#sambby

“Oh.” Bobby remembers all of a sudden. They’ve talked shop over and over, tried pain and pleasure and all kinds of psychoanalysis, and there are a lot of thoughts in that pretty little head and a lot of sensations that affect Sam, but almost nothing in the way of feelings. They don’t know what it means. 

But it means this Sam gets very hot, like he’s gonna pass out like an old-fashioned damsel in the summer heat, and something about that makes Bobby feel kind of strong and manly in a way he doesn’t want to think too hard about. And, apparently, now it’s their first winter, this Sam gets very, very cold. Oh, his skin feels fine to Bobby, only a little cool, but the way he reacts like he can’t focus on anything else is indicative enough. 

There had been things Sam would fixate on before, but really not like this. They don’t know why he doesn’t sleep. They don’t know why he’s cold, why he cusses so much, why he wants Bobby every minute they get alone. He’s more trigger-happy on hunts now, but, hey, it keeps saving their collective bacon. 

He’s more trigger-happy down below the belt, too.

Samuel had dropped Sam off in annoyance yet again, telling Bobby to babysit his grandson, and it makes New Sam giggle. Bobby almost wants to blush; he knows it made New Sam giggle cause they’ve been having sex for years, but Grandpa’s none the wiser. 

They have more of a routine than they’ve ever had, and despite the newness, it’s good for Bobby’s heart, and they’ve agreed not to worry about it, and not to worry about Dean. Dean needs to keep doing what he’s doing.

Dean will probably want to punch New Sam and test him and be cruel, if Bobby’s being honest. Can’t figure something out? Beat it into submission. There’s no elegance to it. Best let him stay with Lisa and Ben and give Bobby updates about the new grill. New Sam doesn’t need the judgment. New Sam doesn’t need the pain. 

And there would be pain. It is absolutely morally wrong not to offer comfort to a New Sam type when possible, when he’s driven crazy by the sensory things all around. Sam can hear electricity in a way he couldn’t before. Sam is sharper in those ways, and duller in the ways of the heart. 

Space heater’s already on, but Sam had always liked to snuggle in the winter time, given half a chance. Bobby’s always ran warm. He lets Sam get in front of him, wraps him up snug in his arms under the blankets topped with his mother’s quilt. 

“This okay, honey?”

“Yeah, baby,” murmurs New Sam, who loves a good pet name in a way Old Sam probably hadn’t allowed himself to. “You know, you’re so warm it makes me hard.”

“You’re always hard when we get close lately,” teases Bobby. He reaches down, lets Sam help him get his pants unfastened. 

“Wasn’t hard when I was so cold.” 

“Of course.” Bobby kisses the back of Sam’s neck, gaining a little shiver. He finds Sam’s hardness and strokes. “Hand me the lube, hon?” Sam does, and even gives a little moan at the sound of Bobby undoing the cap and squeezing out some of the slickness.

Sam moans and writhes for him as Bobby works him over, and Bobby can’t help but chuckle a little at the impatience, charmed. He presses himself against Sam through his sleep pants, wanting him. 

“I know where you can warm me up,” pants his Sam, his New Sam, the most His Sam Sam to ever be His Sam, really. 

“Inside?” A cute little nod. 

“Yeah! Inside my mouth, then deep inside my ass.” Bobby shivers. Anything this Sam desires in bed, he wants to try and help with. This Honey Sam hates pain so much, but he loves pleasure in such a New way. Old Sam had always deserved that kind of freedom, and Bobby had told him so. Let yourself go, he’d always said, let me hear your pretty voice, he’d told him. Now, he doesn’t have to prompt him like that at all; it’s like Sam took those mental notes at the time and only applied them after whoever it was popped him out of the box. 

The space heater and their pleasure are doing the trick, and he’s in Sam’s mouth before he knows it, drowning in the hot pleasure as Sam swallows around him and moans around him, needing the contact like a lifeline. It would be a little scary if it wasn’t so sweet, so hot, so uninhibited. 

Being taken by this Sam is a new thing entirely, but they don’t often start with it. No, they often start with him drilling into Sam, who is always sobbing and screaming with beads of precum and tears and promises to be good, whatever that means, because it’s always damn good. He is somehow more flexible than ever, and, oh, can he ride a dick like it’s all he’s ever wanted. He missed his calling in porno, and Bobby keeps telling him he should make some, now that he doesn’t seem shy at all anymore. 

This Sam is sexual putty in his hands til he’s sexual putty in Sam’s, and isn’t that what reciprocity is all about? 

The quilt is tossed over the side of the bed so they don’t have to worry about it, and Bobby is bending Sam in half, he’s pleading with Bobby, he’s singing Bobby’s praises, he’s begging him to breed him. Somehow, that gets Bobby going; don’t try to analyze it; Bobby’s not worrying about any of it.

“Your tight little hole is no match for me, Sam,” Bobby smirks, and reaches down to stroke Sam to a shuddering orgasm.

“Ugh, god, Bobby, fucking love of my life,” Sam is crying out, eyes rolling in pleasure as he gets the words out well as he can. “Breed me, Bobby.”

“Take it,” Bobby feels his tight little heat spasming as he finally empties deep into this new Sam, time and time and time again. 

Tomorrow, they’ll likely reverse positions. Tonight, they’ll clean up quick as they can and come back to enjoy the heat.

“Cold in here?” he asks when they come back from cleaning up. 

“Naw.” Sam yawns. He’ll yawn when Bobby tuckers him out. He’ll get still. He’ll let himself be warmed and held. 

The world looks beautiful again, which is rarer than the hunts they go on, and Dean isn't the only one who thinks so. Sam is smiling to himself. Smiling, like life's not something he has to cover with a screen of hope and love and forgiveness like someone who doesn’t really understand life, but something worth looking at with the naked eye. Every tree is a testament. Every line in the road is an arrow pointing toward a bright destiny.

Until the shoe drops, because, shoes? They drop.

Dean’s thinking maybe they should celebrate or something, have a drink. Enjoy each other's company. He's almost afraid to mention it, afraid Sam might say no, afraid something bad might happen after all and he'll have jinxed it. Suddenly afraid that they're growing apart and if they try to drink together they won't be able to avoid that sad reality, that reality of Satan knocking at Sam's door. He's pretty sure Sam's gonna answer, too. Welcome him in. Maybe even welcome him in more than he’d welcome in Dean.

Sam's half-hearted about agreeing to celebrate, but that's a win, and more than he expected, actually. He doesn't usually even ask, not wanting Sam to rain on his parade, no matter how deep and poignant the reason, no matter how stupid Dean’s parade. 

The car's tires screech as Dean whips the car around. It wasn't like Sam had a choice anyway. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.

***

They're at a bar they passed not too long ago. Dean's ordering his second whiskey before long. He's been into drinking, about 50 drinks a week at his recent count. He's been more into alcohol than he's been into the ladies.

