the witch next door

“You’re not serious,” Sam exclaimed in a hushed whisper, sweeping his gaze over the silver lake, the sandy shore, the deep stretch of evergreens that encircled the area. 

There was nobody else around. Nobody else was around for miles. A mile. Three quarters of a mile, technically, the distance back to the Whispering Pine Log Cabin Motel. 

“I’m serious,” you said. 

Sam gave you a sceptical look. It wasn’t entirely effective—his cheeks burned as bright as the undoubtedly illegal bonfire you’d yanked him into setting up earlier. 

“You’re not serious.” 

“I’m very serious,” you insisted, your laugh cutting through the late night quiet. “It’s Joninės.”

“Joninės.” 

You laughed again as Sam butchered the pronunciation. 

“Rasos.” 

“Rasos.” 

“Surprisingly better,” you complimented playfully and patted his shoulder. Sam’s breath caught in his throat, but he stayed rather casual about it. The girl he had one big, fat, embarrassing crush on touching him was no big deal. No big deal at all. He’d remain cool if that was the last thing he ever did. “Water becomes alive during summer solstice. One dip and you’ll be pretty forever.” 

“One skinny dip,” he said, shamefully excited, although he’d never admit it, and helpless to the fact you were undressing already. “Why do we have to be naked?” 

“It’s tradition,” you said like it was obvious, and maybe to you, it was, but Sam couldn’t, for the life of him, imagine that he was capable of surviving you and him swimming naked underneath the moonlight together.  

“We braided wreaths. We jumped over the fire. We could stop here.” 

“We could stop.” You crouched down to take a sip of red wine before burying the bottle halfway back into the ground again. “But you promised to celebrate Rasos with me, best friend. Agreed to partake in every tradition I remember from my childhood.” 

Sam didn’t know whether he’d just gotten promoted or demoted with the “best friend” there, but he didn’t dwell on it. Couldn’t, or he’d have driven himself crazy otherwise. “That was before you oh so graciously informed me birthday suits were involved.” 

“We’re born naked, and if we do it right, we die naked, too. Clothes off, dude.” 

“That makes no sense,” he mumbled lamely, trying to get his hands and brain to communicate. 

One was against skinny dipping as a concept, much less with you. The other was eagerly pulling his faded t-shirt up and over his head.

“There we go.” 

“There we not go,” Sam protested, even as his jeans swiftly cosied up to his discarded tee. 

“It’s just us.” Your voice dipped into something more quiet, a soothing note gentler. You unclasped your bra and stepped out of your panties just as his thumbs hooked under the waistband of his boxers. “And… you can stop at underwear. I suppose the water won’t be any less magical if Sam’s Secret is tucked away.” 

“Very funny. I can tell you’re trying not to smile. You knew I’d go along with this ridiculous… nude late night dip thing the moment you suggested it.”

“Nothing gets past you.” 

Silence settled between you. The fire crinkled. Pine needles rustled in the warm summer wind. Sam’s eyes caught yours as he peeled away his boxers, and then you stared at each other like a pair of tipsy, bare fools. 

“Can I be honest? I’m trying pretty hard not to stare,” he blurted out after a stretched minute, struggling to focus on anything except the situation below your neck. 

“Yeah. It’s weirder than I thought it’d be. And I’ve once treated your butt injury.”

Sam sighed, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair. Weird was an understatement. If you couldn’t see his heart attempting to break past his ribcage, he was certain you could hear it. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. 

“Don’t say butt injury. It was a gunshot injury that just so happened to be on my… butt.”

You stole a moment to study him—the slope of his nose, the little mole on his left cheek, the shape of his eyes, ever-warm whenever on you—and stumbled back, the sand cold and wet against your toes. Sam stayed planted in his spot. 

“So,” the corners of your lips quirked up as you drifted closer to the lake, water twining around your ankles at first and then higher the farther you waded, “a butt injury.” 

Instead of defending his very serious gunshot injury, Sam smiled, just the slightest bit, and took a slow step towards you. “Didn’t you once wax off half a lip down south?” 

“How do you know that?”

It was nice seeing you flustered for a change. 

Sam sidled forward some more, and more, and more, until he was edging into the lake, murky green embracing his skin. 

“That’s classified, sorry.” 

Your mouth opened before falling closed again. Sam inched closer. 

“Did you read my journal? You read my journal.” 

“I did not read your journal.” His gaze dipped downwards, and he waded another good bit deeper into the lake to shield his secret from view—yours, his own, the curious mallard’s behind you. “On purpose.” 

