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by the time the dead woman throws dean through a wall, the hunt has already been going wrong for fourteen hours.
the spirit catches him around the throat with the cord she was strangled with and sends him backward through plaster that gave up pretending to be sturdy sometime in the seventies. dean disappears in a burst of dust and splintered wood, landing in what used to be the dining room with a crash that shakes the abandoned house. the iron bar falls from his hand and skids across the floor, well beyond his reach.
sam is supposed to be covering him.
he is, right up until the spirit throws you into the stone fireplace. your shoulder takes most of the impact, but your temple catches the edge hard enough to split the skin. the room tilts when you hit the floor, warm blood slipping along the side of your face, and sam forgets about the half-exposed bones beneath the hearth. he forgets about the ghost. judging by the way he drops beside you and catches your face between both hands, he may briefly forget that dean exists at all.
“look at me,” sam says, his voice tight beneath the shriek of wind tearing through the boarded windows. his thumbs hover near your jaw, afraid to touch too hard. “hey, keep your eyes open.”
you blink until there is only one of him above you. “’m fine.”
“you hit your head.” sam pushes your hair away from the blood, his expression sharpening when he finds the cut. “can you tell me where you are?”
“in a haunted house with terrible structural integrity,” you answer. another section of plaster collapses in the next room, followed by a muffled curse. “and dean is getting his ass kicked.”
“glad somebody noticed,” dean calls through the wall.
the spirit flickers into existence behind sam. her bare feet hover several inches above the floor, the cord cutting a black ring around her ruined throat, and the rage twisting her face turns toward him. you see her before he does.
your hand closes around the iron poker beside the hearth. you swing from the floor, catching the ghost across the knees just as she reaches for him, and her body scatters in a flash of white static. the force of it knocks the poker from your hand, but it buys sam enough time to remember the open grave beneath the fireplace.
he grabs the salt and lighter fluid and dumps both over the exposed bones. dean drags himself through the new hole in the wall, one arm wrapped around his ribs, and flicks his lighter into the grave before the spirit can return. flames rush over yellowed lace and blackened bone. the scream that fills the house comes from everywhere at once, rattling the windows in their frames before it cuts off and leaves the three of you in sudden silence.
dust drifts slowly through the beam of sam’s fallen flashlight. somewhere upstairs, old wood creaks, settling back into place now that nothing furious is holding it together.
dean looks at the burning grave, then at sam kneeling beside you. “great teamwork.”
sam’s jaw tightens. “dean—”
“no, really.” dean braces a hand against the edge of the broken wall and winces as he stands. “excellent coverage. barely noticed the dead lady choking me.”
“she was bleeding,” sam says.
“i can see that.” dean limps closer and looks down at you. the anger leaves his face long enough for him to inspect the cut, but it returns when his gaze shifts to his brother. “she was also conscious, sam.”
sam glances at the blood on his fingers as though he needs proof. “i thought she—”
he stops before the fear can take shape in words. his eyes find yours again, moving over your face, and the intensity of it makes something unsteady turn over beneath your ribs.
you tell yourself it is the concussion.
“i’m okay,” you say more gently. your hand closes around his wrist, thumb resting over the frantic beat of his pulse. “you can stop looking at me like that.”
sam swallows. “like what?”
you don’t know how to answer without saying too much. like you watched me die. like it would have killed you too. like the sight of my blood emptied every other thought from your head.
dean saves you by kicking the iron bar in sam’s direction. it strikes his boot with a dull clang. “like he owes me a motel bed.”
—
the only vacancy within thirty miles is a room at the silver bell motor lodge, though there is no bell anywhere on the property and nothing has been silver since the sign began rusting thirty-plus years ago.
the woman behind the front desk barely glances away from the tiny television beside her. she slides one brass key across the counter and tells dean that the room has two double beds, no rollaway, and a shower that needs several minutes to decide whether it believes in hot water. dean takes the key before she can reconsider renting to three people covered in blood, grave dirt, and pieces of someone else’s wall.
rain begins as you cross the parking lot. it falls cold and sudden, darkening the shoulders of sam’s jacket while he keeps one hand near your back without quite touching you. he has been doing that since the house—hovering close enough to catch you if your knees buckle, watching every step as though the cracked pavement presents a mortal threat.
you should tell him to stop. instead, you slow down enough that the tips of his fingers finally brush your waist.
the contact lasts less than a second. sam pulls his hand back, and you spend the rest of the walk wondering whether he touched you accidentally or realized you were waiting for him to do it.
dean shoulders the motel door open. the room beyond is narrow and washed in the orange light of two bedside lamps, with faded green carpet and a floral bedspread on each mattress. there’s barely enough space to walk between them. the window air conditioner rattles with heroic determination, blowing cold air that smells faintly of dust and rain.
dean drops his duffel onto the bed closest to the door. “mine.”
sam looks from him to the other bed. “seriously?”