Sam, though, Dean notes, startled, looks kind of...into some of the bar's other patrons. He's practically drooling. "Dude," he comments. 

Confession: He used to be Sam Sex Positive. He used to want to see Sam act like that. But his heart hasn't been in that ever since his return from Hell. Or maybe since that siren. He hates Sam's happiness more than he used to, hates that Sam is more open about sex, more comfortable. It feels out of control, from where Dean's sitting: out of Dean's control. He needs Sam to pay attention to what Dean wants for him. Shouldn't that be obvious, after 25 years? 

He takes a glance down at Sam's lap, then stares for a moment. "See something you like?" he snickers, juvenile in the way Sam never likes. He looks back at Sam's face. Sam's distant, hungry. Sam doesn’t care. He’s not even embarrassed the way he should be, just okay with the situation and still interested in some tail.

All Dean wanted after their fight had been some simple brotherly company. 

"Aww, looks like little Sam wants to come out to play,” he presses on. Sam's not that little, as he knows from multiple times seeing it, too many times, even seeing it in a similar state to its current one, ready and willing and just...giant, like the rest of Sam. But he’s gotta embarrass Sam, make him mad, make him forget about the girls who are never gonna care about Sam long term. Sam’s no good for the whole relationship thing; Dean’s known it forever. “These girls know what type you usual go for? You know, the monsterly sort?" 

"I thought I was just itchy," Sam says. His voice is low, half in a vie for discretion, half in sensual need, gravelly and almost-awkward-but-a-little-too-comfortable-to-count. Dean almost misses it over the sounds of the bar, leaning in close. 

"Oh, it looks like you got an itch to scratch, alright," Dean teases. It sounds too fond, though, so he adds, “Don’t you think you should just play it cool, leave these poor girls alone?”

Sam’s eyes flash for a moment and he stares at Dean as if really seeing him, and, Dean realizes, he forgot that Sam could do that. “Why, you jealous?” Sam taunts. 

Wincest, Dean remembers. That terrible fandom term. He never should have told Sam. He shouldn’t have opened up to Sam about that dream he’d had. Things had been weird ever since they’d found out what their fans liked to think they were doing. 

The hunger in Sam’s eyes? It was like he was staring at a pool of demon blood. Dean shouldn’t know what Sam looked like while craving that stuff, but, well, he does, so, yeah. This wasn't like the hormonal moments of the past where they had been so lonely that some kind of tension reared up now and again that they wouldn’t have addressed under threat of torture. Now, Sam knew...a lot about sex. That seal was broken.

"Neither of us could hear what she said, or knew what this powdery stuff was. I need help, Dean." Sam’s voice is calm. His eyes are anything but. It should be scarier than it is, but something about Sam makes it just...not. “I feel weird, out of control. But,” he pauses, face scrunching leisurely in a mental exercise sort of way, “aren't sex spells a myth?”

"What?! Hell no! Dad and I got caught in one ourselves once. Me, twice!" A myth! Really, why did he let Sam go anywhere without him?

“That would have been great information to have as a fellow hunter,” Sam grumbles.

“You don’t talk about that kind of thing, especially with your little brother.”

Sam stares at Dean, incredulous. “Okay, so let me get this. Detailing what you did with Sandy So-and-so is completely appropriate. But actual information about hunting, that’s too private? Fuck you.” There’s not any bite to it. He’s just hurt. Grumpy.

"Okay, we gotta fix you,” Dean decides, feathers feeling decisively ruffled. Sam wasn’t supposed to say that. He was supposed to say that to Sam, not the other way around.

“Bobby’s,” Sam says.

“You just need to fuck it out, I bet.”

“Bobby’s,” Sam insists.

It’s only because they just came from Bobby’s and are only a couple hours away that Dean agrees.

***

"Bet Satan could stop it," Dean says, and Sam looks pointedly out the window, facing away from Dean with his entire body. 

Yeah, yeah. Dean knows he’s an asshole. 

“You know, Bobby’s kind of like our dad,” Dean says. “Are you sure you want to subject him to this if it’s not okay for you to talk about sex with your brother?”

“Sex with my brother?” Sam snorts. 

Dean feels the flush hit his face. “You know what I mean.” 

“Bobby’s not my dad.”

“Like a dad,” Dean says again. 

Sam just snorts.

***

They're miles further down the road before Sam shifts in discomfort and states, "This would happen to me after I put Bobby in that chair."

"Okay, first of all, you didn't put Bobby in that chair. Bobby put Bobby in that chair."

"To save you! Because of me."

"No, because of me. I'm. You know. One too." He wasn’t gonna say it. He was a vessel for an archangel.

"And I left you two alone."

"C’mon, man. The demon kicked you out."

Sam sighs. "It feels like my fault."

"You care about him too much sometimes. He's supposed to care about us, not the other way around."

Sam glances over his shoulder at Dean, then back at the world of freedom passing them by. 

"Him being in that chair doesn't mean he can't research or break curses. His stuff's just on a lower shelf now," Dean adds, quieter.

"I know that!" Sam's sort of offended now, maybe at being informed about the changes in Bobby's life. He cares about Bobby a lot more than Dean does sometimes. Dean’s protest of that fact if it was ever brought up would have nothing to do with the truth, just with upholding his image. 

"Yeah, well, I'd think you would. I mean, you're into making sure no one looks down on anyone for stuff they can't help."

"I helped him move stuff around," Sam points out.

"I know," Dean says quietly. He turns the music up a little in the silence, but a glare from Sam has him turning it back down again. He’d say don’t get his panties in a knot, but he can see what’s in Sam’s panties pretty clearly and he’d rather not.

"We've got about 24 hours, so don't sweat it," Dean says. "We're close enough to Bobby's. We'll test that powder, so, don't vacuum yet, not that you probably find it easy to even walk with that big old—"

"Dean," Sam cuts him off.

"It's a freak, like you. Hey, Sam," Dean laughs, trying to get his attention and about to share, he knows Sam can tell, a joke.

"What?" He asks, slightly hopeful as if it might actually be funny.

"Ding dong, the witch is dead. You know? Ding dong?"

Sam glares so hard at him, then out the window, that Dean thinks it’s a wonder it doesn’t break. Who knows what kind of mojo Sam has in him.

It'll probably be funnier later. Not that it matters, cause his jokes don’t need validation from Sam.

***

“What do you mean you need to be alone with him?” Dean stares, in between important glances at the road. “I’m the one who’s been through this before. Granted, we fucked it out of our systems, we didn’t get saved by some spell, but I’ve been where you’re at, Sam.” He kind of wanted to be involved, he had to admit, in some little dark spank bankingest corner of his mind.

“I’m not going there for a spell.”

Dean’s at a loss. 

