Team free will snippets

The living room window is wide open, which is how you know that had to be the point of entry. You step closer carefully, hands looming at your sides uncertainly. What the fuck are you supposed to do? On your couch, mere feet away, there is undoubtedly a man you’ve never seen before, sleeping soundly. Casting your glance up, you realize your cat is just chillaxing above his head, squinting happily as it sits on the back rest.

Mouthing traitor at it, you cross your arms in front of yourselves decisively. If you wake him, will he be violent? He doesn’t … really look the violent type. You’re leaning forward as you catch sight of his freckles. Man. A smile spreads across your face involuntarily–the dude has goddamn freckles like the Creator just took a handful and threw them at him like glitter. It’s … cute. And his nose is ridiculously straight and perfected.

Christ, why are you thinking this about a potential burglar who fell asleep in the middle of stealing your shit?

Your cat takes notice of you and mriws in that distinct, thin and high note of his. With that, the stranger on the couch starts stirring.

You take a couple of steps back just because, because there’s nothing else conceivably left for you to do. The thing is, your stranger seems to realize this isn’t what it was supposed to be really quickly, as well–one second, he’s lazily lifting his head to turn around, and the second he’s freezing, before sitting up in a flash.

His eyes find you, blinking. Damn. That’s a lot of green, you think. There’s something about the way his hand reaches behind him, to the waist of his jeans–and then changes direction, coming back to the front. He coughs. Politely.

“Uh …”

“Listen, man, you’re gonna have to explain some shit to me.”

Nice going, you.

“I was, uh–I’m staying at the Astor Motel with my brother,” he manages. “This … Doesn’t seem like it.”

You nod, stifling a chuckle. You should really try a sterner approach. “Yeah. Because it’s not. The motel is next door.”

God damn, the man is blushing. It’s instant, from somewhere under his tee, over his neck, cheeks, and then to his ears. He scratches the back of his head, while covering his eyes with the free hand. “I was … I was so drunk.”

“I’ll bet.”

“So. Drunk.”

“Mhm.”

When he’s done berating himself, he extends his arm quickly, accompanying the gesture with one of the biggest smiles you’ve ever seen. “I’m Dean, by the way. And I’m as sorry as a dude can be for this. I hope I didn’t completely freak you out.”

“Reasonably, I guess.”

You move from your spot, finally, to give him your hand and tell him your name. After he shakes it, he glances over to the open window. “I’ll, uh–I can see if I did any damage? Though I kinda doubt it.”

“You’re a master of breaking and entering?” you inquire, looking at him with a grin.

Dean is shaking his head, now running his hands over his thighs. It’s the chuckles that will kill you, you’re thinking. You’ve no idea why you’re so relaxed around him. Down below, your cat is melting around your ankles, demanding its food. Maybe because he’s not freaking out. Isn’t animal instinct supposed to be super reliable?

“No, but, I got my fair share of being locked outside my house.”

“Sounds like plenty of practice.”

“Yup.”

There’s silence, which, you guess, is things getting on the right track. Nobody’s supposed to be chatting idly with a man that broke into their house in the middle of the night.

Then, Dean says, “I should–Probably get going. Sam’s gonna miss me, he’ll worry.”

As he stands up, you notice the grimace. He must be seriously hungover, if that, and the way he’s swaying unsurely, is anything to go by. Maybe he’s even still drunk–

“Feels like I’m still drunk,” he murmurs, at which you just have to laugh.

When Dean looks at you, half confusion and half puppy eyes, you hear yourself saying, “How about staying for breakfast? I’m making waffles, and I always make too much just for myself, anyway.”

He appears a bit lost, like he heard you wrong. You continue to look at him expectantly, which must be how he decides he did catch your words right, after all. His shoulders relax a bit, and he shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. He’s adorable as all hell like this, hair a complete mess, eyes bright and sparkly in the morning light. All in all he looks like a human equivalent of a crumpled piece of paper, but … hot.

God have mercy on you.

“I–I think if you’re sure you want to make me breakfast, then yeah. Yeah.” He shoots you one of his smiles. “That’d be awesome.”

“I’ll let the window go if you do the dishes afterwards,” you say, turning and leaving for the kitchen already.

Cas is kneeling in front of you, your face in his hands. They’re not as warm as they should have been, but still so much better than the polar winter you’re feeling all around you.

“Hey, come on, how about you tell me something, hmm?” he tries, probably for the billionth time. His eyes are trying to lock onto yours. “Anything. Tell me about the first time you went to a carnival, won’t you?”

“A carnival?” you ask, sighing deeply. “Where the hell do you pick your suggestions at, Casti?”

“It just appeared to me,” he says, dropping his hands just slightly, shifting on his knees. “Come on. Tell me about it.”

Well, if Castiel wants to … Man, it’s hard to focus. But you’ll do it for him. Somewhere deep, so deep inside it’s like an echo, you know he’s only trying to do good, keep you sharp for when your chance to bust out of there comes. You’re measuring intervals between people coming in to check on you. Soon.

“The first time I was at a carnival was that time when we were in Illinois and Sam thought it would be nice to have a night off after the Djinn case.”

“Really? When we went together? Not as a child?”

“Oh, what, like you’ve been to so many carnivals, Casti?” you murmur. You can’t even muster up enough energy to sound fake-cynical.

He smiles, thumbing under your ear. “No, I suppose I haven’t. What do you remember from it?”

“I remember … The clowns. Those freaked Sam out, so of course Dean was an ass and kept taking turns right into where he saw them hanging out.” Man, what does a girl have to do to get some sleep around here? “And … You wouldn’t try out the shooting ranges because you said it was cheating, if a soldier did it. And Dean won a panda I wanted but gave it to this one chick with a horrible dye job. I went tothehontedhoose …”

“No, come on, don’t go closing your eyes,” Cas encourages, tapping your cheeks slightly, something so short of a real slap that you’re in need of. “Then what? Was it fun for you? You enjoyed those bumper cars, didn’t you? They gave you a chance to shake Dean up.”

“I fucking hated the bumper cars.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. But I liked to hit Dean’s from behind and watch him plant his stupid face onto the wheel.”

Cas is smiling, chuckling, but you have a feeling it’s contained. His eyes, though … God, so fucking bright. They’re probably the only thing keeping you really sane.

“What else? What were Sam and I doing? I recall we were watching. It was great to see you …” Did his voice get quieter, or is it just you? “It was nice to see you relaxed. To just do what’s fun.”

You muster some of your power to touch the warmth you feel at your cheek. As you hold onto it, you realize it’s Cas’ hand–you turn your face to the palm of it, nuzzling.  It’s tempting to just press a kiss there … so you do. Man..

“I saw your face, seconds before Dean crashed into me with that stupid bumper car …” You hum at the memory, closing your eyes for a second, even if it’s forbidden. “I’m so in love with you, and the lights are so bright, and Taylor Swift is playing, Sam is holding up my fluffy pink cotton candy, and you’re like a fucking vision in the shitpile of the world.”

Your body is screaming to topple forward, like your spine is made of jello, like your muscles never accounted for anything. But you won’t, god, you’ve got to keep that much of willpower and feed on it alone.

Except, maybe you don’t have to, because when you open your eyes next, you’re pulled forward with the force that isn’t just an absence of your strength–it’s Cas’ arms, and you’re invited into them.

You feel a warm breath in your hair. You feel a body supporting yours.

