Work Text:
It should have been a simple hunt. Normally, it is, given Sam’s skills and the decades of experience with demons, so with Rowena’s added help, they should have been in and out within minutes. But somehow, between trapping the demon and Rowena calling on her magic to thwart the thing’s powers, everything went sideways.
One minute, Sam had his demon-blade ready to kill; the next, his body slammed against the wall so hard his vision went black.
And now everything fucking hurts.
When he comes to, every sound is a distant echo, and fiery-hot pain burns all along his waist. Feels like being stabbed, like peeling back his skin and torching the nerves underneath. Agony traps him, prevents him from moving long enough for the demon to attack again, but by some miracle — or maybe it’s just the frantic way Rowena yells his name in warning — Sam musters the strength to dodge the blow.
The demon closes in again, before stopping dead in its tracks, then bellows out a despairing wail before collapsing on the floor, still as death. Rowena stands behind it, purple eyes ablaze as her magic drains the creature long enough for Sam to plunge the demon-blade into its chest.
It dies quietly, with only a faint orange glow to show for it.
The hunt is over.
Sam exhales, relieved, and staggers towards the doorway. He hurts.
“We need to find Dean,” he says, ignoring the pained rasp in his voice. Sam and Rowena had taken this lead — Dean and Cas are halfway across the city following up on another one. “Need to tell him it’s over.”
“You need to sit down,” Rowena says, voice taut, but that’s genuine worry on her face as she hurries after Sam. With a burst of her magic, she slams the door shut. “I said, sit down.”
Sam glares at her, his shaking hand hovering over the doorknob. “Rowena–”
“Samuel,” she matches his tone, and he sighs before crossing his arms over his chest. Still not sitting down, but at least he’s not trying to walk off a fucking stab wound. At least it’s a start. “Show me where you’re hurt.”
Conscious of the blood on the hem of his shirt, Sam presses his hand over the wound and forces a smile. “I’m fine,” he says, but red already stains his hand. There’s no hiding this, so he resorts to repeating with urgency that they need to find Dean and Castiel.
Rowena waves the suggestion off. “Your brother isn’t the one bleeding out all over the motel. Show me. Now.”
“I’m fine."
Ignoring his ensuing protests, Rowena eases Sam’s hand away and lifts up his shirt, exposing the tanned skin underneath, as well as the gash across Sam’s stomach to his hip-bone. It gushes, shows no sign of calming when she replaces his hand with both of her own, and it only takes a few seconds for the blood to soak through her dress sleeves.
When she looks up at Sam, he’s noticeably paler, too.
But he meets her concerned gaze with a soft smile, and nods towards the door. “I can walk. Let's go.”
Liar. “Winchesters…” Rowena mutters, half-annoyed and half-enamoured at the stubborn strength Sam exhibits. She draws back and conjures a gentle wave of power over the wound, numbing the pain enough for Sam to breathe easier.
Almost instantly, he tries to slip past her, but she pushes him back in place and to her surprise, he stays.
She bargains on this sudden change of heart. “Can I heal you?”
Sam is hesitant with magic. Always has been, for reasons he refuses to disclose to her, but she often sees it in times like this. Today, however, he complies, wordlessly unbuttoning the lower half of his shirt so Rowena can see the wound properly.
Though fatigued from bloodloss, Sam stands tall, refusing to yield to the pain even when Rowena touches the injury. It’s impressive, as frustrating as his stubbornness can be. She shushes him when he groans, calls him dramatic in their usual playfulness even though his strength awes her. How he’s even vertical right now is beyond her. With the beautiful purple glow emitting from her hands, Rowena carefully heals up the wound with intricate magic. Not even a scar remains once she completes the spell.
Sam breathes heavy, eyes half-lidded and his head tilted back against the wall, the sudden absence of pain almost jarring. He feels light, and Rowena’s soft hands remain on his tummy, and her skin is warm as she moves them along his waist.
“Checking for scars?” he quips, because this entire interaction has shifted from a necessity to whatever the fuck is now stirring deep inside him, some sort of adrenaline rush at Rowena touching him like this. His teeth graze his lower lip, biting down when Rowena slides her hands up to his chest.
“Just making sure,” she says, unbuttoning the rest of the flannel and sliding it down his arms, her dainty fingers tracing patterns along his skin. Sam wordlessly shrugs the shirt off, lets it fall to the floor, and tries not to react when Rowena’s hands venture up to his neck.
She caresses his throat, fingers ghosting over it and then his collarbones, and Sam arches into the touch, just a little, but enough for her to notice. He expects her usual teasing, her usual witty remarks and taunts that she always reserves specifically for him and his brother; but Rowena doesn’t say anything. She watches him, cupping his jaw with both hands, and waits ‘til he’s shaking and breathing all out-of-sorts, and then she presses her body against his own and tangles her fingers in his hair.
“You almost died,” she says simply. Sam stands still, mouth slightly parted, a strangled moan slipping past his lips when she tugs his hair. “Don’t ever do that again, Samuel. I’m meant to die on you; not the other way around.”
“Sorry,” Sam breathes out, unable to think straight. “Th-Thank you for healing it.”
“Mhm,” she hums. She brings one hand down to where the wound was, traces where the scar should now be, and splays her fingers over his toned stomach. Time stops, and they stare at each other for what feels like seconds and an eternity all at once, and then Sam thinks, fuck it, because like Rowena said, he almost died today, and if that isn’t a sign to stop suppressing his feelings, then he does not know what is.
He closes the gap, only half-expects resistance when his lips meet her own. But she welcomes it instantly, stands on her tip-toes and laces her arms over his shoulders, holding him close and kissing back with fervour. Despite her magic, she lets him overpower her; lets him guide her backwards towards the bed until she falls onto her back on the mattress, and a second later Sam is above her, straddling her and kissing her as though it’s the last thing she will ever do.
He pulls back too soon. Murmurs an unnecessary apology once the realisation sinks in of what he just initiated, and that’s pure panic on his face for the brief moment Rowena laughs at the absurdity of it all — Sam Winchester, her destined enemy but willing protector, her friend and protégé and whatever-the-fuck-else it is that lies between them, apologising for kissing her. As if she has not spent more than enough months waiting for it.
“Samuel,” she tuts, tracing the outline of his jaw as he relaxes at her touch. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Sam cocks his head, confused, but Rowena sits up and surges forward to kiss him again, even more passionate than the last, and his lip is red and a little swollen by the time she pulls back.
They sit in silence for a moment, hands intertwined. Sam glances down at the floor and smiles. “Wanted to do that for a while,” he confesses.
Rowena blushes, pleased with the revelation. “Well…” she muses. “You do owe me, Samuel. It’s not every day I save the life of a man who’s going to kill me.”
Sam rolls his eyes, though he is a little more at ease with these jokes now than what he was months ago. “Shut up,” he mumbles, the words holding no malice.
Rowena grins mischievous. “Make me.”
Sam is more than happy to comply.