“I’m gonna have sex.”

“With...with who?” Dean’s voice trails off.

“I have sex with Bobby.”

Dean loses control of the Impala on the dark road and swerves a little, to a protesting sound from Sam. He manages to correct the Impala enough to find the gravel shoulder and slowly make his way to a stop. No one says anything for far too long. No one except the Impala. It makes some little indignant engine noises in the dark.

“You don’t,” he tells Sam like it’s the time of day and Sam’s watch is a little off, staring at him openly. “You wouldn’t do that.”

That’s more like a Dean move, if Bobby wasn’t a guy. A car drives past, the headlights lighting up their forms more than the moon has been, and Dean’s in need of some clarity. 

“He’s not my dad.” 

“He’s family!”

“Well,” Sam begins. Dean can’t imagine a follow-up to “well” that will go well for either of them. 

“Well?”

“I don’t know what family is, I guess.”

Dean’s heart falls down and it takes a while to hit the bottom and smash. It’s the most crushing thing Sam could have said, too cruel; they can’t be hashing out these words he’s shot at Sam before, they can’t be doing this when Sam is hard as a rock and just as serious. 

“Huh?” Dean’s voice has climbed up onto a roof meant for suicide it’s up so high. “What?!” His eyes search Sam frantically. This was supposed to be brother time, like old times. Now Sam wants to drive them apart? He wants to abandon Dean here on the road in the Impala like he has before? And all while he’s horny?

“I don’t know what family is. My dick doesn’t know the difference.”

“Sam?” Dean tells himself not to think about Sam’s dick.

Sam unbuckles his seatbelt slowly. He holds the metal buckle, staring at it, passing it from hand to hand like it’s incredibly interesting lore. “I formed an unhealthy sexual understanding when it was just us against the world in our little family cult.” 

Even for one short day in the Emerald City, it’s too honest. That Sam has been to a therapist about this feels too exposing for Dean. Unhealthy sexual understanding is not in the hunter dictionary. 

“Bobby and I are together. We're not family. But, family?” Sam’s eyes rake over Dean with the hunger from the bar. It wouldn’t have mattered if Dean had unbuckled too, he feels pinned to the leather seat. “I don’t have sexual compunctions about family like I should.” Dean’s struck by a wild flashback to the case with the dollhouse and the way Sam was grabbing at him, begging him to kill him, or...to what? Sam had meant those bedroom eyes. 

Sam had always meant those bedroom eyes. 

“You want me when you get drunk,” Dean stares.

“I want you a lot of the time.” Sam’s stare is unblinking. “I want you all the time.” 

Sam is looking at him with the hunger from Connecticut. Dean is breathing the same air in which the hot bulge in Sam’s pants is pulsing. He might be breathing in the witch’s sex powder, too. Maybe it won’t do anything to him at all. Maybe he’s not the target, or it’s worn off, or maybe he’s immune. There is not enough room in the Impala; it’s too small to be their home the way it had once been. 

Maybe Dean doesn’t know family either. John would always have them vie for his attention, making family mean excitement and flattery. They shouldn’t have had so little privacy. They shouldn’t have had so little guidance.

What Dean does know is this: Sam bites his lip like a little whore. 

“We shouldn’t want these things.”

A slow nod. “Bobby’s home,” Sam says with a shrug.

“Can I please see your dick?” 

“I’m sorry?!” shouts Sam in the small space of their front seat. 

Dean’s face is in flames. 

“I...we have to fix this,” Dean apologizes. One third of him is miserable and two thirds of him are full of hope he shouldn’t have.

“Yes, we do,” Sam says too loudly. He either can’t believe what Dean is saying, or he can’t believe that he’s saying please. “You know, I have to stop myself, every day.” He stares at Dean a little unsteadily. “Wanting too much. Getting too comfortable. Asking too much. Trying to get you to look at my ass.”

“I look at your ass,” Dean tells him reassuringly. 

Sam squirms in pleasure, hope playing across his face too at that. “I know you look at my ass. I thought you did,” he amends. 

“I look at your dick,” Dean admits. 

“You always look at my dick.” Sam’s voice is hoarse. “You look at it like a couple times a week. I know you do. I feel it in my balls.” 

Dean stares at Sam’s crotch openly now. He can see his brother twitch there.  

“I want to do naughty things to you, porno things,” Dean says, also too loudly. His flush will never die down. He will never be able to walk back what he’s saying. “Do you realize that?” He bridges the gap between them and grips just above Sam’s left knee, over his jeans. 

“Dean?”

“What?!” Everything seems fragile. Dean’s hand doesn’t retreat. It doesn’t want to have to. 

“I want you to promise me all the things that you never let yourself ask for,” mutters Sam.

Their lips are on each other’s, where they shouldn’t be. They have kissed before, practicing, abating curiosity, liking the closeness.

Dean takes mercy, gently trailing up that thigh. Sam grasps Dean’s hand without hesitation and presses it against his hot little bulge. Dean groans.

Dean squeezes there, and Sam yells, “Fuck!” against his lips. His baby brother rarely curses. “Oh, fuck,” his brother repeats, and shudders. Dean puts his arms around him, holding him. Claiming him.

“Shh,” Dean soothes.

“Ahh!” Sam moans, shuddering again in his arms. It’s amazing how potent that stuff is. Maybe it’s getting to Dean too, who knows? They can always blame it if they have to.

“‘S Bobby gonna shoot me for this?” Dean mumbles against Sam’s ear. He can’t stop imagining the look on the guy’s face. Or his shotgun’s face. Is this as bad as what John did? He knows that wrath.

“Bobby'll do anything I want,” Sam gasps out. “He’ll come around.”

They manage to unfasten Sam’s pants together.

“Wait!” Dean stops and stares. Their faces are close together, sharing the same unseasonably warm air. They’re holding hands and those hands are near Sam’s crotch. 

Sam gazes quizzically, frustrated. He’s more patient than Dean deserves.

“We can’t have sex in the Impala.” It sounds stupid to Sam, he knows, cause it sounds stupid to him, and cause Sam is giving him that look. “Dad,” he says sadly.

Sam pulls their hands to his erection, quietly insistent. The contact makes him squirm. “I’m some cutie you picked up from the bar,” he teases, then he begs with his eyes. The puppy dog eyes Dean never wants to refuse. 

“That’s true,” Dean has to admit. There’s no flaw to the logic. Sam could out-logic anything, Dean thinks as he kisses him again, as he strokes that too-warm hardness. 

Sam only breaks the kiss to mewl at Dean like he’s in a naughty video Dean would probably shell out a stolen credit card for, truth be told. His little brother could earn some good money lying down for a camera and making little jerk-off noises on sex powder.

“Wish I had this on video,” he murmurs at Sam. “Or a cassette we could play in the car.” Sam’s eyes flash to his, huge and hazel and shocked. He grips Dean’s hand around him even tighter. 