“very.” dean lowers himself onto the mattress and immediately regrets it, judging by the way his face pinches. he points at sam without taking the hand away from his ribs. “i got put through a wall because you forgot what covering my six means. i’m not spending the night with your knees in my spine too.”
sam drags a hand through his hair. “i said i was sorry.”
“and i’m healing.” dean stretches carefully across the center of the bed, occupying as much of it as possible. “look at that, it’s forgiveness in action!”
sam glances toward the narrow strip of carpet between the second bed and the window. “i’ll take the floor.”
“no,” you say before he finishes looking for a place long enough to fit him. the word comes out too quickly, and both brothers turn toward you. heat crawls beneath your skin, gathering under the butterfly bandage at your temple. “you’ll wake up unable to move. the bed is big enough.”
sam studies your face. “you sure?”
you are already too aware of the mattress behind you, of the single pillow on either side, of how little space two people have when one of them is built like sam. you aren’t sure of anything except that the thought of him choosing the floor feels strangely like rejection.
“yes,” you say, forcing your voice to stay even. “we’re adults. i think we can survive one night.”
dean’s gaze moves between you, one eyebrow lifting. “this should be fun.”
“go shower,” you tell him.
“can’t.” dean folds his hands behind his head and closes his eyes. “doctor’s orders. i need to lie flat in the bed i earned through valor and sacrifice.”
sam drops his bag harder than necessary. “you have dust in your hair.”
dean plucks a piece of plaster from his sleeve. “battle dust.”
sam folds his arms. “you screamed when she threw you.”
dean opens one eye. “thought you were too busy to notice.”
the guilt that crosses sam’s face makes your weak smile disappear. dean sees it too. his expression softens, though he covers it by reaching for the television remote and turning the volume up.
“i’m fine, sammy,” he says, quieter now. “go make sure she still knows what year it is.”
“i know what year it is,” you protest.
dean begins flipping through channels. “perfect. keep it to yourself. there’s a quiz in the morning.”
sam waits until you sit on the edge of the other bed before kneeling in front of you. he takes the small first-aid kit from his duffel and nudges your knees apart just enough to settle between them, his movements practical and familiar. nothing about the arrangement should make it difficult to breathe. he has patched you up dozens of times, and you have done the same for him.
it’s different tonight. maybe it is the memory of how frightened he looked on the floor of the house. maybe it is knowing that, in a few hours, his body will be stretched beside yours beneath the same blanket. whatever the reason, every detail of his nearness seems to arrive separately: his fingers beneath your chin, his knee grazing the inside of yours, his breath warm against your cheek when he leans closer, his eyes darting to the exposed part of the bruise on your shoulder.
“follow my finger,” sam says, moving it slowly in front of your eyes.
you obey until his face blurs at the edge of your vision. “you know i wasn’t unconscious.”
sam doesn’t lower his finger. “you were dazed.”
you follow it again with an exaggerated sigh. “for, like, ten seconds.”
“twenty-three,” sam corrects.
you blink at him. “you counted?”
sam’s hand stills beside your face. his gaze drops to the cut at your temple, and when he answers, his voice is almost lost beneath the television. “yeah.”
the softness of it steals the next teasing remark from you. sam peels back one edge of the bandage, checks that the bleeding has stopped, and presses it carefully into place again. his thumb passes once over your cheek when his hand lowers. the touch is so gentle that you wonder if you imagined it, but his eyes flick toward yours before he pulls away.
does he know what he is doing to you? does he touch you like this because he wants to, or because taking care of people is the closest sam ever lets himself come to asking them to stay?
“there,” he murmurs. “you should be okay.”
you catch yourself looking at his mouth. “good.”
sam doesn’t move, and neither do you. for one suspended breath, his hand rests against your knee and the room seems to shrink around the space between you.
dean fake-coughs from the other bed. “if the examination is getting that thorough, i’m turning up the volume.”
sam stands so quickly that his thigh bumps yours. “you’re up first,” he tells dean, tossing a towel at his face. “shower.”
dean catches it with an offended grunt. “you’re bossy.”