You’re just about to pour yourself a hefty cup of magical liquid when you hear the doors of the bunker open and close, together with deep breathing and a beep of a wrist watch. You smile to yourself, putting down the coffee pot.

“Mornin’,” you crow in a broken just-woke-up-a-minute-ago voice. “How was your run, iron man?”

Sam doesn’t reply until he’s nearer to the kitchen, but you hear him chuckle lightly.

“Invigorating,” he says, sliding a hand around your waist and scratching your belly affectionately. You giggle, turning around to look at him.  You raise your cup of coffee up so he can see it.

“You and I have different views on ‘invigorating’, pal,” you hum, taking a sip. “Mmm. Mm. Mhm.”

Sam waits for you to lower the cup before stealing a kiss from your lips. It’s mid-winter, the air outside is freezing, but his body and lips are as warm as ever.

“Dunno how you call this bitter black stuff ‘invigorating’, but okay.”

You take another sip, just to spite him, then smile widely. “My kind of poison.”

“Could do with some sweetness,” he muses, cocking an eyebrow at you.

“Really? Don’t think so, personally,” you say, playing ignorant.

“Absolutely.”

“Says a man who spends his time eliminating sugars and fat out of his diet to live a fulfilled lifestyle.”

“Sometimes you gotta break a couple of rules,” Sam continues, pressing a kiss to your forehead. His hands are exploring your back until they decide to drop a bit lower, settling just over the curve of your ass. “I have a couple of suggestions on sweetening your life.”

You can’t help but laugh, hiding into his shoulders. It’s sweaty, and maybe just a bit gross, but damn. Damn. A freshly exercised Sam is one of your main weaknesses. And the sweet talk, no matter how cheesy, is definitely also a thing.

“Dunno, sir, my boyfriend is quite strict on breaking certain guidelines,” you say, kissing the clothed curve of the shoulder, one that isn’t all sweat.

Sam hums, low and amused, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

His hands grip your ass and you jump closer to him. Carefully, he takes the cup of coffee from your hands, already kissing you again before even setting it down completely. Then his hand returns to its spot, squeezing, until you’re lifted up and seated on the counter.

“Sam, people will be up any time now,” you murmur, breaking the kiss reluctantly. “Dean is kinda peculiar about–”

“Don’t care about Dean,” Sam mumbles in return, busy returning to his ministrations. “Fuck knows where he and Cas get it on.”

Well, you can’t say anything about that.

Wrapping your legs around him, you bring him closer. It encourages him, makes him rut against your center, which lets you realize how obviously eager he has been to return to you from his run. He’s kissing deeply, if slowly, like he’s determined to tempt you into a quickie right there and then. His fingers are already investigating under the hem of your shirt, sliding up. Fuck, his hands are warm against your willing skin, skimming up further until he can cup your breasts.

He thumbs over your nipples in time with sucking a mark right under your ear–you jump again, your hands flailing for a second before finding the material of his shirt to hang on to–but it’s too late, you’ve already hit the abandoned coffee pot, knocking it over

Both of you look over just in time to catch it dangerously teetering on the edge of the counter - and then falling right off, crashing against the tiles.

You’re pretty sure your mouth is still gaping when you look at Sam. The hold on his shirt only strengthens.

Sam is the first to recover, an almost menacing grin plastered on his face. “Let’s bolt.”

You agree completely.

He grabs your hand as you jump off the counter. Both of you run straight to the hallway, down to the end where your designated room lies. You’re giggling, because suddenly you feel like a child, and Sam looks back at you, eyes positively sparkling.

He opens the door of the bedroom and you crowd in, slamming it shut.

Good timing, too. As the doors to your bedroom close, you can just hear Dean’s shout, “Who the hell broke the coffee pot, you animals?!”

Sam doesn’t care. His mouth is already on yours,body pressing you against the door and demanding.

How did you get Castiel, the angel of the lord, to join you on the live action role-playing ground? It was a long and unlikely road.

Charlie’s case solved, you could tell Dean was just itching to stick around the LARP-ing grounds for a while longer. Him and Sam have both been some other realm of mopey lately, though you hated to think of it in that way - it made you feel like you weren’t taking their emotions seriously. But, both notorious for being less than splendid in handling their pain, Sam and Dean’s grieving eventually turned to make them nothing but unbearable.

You did them a solid and didn’t push for you to drive away as soon as it was done. Besides, it felt good to see Charlie and her bouncy self.

It would be unfair to pretend like you didn’t enjoy any part of it, though. Once decided that you’ll stick around an extra day and through the battle for Moondoor, Charlie decreed that you needed a character, as well--and it turned out she was in need of a princess for her court.

“A literal princess?” you asked when your handmaiden laid out a dress on your bed.

“A literal princess,” Charlie confirmed, drinking from her cup. “You’re like, my little sister.”

“Are you sure you couldn’t find me a more, uh, useful role? Something action packed, like Dean?”

Charlie exclaimed, getting to you and throwing her arms around your neck. Her joy is contagious, pulling a smile on your face as well. “Princess is a plenty action packed position. You know, diplomacy and all that.” She dropped her head to the side a bit. “Also, you didn’t bring your own costume so we’re working with what we’ve got, and this princess gown is kind of the only thing that’ll fit you.”

“I hate you. Kinda.”

“Do it for the Dean.”

“Literally for no one else,” you sigh, nodding in approval finally.

Your handmaiden is kind and enthusiastic enough to do your make-up and hair, which is what finalizes and rounds up your image. Standing in front of the mirror, holding the fabric of your skirt in your hands and twirling slightly, you have to admit--you kinda look really dreamy.

“Look at you,” Charlie grins behind you, “if you weren’t my tiny sister, I’d get ideas.”

There’s a wolf whistle, suddenly--you turn to see Dean hanging out at the entrance to the tent “Can’t blame ya.”

You ‘shut up’ them somehow halfheartedly, trying not to look too excited over the compliments.

“There’s a feast happening at the Royal dining tent in about an hour,” Charlie says as you’re deciding which way to go at the tent’s front. “Be sure to be there. I’ll introduce you as my younger sister who has been found at long last.”

“I don’t have a say in this?” you ask, and Charlie shrugs nonchalantly.

There’s your answer, then.

After promising solemnly, you turn left. It seems to be where the least people are, and that’s done with purpose. You’re not really into being surrounded with a crowd--you feel a distinct need to escape for a while. Working the case had you talking to witnesses (Dean felt like a girl might do better with ‘deprived nerds’), which always took it’s toll.

But, to be completely honest ... The blooming romance of Charlie and her fairy had you thinking about Cas.

Soon, the road takes you through a thin strip of forest. When you pass through it, you find yourself by the river. It’s a quiet spot, surprisingly, in spite of it’s beauty. You stand at the embankment, touching your tiara to make sure it’s still there. The thing sticks, you realize. The cheap plastic can’t be doing your hair any good though.

Before you know it, you’re thinking of Cas again. The last time he blipped in was fairly recently, but it’s all work, and no remembrance of anything outside of it. You suppose you shouldn’t be selfish. There’s things so much bigger than you, and Cas has always belonged to them first.

But man, Cas. If only you were here.

“Your highness.”

A voice too familiar rouses you from your thoughts, making you shiver. It’s been a long, long year since you’ve last heard or seen Cas, let alone felt his touch. Now when he was back, somebody seemed to have pressed the reset button pretty hard. You didn’t expect to have him respond to your indirect prayer.

When you turn, Cas is standing in front of you. Maybe you let out a whimper, but it’s completely involuntary; then you draw your shoulders up, hands linked together at your middle.

