It’s refreshing to be around somebody who doesn’t take it personally when Sam has secrets. Perversely, it makes him more inclined to share. He wonders. Could he tell Max about Gadreel? The thought tightens his chest, makes his thoughts swim dizzy. He hasn’t really ever explained it, not to anybody. Charlie picked up bits of it, but not enough to understand. At least. Sam hopes that was it. He remembers again Max and Alicia frowning up at Elvis, after he asked about Lucifer; their instant, easy intervention in Sam’s defence. “Seriously, dude,” Max had told the guy. “Back off.” 

Jeez. No wonder Sam feels like a teenager. Fucking… damsel in distress. But. 

“You gonna get it redone?” Max asks, interrupting Sam’s fantasies. 

“Uh,” says Sam. He’s been meaning to. He has. But it’s so bound up with all the shit that surrounded its removal that he hasn’t been able to bring himself to do it; finds himself both perversely anxious of going under the needle (the needles in his brain and Crowley twisting them, clinical) and absolutely unwilling to mention it to Dean. If he said something now then Dean would probably lay into him for not having fixed the thing fricking two and a half years ago. “Christ, Sammy,” he’d say, the kind of angry that he gets when Sam puts himself in jeopardy. “Christ, Sammy, what the fuck did you think you were playing at?” Sam’s on a good run, lately, of not disappointing. He’d really like not to rock the boat. 

Max is studying him, a focused golden-green gaze that doesn’t help Sam’s thought process. As Sam stutters and chokes, he shakes his head a little, grins easy, breaks the tension. “I just have some suggestions for improvement,” he says. 

“Oh yeah?” says Sam. 

“Yeah,” says Max, and he reaches for the pen.

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Fic: Ropery

[Sam/Max Banes | M | 4k]
Sam steps toward Max with his hands raised out in front of him. His eyes are very wide. “Max,” he says. “Stop. Put the knife down.”
A/N: This is a coda of sorts, going AU from the last scene of 12x20. It is not a fix-it. All complaints may be directed to @themegalosaurus, who encouraged me to write this and then convinced me to post it.

He’s standing over Alicia with the ring and the knife when the doorknob rattles and the door swings wide. Sam and Dean crowd through the doorway into the bedroom.

Sam says, “Don’t.”

Alicia is so pale and cold on the bed and Max feels the overwhelming need to put himself in front of her, block her from view. The husk of twigs and rope is left unguarded behind him.

Dean’s hand goes to his belt, where he keeps his gun. Max is still holding the knife.

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saintedsam

For @asksamstuff contest!! 

No but really call me was so cute and hilarious that I had to do a little follow up with Max and Sam “talking sigils”, witchcraft, and the like (poor clueless bab Sam!!). 

You know me, always happy to fall for the rarepairs. Sam deserves a badass boyfriend to smooch his face and teach him witchcraft am I right.  

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Dean’s walking Mom to the car when Sam hears footsteps crunching in the gravel road behind him.

 "Hey, Sam?“ Max walks up behind him, voice flirty and a little hopeful. “You all good?”

Sam laughs a little under his breath. “Uh, as okay as we can be. How are you?” 

Max seems pleased with his answer, if his welcoming smirk and increased inching into Sam’s personal space is anything to go by. “Same here. Alicia’s still a little shaken up from being possessed and all,” he gestures back at Alicia, who’s being hugged by Lorraine, “but we’ll survive. We always do.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Sam says, small smile on his lips, offering a little wave before turning around again.

“Wait!” Max blurts out, a blush high on his cheekbones. “Are you–um–do you want to…”

Sam turns back to him, brow furrowed. “Yes?”

Max lets out a sheepish laugh. “For all my seduction techniques, I’m still…” He pats his pockets before finding a pen. “You got a scrap of paper on you somewhere?”

Sam digs through his own pockets before offering a crumpled receipt. Max scribbles something on it quickly before handing it back to him. 

“My number,” he says quickly, “if you want to be a gentleman caller sometime.” When Sam doesn’t say anything for a moment, he sighs a little and turns away.

“Max?”

“Yeah?” Max says, turning around.

Sam’s blushing too, and he’s looking at his feet like they’re something interesting. “I’ll call you.”

Max’s face lights up in a smile. “Good.”

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Sam + Max + scars

They’re in bed together that first night and it’s maybe two thirty in the morning. Max is asleep, mostly, dozing naked on top of the blankets, but the mattress shifts as Sam moves beside him and he cracks open an eyelid in anticipation of another round. He could definitely stand to go again.