—
the hot water survives all three of you, though only barely. by the time the lamps go dark, dean is clean, medicated, and asleep beneath the blanket of his private bed. his face is turned toward the wall, one arm hanging over the side, and his breathing has already settled into the low rumble that he insists isn’t snoring.
you lie beside the window with your back to the room. the curtains don’t quite close, leaving a thin gap through which the neon vacancy sign stains the glass red. each pulse of light draws the same shapes in front of you: the chipped paint on the windowsill, the outline of the air conditioner below, and your own hand curled against the pillow.
sam lies behind you on the outer edge of the mattress. you know exactly where he is despite not looking. the bed dips beneath his weight, pulling you almost imperceptibly toward the center, but he keeps himself rigid enough to resist it. there is at least a foot of cold sheet between your back and his chest, which is impressive considering the bed is barely wide enough to deserve to be called a full.
maybe he really would rather be on the floor.
the thought arrives without permission and stays there. you close your eyes, trying to ignore the ache it leaves behind, but the rest of your mind joins in before sleep can. sam had offered the floor because he was being polite. you were the one who answered too fast. you were the one who spent the entire shower thinking about coming out in your sleep shorts and wondering whether he would look at your legs.
he had looked. only for a second, when you stepped from the bathroom and caught him halfway through pulling a clean shirt over his head. his gaze had fallen, returned to your face, and moved away so quickly that it might have meant embarrassment rather than interest.
there are explanations for everything with sam.
he had abandoned dean because you were hurt, but sam is protective. he had counted the seconds before you answered him, but sam notices details. he had touched your cheek, but only after checking the bandage. he is lying on the very edge of the bed now because he respects you, not because he is afraid of what might happen if he moves closer.
or because he doesn’t want to.
the air conditioner clicks off. without its rattle, the room becomes unbearably quiet. rain taps lightly against the window, dean breathes across the room, and the mattress gives a soft creak when sam shifts behind you.
your entire body tightens.
he doesn’t move closer. the sheet stirs near your ankle, then settles again, and you stare at the red line of light across the windowsill as if it might tell you what to do.
are you really considering this? you have spent years building a friendship sturdy enough to survive death, possession, grief, and more endings to the world than any of you bother counting. are you willing to risk it because sam looked at your bare legs for half a second in a motel room?
your heel slides backward across the sheet.
the movement is small enough to deny. you can pretend you are getting comfortable if he pulls away. you can pretend to be asleep, though your pulse seems loud enough to shake the mattress. the back of your calf brushes the front of his, warm skin meeting warm skin beneath the blanket.
sam goes perfectly still.
panic rushes through you so quickly that your toes curl. you have misread him. he’s uncomfortable. he’s trying to decide how to get away without waking dean or humiliating you, and tomorrow he will insist that nothing has changed while carefully making sure there are always three beds from now on.
you begin to pull your leg forward, but then sam’s calf presses back.
the contact stops you. it is firmer this time, impossible to mistake for the slant of the mattress, and it remains when you let your leg relax against his.
your next breath trembles on the way out. does he want you closer? is he waiting for you to move again? maybe he is only telling you that you don’t have to flee from an accidental touch, because this is sam and he would rather endure an uncomfortable night than let you feel rejected.
you wish he would say something, but you’re terrified that he will.
another pulse of red light passes over the window. you shift backward by an inch, then another, until the hem of your shirt brushes his knuckles where his hand rests on the mattress. sam inhales sharply. the sound is quiet, but you feel it travel through the bed.
you stop with your back only a breath from his chest.
“are you awake?” sam whispers.
your eyes close. there is still time to pretend otherwise, to let the silence answer for you and wake tomorrow with the friendship intact. then his fingers flex against the sheet near your waist, and the small, nervous movement gives you enough courage to ruin everything.
“yes,” you whisper back.
sam is silent for so long that you start counting the seconds. one, two, three. at five, he shifts closer, and the heat of his chest reaches your back before he touches you.
“are you doing that on purpose?” he asks.
your pulse jumps. “doing what?”