“Castiel.”

You don’t know if it’s the use of his full name, or how you continue the game, but his smile wavers, before becoming somehow more radiant, even if hardly showing. The thing with your angel is, he tells you more with the feeling you get around him, than he does with an actual face mimic.

He recovers quickly enough to bow his head slightly, and begins approaching you. When he next looks up, he looks like he’s taking this for what it is.

“Your highness. Your call delights me. I recognize it as an honor to be summoned.”

At first, you want to punch him. You want to legitimately knock his lights out for implying not being here was ever something dependent on you. Then, you reconsider. Take it lightly, holding your hands together just a bit tighter.

“And I admit I’m surprised, but not at all unhappy about your response,” you say, holding your gaze to his. “It’s been a while, Castiel.”

It seems to catch him unprepared, again, and you like seeing that. There’s not a lot that ever surprises him, but why should he be the only one that gets to have an element of surprise up his sleeve?

“It’s certainly been too long. If I may.” He bows gracefully, one hand at his back, one at the front. You forget that there’s a very big probability of Cas having done this before in his lifetime. “You look as beautiful as I remember you.”

Well. Shit.

You bow your head slightly, acknowledging his compliment without words. He has more up his sleeves, however.

“A blush becomes you, milady.”

“A sweet-talking stranger, are you?”

“To be silent in face of such beauty and to not sing praise would be a sin.”

“I recall you being fond of those.”

Cas tilts his head slightly, smiling downwards. He knows you’re right. Perhaps he’s even remembered.

While you’re wondering, Cas takes a couple of steps forward, bringing himself  close enough to to maybe be considered inappropriate in audience with a princess. Like you care, really--your heart has gone into overdrive long before. Now you’re just taking him in with your eyes, hungrily.

A gust of wind pulls through, tousling your hair. Before you can reach up to brush them away from your face, Cas brings his hand up, doing it for you. Your own hand remains in mid air, stunned as his fingers lovingly tuck a lock of your hair behind your ear; then he takes hold of the hand, locking it with his and pressing them both to his chest.

“I missed you,” Cas says, open and clear when his eyes search your face. “I missed you in the worst way. I never sleep, but I’ve been dreaming your face; I could feel you, some days, if I let myself drift off in my mind. Always you, like a charm.”

You don’t understand just how it is that your heart is still right in your chest and not somewhere on the floor. You sway closer to Cas, like he’s a magnet--and then even more, because once you’re in his orbit you cannot stop. He bows his head, you’re looking up, and so your foreheads slowly touch together.

“What took you so long?” you ask him, eyes closed when you let it out, cheek to cheek with your angel. You don’t care if it’s selfish. “It was such a long year, Cas ...”

When he speaks, his voice is as thin as yours, strained in places. His free hand is suddenly at your hip, ghosting there at first, and then resting on it. Finally, you’re thinking. Finally.

“I wish it was as easy. I wish I didn’t have to worry about my actions doing you harm.”

“I don’t care about harm, Cas, I’m a hunter. I can handle that. I care about you.”

“I don’t ever want to hear you say that again,” Cas says in a soft growl, breathing against your cheek. You know his own eyes are closed as well; like you, he needs to feel your presence without the outside noise. There’s nothing but the two of you and the subtle ruffle of the treetops in the wind. Everything and everyone else is shut out.

“Then say you’ll stay,” you almost plead, squeezing the hand holding yours. If it sounds like desperation, then so be it. You get to feel that, shamelessly, after a year of having him lost in purgatory.

Cas doesn’t reply. Deep inside, you know he can’t. That’d be asking him to lie--but fuck if you don’t want him to, every now and then. Fuck if you don’t want that little poisonous dose of false hope.

You nose over his cheekbone, then pull away slightly, studying the lines of his face.

“Don’t you ever want to be other people?” you whisper, keeping your eyes on the way Cas’ Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “Then, maybe ... This could be so much different.”

Cas’ words are simple.Truth.

“If you were anyone else, you wouldn’t be who I love. And if I was anyone but an angel in this vessel, we would never have found each other.”

When he’s so close, the whole world seems warmer. With his hand is enveloping yours, there’s not a thing you should fear.

But it can’t last. It’s always stolen time.

Sam dozed off in the passenger seat, used to the feeling of Impala’s seats underneath him. It’s probably easier for him to sleep here than in any other place.

You kinda feel the same way, too; you’ve only recently started trucking with the Winchesters full-time, but you’re already finding comfort in the smell of leather, the sound of Dean’s perpetual rock stations. It’s cozy and warm, and the purr of the motor is filling the silences in between. How was it that Carver Edlund put it? They were never, in fact, homeless. Now you see why.

Speaking of homes--you were in search of one at this exact moment. You didn’t know what it was all about yet, going on the vagueness of Henry’s words, but it felt like a pretty monumental thing. The symbol of The men of letters was carefully drawn in your own hunter’s journal--not that you could ever forget it, anyway. You think you’d better do research on it as soon as you hit a town with a library.

Dean doesn’t show signs of being sleepy or willing to stop anytime soon, though, so you nestle into the back seat as comfortably as you can. It might be a while before you get the answers. But about Dean, though ...

It was again one of those adventures that had worn him out more than he’d ever willingly admit. His grandfather gets zapped to his time, and Dean’s first instinct is to react to him in the exact same way John would have. If it was just suspicion, you’d understand. Random dudes popping out of closets don’t inspire trust. But it was deeply personal, immediately, as soon as it was revealed that Henry is their blood. Dean drew out the ‘bailed on dad’ card, and it was all downhill from there.

Still. He kind of got attached by the end there. And now he had to drive away again, uplifting the repetitive story of his life.

***

AC/DC, Highway to hell, because of course. It wouldn’t be Dean’s car without it. He probably grew tired of the rock radio’s ads or there’s no signal in the middle of nowhere, anyway, so he busts out his cassettes.

You’re really fond of them. But it’s essential that you don’t tell him.

***

You wake up again to another sound in the mix - rain.

It tip taps on the roof and the windows of the moving car, and the windshield wipers are working tirelessly, giving off a tiny screech each time they go up.

You hum, stretching from your position, and immediately going to massage your neck. That will be the fucking death of you, honestly. No matter how many times you fall asleep in the car, if it isn’t with your head on Dean’s shoulder, you’re practically broken all over. Can’t always happen, though. Sam is the brother, the official family and holder of the front seat privilege. He was there first. Right now, he’s sleeping soundly, a balled up hoodie making a pillow.

In the front, Dean lowers the volume a bit, finding your eyes in the rear view mirror.

“Music too loud?” he asks, voice soft and a bit rough. Still looks well focused.

“Nah, just wasn’t comfortable, I guess.” You rub your neck some more, holding back a moan of relief when you hit a knot in your muscles and press. “Gonna have to find another position.”

As if reading your thoughts, Dean turns his head to check on his brother. Gives a little wry smile. “I’ll have to tell him to start taking the back seat.”

“Maybe, but he has the birthright to it or whatever.”

Dean looks back up into the rear view mirror and nods at you. “Yeah, but I like it more when you’re next to me.”

***

You hardly even doze off when something makes you open your eyes again. A truck was trying to cut you off, apparently, making Dean swerve and curse.

Sam doesn’t even flinch, but you’re a bit freaked out.

Dean’s arm comes out of nowhere, reaching back from his seat. He holds it out to you, wiggling his fingers slightly. When you take the hint and place your hand in it, he squeezes, warm and reassuring and secure.