“Yeah, I want you,” he encourages again, gentle with him. When he’s all Dean’s...why try to control him? He should let him be free. 

He should free that first bit of cum. Witches like to aid in fertility a lot, so there’ll probably be a lot. “Your little sounds go straight to my dick, like I should bend you over something and rub against your tight little ass until I cum in my jeans.” His face is so red again; it has to be. He’s talking such bullshit, but he really means it.

Sam still looks so shocked, and he shudders and whines for Dean, arching his pretty neck. Dean leans in to lick and suck at his throat.

“Dean,” Sam says hoarsely. He’s probably complaining about the hickey that’ll appear. 

Sam’s neck is his, though. And Bobby’s gonna know what they did. Bobby’s not gonna have any illusions. Dean tugs Sam closer with his free arm, shielding him from any fallout over what’ll happen. They fit, like this. Sam’s dick fits so well in his hand, even though it’s huge.

Sam gasps, eyes locked on Dean’s as it comes. His first orgasm of the night. It catches Dean on the chest, then the stomach, and then it falls over Sam. There’s a lot. Dean stares right back at Sam, eyes blown wide too. “De-,” Sam gasps, like when he can’t finish his name. He grins a wide grin at Sam, at what he’s done to him to get him in this state. 

He feels like the hero of a bodice-ripper. He’s covered in Sam’s cum. They both are. Next stop is Bobby’s, and what’s he gonna say? What’s he gonna do? Sam’s not his. Sam’s his own Sam.

Sam is Dean’s.

Dean’s not mad at the mess, actually. He feels...wanted. The thought makes him swallow. Sam almost seems too close, then, but he can’t let him go. Sam’s flushed and embarrassed and so cute. 

Sam’s still hard.

Dean’s already known that Sam shudders and gasps beautifully when he comes. He knew that from being in too-close quarters, but it’s not the same as intentionally witnessing it and causing it. 

“I could pull you, huh?” His face feels so hot. It’s a high that keeps getting stronger. 

“In two ways,” comes the exhausted, self-satisfied smirk. 

“Oh, yeah,” Dean flushes. Picked up a cutie at the bar? Check. Made him cum all over the Impala? Check. 

He needs to find a rag.

“Yeah, you’re beautiful,” Sam says casually, voice still oddly raw and fucked out. “I’ve never seen a guy so beautiful.”

Dean finds that rag. They’re still gonna be covered in Sam’s hot, wound-up-so-tight-he-let-his-brother-grip-him spunk. 

Sam reaches a fingertip into the cum on his bare thigh and feeds it to Dean who stares boldly into his eyes and wipes it off in little kitten licks. 

“Fuck,” Sam curses quietly.

***

Bobby is speechless.

“Say something,” Sam says. “We’re still en route. You want to help me or not?” 

“I’m not gonna...not with Dean. He was hit too?”

Sam and Dean look into each other’s eyes. They could lie. They could say he was. They could say he needs it just as bad. 

Bobby’ll probably know. 

“No,” Dean admits. “I just want to help.”

“...Want to help?”

“I want him to,” Sam says, puppy dog eyes in play with Dean and that voice that goes along with them going right to Bobby. “I told you before, that time...about how I have an unhealthy—”

“—unhealthy sexual understanding,” Bobby finishes for him. He and Sam are often way too on the same page, always talking, open like two women who are best friends on the phone. “Yeah, I remember,” he says honestly. “Are you sure?”

“I came really hard all over both of us,” Sam says. “We need to clean up, and keep going. Let’s let him help us. He definitely helped me already.” Sam shoots a little flirty smile at Dean that strikes him in the center of his chest. 

Bobby doesn’t say anything for a minute. 

Then, quietly, “I could use some assistance I don’t normally need when we get together, I suppose. You’ll be here before too long. I’m gonna go pregame, get my head around it.”

“Welcome to the family,” Dean says sagely. It makes Sam giggle. 

***

When they open the door, Bobby’s in his chair just inside.

Sam points down at his crotch. “Ding dong!” he says like a doorbell. Bobby looks at him dubiously.

Dean feels his heart flutter. 

“The witch is dead,” Sam adds. “But, my dick is not.” 

A little smile creeps onto Bobby’s face as he rolls his eyes. “Idjit.” He glances at the cum stains on their clothes. “No one else has seen you, right?” A bit of mother henning for them.

“What do you take us for?” Dean says. They get into the house and lock it up tight. 

“This is so weird,” Bobby complains as they move further into the house. “I’m in a chair, you two finally broke the dam you shouldn't have played near. How,” he glances at Sam, “how was it?”

Sam starts to slip out of the clothes. “Just like I imagined,” he says dreamily, preening a little. “He wants me, like I’m some cutie at the bar.”

Bobby offers Dean an appraising glance. “Gonna strip for me too, hotshot? Seems kind of weird for us, but I think we can swing it.” 

Dean shyly takes his shirts off under the scrutiny of the two he just found out were a couple. “If he...if he fucks me, we’re not gonna get pregnant, are we?”

Bobby’s jaw drops for a minute. Yeah, guess Dean seems pretty ready and willing. 

Sam, blissfully naked in his overheated state, gives Bobby a quick, deep kiss. “I’m gonna shower to get off some of this stuff. Wanna join me?”

Bobby’s shower has been newly modified to help his independence needs. “It’s a tight squeeze, but, sure.”

“That’s what you first said about me,” Sam winks, then winks at Dean too, who finds his mouth going dry at the sentiment.

“Got a bottle somewhere, you said?” Dean shyly asks, down to his unders, but still a little anxious. 

“On the desk, tiger.” Dean gives Bobby a slow look up and down to return the one Bobby gave him. He doesn’t mind a good nickname. 

The alcohol is doing the Lord’s work as he starts to follow them to the shower, giggling when he sees Bobby grab Sam’s ass. Maybe that witch had been onto something with that powder.

He helps Bobby up to get into the shower, and when Bobby’s on the shower seat, he leans up expectantly so that Dean can meet him with a tender kiss. 

“Beards feel weird,” Dean comments faintly. 

“You’ll get used to it,” Sam says. 

Dean never found Bobby's seemingly-endless supply of ingredients to be as interesting as I did. He didn’t exactly find them boring, but when he saw them set up, he tried to get his hands into everything until his attention span died out, and it was super dangerous. I got hit with something powerful once because of his impulsivity. This is why Bobby used to ask me to go with, not Dean. 

The thing about in-person shopping versus online is that Bobby is a haggler, and Bobby knows his shit. He knows what’s real and what isn’t, and what isn’t worth the asking price. 

He’s like a god. He would walk out like it was a game of poker he was bluffing for. He did that for ingredients, and, later, I watched him do it for weapons and even an occasional spell. Dean would not have always approved of what Bobby haggled for.