“moving closer.” sam’s breath catches softly in your hair. “you know what.”
you could still lie. instead, you stare at the window and ask, “do you want me to stop?”
his answer comes without hesitation. “no.”
something inside you loosens so suddenly that it almost hurts. sam wants you close. perhaps that is all it means, but it’s more than you let yourself hope for ten seconds ago.
the mattress shifts. his chest finally meets your back, careful enough that you could move away, and his bent knees settle behind yours. warmth surrounds you without quite becoming an embrace. sam keeps both hands to himself, one trapped beneath his pillow and the other resting in the sliver of space beside your hip.
“is this okay?” he murmurs.
“yes.” you swallow, then make yourself say it. “come closer.”
sam exhales against the back of your neck. his hand lifts from the sheet and settles at your waist, broad and warm through the thin cotton of your shirt. every muscle in your body seems to gather beneath his palm. his thumb moves once, tracing a slow line just above the waistband of your shorts, and your breath catches before you can soften it.
across the room, dean shifts beneath his blanket. both of you freeze.
the springs in his bed complain. dean rolls onto his other side, mutters something unintelligible, and returns to the same heavy rhythm of breathing. sam’s hand remains motionless at your waist until the room settles around you again.
“this is a terrible idea,” you whisper.
you feel the shape of sam’s smile near your hair. “probably.”
you glance backwards toward the shape beneath the other blanket. “he’s six feet away.”
“seven,” sam corrects in a whisper.
you turn your head against the pillow. “that doesn’t help.”
sam’s thumb begins moving again. “i know.”
his hand follows the curve of your waist to your hip, tentative enough that every inch feels like a question. you should answer with words. instead, you place your hand over his and guide it lower, across the soft edge of your shorts and onto your bare thigh.
sam stops breathing.
are you really doing this? the question flashes through you as his fingers spread against your skin. this is sam. your sam, though you have never had the right to call him that. he is touching you in the dark while dean sleeps on the other side of the narrow aisle, and there is no hunt or injury left to explain why.
his palm glides slowly up your thigh.
your grip tightens around his wrist before he can reach the hem of your shorts. sam freezes immediately and starts to draw his hand away, but you hold on.
“do you want me to stop?” he asks, his voice unsteady now.
you turn your head enough to see the outline of him behind you. “do you want to?”
sam’s thumb stills against your skin. “stop?”
you guide his hand back into place. “do you want to touch me?”
the vacancy sign burns red across one side of his face. his hair falls over his forehead, and his eyes search yours with the same naked fear you saw when you looked up at him from the floor of the house.
“more than i should,” he admits.
your heart stumbles painfully. “why shouldn’t you?”
sam’s gaze drops to your mouth. “because i don’t know what you want.”
“you.” the answer slips out before fear can dress it in something safer. you feel his fingers tighten against your thigh. “i want you.”
you roll onto your back, and sam gives you the space to turn toward him. he lies on his side beside you, close enough that the tips of your noses nearly touch, but he still doesn’t assume the last inch belongs to him. his hand remains on your leg, thumb tracing a small, disbelieving circle against your skin.
“tell me if i’m wrong,” sam whispers.
“you’re not.” your fingers curl into the front of his shirt. “kiss me.”
sam obeys.
the first touch of his mouth is so careful that it almost breaks you. his lips brush yours and pause, giving you one final chance to change your mind. when you pull him closer, the restraint in him shudders.
he kisses you again, deeper this time, and the room disappears around the warmth of his mouth. sam’s hand slides from your thigh to your hip, drawing you against him until there is no cold sheet left between you. your fingers find his hair. it is softer than you imagined, and the quiet sound that leaves him when you tug gently makes heat rush through every part of you at once.
you have imagined kissing sam in too many places. in the impala while dean goes inside to pay for gas. against the library shelves with an open book forgotten between you. in a hospital corridor after one of you survives something impossible. you never imagined a mattress that dips toward the center or the blue-white flicker of a muted television dean forgot to turn off.
you never imagined needing to be quiet.
sam’s mouth moves along your jaw. his lips find the place beneath your ear, and you press your face into his shoulder to catch the sound threatening to escape. his body shakes with a silent laugh, but the amusement vanishes when your leg slips between his and his hand tightens at your hip.
there is no room left to wonder whether he wants you.
the realization sends a sharp thrill through you. you draw back just far enough to look at him, expecting confidence now that he knows you want this too. instead, sam looks wrecked—lips parted, breathing uneven, eyes moving over your face as though he still can’t believe you are the one beneath his hands.