“Don’t worry, I got you.”

“Just looked like a close call.” You lean closer and drop a kiss on his knuckle, nuzzling it.

“Not close enough, babe.”

He catches your nose between two of his fingers, teasing by pulling slightly until you giggle.

***

You managed to sprawl out on the back seat somehow and are semi-comfortable. You wake with mild horror, though--you’re on your back, and when you’re on your back, you snore. Have you been snoring for miles and miles? Who fucking knows.

The car’s not moving now. It’s standing still, and there’s a hell of a lot of light going on. You sit up, blinking into it--and realize you’ve stopped for a refuel. Sam’s stretching out his legs, doing some sort of weird exercises that make his giant body look like it’s breaking in places.

You yawn.

Dean’s nowhere to be seen until you look at the gas station shop and think you see him among the rows of junk food and beverages. A part of you wants to get out, go join him and harass him to spend some of that fake credit money on both his babies, but Dean’s already got it. He comes to stand at the window and holds up a bag of chips and a Pepsi.

You realize he’s long distance-showing them off to you for approval.

Raising a thumb, you nod. His reply is a goofy kind of smile you always wish you’d see more of. Then he heads to the register and takes care of his purchase.

When both him and Sam are safely back in the Impala, you’re mostly awake. Dean’s turning around in his seat, holding up a bag of plain potato chips.

“Ransom,” he says, pursing his lips.

Absolutely. You move forward, bracing yourself by the back of the front bench and kiss him sweetly, humming quietly so he knows you’re grateful. When you pull apart, he flicks the bag to your seat, but holds up the bottle of Pepsi next.

“Ransom?” you try, and then chuckle as Dean nods seriously.

You give him another kiss, this time running your fingers over his jawline, relishing the sound of your fingertips scratching against the light stubble.

“Very well,” Dean murmurs, pecking your cheek before handing you the bottle.

Sam doesn’t say anything to that, eyes focused on the gas station super intensely.

***

You’re hanging out in the middle of the seat, arms folded over the top of the bench, your chin resting on your hands. From here, it looks as if the car is just swallowing the endless road in front of you.

Every now and then, Dean turns his head and presses a kiss into your hair. Hums the lyrics of the currently playing song under his breath and it’s so low and deep it makes you shiver.

“Dean?”

“Mhm?”

“What do you think this whole Men of letters thing is?”

“Dunno. Could be anything. Probably a deteriorating book club by now.”

“I want to bet my money on it being something awesome.”

You can hear Dean chuckle before he places a kiss on your temple. “Such as?”

“Maybe a really cool hideout. With huge libraries. And secret staircases. And hidden passages.”

“Your imagination’s running a friggin’ marathon on it, isn’t it?”

“You can’t blame me. Sam thinks the same thing. He’s pretty excited.”

For a moment, you both look to the side, where Sam is happily lost in dreams.

“Sam’s a dork.”

“I too am a dork.”

“I seem to have good luck with those, yeah.”

***

Finally stopping at the motel in the wee hours of the morning. You’re each more exhausted than the other, except Sam looks a bit more ready to rumble. He’s had a decent amount of sleep, but as for you and Dean, there’s nothing more inviting than a bed. Not even a shower--no, tonight’s only about tumbling into under the covers and sinking into the squeaky motel mattress.

You wait at the side as Dean checks you all in, getting two rooms. He hands Sam his keys, saying goodbye with a manly clap on his shoulders.

Then you’re already putting out your hand to lace your fingers with his, letting yourself be guided through the parking lot and to the suite. There’s something incredibly cozy about that particular part of the day; always your favourite. Seeing Dean’s shoulders relaxing gradually as he walks up to the final destination before wonderful, rewarding sleep, how perfectly his hand fits into yours.

Dean likes undressing you, and somehow also harbors the ability to do so in the least sexual way. Everything is just care and reassurance, kisses dropped on each other’s shoulders to mark the closure of yet another day.

“I will, Bobby,” you assure the pale looking man, smiling at him as he lets you go from the embrace. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell them what you said about the flask and the case. Thanks for everything.”

“No worries, kid. And?”

“And ‘idjits’.”

“Good.” He gives something as close to a smile as Bobby Singer ever would, and pats your hand. “Now get going.”

“Yessir.”

You’re snapped back to reality, to the room holding your body. It leaves your brain fuzzy for a while; it’s weird to feel dizzy, as a ghost with no physical stomach to be sick to, but it’s happening anyway. The out-of-body experience you’ve just been through was a necessary feat to get in touch with the ghost of Bobby Singer that the boys now knew was still with them. 

When they first called with this info, you couldn’t say you were surprised. Bobby Singer, paranoid and persistent bastard. However, he wasn’t always at the peak of his newly discovered ghost powers, and you did worry about him keeping it together in the roughness of the other dimension, so you offered to try out an old wiccan ritual. It wasn’t something your mama would agree on - in fact, you could hear her scoffing from the high heavens - but ever since the demons and the near-apocalypse and the new world order unfolding, even the wiccan community hasn’t been the same. You had the distinct feeling of the old falling apart, and the new being a scramble of everything. Relying on a spell and a potion from the darker pages couldn’t hurt; after all, it was just an induced coma. Kind of like the african dream root stunt the boys had pulled back when Bobby had a dream intruder.

The first person you see when the scenery shifts is Dean, followed by Sam.

The younger sitting at your side, and he seems upset. His brow is furrowed in that intense way of his, leaving you with a great big desire to kiss it, make him know you’re doing more than okay. Coming back will just take a while more, the potion you’ve prepared for yourself was strong. You wanted to give yourself time to really reach Bobby, talk things through with him.

“This has gotta be the most stupid, irresponsible thing we’ve ever made somebody do,” Sam says, dropping his head into his hands. When he looks up--you see tears welling. The surprise knocks the living breath out of you (well, you know, in theory). “What if she doesn’t make it back? What if that happens, Dean? How the hell are we gonna--”

“She’ll be back, alright,” Dean grumbles, so serious you kinda scare. “She knows what she’s doing. She’s the one that offered the plan in the first place, remember.”

“Doesn’t make it any less stupid,” Sam concludes, looking over at you. It’s a rough sight; Sam at your bedside while you look like you’re ready to be dropped six feet under. It does a number on you, too. It’s very different to see yourself looking like that, no matter the amount of bodies you’ve seen in your lifetime.

“Go take that shower now, Sam,” Dean says eventually, crossing to the bed and sitting down next to him. “I’ll watch over her.”

Sam looks unwilling, so much so that it makes you ache a bit. His gaze rests on your body for nearly a solid minute, a minute in which your ghost-self can feel herself burning up. Eventually, Sam sighs, nodding at Dean and getting up to get ready for his shower.

Once he’s in there, you realize there’s really not all that much for a specter to do in a room alone with Dean Winchester. He does the usual things you’d expect him to--opens a beer, sits on the bed. Stares at the ceiling. You’re thinking of trying to wake yourself up and deliver the Bobby news to Dean early, but when your mind reaches to your body, searching for the portal which you left through, connect to threads leading to consciousness, you realize they’re too weak still.

The infectious boredom has you wondering if maybe you should check up on Sam. Cool thing about being a ghost--totally walking through walls like it’s no big deal.

You’re in the bathroom before your thoughts can come up with a strong enough reason to convince you to not do so. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, right? And you’re just going in because you’ve got some extra time in the other dimension. Not, you know, to creep, or anything. That would be super weird.