I’ve learned a lot about negotiating from watching Bobby shop.

The look on his face when he brings home big lore books, obscure journals, tiny magical pocket knives, anything cool is so self-satisfied. It’s a real passion, and a talent and skill, and if only people knew, they’d probably ask him to be their personal hunting shopper. 

Sometimes, he’s mine. Watching for my reaction, getting me flustered. Kind of like he’s trying to tell me he’d get me anything, like, nothing’s too out of reach for me, and I’m worth it. It makes me weak in the knees. He usually waits til Dean’s not around, like he can tell.

“You want me to choose your new bedding?” I blurt out, a little too loudly.

He just glares at me til I lower my volume and my eyebrows. “Okay, okay,” I murmur, taking his arm to look at my options.

We wait til Dean’s already told me he found someone to go home with to make the bed. It’s so domestic. 

“Okay, then. Stay in there. Be boring,” Dean says, eyes glinting as he whispers, holding the door open well after he’s slipped out far enough to be framed by low light on the porch, wanting to try and tempt you.

It’s not that it’s a bad idea; it almost sounds nice. Nature can wait tonight; your need for reassurance can’t. “I’m the one who taught you to stargaze,” you point out. 

He’s decades younger for a minute behind his eyes. He catches you off guard with that all the time, cause time is so hard to track the more years you tack onto each other. “I loved it,” he says brightly. He loved stories, and the myths were always like comic book heroes to him. They were larger than life, like his dad.

You shoo him out, shutting the door. It’s getting too cold out to leave it ajar for long. The stairs creak their hello as you head to the guest room, or maybe it’s a little alarm, one for your sense of security. You’re usually not interrupted when it comes to Sam, somehow. Dean can’t know, but...sometimes it feels like he might. Maybe it’s luck. Maybe it’s magic.

Guest room is a fancy term for a lumpy full size bed (ooh la la!) and bookshelves full of lore. This is where you find Sam, sprawled out and boneless. You have minutes, maybe even half an hour before Dean will come poking around; he’s got to prove to himself how worthwhile his gazing will be. He took two beers with him. 

You almost lost Sam today. Or, Dean almost did. You kick off your shoes at the door, a parody of sitcom-saccharine domesticity. What’s wrong with you? You were supposed to have given up on this.

When the bed dips and you reach out, you find he’s warm and snuggly like that damn dog had been, a pang of regret flaring up just below your sternum for Rumsfeld. It’d have been nice to have had a warning that night. Demons still keep you up at night. He’d always been there to cuddle. You’ve not been able to get over his loss.

You nuzzle into Sam’s hair, proof he’s still here. Drugstore shampoo you keep in the bathroom when he’s not there to use it. You say the words in the barest whisper you can muster.

He starts to shift, makes a sweet little noise. Abort, your mind screams at you like the creaking of a billion steps. “Mm?” He cracks his eyes open slightly in the starlight.

You didn’t say anything at all.

___

It’s just dinner while you work a case, which is not a big deal, and it just happens to be on Valentine’s Day. That’s just how the year worked out. You’re wearing a suit, even though they’re for cases only. The first case you wore one in recently, first case you wore one in since getting together, he looked at you like Dean wasn’t the only thing worth paying attention to, and, somehow, you’d remembered that too, even though he only had a year left and was going to leave the two of you very alone.

Sam’d been trying to undress you with his eyes. You’d felt hot. You feel hot now, but that’s your collar being too tight, the tie a hindrance. This is a terrible idea and you should feel bad.

He looks confused when you hand him a book about werewolves, one he’d asked for, like maybe he expects more, or like maybe he expects less. Valentine’s Day and lore aren’t exactly a perfect fit, but the two of you certainly aren’t the perfect fit either. He’s more Valentine’s Day. You’re more lore.

It’s never this hard in the movies. You don’t have any gay friends you can ask without explaining you’re dating John Winchester’s son, and the internet’s just gonna bring up pornography and erotic fiction, you think, or at least, that’s what happened last time you wanted to know something, so you’re kind of at a loss. You’re always kind of at a loss with Sam.

You’re not what he deserves, not clear-cut, not polished. You’re not as willing as someone else might be to bouquet all the edges of your lore. You don’t think willingness is even the biggest of your problems in that area. In the truck, waiting for him, are flowers. He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

If he ever had a home of his own (and, please, whoever is listening, he really does deserve it!), you know he’d have a garden. He tried to start one up by your house once, but Karen’s death was still ten years too fresh. She’d grown things without even trying, and you’d helped weed and water with more patience and nurturing than you’d realized at the time, only to let them wither like your spirit had, like your taste for romance had, when she was gone, and now she’s ten years goner.

John Winchester’s sons aren’t allowed to be interested in flowers, anyway, just like you weren’t. Growing them, getting them, touching them, looking at them. The bouquet’ll stay in the truck when you two go in, obviously. Some things still can’t be done in public for a pair of guys, not easily.

Why has he even stuck around? He’s looking too radiant. You’ve had, like, two dates since Karen. Two and a half, if you count that time with Rufus...but, anyway, you’ve never officially had one with Sam, not by name, not by...fanciness. The host appraises Sam and you both favorably, but it’s the waitress that is practically ready to write her number in bold on the tablecloth.

She won’t stop staring, so you have a duty to reach out your hand across the wasteland expanse of the table, not knowing if Sam will understand or if you’ll just stay there, hand in the air, looking foolish, but his hand is in yours like he read it from you more easily than you could have formed the words. He glances back at her, flashes his dimples, tells her it’s the fanciest date you’ve ever had together. You’re still staring as she walks away.

Is tonight the night? Is it textbook execution, execution textbook, the date that makes less and less sense? With every clearing of your throat, every hesitation, you can’t form the words, and the rest of the time you’ve got food in your mouth or she’s showing up again and you’re flushing cause she knows that you care, that you want to date him, that you might just love him.

You steal the pen you sign the receipt with, tucking it up your sleeve. Sam’s got sauce on his sleeve, the big dolt. He goes to deal with it, and you tell him you’ll be in the truck.

The blank card for the bouquet is in your pocket. You have to do it. The light in the truck feels too harsh as you scrawl it out onto the card, just those three simple words. You tuck the card into the plastic wrapper, curling it slightly to almost disguise it around the stems, those stems cut off, going nowhere.

If you don’t say it, if you do, will that mean you’re going somewhere, or has there never been any hope? Have the roots the two of you shared been cut away, are they too inappropriate for the bloom of a romance?

You’re gripping the steering wheel so hard as he gets back in, as he shuts the door with the finality of the light turning off again. In the streetlights that pass and the light of the waxing moon, he sniffs, touches, sighs happily once at the flowers, sighs again.