“what?” he asks, barely making a sound.
“nothing.” you touch his lower lip with your thumb. “i’ve just never seen you like this.”
sam kisses the pad of your thumb. “you’ve never shared a bed with me.”
you raise an eyebrow. “is this what you usually do?”
“no.” his mouth curves against your skin. “usually i sleep.”
you bite back a laugh and kiss him before dean can hear it. sam rolls partly over you as the kiss deepens, bracing one arm beside your head so his weight never settles against the bruise along your shoulder. even now, with his control coming apart beneath your hands, he remembers where you’re hurt.
his other hand travels slowly beneath the hem of your shirt. calloused fingertips trace your waist, your ribs, every inch of skin warmed by his palm. when he reaches the edge of the bruise, he stops and draws back enough to search your face.
“does that hurt?” sam whispers.
you draw him closer by the back of his neck. “not when you do it.”
something darkens in his eyes. his head lowers, and his mouth finds the spot just below your collarbone. the kiss is soft at first, almost reverent, then open and lingering enough that your back lifts from the mattress before you remember the bed springs beneath you.
they creak.
both of you go still. sam buries his face against your neck, shoulders trembling as he tries not to laugh, and you clamp one hand over your mouth. dean snorts across the room, scratches at his chest, and turns toward the wall.
“seven feet,” sam breathes against your skin.
you pinch his side. “shut up.”
he catches your hand and kisses your palm in apology. the tenderness of it feels almost more intimate than everything else—the ease with which his fingers lace through yours, the smile you feel against your skin, the way he keeps holding on when he lowers your joined hands beside your head.
then he kisses you again, and nothing is funny anymore.
you shift beneath him until your thigh hooks over his hip. sam’s breath breaks against your mouth. his hand closes around the back of your leg, drawing it higher, and the full length of him settles against you in a way that makes every remaining uncertainty vanish.
heat coils low in your stomach. you move without thinking, chasing the pressure, and sam catches the sound you make with his mouth. his fingers dig into your thigh. for a few breathless seconds, restraint becomes something neither of you remembers wanting.
his shirt comes off first. you push it over his shoulders, and sam pulls it free before dropping it somewhere near the foot of the bed. your hands move over warm skin and lean muscle, finding familiar scars in unfamiliar ways. he shivers when your nails trail lightly down his back, then presses a kiss beneath your jaw that feels suspiciously like retaliation.
“sam,” you whisper, warning and plea tangled together.
his mouth finds yours again. “too much?”
“not enough,” you breathe, pulling him back to you.
the last of his hesitation gives. sam’s hand slips under your back, lifting you just enough to pull your shirt upward. he pauses when the fabric gathers beneath your arms, waiting until you raise them and let him draw it over your head.
cool air touches your skin. sam looks at you, and the hunger in his expression leaves no place for embarrassment to survive. he takes in every inch you have given him before his gaze returns to your face, softer now but no less intent.
“you’re beautiful,” he murmurs.
you touch the scar below his ribs because looking directly at him feels almost impossible. “you have a head injury too?”
sam catches your chin and brings your eyes back to his. “no.”
he says it with such certainty that your throat tightens. then his mouth returns to your neck, moving slowly toward your collarbone, and thought becomes difficult for an entirely different reason. his fingertips trace the side of your body while his kisses travel lower, stopping just above the thin fabric still covering you.
you arch into him. sam lifts his head, his eyes dark and his breathing ragged, and you pull him back by the nape of his neck. the kiss turns desperate. your legs tighten around him, his hips press into yours, and his hand slides beneath the waistband at your side.
then he stops.
the sudden absence of movement feels like waking. sam stays above you, forehead pressed to yours, while his thumb rests motionless beneath the edge of your shorts. his chest rises and falls against yours.
fear returns quickly enough to make you cold. “what’s wrong?”
“nothing.” sam closes his eyes. “that’s the problem.”
you wait, trying not to turn his silence into regret. did he only want the idea of you? did the reality feel wrong? has every answer you thought you found tonight become another thing you misunderstood?
sam must see the panic forming because his hand leaves your waistband and cups your face. “hey. no, don’t do that.”
you try to look away. “do what?”
“look like you’re waiting for me to change my mind.” his thumb brushes beneath your eye. “i’m not.”
you hold his wrist, needing the solid warmth of him beneath your fingers. “then why did you stop?”
sam looks toward dean’s sleeping shape, then back at you. “because i need to know this isn’t just tonight.”
your heart beats hard enough to hurt.