You see Sam in a shower. He’s naked--well, damn, don’t act so surprised, self. It’s what people do, in the shower. You can discern droplets over his back, you’re close enough to see water falling in rivulets over the curves of him.

Most people don’t look like Sam, though. All chiseled muscle like he’s mocking a Greek god, sleek and long and--

--chanting your name in an urgent, hushed voice.

You feel shot through the chest and then pulled forward. You have to hear it again, or it’ll remain in the air like a fantasy that you’ve worked into reality. There’s no way--just no way this is real. Maybe you’re in ghost heaven on some kind - that happens, right? It totally has to be a thing.

He says it again.

Not just says--Sam moans it out like he’s desperate to wrap his arms around it, says it like some kind of prayer and a wish.

The thought of why he could be saying it is what really gets you.

Sam is jerking off to thoughts of you.

You didn’t notice it at first because the movements seemed like he could have been in the middle of shampooing--but here he is, holding himself in his right hand while he’s bracing against the tile wall with his left. He looks desperate, but determined. You feel hot all over when you hear him speak your name again and again, in varying tones and inflictions. It’s not Violet--no, it’s your name, the one he remembered and whispered to you when he held you the day Dean had to kill your mother.

His voice breaks; you feel like your bones did, too, when he begins breathing erratically and stifles a shout as he comes.

There’s a million things in your head that you’re trying so hard to ignore, most of them having to do with an increasing need to ghost up to Sam’s back and kiss it. Run your hand over the wide plains of it, listen to the diminishing pants when his breathing is trying to get back to normal. Believing your eyes and your ears has probably never been harder--this Sam, dazed and lost, he’s like this because of you. Just the thought of you helps him get to this high, and you ... You’ve spent so much time denying yourself the possibility of this.

Now you know he has, too. The tension between you, telling you he needs you safe, all the kisses you’ve both been backing out of; how he held you, how it wasn’t a fraction of what would be enough to satisfy the need ...

Sam finishes rinsing off and closes the shower. You watch him step out, steam curling behind him as he opens the shower door. He wraps a towel around his waist, heading to the mirror, sighing. He grips the sides of the sink and bows his head. You want--god, so much. To put your hand out and touch him, nose into his hair and breathe his name as softly as he’s breathed yours hardly a minute ago.

“Dean!” he suddenly shouts.  You jump in surprise, but it’s not a threat; he’s about to ask a question.

“Yeah?” comes from the other side of the wall.

“Is she back yet?”

“Dunno ... Hang on, I’ll check.”

Sam nods, even if Dean can’t see, and you suddenly feel a touch on your wrist, something warm where you didn’t even know you had anything to feel. Even to you, your skin is sheer. Dean must be trying to detect your pulse.

“She’s warming up. I think.”

Well, shit. Better head back to yourself then.

“Okay, I’ll be out in a second,” Sam calls.

You’re gone before he turns around, disappearing through the tiled wall.

***

Sam returns to the room around the same time as your consciousness. You don’t jolt awake; instead, your senses return gradually, soaking in the reality, and then your eyes opening follows. Sam not as much walks up to you as he freaking apparates, judging by the speed in which he makes it to your bed and sits down.

“Hey--Hey, hi, take it easy,” he hurries, half-smiling in relief when you sit up and rub your eyes. “Hi.”

The adorable idiot. Hair still wet from the shower, only towel-dried, skin still warm and flushed from the water ... and fuck, from having come minutes ago.

“Hi,” is the only thing you manage in lieu of that last thought.

The relief on his face will be the death of you, and then you’ll be a ghost for real, you think. He’s reaching for your hand and it feels like you’ve come home after a long journey, like you’re finally anchored in again.

“Welcome back, stranger,” Sam says, thumb swiping over your knuckle.

“It’s okay, we’ll figure this out.” Patient Sam, rational Sam. “There’s gotta be a lock, or–”

“We got in by a switch, thinking the only way out is the same course of action,” you add in a monotone voice, not trying to hide your exasperation. Putting your hands out, you feel around–the results come back as three times a wall before you can even spread your arm out completely, and one time Sam’s abdomen at arm’s length.

Shit, those really are some tight muscles.

But also: shit, your claustrophobia.

“Uh ..?”

Yeah, right, he has to be wondering why you were feeling him up.

“Sorry, was just checking for space.”

There’s some shuffling, like he’s turning around, testing for himself. Then, “What’s the verdict?”

“We are super screwed.”

2 minutes

Your eyes were supposed to get used to the pitch dark, but it’s not looking like they might. They got no light to work with.

It would be really great if your mind wasn’t cooking up a panic attack, as well. It’s all downside from there, usually.

“You’ve been very quiet.”

Sam’s voice jolts you up.

“I’m thinking,” you mumble. “Got stuck in here by pure stupidity.”

“I know. We’ll probably have to wait until Dean or Cas come by, feel as curious about that switch as I did.”

You turn to look at him, but who knows if you’re actually talking towards his face. Out of habit, you look upwards. “It’s not all your fault, Sam.”

“Probably is,” a sigh from the darkness says, “could have left that book in peace.”

You chuckle, the incoming thought easing some of your anxiety. “Sam Winchester got tricked by the ol’ book-lever-in-ancient-library trick.”

“It’s kinda poetic.”

3.5 minutes

Maybe Sam is just naturally really good at sensing tension around him. You feel a hand on your shoulder

“I don’t want to pry, but I can tell when your voice is shaking.”

“It’s not shaking?” you reply in a voice that is definitely shaking.

“Kid, I know you better than this.”

4.5 minutes

The air around you feels like it wants to suffocate you. Rude.

In the weirdest of ways, being close to Sam helps, but it might do so for a limited amount of time only. You’re thinking of a way of bringing up a new plan or something, when a hand bumps your hip.

“Sorry–Was that–”

“My hip.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, man.”

5.5 minutes

“D’you think a hug would help?”

“Nah, I can–”

“You know what, just come here already.”

The next second, you feel the definite pull and then Sam’s arms are wrapping around you, bringing you closer to his chest. You thought you were burning up, but Sam is like some kind of portable heater. There’s a definite–yup, yeah, you’re absolutely feeling the outline of his muscles through the shirt as his embrace holds you to him.

You should be protesting, probably, but your hands are already curled into the lapels of his layers, so there’s no point, is there? In distress, it’s the automatic reactions that say more than what you rationalize and think through before you act.

Maybe this is finally the time for the two of you to resolve the tension that’s been sparking between you. Cas would be happy as all hell about it, you’ve seen the looks he’s sending your way. Surely he’s had enough of you sailing straight into that subject every time you have a beer or two too much in his company.

In the darkness, Sam runs his hand over your back in a single long, firm stroke. You inhale deeply at it, relishing it, and he continues.

7 minutes

There’s no sounds coming from outside, still.

But you can hear the beat of Sam’s heart loud and clear as your head is pressed to his chest.

8 minutes

Sam kisses the top of your head. You’re freaking the fuck out about coming up with the right reaction to it.

“You alright?” he asks, soft and low as his fingers gently scratch at the small of your back. Your body’s response is to jerk closer to him.

“Yeah,” you manage, temporarily out of breath. You lift your head off his chest just barely so, tilting it up–it results in thumping into his chin with your nose.

“God, sorry–”

“Shit, I didn’t mean to–”

“No, it’s fine-”

“–just that I can barely see anything–”

“–can’t see a thing–”

Your jumbled words die down gradually, leaving an awkward silence.