He teases that he can’t believe you got them for him. Probably cause you listened, and watched, and remembered, and you’re showing your hand, or maybe cause he was 12 and maybe doesn’t even care about all that anymore. What do you know about him, anyway?

Something heavy, constricting your throat under the knot of the tie, keeps you from speaking up, from announcing the presence of that ridiculous little card with its three words.

You have to take off the tie, have to put the tie away upstairs, and when you come back down to the kitchen, he’s stuck the whole bouquet in the giant novelty beer mug Dean once gave you, wrapper and all. He’s already kissing you on the cheek as you stare. He asks why you’re so distracted.

***

The pancakes are cooking up according to your standards in the morning when you chance a glance into the wrapper, fishing out the card, disappointed it’s still there. He might have seen it and put it back, but that’s pretty elaborate. That’s pretty hopeful. Bled blue blurs have been in water too long, too long to communicate what they meant.

You burn the pancake you were working on.

You can’t buy him flowers again. Remove the wrapper, cut the stems at an angle. It’s a hunter, Winchester/Singer, white, South Dakota, All-American, guy thing. He hadn’t been able to fully accept them, even. He either never saw what you wrote on the card or rejected the thought and buried it in stems going nowhere.

You don’t know which thought bothers you less.

___

He'd never had many friends growing up. He figured when he did get told about someone's encounter with a stolen skin mag or about a grope behind a greenhouse, his friends were just being reckless, or else were trying to prove something he didn’t understand their need to prove. Or else, as his mom might have said, they were bad kids who were gonna be punished some way or another.

Sex, to Bobby, seemed like something adults did and were discreet about, but that put it in a category that included financial strategizing and proper dental hygiene. Karen didn't have any hangups talking about sex. In a way, it was refreshing, because he'd never really talked to anyone about it. Her freedom about it made it feel easier to even consider the subject. Though, in another way, it was frightening, and more frightening bit by bit, because she liked to talk about it more than he thought they maybe should. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, and all that.

It didn't occur to him that maybe she thought it had been broke until after she was gone, and well after the hole in him had numbed enough for him to even consider accepting a date. Karen was Bobby's first, but Bobby was not Karen's first, and there had never been anything wrong with that. He’d felt no need to defend the honor of either of them.

After Karen, his love life was a weird, rocky journey he took slowly most of the time, complete with tentative dates and awkward sex, with nice moments and good sensations occurring, but hard to predict. He discovered, upon some trial and error, that there was no apparent difference between how he felt about sex with a woman and how he felt about sex with a man, which was interesting, but altogether not too helpful either.

Mostly, he focused on Rufus and on the other hunters he started to meet, some he would have died for, and some he was often tempted to kill, like one John Winchester. Rufus never gave him a hard time. Any hunter who tried, including John, he tried to avoid or prove wrong.

***

Sam had grown up with a strong appreciation for the concept of getting to know someone before having sex with them. It wasn’t the way his father or brother preferred things, but he was going to make sure that his path strayed from theirs as much as he wanted it to. 

He never found anyone he was around long enough until college, no matter how Dean tried to push, and even, on occasion, John did too.

Tyson Brady was Sam's first, in a couple ways. It took weeks of study sessions. It took a dozen pizza and movie nights. Mostly, it took late night philosophy and Brady making Sam a painting of a road surrounded by buildings that looked like burgers and whisky bottles and knives because of drunken stories he'd told him that he shouldn't have told him.

It was so different from the fleeting weeks and solitary months he'd gotten to spend near people while they'd been on the road. That sea of pretty faces with pretty roots like Sam had never known, a mass, a jumble, and something Sam could only press up against like a pane of glass, not pass through and live inside.

He never actually wants to have sex until he's special to Tyson Brady. He has the strange thought that he'd like to hear what Dean would think, what Dad would think, hearing that. He never finds out because they don't want anything to do with him, but Brady does.

He thinks he understands what the term "sexually active" means, now. It's like a switch, or something. He's found Brady, and he's found sex, somehow. And that's kind of cool.

When Brady is cold, when Brady is off wooing other people and Sam's alone and teary-eyed and they're over, when Sam starts to spend more time with Brady's friend Jess, he figures he's still sexually active.

When he asks if they can take it slower, she doesn't even give him a hard time. She soaks up the cuddles. She tells him he's a gentleman when that's all they do. He feels like he has finally arrived, like he has finally become a real, live human being, someone with an actual place to fit into that makes sense, unlike back on the road with all the contradictions and the shifting goals.

Everything feels beautiful with Jess because she makes it possible for him to fit her life. Even when he admits he and Brady had sex, she doesn't take it personally.

"Maybe he's just more your type," she suggests, and he can tell she’s trying to help.

"Well, not anymore," he jokes. He couldn't be more sure of this: Brady kind of creeps him out now. He gets bad vibes. He knows she means maybe he’s more into guys, but, honestly, not really. He just doesn’t want her the same way yet.

That takes more time. He ignores a joke from Katelyn about how it's a crime he's not putting out yet, by the looks of him. She's harmless, and in a weird way he finds her comment flattering. But he does also find out that a lot of couples like to have sex a lot, and that's weird to him. He thinks it's weird to Jess that it's weird to him, but she never asks for anything he doesn't put on the table.

Maybe Dean wasn't as weirdly sexual and creepy as Sam had thought? 

Or, maybe, as a completely unrelated issue, he was.

Jess is safety, but not in a boring way. In the most exciting way possible because he's never really been safe before. Everything about it is new and fits. She loves him, sex or no sex. She just loves him as a whole package, and respects his values and his ideas.

And then, she’s gone.

When she dies, he returns to a lack of safety, a lack of respect, and even a lack of agency. Dean toes the line of all his boundaries and presses casual sex on him like what's good for the goose is good for the gander, but trying to find satisfying casual sex is a wild goose chase: It's silly and exhausting, and it’s likely to make him hate everything about geese. He kisses, and he wishes he could stay longer, but he can't give himself that hope of a permanent intimacy.

It’s Bobby's familiar face, Bobby's familiar house, giving him something he hadn't felt in so long, even after a demon burst in and they had to kill a girl, that allows him to feel safe again. Even after they find John, even after the car is towed, even after John dies and Dean starts to work on the car, Sam still feels safe on some strange level.

***

They connected over the Key of Solomon book when they first reunited, and then they connected over the Impala. Now they're connecting over, of all things, their abusive fathers.

It's something Dean doesn't like to acknowledge often, but Bobby has had John's number since pretty much forever, and Sam appreciates the confirmation of the pain he’s known. He appreciates a lot of other things about Bobby. He's cute, for one, with a sweet smile and oddly pretty hands. He's nice. He’s always made sure no one forgets about Sam. He reminds Sam that hunters can be as gentle as they want to be. As gentle as Sam wants to be.

