Sam Winchester Imagines

My Ghost

A/N: Hey, my friend, jadey_bear_5, is wriring a poetry story thing and she's really good so you should check her out :)

-Sam's POV-

"Did it just get cold in here?" I ask, turning to Dean who is asleep on the couch.

I roll my eyes a little at the fact that it's only 2:15 in the afternoon.

I shrug at the temperature change and go outside the motel the walk down the road to the store.

I get a news paper and some pie, and leave to store after paying.

In Arizona, it's very hot. So why do I keep feeling cold spots?

"Sam..." I hear a voice say. I look around and see no one around. I shrug and brush it off, figuring it was just my imagination.

-Readers 2nd POV-

"Sam," You try saying.

You groan a little, but then he turns around.

You jump up and down, waving your arms around, trying to get his attention.

"Sam!" You yell. "It's me, Y/N!"

You see him turn around and shrug.

You sigh and place your locket in his pocket, that way you can stay with him.

He walks in the door of the motel, seeing Dean awake again.

"I keep feeling like something is an aberration..." Sam says.

You blush a little, knowing he's talking about you.

"Aberration? The hell does that mean?" Dean asks.

"Something that out of the ordinary," Sam explains.

Dean nods but stays silent for a moment. "We deal with odd things everyday, man. Is it anything like that?" He asks.

Sam just shrugs. "Kind of. But it feels... kinder... More amiable."

"Amiable meaning...?"

"Friendly," Sam explains.

"What's with the sudden increase of vocab?" Dean asks. (Fun fact: I wrote Dwan at first. THE RETURN OF DWAN)

"That would be me..." you say to yourself, knowing they can't hear you.

"Not sure," Sam shrugs.

"Me!" You holler. "Stupid!" You groan in frustration and Sam looks behind him, where you're standing.

"What's up, man?" Dean asks, confused.

"You didn't hear that?"

"It was just the fridge, dude. Chill," Dean says.

"So you can hear me too," you say, talking to Dean even though he can't hear you.

"Sammy... Do you think you hearing these things has anything to do with... Y/N... Dying...?" Dean questions.

Sam dismisses the idea quickly. A bit too quickly. "No, no," he says, "Definitely not," he shakes his head.

You roll your eyes and take in a deep breath, concentrating. You reach over to the newspaper on the table that Dean has his feet resting on. The newspaper was a part of the obituaries, your obituary. The police weren't supposed to put it in there, but Sam and Dean insisted. The had cut yours out as a reminder of you. You concentrate as hard as you can and you lift it up.