Then you burst out laughing.

“I’m so sorry, Sam, wow.”

He does it as well, stifled, but genuine. There’s not enough Sam laughter in the world, you decide. You’ve been hunting with the brothers on and off for literal ages now, and you could still probably recall instances like this one on the fingers of your hands, with room left.

10 minutes

You have no idea anymore how much time has passed.  Every feeling has left you–every notion of the outside eloped together with your eyesight, and the only thing remaining is the solid line of Sam’s body, his fingertips brushing over the edge of your hips and to the curve of your ass as his hands still roam the planes of you.

Not a word has been spoken in a while. Instead, Sam’s kisses have increased and became bolder; they’re hardly detectable brushes of chapped lips over your hair, moving to your forehead.

What if you forgot about wanting to get out and instead only wished that Dean and Cas kept passing the lever without discovering it?

11 minutes

You tip your head up, just to see if he’ll keep on kissing when he knows your lips are this close.

He does.

Maybe it’s that much more exciting because you can’t see when it’s gonna happen. It’s thrilling, to have nothing to judge on but the hotness of his breath and the slight hesitation when he feels a change of the position. Nobody says a thing, like a confirmation of only needing the basic - and that’s what you operate on. Instinct. Essentials.

Sam doesn’t kiss you directly. He lets his mouth miss yours a couple of times, and you’re willing to bet it’s on purpose, that he’s relishing the tension of it as well. He kisses your cheek, the corner of your lips, then the tip of your nose, as if he’s miscalculated.

The silence is cut by a small, amused hum. It’s punched out of Sam as he leans back against the wall of the secret room, and you’re suddenly leaning on him with your full weight.

“Hey, I got a question,” Sam says, all sweet rumble.

Your voice feels scratchy in your throat when you go to answer. “Shoot. I’ve got nothing but time.”

His fingers brush against your brow.

“When we get out of here, d’you wanna maybe go for a date?”

You chuckle, looking up at where his face would be, feeling his breath at your forehead.

“Well?” he insists, with clear amusement colouring his words.

“Are you sure about that?” you ask, sliding a hand over his torso. Damn, he’s firm, still so warm, and fitting perfectly to you–and now he’s asking you for a god damn date while you’re trapped in a secret room of a haunted mansion.

Sam shifts, just slightly, just so you’re even closer, and somehow tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear even in complete dark. “I know it probably seems a bit weird, but … dunno. Something about being stuck with you in like ten square feet of space that makes me want to make sure a lot more of that happens in the future.”

“That’s oddly romantic, Samuel,” you smile, thankful for the cover of your blush going unseen. You fingertips reach the collar of his shirt; boldly, you let them go up still, until they’re at his neck.

“Really? I was afraid it was kinda close to blackmail.”

“Modern dating’s hard.”

“Tell me about it,” he murmurs, skimming his fingers over your back.

It’s then that you tip your face up and decide to go for a kiss, aiming for the unseen–and you’re spot on. Sam’s hand is at your jaw immediately, cupping it, keeping you so close; gentle, but firm and insistent, he deepens the kiss almost immediately. You comply happily, the glide of your tongues together sending shivers everywhere.

12.5 minutes

Sam’s hand is squeezing at your breast, his mouth letting out an obscenely meaningful moan when your thigh presses at his crotch and your teeth nip under his ear. His other hand is gripping at your ass needily, pressing you so close to him you whimper, stuttering his name into the dark again and again.

13 minutes

The groan of ancient springs and shifting stone cuts through the heated gasps and a ruffle of clothes, throwing the two of you apart.

Inch by inch, light starts penetrating your dull, black cell. Sam groans, shielding his eyes, and you do the same. In the last second before the room opening in front of you reveals two more figures, you drag your shirts down to cover what shirts are supposed to be covering. You lick your tingling lips, but manage to hold back a goofy grin.

“Found them!” Dean exclaims entirely too loudly when he lays his eyes on the two of you.

Next to him, Cas nods expertly. “Weren’t that far after all.”

“The fuck took you so long,” you protest, running your hand through your hair. Time for some self-righteousness and acting normal; anything to calm down the throbbing ache between your legs. “We’re on a case–did you guys take care of it?”

“Mhm.”

That’s all you get from Dean before he turns away … and it’s super weird. His shoulders are shaking though, like they would if a person is crying–or downright giggling.

You look at Sam, your eyes meeting. It becomes obvious why Dean’s reaction–his brother’s hair looks like a complete mess (since your hands were all the fuck up in there), his layers of shirts and a jacket sticking out criss-cross (because you had a lot of fun hanging on), and the sweet spot directly under his ear slightly bruised (his little whimpers are a delight).

“About that date,” he carefully begins, smoothing his hair down.

You step closer and reach up, smiling widely. Your fingers hit his as you help with the task of taming the brown locks. Sam beams at you, listening when you answer.

“I like italian food.”

“Mm.”

“And hunters who don’t tell anyone about my mixed feelings on dark.”

You moan, taking a fistful of his hair and tugging, giving yourself access to his jawline, where you can suck a mark. “Fuck–What about your angel senses, can’t you see people coming–”

“You set me up for a good sleazy line there,” he growls, amused as all hell and dropping a hand between the two of you, thumb swiping over your clit. “Seeing where I have you right now–”

“Don’t you–ungh, don’t you fucking dare–”

“Come for me, ozien.”

That’s what sends you flying–Cas calling you his in the language sacred to him. You come around him, feeling him let himself go on top of you, as well, and the pleasure just keep on giving, giving, giving.

It takes a while to settle down again, to get your breathing together, but you hardly allow yourself to do so before you’re sitting up and looking around. The street is still as empty as it was, the street light behind the car illuminating the scarce part of it. A sigh of relief leaves you, and you turn to Cas, who’s sitting beside you like everything’s A-okay–except for the flushed cheeks, ruffled hair, and a playful quirk of his eyebrow.

“What?” you suddenly say, hands busy tucking your shirt into the skirt of the fake FBI suit.

Cas smiles, eyes bright even in the half-light. He reaches to your face, smoothing a lock of hair behind your ear gently. His fingers linger, grazing your cheekbone.

“I love seeing you undone. There’s something so soft about you. Something only I get to see.”

You pass a patisserie and stop to admire the incredible desserts of all shapes and sizes. They’re looking at you invitingly, the fluffy cream on top, caramelized fruit, the soft sponge cakes that look like they would melt in your mouth.

But your eyes suddenly stop on a simple round baking dish with a criss-cross pattern of crust on top. The card next to it says Apple pie (home grown apples!).

Two minutes later, you’re walking out of the said bakery with a small white container. The paper box is tied up with a decorative pink bow, like you’ve just escaped candyland while still carrying your lunchbox.

There’s a sudden happy, bouncy skip in your step that you fail to notice; if you did, you’d probably be scolding yourself about it, easy down and check around yourself if anybody saw. As you don’t, however, you continue down the main street of Prosperity, Indiana, gently swinging a bright box with an apple pie in time with your steps.

The motel isn’t far away, so you walk the rest of the way, too. The brothers should be there as well, though your thoughts are really fleeing to only just the one - Dean. There goes that feeling that you’re trying so hard to forget on any other day, but can’t bring yourself to quiet down today: a subtle elation you feel when his eyes linger on you for a second more than necessary, the inspiration and strength washing over you at his kind words. Is it silly? You’ve told yourself so, yes. Is it inappropriate to want from him in spite of both of you being hunters? That’s what you imagine, of course.