He'd never really thought of Bobby in a romantic way until the day they killed Meg Masters, but it was hard not to see the possibility after that. Every glance felt like warm chemistry and an inside joke, like he'd probably be blushing if he were face to face with a stranger and not one of the most stable pieces of his life from as far back as he could remember.

Bobby is as reliable as the Impala. Sam honestly doesn't have any question that Bobby’s feeling it too. Bobby was never good at hiding that, or at hiding a lot of things, especially from Sam.

Over the phone, Sam unloads his fears about his visions, the road he and Dean are on a sea of pitch black lit with bright yellow, and at first Bobby doesn't know what to say. When he finally says it's gonna be okay, Sam almost believes it. Sam says he wants to see Bobby again soon. He says he wants to see him more often. Bobby doesn't reply, not directly. He changes the subject. But, he appreciates it. They get each other.

Everything, honestly, really is kind of okay.

***

The demon in that poor girl comes back. Everything's bloody, and mostly what he's thinking, there on the ground with his face smarting from Dean's punch, is that at least he's at the place where he's safest. His arm hurts too, but mostly it's his chest, full of pain that wasn't caused by anything but the horrible knowledge of what happened, of what his hands were forced to do.

He was almost forced to watch as Meg the demon assaulted Jo. He had certainly found Jo attractive, but he had not been interested in sex, and he had certainly not been interested in Meg's idea of a good time.

Some part of him is glad that he hadn't been interested in her sexually in the first place, because that'd be just one more thing to feel weird about, right? One more place between Meg the demon and himself inside of him that would have burned him after she was gone, down in Hell again.

Bobby hands him a protective charm, and he can't help but think that it's not even the first piece of jewelry he's gotten from the guy. Add that to the book from a few months before, and Sam feels more important than he should probably feel. This is probably bad.

Oh fucking well! It wasn’t like he’d never felt bad about his urges before.

***

Unsure where his quest for Whatever is even leading him, Sam tries to impress Bobby the whole time they work the Trickster case. He doesn't think it works, really, but that's okay, because, in the end, Bobby saves Sam's life after he’s stabbed by Jake. That's what Dean says in his lie anyway, and Sam actually buys it. Until he finds out what really happened. 

He smiles then, and puts his hand on Bobby's shoulder, subconsciously tries to get closer while they're planning, grins at Bobby's undeniable genius. When the truth comes out, he feels stupid for believing that anyone could actually patch up a wound like that, even Bobby, but it's Bobby, so he gives himself a pass.

He knows Bobby wants him to notice the suit he's wearing on their next case, which is good because Sam finds noticing it easy. He likes that Bobby apparently shows off for him. He likes that Bobby remembers what lore he's looking into about Dean. He likes that he's not facing Dean's mortality alone.

***

By some miracle, considering how little control he has over where they decide to go, sometime between the defeat of the Seven Deadly Sins and Dean's reunion with Gumby Girl Lisa Braeden, Sam convinces Dean to let them spend a few days at Bobby's. He wouldn't have asked normally, but the thought of Dean dying freaks him out. He figures he can thumb through some of Bobby's books, too, if they have any alone time.

"I feel so worthless," he tells Bobby over a sip from the tumbler Bobby handed him.

"It's not your fault, you know," is all Bobby says. He fields a few more calls as Sam sits and watches him at work. He's such a good liar, and he's lying for the good of people trying to do the right thing, and Sam is kind of a sucker for that.

"It's a little bit my fault," Sam points out. "Jake stabbed me."

"I know," Bobby says. There's a bitterness in the tone he doesn't usually have. "I saw it." It strikes Sam that Bobby isn't mad at him. He's mad at Jake. Dead Jake, the Jake Sam shot to death.

Sam takes another sip. He sets the glass down on the desk after pushing a book out of the way.

Dean ran off again as soon as they parked. "I gotta fuck my brains out while I still can," he'd said solemnly, the absurdity of the tone making Sam laugh even as his brow started to furrow and threatened not to stop.

"I wish I could be like Dean, sometimes," Sam says to Bobby. "I wish I could just not care. Burger? Sounds great. Casual sex? Okay."

"I like a good burger," Bobby teases, "but, yeah. I know what you mean."

"Um." Sam runs his finger along the rim of the tumbler and avoids looking at Bobby at all. "How do you feel about casual sex?"

"Why?” Bobby huffed out in amusement. “You comin' onto me?"

Sam looks up, and Bobby's narrowing his eyes all of a sudden. Sam cuts him off before he can ask more seriously.

"Honsetly? No. I was asking how you feel about casual sex. I don't like it,” Sam shared.

"Well, I don't like it either." 

Bobby seems to relax, though he's still watchful, sharp. Sam relaxes too. Hmm. He toasts Bobby with his glass.

"I don't think I'd say no," he says shyly to the man.

"I can take you to the bar, then," Bobby points out, lip quirking. “They got plentya that there.”

"No!” Sam says, and Bobby frowns at him for it. “No,” he says more quietly. “Uh. Casual sex is still a no. I meant." He sighs out a breath, chews at the inside of his cheek. "Bobby, I don't think I'd say no to us, like, the two of us. You know?"

Bobby turns toward the phone that suddenly starts ringing. He glances at Sam, uses the call as an opportunity to stall his response even though they both know that’s exactly what he’s doing.

"Bobby," Sam reminds when the phone's back on the hook. Bobby's back on the hook too.

"Yes," says Bobby. "Alright? I like you. Which probably makes me a bad person, but, I already got plenty of black marks on my soul.”. His eyes hold so much purpose. Maybe too much.

One text to Dean proves he's alive and not planning to come home any time soon. Sam pockets his cell phone readily. 

They have the whole world to themselves.

Bobby takes Sam to a diner the Winchesters got to go to a few times while they were growing up, but neither of them are able to bring up the fact it’s a date. Sam’s last real date was Sarah, and he's pretty sure he'll never see her again. He's gonna lose Bobby after this, just like he loses everyone else. And, for what? 

His eyes blur as he looks at the menu, but he already knows what he wants.

They discuss life, from when Sam manages to keep the tears at bay to when they leave a big tip. They talk about Dean, and about Bobby's neighbors. They talk about that sheriff who hates him, and about Dean wanting to hit all the stops on a final tour soon.

They fit together on the couch. Jeopardy's on, and Bobby's freakishly good at it, murmuring answers in a nonchalant manner. There's no weirdness when Bobby opts to put an arm around him. Bobby Singer has smelled like Old Spice since Sam knew what it was really called. He smells a little like sweat, too, but it's not bad. He's really warm, but not so warm that Sam wants to move away. 

Sometimes, he turns to catch Sam's gaze, holding it. He just sort of looks at him, capturing the moment, but it's not weird, really, it's just...natural.