“i can’t wake up tomorrow and pretend this happened because we were tired, or scared, or stuck in the same bed,” he continues. his voice catches, and he lowers it further. “i won’t know how to go back after this.”
your fingers tighten around his wrist. “and you think i will?”
“i don’t know.” honesty makes him look almost frightened. “i don’t know what this means to you.”
you stare at him, at the man holding himself above you as though stopping is costing him something and he will do it anyway if that is what keeps you safe. he has no idea. for all the questions that have tortured you tonight, sam has been asking the same ones.
does she want me? does she think of me like that? will she still want me when the room is bright again?
“sam,” you whisper, threading your fingers into his hair. “sharing the bed isn’t why i want you.”
his eyes search yours. “it isn’t?”
“i wanted you in the house. i wanted you in the car. i wanted you while you were kneeling in front of me with that stupid first-aid kit.” your thumb moves along the back of his neck. “i wanted you before tonight.”
sam’s expression softens into something painful. “how long?”
you smile faintly. “long enough to know it’s not the mattress.”
the smallest laugh leaves him, but it trembles at the edges. “i’ve wanted you every night we haven’t shared a bed too.”
the words settle somewhere deeper than desire. you have wanted him to say them, but wanting doesn’t prepare you for the relief of finally knowing. every careful touch, every lingering look, every time he put himself between you and danger—none of it belonged only to your imagination.
“is that why you left dean?” you ask. “when i got hurt?”
guilt flickers over sam’s face. “i saw the blood, and i thought—”
“i know.” you draw him closer until his forehead rests against yours again. “i saw your face.”
sam’s eyes close. “i can’t lose you.”
you brush the hair back from his forehead. “you won’t.”
he opens his eyes and shakes his head. “you can’t promise that.”
“neither can you.” your hand moves to his cheek, feeling the roughness of stubble beneath your palm. “but i’m still here. and i’m not asking you for one night.”
sam turns his face into your touch and kisses the center of your palm. when he looks at you again, there is nowhere left for either of you to hide.
“i love you,” he whispers.
the confession is barely louder than the rain against the window, but you feel it everywhere. it travels through his hand on your face, through the bare skin pressed to yours, through every place your bodies have already learned to fit together.
you smile even as your eyes begin to sting. “good.”
sam’s eyebrows draw together. “good?”
you let the truth fill your smile. “because i love you too.”
his breath leaves him all at once. the smile that breaks across his face is soft, stunned, and so completely sam that you cannot bear the distance between you for another second. you pull him down and kiss him before he can say anything else.
this time, neither of you try to guess.
sam’s mouth moves against yours with everything he had been holding back. his hand returns to your thigh, sliding higher as your leg curls around his waist. you roll together carefully, the mattress dipping until you are above him, and his hands settle on your hips.
the sight of him beneath you sends heat rushing through you again. his hair is spread across the pillow, lips swollen from kissing you, chest rising quickly beneath your palms. when you shift against him, his head tips back and your name leaves him in a broken whisper.
you bend to kiss the sound from his mouth. sam holds you closer, one hand traveling up the center of your back while the other slips beneath the fabric at your hip. the room fills with small, dangerous noises: unsteady breaths, the rustle of sheets, the quiet protest of the bed every time one of you forgets to be careful.
dean coughs in his sleep.
you freeze against sam. his eyes open, wide and dark, and for one absurd second you stare at each other in terror before dean settles again.
sam presses his lips together to contain a laugh. you hide your face against his neck, silently shaking with him until the panic fades.
“next time,” he whispers into your hair, “we’re getting our own room.”
the promise of a next time warms you differently. you lift your head and trace your thumb along his mouth. “so there’s a next time?”
sam’s expression turns serious. “there’s every time you want me.”
you kiss him slowly. “i want you now.”
he rolls you beneath him again, and the answer turns into his mouth on yours, his hand gliding down your body, the careful pressure of his hips between your thighs. you bite your lip to keep quiet when his fingers catch beneath the last barrier at your waist.
sam pauses. his forehead rests against yours, breath warm and uneven across your mouth, and even now he waits.
“still sure?” he asks.
you think of every question that kept you rigid beside him. am i really doing this? does he want me too? will he still want me tomorrow?
you know every answer now.