A soft groan escaped past your lips. “You don’t accidentally read another person’s journal.” 

“You left it open.” Sam reached for you as the lake enveloped your features, calloused hands curling around your waist and hauling you to the surface. “I swear I didn’t see much.” 

You clutched Sam’s shoulders upon the realisation that you’d glided too far away from the shore in your little endeavour of hiding your embarrassment underwater and your feet wouldn’t graze the bottom anymore. 

“Did you see the part about a crush?”

“A crush?” 

“No crush.” 

Sam’s pulse kicked up. You’d written about a crush in your journal, the uttermost personal thing, a place where every secret you’d kept buried bled onto yellowed paper. 

He should’ve left it alone. 

You were squirming enough to throw off his balance. You refused to look at him, suddenly. Your fingers trembled the slightest bit where they dug into the broad line of his shoulders. 

Despite his head, his heart couldn’t.

Not that he’d ever admit it, but Sam could’ve thrown up. The collar of his painstakingly ironed dress shirt felt suffocating, his heartbeat roared in his ears, and his hands were clammy, which was rather unfortunate, considering he was supposed to help you in the kitchen. Your family’s kitchen. Your childhood kitchen. 

“Sam?” It had to have been the third time you’d said his name in the last minute. “Sam!”

Sam’s head jerked up at the sound of his name. He’d been lost in an awful daydream, thinking about anything and everything that could possibly go wrong. He was already sweating like a sinner in church, and with his luck, he’d probably forgotten deodorant. He got clumsy when nervous, so it was plausible he would spill red wine on his khaki chinos, or worse, somebody else. He could knock over a candle and set the entire house on fire. He might need to be taken to the ER for something humiliating like choking on eggshells. It was Easter. Eggs were everywhere. 

You offered him a warm smile as his panicked stare found yours. 

“I think the cake has enough sprinkles.”

Sam nodded, his brain glitching again. He looked down at the carrot cake he had been attempting to decorate a second later and hastily yanked his hand aside, even though it was too late—the cake was buried underneath a heap of sprinkles. 

“I think you’re right,” he agreed in a voice an embarrassing pitch higher. The counter resembled a crime scene, the carrot cake a perfect victim in the middle of it. Sam fumbled away the sprinkles container before he could inflict more damage. “Shit. I’m sorry. It looks like rainbow threw up on this thing.” 

Your lips pressed into a thin line as your eyes bounced between the mess and the very abashed boyfriend. 

“It’s okay,” you reassured, struggling not to giggle. “Your decorating job is a bit messy, but we can still eat it, just as soon as we get to the actual cake underneath all those sprinkles.”

“That’s comforting,” Sam muttered dryly, albeit the corners of his lips inadvertently quirked up. He grasped a nearby towel to neaten the counter, sweeping loose sprinkles into his palm. “I’m trying to make a good impression. I don’t want to be known as the guy who murdered dessert.” 

You laughed—startled, bright, a world too entertained—and clamped a hand over your mouth, so the people in the room next door, the same family Sam strived to impress, wouldn’t hear. “Don’t be silly. My folks won’t remember you as the guy who… y’know, got a smidge overenthusiastic with jimmies. If anything, you’ll be remembered as the freakishly large man I brought home.” 

“Freakishly large?” Sam breathed out, frowning at you as he made his way to the trash can under the sink he’d almost stained with egg dye earlier. The porcelain continued to make him wary. “That’s worse! Please don’t tell me your family sees me as some overgrown rando.” 

“Not a rando. They know we’re dating.” You offered him a smile again, as amused as it was supportive, and finished folding the last of the floral napkins. “And, for what it’s worth, I might’ve heard the words stunningly handsome in relation to you.” 

Warmth spread over Sam’s cheeks and trickled down his neck, whether from a fresh wave of embarrassment or flattery, he wasn’t certain himself. 

“I don’t do this often.” He wiped his hands on the cotton towel and tossed it aside. Your lips parted, but Sam spoke before you had the chance to point out the obvious that yes, he did not. “Do you live to torture me? I’m already a nervous idjit over here.” 

You grimaced playfully, stealing a moment to swallow the laughter crawling up your throat once more. The random idjit was not helping. “You make it exceptionally easy.”

Sam shook his head in defeat and reached for you, the calloused of his palms settling on your waist. “I’m serious.” 

“Don’t be nervous,” you mumbled as your arms circled his neck. “You have a good head on these broad, sexy shoulders. You’re polite. Your egg was the strongest at breakfast this morning.” 

