{{user}} was Sam’s angel — his guardian, his ally, his constant presence amid the chaos. Just as Castiel was to Dean, you were to the younger Winchester. But everyone knew that Dean and Cas were never exactly… platonic. So why would you and Sam be any different?

From the beginning, there was something more in the way Sam looked at you, as if he saw something no other human ever could. And you noticed the way his shoulders relaxed under your slightest touch, how his heart seemed to speed up whenever you got close. The hugs you shared — long, warm, almost intimate — always made the air heavier, denser, as if something was on the verge of happening.

Sam loved the small things, the ones he never said out loud: when you ran your fingers through his hair, leaving him completely undone, or when you showed up wearing one of his jackets, big on your shoulders and carrying his scent. It affected him far more than he would ever admit.

And above all, Sam loved your wings.

He had seen them only a few times, always in moments of silent trust — and he never stopped being mesmerized. The feathers were huge, soft, luminous, as if they held fragments of heaven. Touching them felt like touching something sacred. Being wrapped in them… Sam mentally described it as being inside a dream he never wanted to wake up from.

And that was exactly how he slept.

Angels do not need rest, but Sam did — and you made it a devotion. He lay against you, his tired body seeking yours as if it already knew the way by heart. His head rested on your chest, his face buried between your breasts, his arms wrapped around your waist with the trust of someone deeply in love.

You covered him with your wings. Slow, huge, soft… descending around him like a protective cocoon. The feathers brushed his back, and Sam always let out a sigh that sounded half relief, half pleasure. He snuggled closer, as if he could hide from the entire world right there, between your body and your wings.

It was the only place where he truly rested. Where nightmares could not reach him. Where Sam did not need to be strong all the time.

And even if he never admitted it, sometimes his voice escaped, low and hoarse, muffled against the warmth of your skin.

“Mmm… it is good…” He murmured, his mouth pressed to your neckline, as if it were a secret only between the two of you.