Sam kisses him during the final jeopardy, and it's a nice feeling. The song counts down to Bobby’s response to the gesture, which is to return it, gently.

A few hours later, they figure they should check on Dean again. He gets mad about them calling, which is understandable, but it's better safe than sorry because his recklessness has evolved into a higher life form since he made his deal.

***

The bed is creaky. It seems like it shouldn't feel so natural, lying next to each other like Bobby didn't make him grilled cheese when he was 5.

"Is this okay?" Sam asks, resting a hand on Bobby's chest through his shirt. He's lying on his side next to Bobby, who's on his back. At Bobby's nod, Sam touches his chest and stomach, his sides, careful, ready to recognize any sign of discomfort. He's mapping Bobby out more than trying to entice him or anything like that, and it's that revelation more than anything else that gets him tugged close for a few more lazy kisses.

"Do you want to, um?" Sam asks. The silence hangs heavy, undisturbed. "Do...more?" he finally adds.

Bobby doesn't necessarily look like he wants to, but he does scoot back against the pillows in order to sit up. “I guess."

Sam leans in for another soft kiss. "If you don’t want to, don't worry about it," he says, and settles next to Bobby like he had when they'd been watching Jeopardy.

The phone next to the bed rings, and Bobby takes the call with a sigh. "No, you can't do that," he explains. "Yeah, but that doesn't work with a Wendigo. How do I know? It's just the lore."

Sam finds Bobby’s voice soothing, even when he’s annoyed with whoever’s calling. Sam lets his eyes close.

"I told that man he needs his wife to come on hunts with him. She's definitely his better half," Bobby shares with a little huffing sigh. The call is over.

"So. Big spoon or little spoon?" Sam teases idly, but he knows how things are gonna go as they slide back down onto the bed, their heads on the pillows. They turn toward the nightstand and the silent phone on its receiver, Sam curling his arm around Bobby.

"I can't tell if I want that for us, you know?" Sam says honestly.

"Marriage? What the hell?" Bobby asks with a sweet, lazy incredulity.

"Uh, no," Sam laughs. "Sex."

"Oh," Bobby says. "What?! Sam!" .

"What, I talk about marriage, that's normal, but I say maybe we shouldn't screw and that's a problem?"

"You tell me," Bobby says, shifting to turn and look at Sam. "You're making no sense to me."

"Why not?" Sam frowns.

"You’re John’s son, a 'red-blooded male'."

"So?"

"So...so."

Sam raises a brow, and they stare at each other. "Are you saying that means I wanna screw by default? Because, seriously, until people started saying that in college, I just thought Dean was a hypersexual freak."

Bobby blinks at him.

"My boyfriend in college, Brady? That was the first time I ever wanted someone. It took a while. Same thing with Jess. It took a while. I don't understand one-night stands. Well," he amends. "I think I do! I just don't think they seem worth it.”

Bobby’s too silent.

“So, what’s your story?” Sam asks.

"Me? You wanna know if I find one-night stands worth it?" He's full-on incredulous now, but quiet about it. "Have you seen me?”

“I’m seeing you right now, in, like, more ways than one.”

“I'm not interested, no. I’m a cranky drunk in a house full of guns, so, yeah, not exactly a 'prize'. That's not really why, though, I mean, I think, even if I was...."

"You are so a prize,” Sam says, and they just kind of stare at each other again, Bobby is resting in front of Sam, curled against him like before. Sam lets his hand return to where it was, holding Bobby, protecting him from the way they don’t fit in and appreciating how they fit at the same time. He feels like he's one of the very few people Bobby will unquestioningly allow to protect him. It's a nice feeling. 

"Thanks," Bobby admits. "I know you wouldn't just say that."

"You’re handsome, to me," Sam offers. "I think to a lot of people, actually. And you're not as cranky as you think you are." Bobby reaches back and smacks Sam lightly on the hip to say, "Am so."

"You're gonna want to have sex with me, Sam," Bobby says, following a patch of silence. After he says it, he tenses against Sam. "Fuck. Well, you know what I mean. That sounded arrogant."

"It didn't," Sam swears. "I actually...agree with you. You've always made me feel like knowing you, being around you, will always be worth it."

"Not sexually," Bobby insists.

"Okay," Sam says with a shrug Bobby can feel all around him. He doesn’t understand, but he’s listening.

"Even with Karen, it wasn't worth it, to her. I mean, she's sweet. As sweet as you. Good, to the last bit of her. But I know she didn't feel wanted, or pretty." He shifts so he can look at Sam again. "She was beautiful," he says fiercely.

"I remember the pictures," Sam confirms. "Really pretty."

Bobby nods once. "It made her feel like there was something wrong with her. I'm telling you, Sam, that there was nothing wrong with her. I may have thought too much of her at times. But that ain't her fault. We had problems. I just didn't want...."

"Sex?" Sam asks softly.

"Kids," Bobby explains. "I didn't want kids. She thought that was why I was shy. It ain't why."

Sam curls his arm around Bobby again,

"Now, you're more...typical. You wanted to have sex with your schoolmates, with Brady and Jess."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "After a few months."

"Time was, that was the way of things anyway, socially," Bobby points out. He shifts away a little, turning back toward Sam. "But, this ain't 'time was', Plus, college is full of people full of hormones."

"That's true," Sam agrees, arm feeling empty, body feeling too cool. He watches Bobby. "I had a problem with sexual desire before my, uh. Recent history with it, though. I didn't...I didn't think it was for me, at all. It might just...it might just not be for you."

Bobby is so still then, thinking it over. "Well, how's this gonna work, then?"

"We won't do anything you don't want to do," Sam says.

"That ain't even really the problem. It's like...." He shifts, rests on his elbow. "It's like...I don't mind it every once in a while, because my partner likes it. But, same time, I don't like to pretend that I care about it more than I do, you know? Intimacy needs honesty."

"I think that makes sense," Sam says. "I think even if I didn't kind of know what it's like to think about sex like that, and I think in part I do, I'd still be able to get what you're saying."

Bobby pauses, considerate, when Sam says he thinks he'd understand anyway. "I tend to believe you. But...I still think I'll make you feel worthless, like I did for Karen."

"Maybe," Sam admits.

Bobby closes off slightly, and Sam sees it plain as day. "Then again," Sam says, and he and Bobby have another quiet standoff. "As nice as she was? Maybe your...values...just didn't fit," Sam offers.

Finally, Bobby shrugs. "Maybe," he admits.

“Will you come back over here?” Sam asks. “I really want to be close to you.”

Bobby sighs out a breath. “Yeah,” he says, scooching back toward Sam so he can find himself in that relaxing embrace. “I like close,” he agrees with a nod. “I like close a lot.”

Sam gives him a little squeeze, offering a soft sigh of contentment. “We fit,” he points out, tone soft, a little sleepy.