A low chuckle rumbled out of Sam. His thumbs brushed over your shirt as he cocked his head to the side. “Pray tell, how does my success in egg knocking relate to making a great impression on your folks?” 

“It shows you’re strong. A real protector.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Sam conceded in a hushed whisper as his head inched closer, his breath tickling your skin. 

You stood on your tippy toes, melting against his body. 

“You’re doing great. I’m willing to bet that by the end of the night, they’ll be just as smitten with you as I am.” 

The kitchen blurred around you. Norah Jones quieted in her pondering on why she hadn’t come. An old clock on the wall paused ticking. 

“I love you,” he said.

It’d started out small. Always did. He and Dean had stopped by Harvelle’s Roadhouse for Ash. The man had called earlier in the week, something about demonic omens and another special child. It should’ve been a quick visit. In. Out. But somewhere along the line, research had turned into a round of beers, and beers had blurred into whiskey with a side of shooting the breeze. 

Sam stole a glance at you and immediately focused on the floor when your eyes inadvertently met for a second. His hands were sweating, his breathing had shallowed, and his heart was beating so hard behind his ribcage, you’d have thought it wanted to evacuate it. This was torture, half because he was uncomfortably uncomfortable, and worse, for he was shamefully excited. 

“Four minutes,” he mumbled, picking at the sleeve of his threadbare shirt. 

“You’re keeping track of the time?” 

Was he actually paying attention to the time? Dutifully, yes. But you didn’t need to know just how. 

“Every minute less is another minute closer to strangling Dean,” he brought a hand up to brush through the mess that was his hair, but almost elbowed you in the face, terribly misjudging the tight confines of Ellen’s supply-less supply closet. “Shit! Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay?” 

“Probably.” You checked your nose out of instinct, even if he’d hardly touched you. 

“God, that was incredibly stupid.” He leaped to apologise, voice horrified yet earnest. “I didn’t mean to hit you. I’m so, so sorry. Are you bleeding?” 

“Don’t apologise, it was an honest mistake. I’m fine.” You held up three, clean of blood fingers to assure him. “How come Jo isn’t on your revenge radar?” 

“…Her unrequited crush is punishment enough.” The words tumbled out before he had half a chance to think them over. 

You froze. Sam froze. The next couple of moments couldn’t have blurred together slower. And then you giggled from the sheer surprise, totally scandalised yet somewhat amused. 

“Sam.” His name hovered. You stole another second to just gape at him, like you couldn’t believe he’d actually said that. “Sam.”

“Please,” he pleaded in a hushed whisper, the earlier quip already sour in his mouth, “don’t tell Jo.” 

“I solemnly swear this will stay our dirty little secret.” 

The tension in Sam’s muscles eased at the promise, albeit barely. He raked a hand through his hair, a world more careful than previously attempted, and nodded in an unspoken, “thank you, Jo might’ve killed me otherwise.” 

“What, uh…” he stammered suddenly. His body flattened against the wall to break the contact between you. The effort was useless, the closet too small. He pushed back firmer into the wooden panel, anyway. “What are you going to say when those two inevitably ask us what happened?” 

“I will say that… the things that transpired in our seven minutes of heaven were naught less than a kiss, though nothing beyond intercourse.” It was merely a jest, but it caught Sam so unaware, he choked on the stale air. You stifled a startled laugh, clamping a hand over your mouth. “We’ve got to make you less flushed, they might actually believe me.”

Flushed was an understatement. If you searched for scarlet in the dictionary, Sam would be plastered underneath the definition. 

“Easy for you to say.” He mumbled, annoying the wall as he worked at convincing it to consume him. The wood remained obstinate. “You’re always effortlessly suave.” 

“You’re joking, right? I’m the opposite of suave in any given situation. My legs are literally trembling as we speak.” 

Sam’s eyebrows furrowed. Your legs shouldn’t have been shaky. Unless you were nervous. Were you nervous? Was it him making you nervous? Be cool. Don’t get your hopes up. Do NOT get your hopes up. 

At last, “huh,” was all he mustered. 

“Yeah.” You smiled sheepishly, wrapping your arms around your belly like you were bracing for impact. And maybe you were because what slipped past your lips next resembled a confession more than anything else. “You’re smart. And cute. And tall.” 

Sam flapped a dismissive hand near his thigh—would’ve waved it if he wasn’t still terrified to accidentally hit you. 

“You’re confused,” he tried for nonchalant, but the slight tremor in his voice betrayed him. “It’s probably situational attraction. Or something.” 

