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The voices are soft and muffled at first, giving you a false sense of security that you are lucid dreaming. But the next minute, the argument rise loud, snapping you out of the sleepy haze. 1:49, the clock by your bed reads the time in angry red digits. The voices grow close and loud enough for you to make out some words through the door of your motel room. Instinctively, you reach for the loaded Glock G19, stashed under your pillow for situations like this.
Bolting upright, you quietly pad to your door, placing your ear against it. On the other side, you can hear Tim, the newly appointed manager of Driftwood Motel giving out cop threats to somebody, "Sir, I'm calling the cops!"
"Whatever, man!" The huskier voice replies. You know that voice like your mother's lullaby, so you lower the gun and open the door to see Sam standing there with his hand frozen in the middle of a knock.
"Y/N, go back to sleep, I can handle this jerk. The cops are on their way." Tim beams behind Sam's broad shoulders as he stumbles in the room.
You stop Tim at the threshold. "There's no need for that, I'll handle him."
A look of confusion washes across his face followed by hurt. You guess he thinks you are going to fire him so you force a small smile for his benefit and quietly mouth the word 'boyfriend'. Tim smiles, assures you that he will take care of the cops and wishes you goodnight. Although, he doesn't leave before casting a nervous glance at Sam behind you.
You lock the door. Resting your head on the surface you take two deep breaths to calm your racing heartbeat, the smell of paint hitting you strong. Turning around, you find Sam Winchester sitting on your bed looking rather sullen and regretting his life choices.
Flipping the light switch on, you leave the Glock on the dresser next to the door and walk to the bed. Sam is drunk, you can tell even without the need to smell the alcohol on his breath. The signs are easily visible in the disheveled hair, the glassy look in his eyes and the small giggles bursting out of him.
"You're drunk." You state as a matter of fact.
He nods his head comically. "And your manager called the cops."
Completely unrelated and irrelevant and but that's what drunk people do, find weird places to connect dots.
Your lips mimick Sam's, wanting to get in on his inside joke that has him laughing like a child but you hold back. Though he has been a happy drunk based on the last two occasions that you have seen drunk, the fact that he is swimming in alcohol rings alarm bells in your head. While his older brother Dean, is known for drinking like a fish on the job, Sam is always the sober one.
Speaking of, "Where's Dean?" You ask. It's impossible to sleep through Dean's growling Impala. Clearly, Sam had come alone.
Sam shrugs but does not offer any other response. He twirls the black cord on his wrists and chews on his lips. He is nervous. Having dated him for six months now, you are aware of his little tells.
"How did you get here?"
That question bubbles another laughter from him. "Hitchhiked", he sniggers.
"Sam, you know it's dangerous right? What with yellow eyes out there hunting down the special children like you."
Six months ago, Sam and Dean rented a room for two nights at this very motel. Both Sam and you grew up with a hunter for a parent and while you got out and opened Driftwood Motel, it was disheartening to learn that Sam was sucked back into the horrible hunting business. That was also the time you learnt about your own feelings for this tall but shy, handsome guy that shared the same rebellious cause as you.
"Let him come, I'm ready." Sam boasts.
You take a seat next to him. Cupping his face in your palms, you urge him to look at you. "No, you are not, baby. Not in this condition."
The giggles vanish and a hurtful expression crosses his face. So much for being a happy drunk. His happiness barely ever lasted throughout the entire state his drunkenness and then he delved right into the dark recesses of his mind.
Tears well up in those hazel green eyes and it breaks your heart to see him hurt like that. "Sam, what happened?"
Sam didn't drink without a reason. Something had to have happened. A hunt gone wrong, a failed expedition, a sign of bad news or worst case Dean was hurt. "Is Dean alright? Are you alright?"
In both cases he nods his head. Relief courses through your veins. "Then what is it, baby?" You ask him softly, brushing away the tears running down his cheeks.
"People", he pauses to let the hiccup pass, "people always die around me." You wait for him to continue, carding your fingers through his soft hair. "Three people died today and a little girl almost drowned."
Oh Sam! He always saw deaths during a hunt as a failure on his part. This is exactly where it was going. "Sam, you can't save everyone, you know that. But at least you saved the girl."
"Barely", he scoffs. "Another minute and she would have died too. On my watch, just like Jessica and Ava. What if something happens to you? I cannot live knowing I put your life at risk."
Tears gush down his face. You lean over and pull him in a hug. He lets you. Both of you sit there in each other's embrace for a length of time.
Probably the only good thing to come out his drunken state is that he lets down his guard around you completely. You rub his back, rocking him lightly, humming an old song you often heard on the radio.
"I love you, Y/N", he mumbles in the crook of your neck stilling you in place. This is the first time Sam has said those words to you. Last few months you wondered what this would feel like, if at all it happened.
Hunting life meant no relations because it always ended up with someone getting hurt. Sam, who was surrounded by death most of his life was already scarred enough by the death of his first love: Jessica.
You were prepared that this day might never come. Sam would never utter those words again in his life. But he here was, a bit drunk but in your arms, confessing his love to you.
Did it count, if it was said in the state of drunkenness? You didn't know, but you it didn't matter. The love of your life was here with you at his most vulnerable state.
"I love you too, Sam." You whisper back, kissing the top of his head.
He swallows against your throat and delicate long fingers trail from the side of your face down to your neck. The touch sparks heat under your skin but... No. Not like this. You tell yourself. If this is drunken mistake, you don't want Sam to wake up with one of the worst regret of his life.
You close your fingers around his. Bringing them to you lips, you kiss the tips gently and then push Sam away.
He looks at you with delirious eyes."Y/N, you don't want to?" The green orbs travel down to your lips.