But right now you’re walking down the street of a white-picket-fence town, carrying a piece of pie for Dean Winchester, wondering what he’ll think of you.

Your gaze glides fondly over the Impala parked at the entrance. The amount of times you’ve imagined just–Dean pulling over in the dead of the night, pulling you into his lap and just letting you both have your way with each other, how desperate moans he’d keep on eliciting from you would sound inside the walls of the car that’s been carrying him his entire life … You shut your eyes for a second, biting the inside of your lip. When you feel that you’ve steadied yourself enough, you shuffle through your bag for the keys.

“Sam? Dean?”

“Sam’s Lance Armstrongin’,” comes a voice from the bathroom.

You smile to yourself, then ask, just to check, “You mean running?”

“‘s all the same to me.”

“I know.”

Just as you set the box of pie on the small plastic table, Dean enters the room. You’re definitely not prepared for the sight of him obviously fresh out of the shower–thankfully, dressed, but the droplets of water still clinging to his hair, the slight blush of his cheeks due to the steam, the smell of his shampoo rolling out behind him are not doing your heart (or other sensitive regions) any favours. You like him like this because he looks - well, human. What’s a surprise is that you actually end up telling him just that.

“The shower did you good. The whiskey-in-a-flask designer-bags-under-eyes isn’t really the best look on you. Dries you out.”

To say Dean is stunned at your words is not an overreaction. He blinks at you incredulously, then shakes his head like a dog drying off when he goes to shuffle through his duffle bag.

“Wow, don’t sugar coat it then.”

You could have felt bad–but then, you find a perfect way to segway. “Speaking of sugar. I passed a bakery in town, while going back from checking out the boiling hot tub guy’s place.” You see Dean finding the white paper container with his eyes, turning to it curiously. “Thought I’d make your day. Sugarcoat it.”

Dean’s chuckle warms you up considerably. You bite your lip, bouncing slightly on the mattress of the bed you sat down on. Watching him cross to the plastic table and chair, you suddenly feel nervous about it–him liking that piece of pie seems so vital, like it’ll be a confirmation, like something in your future depends on it.

“Is it ..?”

“It’s apple,” you hurry to fill in.

“Can’t beat an apple pie,” Dean hums, sitting down and staring at the pink bow on the top. “Look at that. Bet the packaging’s worth more than the pie.”

“I felt like you deserved something nice. It’s okay to just appreciate the finer things in life, isn’t it?”

Dean looks at you with a lifted eyebrow, almost like he’s full of suspicion of something, but can’t place a finger. Then he smiles, a gorgeous half-way grin, and nods his head towards the chair opposite of him.

“Come on, kid. We’ll share.”

“Oh, no–This is for you, Dean, all yours.”

“Awh, come on,” he objects, waving his hand in the air. “Get over here. I want you to. You’re looking all gloomy over there.”

With heat in your cheeks and a mumble of fading protest, you get up. When you’re sitting down opposite of Dean, he’s already undoing the bow at the top; he watches with glee as the sides of the box unfold slowly, revealing the much talked-about piece of apple pie. It looks like the one perfect idea of the apple pie, one encapsulating all other, a pie-predecessor. Golden crust, smooth, thick filling with perfectly, equally sized tiny apple cubes, all coated lightly with powdered sugar.

You, in turn, are watching Dean, with a curiosity you can’t bring yourself to stifle. You’ve done it a million times; you’ve stolen moments of him and stored them away for rainy days, for when cases call for a separation, for when you needed to believe he’ll make it out alive, for when you can’t sleep at night because he brought someone home with him. These green eyes have the ability to sparkle even after everything they’ve seen–they’re adorned with little crow feet at their edges, freckles at the bottom.

“Hey.”

You snap out of it - it being blindly staring at a group of Dean’s freckles at his neck, you realize with a blush - and see plastic fork directly in front of you. It’s balancing a perfect amount of apple filling and crust.

“Oh–I–”

“Got carried away there,” Dean says, grinning, “but here, have at it. Come on.”

You’re realizing he’s offering you the first bite. You actually open your mouth to object–Dean uses the opportunity to stick the fork into your mouth.

“Dean!” you manage, waving your hands in front of your mouth a you chew.

“No talking with your mouth full!” he sniggers, the bastard. “So, how is it?”

“‘s heavenly.”

“Alright, here I go then.”

He takes a bite-sized piece for himself next.

“Oh, my god,” he mumbles, immediately looking back up at you wide-eyed and beaming. It’s so genuine, so spontaneous–you have to smile widely in return, nodding.

“I fucking know, right?”

“Don’t think I’m sharing any more of this baby.”

“Unfair,” you say, pointing a finger at him.

He only laughs and shakes his head as he goes to cut off another piece with his fork. Then you notice it - he’s got powdered sugar at the corner of his lips, small white smudges around the edges. You could–well, there’s one way you can think of doing this, but it’s probably too much. Probably not something you would ever allow yourself to do, especially not with someone you like for real, that’s more than just a crush …

“Here, lemme just …”

You lean forward slightly, reaching up. As the tips of your fingers touch his jaw, your thumb hovers hesitantly for a second. Dean’s watching you, you know that for a fact, and it’s confirmed when you allow yourself to look up from his mouth.

“There’s a little something.”

You’re feeling like completely losing it when Dean licks his lips. “At the ..?”

“Your–Your lips.”

Your thumb is still hovering at the corner of them still. There’s something about the tension between the two of you that makes you feel like the room is spinning. It’s growing more and more tangible with every moment, the air filled with electricity. Maybe that invisible force is the reason why you dive right into it, chasing the ache to fulfill the desire.

Dean swallows thickly. Balancing yourself on the seat of your chair, you kneel on it, leaning closer.

“How much is it okay to … to kiss you, right now?”

“Right now?” Dean repeats like an echo, eyes flicking down to your lips.

“Right now,” you whisper, feeling that if the answer is anything but yes, you might–

“Right now is good,” Dean says.

So you make it right now and close the gap between you.

Dean’s been expecting the kiss, and it clicks–your bottom lip between his and the sharing of tastes. The softness of Dean, the sweetness of sugar, slight tartness of the pie. It pulls you in immediately, like something that could become addicting too quickly, on the first try.

Then you feel Dean’s fingers threading into your hair, and you part from the kiss gently, sighing against his lips.

“So it’s, really okay,” you somehow manage, smiling as he nuzzles the tip of your nose.

Dean answers with a chuckle, teasing your lips with his, still kiss-warm. “Think it’s safe to say, yeah.” He plucks a kiss from your lips. “No need for further testing, but it’s highly recommended.”

“Of course, yes,” you agree, whole-heartedly, absolutely. “Think we should–”

“Dean, we have a problem.”

Sam bursts through the door in the blink of an eye. It catches you off guard, your instincts kicking in. They’re the only reason you manage to catch yourself on the edge of the table instead of toppling off of the badly balanced chair.

Dean’s looking between you and the suddenly apparated brother, one arm reaching for you.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah–” You turn to Sam, wanting to ask what the hell he’s doing, but he’s already shuffling through the room, turning over the mattresses. Well, one more reason then.

“Sam, what the hell?” you and Dean both say at the same time.

“We got a witch on our ass, and I know who her target is,” Sam huffs, hair flipping around wildly as he turns around and suddenly begins approaching you bag.

You stand up, frowning. “You obviously think this has something to do with me if you’re after my stuff. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I think it kinda does,” Dean says from the side, joining you. He straightens up, smoothing his hand over his stomach. He thinks for a bit, then adds, “You were the first one to call her a bitch straight out.”