“Or something,” you echoed.

The something was heavy. It coiled around him, burdening his shoulders as if it were a tangible weight. Sam’s logical side was not too keen on acknowledging your comment. Hunting left little room for romance. But he yearned, how did the poor man yearn. 

“For what it’s worth,” he almost swallowed his tongue trying to ease the lump in his throat. “I think you’re smart. And cute. Aaand. And.” Was his brain malfunctioning? Possibly, yes. “And… very you.”

You bit down on the smile threatening to split your face. “Very me?” 

“…Yup. You’re very you.” Sam exhaled, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. “It’s a compliment.” 

“In that case, thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” he said. 

Sam’s gaze trailed yours as it dipped to his watch. 10:16PM. Sixty seconds until the minute hand would grab seven and the moment was gone. He wanted to think rationally—he could always admit his crush on you later, perhaps over a romantic dinner with candles and jazz, and actual cloth napkins instead of gritty paper tissues. He’d spill the beans over dessert and kiss you right before you parted for the night.

It was a nice thought. In the spur of the moment, it did go abandoned, but it was nice, nonetheless. 

“On a scale of we’re playing seven minutes in heaven to Sam is a total creep, how strange would it be if I kissed you?” 

“That’s a mighty scale,” you teased, inadvertently grazing against him as you fidgeted on your feet. 

His skin tingled at every point of contact. 

“Yeah,” he mumbled lamely. “They’ll sniff us out, y'know. If we kiss. So we probably shouldn’t. And besides, that thing there… that was two friends complimenting each other.” 

“Whether we kiss, whether we don’t, Jo and Dean will be annoying regardless.” 

“You’re not wrong.” Sam chuckled. The sound was drenched in nervous anticipation, even to his own ears. “Very immature adults, those two can be.” 

Your mouth softened. You couldn’t have said you disagreed. 

Another second passed before you spoke. “Was that two friends being supportive, or do you have a crush on me?”

Don’t do this to me. His brain raced through every curse word in the history of the universe before he realised that he must’ve looked like a total idiot just gawking at you, eyes widened like a deer’s in headlights and mouth slightly agape. 

“I have a crush on you,” Sam blurted out. 

His blood coursed so hot, one could’ve roasted a marshmallow on him, perhaps fried an egg straight on his forehead. 

“I have a crush on you,” you confessed, fighting your lips into obedience—those kept trying to pretzel their way into a big, stupid grin again. 

Sam pinched his arm. If pain were any indicator, this was, somehow, not one bit a dream. 

“So we’re in agreement,” he breathed. 

“It appears so.” 

“That was suspiciously easy.” 

“We’re tipsy,” you whispered, searching his face.

“Alcohol does tend to loosen the tongue.”

“Sober thoughts, drunken words.” Hesitantly, your hands found his shoulders. “Actually, whiskey’s not to blame. I meant what I said. You’re a great guy, Sam. A really cute, really great guy.” 

Time slowed. The uproar outside faded into static. Sam could almost taste the honeyed note in your perfume when he leaned closer, cracking the edges of personal space the tight confines hadn’t previously broken. The walls caved and caved, and caved around him until he could make out nothing but you. He brought his head down, his lips just barely grazing the plump of yours. 

And then the door swung open. The world resumed. Sam tensed, hurriedly giving you room to escape before Dean’s knowing smirk could grow big enough that his other features disappeared entirely. 

“What were you two kids doing in there?” Jo asked, her mirth trailing Dean’s. 

“Nothing!” Sam’s voice cracked as he abandoned the infamous supply-less supply closet behind you, thwacking the door closed. “Nothing. We were just talking.” 

Jo and Dean exchanged a look, the kind that meant trouble, like they were imagining the naughtiest things two people trapped in a closet could’ve engaged in and figuring out they were at least a little bit right. 

“I’m gonna go grab some fresh air,” you announced. “Beware: that closet gets stuffy.”

Sam caught an amused, “yeah, I’d bet my ass it was hot in there,” from his brother as he straightened up to follow after you, speaking up before neither Jo nor Dean had half a chance to say anything else. “I think I’ll go with you.” 

“Okay,” your acknowledgement of Sam came hushed. Your gaze darted everywhere except for him, but you did manage to face one smug older sibling and an entirely too entertained blonde. “Don’t get ideas,” you said, the warning weakened with obvious guilt as you kept fussing with your necklace. “We just talked. Dodged a cobweb or three. Tried not to suffocate.”