“i love you,” you whisper, guiding his hand the rest of the way.
sam kisses you, and the only thought you have left is finally.
—
morning arrives in thin gold lines around the curtains.
you wake slowly, warm in a room that is still much too cold. the air conditioner rattles beneath the window, rainwater dries in crooked paths across the glass, and the television has gone blue with a no-signal warning.
sam is asleep beside you. sometime before dawn, you ended up half sprawled across his chest with your face tucked beneath his chin. one of his arms is around your waist under the blanket, holding you close even in sleep, and you feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.
his shirt is on you, and he’s shirtless. you remember pulling it over your head in the dark, though you’re less certain when you pulled your shorts back on. your own shirt hangs from the lamp, and you decide not to examine how it got there.
the other bed creaks.
dean sits upright with his hair flattened on one side and a pillow crease across his face. he blinks at the room, notices your shirt hanging from the lamp, then follows the trail of evidence to your bare leg tangled between sam’s beneath the blanket.
his expression passes through confusion, recognition, and immediate regret.
“oh, come on,” dean groans.
sam wakes beneath you with a sharp inhale. his arm tightens at your waist before his eyes open, body reacting to protect you before he knows where he is. when he finds you against him, the alarm leaves his face and something quiet takes its place.
then dean makes a gagging sound.
sam closes his eyes. “morning, dean.”
“no.” dean points at the two of you while keeping his gaze firmly above the blankets. “nothing about this is a good morning.”
you pull the sheet higher over your shoulder. “dramatic.”
“i was in the room.” dean swings his legs over the side of his bed and winces when his bruised ribs protest. “i was seven feet away.”
your eyes meet sam’s. the corner of his mouth twitches.
dean notices. “why is that funny?”
“it isn’t,” sam says, failing to hide his smile.
“i’m glad my trauma can bring you two joy.” dean stands and begins collecting his clothes with more aggression than the task requires. “next time, you’re getting your own room.”
sam props himself on one elbow beside you. “you don’t even know what happened.”
dean stops with a boot in one hand. “and i would like to preserve that tiny piece of innocence, sammy. don’t take it from me.”
“trust me, your innocence was gone a long time ago,” you tell him.
“not the point.” dean shoves his foot into the boot, still muttering. “i heard whispering. the bed squeaked. there’s a shirt on the lamp.”
sam glances at it. “could’ve been there when we got here.”
dean gives him a flat look. “it has a little devil’s trap on the seam.”
you look toward the lamp. “that’s mine.”
“i know it’s yours.” dean snatches his jacket from the chair. “i know things i never wanted to know.”
he makes it halfway to the door before stopping. his shoulders drop, and when he looks back, the disgust has softened into something fond despite his best efforts.
“you two good?” he asks.
sam’s attention shifts to you. the vulnerability that returns to his face is slight enough that dean probably misses it, but you feel his hand flex at your waist beneath the blanket.
“yeah,” you answer, looking only at sam. “we’re good.”
dean nods once. “good.” he opens the door, letting pale morning light spill across the carpet. “about damn time.”
“dean,” sam calls after him.
“still gross,” dean says, stepping outside. “i’m getting coffee. be dressed when i come back, or i’m leaving both of you here.”
the door closes behind him. silence returns to the motel room, softer in the daylight than it was last night.
sam looks at you for a long moment. without the dark to hide him, you can see the uncertainty gathering behind his eyes again, quieter but not gone. you touch the crease between his eyebrows before it can deepen.
“what?” you ask.
his thumb moves along your waist beneath the shirt. “did you mean it?”
you know he’s not asking about being good. “every word.”
sam searches your face. “even now?”
“especially now.” you shift higher against his chest and kiss him, slow and warm in the thin morning light. “i love you.”
sam smiles against your mouth. his hand comes up to hold the back of your neck, keeping you close when the kiss ends.
“i love you too,” he murmurs.
outside, the impala’s door creaks when dean opens it. a moment later, his voice carries through the door, warning that the clock is running and coffee waits for no one. you laugh quietly, pressing your face into sam’s shoulder, and he wraps both arms around you.
there will be another case after this one. another motel, another night spent listening for danger on the other side of a wall. the life waiting beyond the room has not become safer simply because sam loves you.
it only feels less lonely.
sam kisses your temple beside the bandage and starts to sit up, taking you with him. his fingers find yours beneath the blanket and hold on.
this time, neither of you tries not to.