“Hey,” says Sam quietly. They left the bedside lamp on when they fell asleep and the yellow light of it is illuminating his face, the high angle of his cheekbones and the sharp line of his jaw. The choppy hair around his face is hanging in his eyes, and if Max were even twenty percent less tired he’d reach up to brush it away. As it is, though, his limbs are still sex-sleepy, heavy and soft. He lets his eyes fall closed.

Sam moves again and the mattress dips and Max is gonna, he’s gonna open his eyes, but before he manages to get the signal to leave his brain, he feels Sam’s fingertips brushing careful down his side. They trace around the messy star of a scar gouged above his hipbone, legacy of a hodag that he hunted up near Marquette. Around, Sam’s fingers go, around and around, tracing the line where shiny scar tissue meets skin. Max floats behind the dark of his eyelids, appreciating the willing touch all the more for the fact that before today, Sam’s body language was so defensively self-contained. His sudden unfurling into somebody soft and affectionate feels like a privilege, a glimpse at a secret self.

Sam’s fingertips walk across Max’s abdomen, leaving a goosebump trail of footprints behind. They brush, now, over the winding ridge under his ribs where a vampire straight-up stabbed him in the guts. That was a nasty one (blood bubbling up into his mouth, Alicia screaming).

Max can anticipate where Sam’s hands will wander next: the patch of bleached, blistery skin across his shoulder that got hit with a dark witch’s curse that even his Mom couldn’t mend. The witch had died in the confrontation and that was it, Mom had told him, no living blood so no magic, no cure. It had been painful, the scar emerging through a slow burned corrosion that kept him sweating for three nights after, biting down on his pillow so as not to let on how it hurt. Sam’s touch when it comes is soft, and unexpected. Where Max was anticipating the dry skin of Sam’s open palm, he feels the warm damp imprint of his lips.

That does prompt him to open his eyes.

“You into the battle wounds?” he asks, and Sam lifts his head to look at him.

He smiles, embarrassed. “Yeah. No. I don’t know.” He kisses the smaller scar on Max’s forearm where a shifter got too happy with a knife. “Into you, mostly.”

Max rolls his shoulders against the mattress, slides his feet to shimmy his hips. “Of course. I’m irresistible.” Sam has Max’s hand between his, now, thumbs running across the hundred tiny scars that disfigure it. Max closes his eyes again, the better to feel the sensation.

Eyes closed also feels like the right condition under which to throw out the question that’s been on his mind. He’s been wondering, after all, since this evening when Sam stripped off - wonders now, really, if he should say it, but fuck. They’re in bed and Sam feels open in a way that he hasn’t. “You, uh, you don’t have many yourself,” he says.

Given that he’s a hunter and that he likes to have sex, it’s maybe surprising how few other hunters Max has slept with. They’re not his type, mostly, too macho and brash, too dumb. (That’s where they’ll even admit being into men.) Sam’s different. He has substance. He also has the clearest skin Max has ever seen on a hunter: not clear like, he drinks cucumber water for breakfast, clear like he doesn’t carry a trace of the job. You don’t have to fuck a hunter to notice their missing fingertips, or the scars over their cheekbones, the raw skin around their wrists. Sam has none of that. And Max has heard the legends; it isn’t from staying indoors.

Sam clears his throat, a tight anxious sound. “I,” he says. “I, uh.”

Max turns his hand to catch Sam’s fingers, rubs his own thumb over the mound of Sam’s. He keeps his eyes closed. He’s making space. “You don’t need to tell me,” he says.

“No, it’s fine,” says Sam, unconvincing. “I have, a, uh. Our friend Castiel. He’s got the, uh, the healing touch. So.”

“Nice,” says Max carefully, dragging out the sound. “Good as new, every time.” He cracks his eyelids to let in the light but he’s careful not to look at Sam.

“Yeah. I don’t know,” says Sam. His hand is still in Max’s but it’s tense, unmoving, and Max wonders if he’s fucked up, ruined the mood. After a long few minutes, Sam draws his hand away. Max is just cursing himself for an idiot when he feels Sam’s touch at his hip again, his fingertips circling the hodag scar. “This is you. It’s your life. It’s good to be able to touch that.”

Max lets himself look. Sam is gazing serious down at Max’s stomach, his profile outlined dark against the glow from the room behind. Sam’s nose is possibly the best nose Max has ever seen. Just the pointed tip of it is better than the whole of any other guy Max has banged in the last two years. Every bit of Sam’s body is attractive. It’s sad that he doesn’t seem to like it much.