Jo stifled a soft laugh. Dean nodded in feigned seriousness, pretending to believe you. Sam huffed quietly in defeat, resting a warm, steady hand on your lower back. 

It was too loud, too dark, too heavy with unrequited desire. Sweat, cheap cologne, and cigarette smoke clung to everything—the sticky tables, the worn leather sofas, the gaudy wallpaper. Dean had dipped five minutes prior, leaving him slumped in the corner alone, nursing a drink he didn’t want in the first place. 

“Hi.” 

Sam’s gaze flicked up at the sound of your voice, both to be polite and because the melodic timbre of it had lured him in without warning.

“Hi.” 

“Happy birthday,” you smiled. 

“How do you know that it’s my birthday?” 

“This man, Dean, he bought you a lap dance for your birthday.” 

Sam looked behind you on instinct, just barely managing to catch his older brother and the shit-eating grin on his face before the bastard turned away to tip a dancer atop the main stage. 

“You don’t have to.” He rested his whiskey down with a sharp thud, amber liquid almost splashing over the edge of the glass. “Dance for me, that is. Dean’s an annoying little asshole who lives for messing with me.” 

“I want to,” amusement threaded your insistence as you glided closer along the scratched wooden floors. 

“You’re getting paid to,” Sam corrected. 

You laughed, mellow and warm, like waves lapping outside an open window on a late summer night, but didn’t outright disagree. “Maybe. I’m still exactly where I want to be. Here, with you.” 

Sam eased the lump in his throat with a thick swallow once you’d straddled his lap, every muscle in his body stiffening at the near contact. “It’s okay, really.” The strained sound he mustered resembled a laugh, his fingers seeking your skin, if only for a fleeting moment of shit, shit, shit. He yanked his hands down to his sides instead. “I’m good.”

“How old are you turning?” You asked, dismissing what he’d said entirely, and grasped his broad shoulders for balance. 

“…Twenty six.” 

“Twenty six is a great age. Your brain’s developed, but you’re young enough that nobody bats an eye if you’re carefree for a couple of years longer.” Your lips twitched absentmindedly at the corners as your hips swayed to the rhythm of the music. 

“Sure,” Sam agreed lamely, heat crawling up his neck and bleeding onto his cheekbones. You were beautiful. And sweet. And mesmerising, in a dangerously easy manner very few could ace. The man was justified in feeling a bit nervous. A lot nervous. A bucket’s worth of sweat nervous. “How old are you?” 

“Twenty five.” 

“Twenty five?” He exhaled, surprised, struggling to keep his fists rooted against weathered leather. He peeked at your clothes and hastily focused back on your features like the crimson lace had burned him. “You seem younger. You have this aura of purity around you. Have you always wanted to become an, uh… an exotic dancer?” 

The song changed. Purple glares blurred into pink. Sam wondered, momentarily, if he’d said something wrong—probably had, he concluded, knowing his occasional lack of a brain-to-mouth filter. 

“You can be upfront,” you said at last. “I’m a stripper.” 

The weight of the word, that word seemed almost tangible. He knew it was true. He still felt awkward voicing it. Silence stretched between you again. You settled down on his thighs in lieu of hovering above them, arched your back. Sam avoided heeding the sheer amount of boobs in his face, failed miserably. 

“Plain dancer’s good.” 

“Stripping,” you paused to savour the way this man squirmed at the nine letters arranged in one specific order he apparently found uncomfortable, “was not a childhood dream of mine, believe it or not. I wanted to be a nurse.”

His breath hitched. Don’t, don’t, don’t, fuuuck me. There you were, guiding his hands to your hips. “What happened?” He rasped, praying to anything and everything you missed how damp his palms were. Sam Winchester was already embarrassed. 

You let him sweat for a second there—literally, figuratively. Then, you edged closer. Your fingers shimmied lower, lower, lower, delicately exploring the body beneath yours, until they were curling around the toned lines of his biceps. 

“Life happened.” You offered a smile. It was genuine and warm, and yet it didn’t seem to have reached your eyes fully. He noticed. “I… enrolled in nursing school. Survived a semester of nursing school. Survived another.” 

“And?” Sam prodded, in a tone he hoped did not sound too pushy. Worse, judgmental. 

“Bills piled too high for my part-time job to tackle. It felt impossible to study and maintain a regular job. I passed by this place after class one evening, saw they were hiring, made an impulsive decision to audition.” 

“And?”

“And you’re very curious,” you teased, grinding against him in slow circles, then figure eights, then circles once more. “They hired me on the spot. I came in for a shift later that same week. For a while, I tried to balance nursing school with stripping. Stripping, stripping, stripping. Because I’m a stripper.” 