“Well you followed right after,” you mumble. Dean shrugs.

A couple of seconds later, you already have your answer. Sam straightens up, letting your bag fall to the floor. There’s a coin between his fingers - a coin exactly like the ones you’ve been finding in the victims’ houses. A coin that had to have been riding with you for the whole day.

“Probably yesterday, at the house,” Sam says, though it’s more of a murmur now. Then he looks up, eyeing the two of you with Dean. “She probably didn’t have time to make a move yet but– Did you feel anything at all? Anything strange?”

You open your mouth to speak, but soon shut it back. You look at Dean–he’s glancing at you as well. For a moment, you were afraid he’d be livid; he’d begin doubting what happened, and he’d have every right to, given the circumstances, understanding that you’re in the middle of a case with a vindictive witch.

But he doesn’t. He winks at you, the side of the face that Sam can’t see, and says, “Everything’s good. Kept an eye on her.”

How do you tell him he deserves so much more than he’s got? How do you explain, in detail and convincingly, that there’s nothing to be ashamed of and he’s the bravest man you know?

Patience.

You’ve known something isn’t okay with Sam for days before he confided in Sam. Then again, you knew how to look at Sam. Studying Sam was practically your major. That’s why you were more than ready to extend your stay at Bobby’s and keep him company while Dean drove out to check potential leviathans at a high school.

“What am I, scrambled brains on toast?” Bobby muttered as Dean thanked you for staying. “I can take care of him just fine.”

You rake your mind for a quick response that wouldn’t end up offending him. You knew the kind of care the hunters usually had in mind for these sorts of things: denial and booze. “I don’t mind staying, Bobby, really. I closed the apothecary, and I think I can find something to help Sam a bit, as well.”

“You have something to help me?” Sam says behind you, so softly it shatters the heart inside your chest. “What is it?”

“Just a sort of potion to calm your nerves a bit, maybe help you sleep.”

“I got some of that,” Bobby says. When the two of you look at him, he points at the bottle of Jack on his desk.

“That is literally the worst idea, Bobby,” you sigh, passing him on your way to the car to take out your travel bag of tinctures and herbs. “Sam doesn’t need to haze his mind further. He needs it sharp and clear.”

There are some objections shouted behind you, but you ignore them.

Not even half an hour later, you’re sitting back in Bobby’s living room, looking at Sam as he joins you. You hold a glass in front of yourself, swirling the contents around. As you offer it to Sam, he seems reluctant - for that, you can’t blame him. The look and smell of the concoction you came up with isn’t the most appealing.

“I promise it at least tastes somewhat good,” you say, trying to whip up your best smile. “I put in some lemon grass, just because.”

“Doesn’t lemon grass do anything?” Sam asks, eyeing the glass.

“Well, it does help with stomach issues. So if you’re having any of that, we should be good to cure it.”

Now he’s finally giving you a little smile in return.

Sam drinks up all at once, like you’ve told him to. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t even make a face when he’s finished swallowing the liquid; all the while you’re leaned back against the couch, observing him, dwelling on the the outline of his jaw in the weak light. This boy and the world he’s carrying, how he’s always full of light regardless.

“Thank you, for this.” He turns around slightly, catching your eyes before he drops the gaze to his hands. “You didn’t have to, I don’t want to be a burden.”

Now he’s saying it out loud, and you know it hurts him to bring it up, but you can’t help feeling like having a knife shoved into you as well. His face has grown so much softer, in spite of the bold lines of it, his voice constantly seeming on the verge of cracking.

“Sam,” you say, quietly, sitting closer, “you never were, nor will you ever be, a burden to me, alright? Let’s just get that off the table right now.”

“I’m cracking. I don’t know how much is--what’s really here, what’s not. If I’m not a burden now, then I will be--”

“--no, no, Sam.”

You shake your head, interrupting him because hearing his thoughts on himself isn’t helping either of you. Desperately, you wish to be able to touch him, to reassure him--and then you say, fuck it, and you do.

Both your hands gently cup one of his and just hold. Sam quiets down, but doesn’t try to pull away; if anything, he seems like he’s being washed over by a sense of great relief. His fingertips slide over your wrists, feeling as he closes his eyes and sighs.

“Why are you still in this?” he asks, so gently you almost miss it. “Why aren’t you running?”

“Can’t, Sam.”

“You should.”

There’s a big possibility he knows why you can’t run. Hell, if he’s any bit as good in reading people in his private time as he is while investigating, he’s known for years now. But this isn’t a time for you to say it out loud, and it isn’t a time for him to accept it, either, even if any feeling at all is mutual.

You decide to offer what you can, anyway. In reply to him, you tug on the hand you’re holding gently, straightening up where you sit and hoping he gets the hint.

Man, heartbreaking how quickly he does.

Sam lies down on the couch, somehow tucking his long legs up into the space he was sitting in, folding himself up. He hesitates for a split second, and then lays his head on your thighs; even now he’s being considerate. You don’t feel the whole weight of it immediately, instead, it’s easing in, like he might still change his mind at any moment.

To reassure him that it’s so okay, you slide your hand into his hair. You’re surprised at your own boldness, but don’t stop. God, he amount of times you’ve daydreamed about it, the different things your hands would do, the different situations it would be in. Now you’re hearing Sam sigh at the feeling, and the shivers run down your spine like they’re riding a freaking roller coaster.

“Are you sure this is okay?” he asks. You see him fumbling with the fingers of his hands, looking at them.

“More than okay, Sam.” You start massaging gentle circles into his scalp. Three rounds, then a comb through his locks. Repeat. “You just need some time off. You need to let yourself breathe.”

“If I do that--I just have to keep on moving. We always have to keep on moving, you know. It’s what we’ve always done.”

“You mean you, John, Dean?”

“Yeah.”

His voice is getting kind of distant, like he’s tempted to slip into sleep any second now. Whenever a muscle in your leg wants to move or twitch, you do your best to bypass the urge. This is the most cherished time you’ve had in ... months. Years. It’s possible to pretend the outside world doesn’t exist, that it can’t touch you.

“It’s okay if you want to fall asleep, Sam,” you say to the leveling drop and lift of his chest, “it’s okay if you want to rest. Nobody deserves it more than you do--nobody’s seen more of the bad and more of the devil.”

The smallest of hums winds itself out of his throat. You’re thinking--good, the potion is working. You’re able to give Sam the couple of hours of peace after all.

One of your hands is still slowly combing through his hair with your fingers, but the other goes on a hunch and a shot of courage, suddenly resting on his shoulder.

“I promise you the fight won’t stop, Sam. It’s okay to take a couple of moments just to breathe, and whatever ends up falling down on us, I will be there for you, because you are the kindest, most loving soul this world has ever seen.”

There’s no reaction to these words, which tells you that Sam has fallen asleep in your lap. You were counting on it, too--you’d never dare to say it out loud otherwise. Warmth courses through you at the feeling of his head resting against you. Hopefully, his mind is as relaxed as his body is right now; he keeps on breathing evenly, his hands curled together under his chin like a child’s.

Bobby’s old wooden clock strikes a full hour when you press a secret, lingering kiss to Sam’s brow. You sigh against his skin, relishing the closeness. When you convince yourself, with a heavy heart, to sit back up again, your last act of making sure he’s comfortable is pulling a crocheted blanket from the foot of the couch over his boxed body.