Sam turns, then, catching his eye, and Max wonders what to say. He doesn’t want to intrude. Sam has boundaries, and he can respect that. But.

In the event, Sam solves the problem, shrugging off his serious mood. He flashes his dimples instead. “Could touch something else, if you like.”

“Go on, then,” Max says. “If you insist. Be nice and I might let you hold it.”

(He thinks, one day we’re going to talk about this.)

more Sam/Max
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Of Ice and Hunts

Rating: PG-13 Ship: Sam Winchester/Max Banes Words: 16,000 approx Warnings: None Tags: Hurt Sam; Coma; Fae & Fairies; Sam Has A Wolf; Season/Series 12 Spoilers; Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence; First Kiss; Crushes; Sam Wants a Dog

Waking up in the icy depths of what he thinks is the wilderness near Kirwin, Wyoming, Sam quickly learns that he’s fallen into the fairy realm. Relying on the help of others to survive, Sam attempts to make his own way home.

Back in the mortal realm, Dean turns to the help of the Banes in order to bring his brother back to him. But nothing is as straightforward as it seems.

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quickreaver

An artsy gift for the BSCG Secret Santa exchange and the delightful @semirahrose,  who has been a friend, Sam fan and all-round lovley person, ever since I’ve made her on-line acquaintance. I owe her fic and my undying affection, but instead, she gets this little doodle…because her prompt to see Sam have SOME kind of relationship with a minor character is something I’d like to explore too. Max the Flirty Witch Twin got the nod! :D  Bonus: winter sweaters and Sam reading archaic texts. Happy holidays, semirahrose! And to all Sam fans, a good night…

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They’re working a case with a pack of ghouls up in Oregon when Sam’s phone buzzes with a picture of a symbol, sketched out in white paint on a concrete floor. He blinks at it for a couple of seconds before he recognises it. Fifth pentacle of Mars. He smiles, despite himself; feels a glow spread over his cheeks. His phone vibrates again. You gotta admit it’s classy. 

Sure, Sam texts back. And then, fingers tripping despite himself, I’m totally swooning here. 

As soon as he sends it he’s seized all over with hot prickles of regret. Jeez. Like. Way to make it weird. First time he meets an, an interesting man in how many years, and he’s right in there with the inappropriate messaging. Jeez. 

He doesn’t have too long to stew in his own embarrassment before the phone scoots sideways, rattling plastic against the table. You should see the pictures I send to the guys I really like. 

Ouch, says Sam. 

There’s a longer pause after this one: a real pause, maybe thirty or forty minutes. It’s enough time for Dean to get back from the diner down the street with two bags of takeout, flop down onto the bed nearest the door and eat fries all over it, wiping his fingers on the blanket. 

“Dude,” Sam says. “How can you be such a neat freak at home and such a slob out here?” 

“Not my castle, Sammy,” Dean says. 

Sam rolls his eyes, digs into the bag Dean’s set down beside him. In what he’s choosing to read as an expression of thoughtfulness, his burger contains both lettuce and coleslaw. “Thanks,” he says, lifting it in Dean’s direction. 

“No worries, dude,” says Dean, leaning forward with the remote control in his hand, flipping through channels on the fuzzy TV. 

Sam looks at his phone. Nothing. Huh. It’s fine. Like. He’s not sure what he was expecting. But there’s a little jab of disappointment in his stomach nonetheless. 

He scrapes his chair backward, looks at what Dean’s watching. Wrestling. The burger is okay, a little tough. The coleslaw is good though, and the fries still not quite cold. 

On the table, Sam’s cell buzzes again. 

He puts down the half-eaten burger; wipes his hands on the greasy wrapper, which doesn’t much help. His fingers leave traces on the screen as he unlocks the phone. 

It’s another picture, and if the first one, the pentacle, turned him pink and pleased he can feel himself flush head-to-toe red at what he’s seeing this time around. Um. Um, okay. 

“Y’alright?” says Dean, looking up at him quizzically. Sam wonders if maybe he made some kind of noise, opening the text. He couldn’t swear that he hadn’t. 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding at Dean. He drops his eyes to the screen again, feels himself turning redder. He feels suddenly very conscious of his own skin against his clothes. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He breathes, slow in and out, then gets to his feet, phone clasped what he hopes is inconspicuously in his hand. “I’m just. Uh. I’m just gonna.” 

“Go wild,” says Dean, frowning at him. And yeah. Okay. He doesn’t usually ask Dean’s permission to use the bathroom. 

“I’ll be back,” Sam says, escaping inside. Door locked, he puts his phone on the sink and bends over it to strip out of his shirt.

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