Sam slapped your side in retaliation, gently, despite the fact he must’ve looked like the brightest tomato in existence personified. “Give me grace?” 

“FINE, birthday boy.” You brushed a stray strand of his hair aside. “The truth was, I couldn’t do it. I’d spend my days studying and my nights dancing. Neither was kind to sleep, which caused me to flunk exam after exam.”

“I’m sorry.” He had doubts whether you’d heard the whispered apology over Fifty Cent’s Just A Lil Bit, but he was too preoccupied with searching your expression to confirm. He’d seen that exact weary acceptance in his own reflection time after time. “Why didn’t you go back?” 

“I…” 

Sam found confidence in your hesitation when quiet lingered for a beat too long. Calloused palms enveloped your hips to still them before they were sliding over the smooth of your skin and finding solace in the dip of your lower back. His comfort came subconsciously, both foreign and oh-so-comfortable—a thought which he ignored. You were strangers, likely destined to never meet again. The notion felt weirdly heavy on his chest. He ignored that, too. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” 

“It’s not that,” you said, shaking your head. Birthday boy, as you’d coined him, was so different from the usual clients you’d serviced, the whole lap dance thing fared forgotten. “I don’t have a good answer for why I didn’t go back. I could, I suppose. I think about it often. But I’m scared.”

“Seems to me you do have an answer,” he commented, tone straightforward yet not unkind. His thumbs grazed over your flesh, barely there, like he remained wary to touch you, even in the face of his earlier emboldenment. “Fear is human. I’m afraid all the time.” 

“…No.” You giggled, half suspiciously, and tilted your head. “Are you? You have the face of, not to insult my best client on his birthday, a lost puppy, but the vibe of a man who has his life perfectly figured out.”

A breathy laugh escaped Sam. The irony wasn’t lost on him—“perfectly figured out” was an overstatement, to understate. 

“All the time,” he repeated, leaning his face closer as if he was sharing an important secret. His breath hitched once more as the vanilla in your perfume suddenly drowned him. “I used to see it as something bad. But fear doesn’t always hold us back. It can push us forward. You might’ve failed once. Doesn’t mean you will this time around. You should consider it. Really consider it.” 

Your arms found home around his neck as you pursed your lips, less annoyed and more contemplative. Sam grinned, realised he must’ve looked like an idiot, contorted his mouth into something less enthusiastic.

“What if I go back to school and realise nursing’s not my passion anymore?” 

“What if,” he echoed, cursing in the comfort of his own head as your fingers toyed with the chocolate mess that was his hair. “Well… for starters, nobody will arrest you over it.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“Right back at you,” he teased, albeit somewhat wobbly. He was attempting to hold an earnest conversation, but you were, still, a stunning woman draped atop his lap, entirely too close for normalcy. “If you return to school, realise your passion lies someplace else these days, and drop out, the world won’t blow over. But at least, you’ll know.” 

You stole a moment of silence to ponder. Sam used it to study your features, fighting his hands into obedience, so they didn’t wander. You, him, the two of you were a concept unfairly natural. 

“I feel guilty,” you blurted out sheepishly. “I’m usually much better at giving lap dances. And you’re celebrating tonight.”

“Against my will.” The edges of his mouth quirked up. His eyes darted briefly behind you, but Dean was nowhere in sight. Sam was yet unsure whether he wanted to strangle or thank him. “I don’t ever celebrate my birthday.” He left the reasons unspoken—how do you tell the girl you’d been oddly, unexpectedly enchanted by that you hunt monsters for an unpaid living? “And if I did, not to insult my favourite dancer on my birthday, visiting a strip club would be my last choice.”

“Touché.” A surprised giggle fled you. “Y'know, I never caught your name.”

“Sam,” he said, and before he could think twice, he was leaping to offer you his number, his fingers curling around the pen he always kept in his pocket. He reached for your arm, you handed him a wrinkled tissue off the table, and Sam simpered, feeling right at home in his natural habitat of acting like a flustered idiot. “That’s probably smarter.”

“Probably,” you agreed, biting down a smile, but didn’t protest against receiving his number. 

He scribbled his contact information on the tissue and handed it to you. “Call me. If you want. I live on the road with my brother, it gets old quick, so you’d be doing me a favour, really. We could talk about nursing school or… stripping. Anything. I’ve been told I lend a good ear.”

“You said it! Oh my god, you actually said it. Stripping.”