You laugh nervously, "Believe me, I want to. But not like this."
He pouts at you adorably but nods in agreement as a yawn breaks out of him. You twist and catch the time on the clock: 3.07. Sam being an early riser would need all the sleep he could get.
Before you can suggest he hit the sack, he shakes his head, massaging his temple. Squinting his eyes, he turns his head away from you.
"Sam?" You ask, ignoring the panic in your voice.
"Ugh!" He moans softly, digging the heel of his palm into his head. You rush to other side and pry his hand away. His face is scrunched up looks a little green to you. Oh no!
Before you can suggest, Sam bolts to where he knows the bathroom is. You are on his heels. He doesn't bother turning on the lights as he bends over the toilet bowl and vomits.
He sinks to the floor, his right arm draped around the edge of the ceramic bowl as his body empties out his stomach. You drop down next to him, pulling the strands of out his hair as he belches. Up close, the sour smell of the foul liquid makes your stomach churn too but you sit beside him, rubbing his back as the nausea rides his body into exhaustion. He vomits until there is nothing more left to throw up.
"Go away, you don't have to see this." He says between the dry heaving.
But you are not leaving him to vomit his guts out alone. "It's okay, Sam. It's okay."
He rests his head on his arm taking a couple of breaths. Then, you help him sit on the edge of the bath tub. White knuckled, he grabs onto the edge as he waits for the nausea to subside. Confident that he wouldn't collapse or anything, you take that time to flush the toilet, the air already cleaner than before.
Grabbing a glass off the sink that you use to store toothbrush, you rinse it clean and fill it up with water. "Here, wash your mouth."
Sam carefully takes the glass from your hand. Sipping the water, he sloshes it inside his mouth and spits into the toilet bowl. He repeats it a couple of times until the acrid taste of vomit is completely removed from his tongue.
"Thank you, Y/N" He say avoiding your eyes.
"Hey", you cradle his face. Kissing the pointy tip of his nose you say, "don't mention it."
You let a couple of minutes pass before you offer to walk Sam back to bed. He sways a little on his feet but you are right next to him in case the nausea hits again.
He feels heavy as he leans against you but you manage to walk him to bed. He slumps down harder than you intended but since you both come out unscathed, you consider that a win.
"C'mon now, let's get you to bed." You unzip his hoodie and shrug it off his shoulders, the sleeve snagging a bit around his cast. Next, you unbutton his shirt and catch a hint of rosy blush on his otherwise pale cheeks. You feel heat rise up to your face but keep your focus on the task, one button after another.
The shirt comes off a lot more easily than the hoodie had and you are thankful for that. The last thing you want to do is jar his arm wrapped in a cast. Sam reaches for the hem of his black t-shirt but you gently grab his wrists. "Better to leave this on. It gets cold." You explain. Well, cold for him but certainly hot for you.
Sam doesn't fight you. He is sweet like that and respectfully takes a no for an answer. You push him down on the bed gently, setting the pillow under his head. The laces on his brown boots come undone quickly and in one single tug the boots are out.
Grabbing his belongings, you place his clothes on the dresser and his shoes next to the door. Out of habit, you check the lock on the doors before turning off the lights.
On your way to the bed you grab you phone and speed dial Dean.
"Dean?" You blurt after he answers your call on the second ring.
"Y/N, tell me Sam is with you." He begs. You know Dean would be worried. You are glad you called him sooner than later. No point prolonging the man's suffering.
"Yes. Showed up drunk a couple of hours ago."
"I'm on my way." He says and you can hear the jingle of the keys in the background. "I am an hour's drive away from Driftwood."
"Dean, I know you are worried but Sam is fine. He just fell asleep." You look over at Sam's still form. "Why don't you come tomorrow morning? Preferably late morning? Breakfast is on me."
Dean sighs but doesn't argue. "Yeah, alright. As soon long as Sasquatch is okay." The line goes dead as he hangs up.
By the time you are back to the bed, you can hear Sam snoring softly. You tug the comforter over his miles long body and snuggle next to him, enjoying the warmth and the scent of pine and mint soap that is so deliciously Sam.
A cry wakes you up later in the morning. Sam is moaning next to you, seemingly trapped in a nightmare. A sheen of sweat covers his face. "Sam, baby, wake up!" You try to jostle him out of the deep sleep.
His eyes snap open, tears overflowing. He pulls you close and crushes his lips against yours. For a man that just rose from a deep sleep, his breath is surprisingly not stale. And that makes you wonder if yours is. As urgent and tempting the kiss is, you pull away a bit conscious about the morning breath and a lot more concerned about Sam's panicked awakening.
"What happened?" You ask, licking your lips, secretly savoring Sam's taste.
He looks away and shakes his head as if hoping to wring off the nightmare. "Just a nightmare, only a nightmare." He doesn't go back to sleep though, instead sits next to you with his head in his hands.
Worry gnaws you, so you grab the glass of water from the night stand and offer it to Sam. "Let me get you an Advil."
He takes the glass and lets you run to the bathroom. You find the Advil in the medicine cabinet and place one on Sam's large palm. He swallows the tablet with a glass of water.
"Baby, you are scaring me." You confess, your hand kneading his taut shoulder.
He pats your hand and flashes a smile that doesn't bring out the dimples that dent his cheeks. Turning away from you, he curls on the bed. You drape the comforter over him, crawling under it. As much as you want to spoon him, you think it's better to give him a little space.
Hours later, when you wake up, the space next to you is empty. You find Sam putting on his shoes by the door, the rumble of Impala though faint, clearly audible.
"Were you leaving without saying goodbye?" The words spill before you can stop.
Sam freezes, a hurtful expression marring his handsome face. "Y/N, no. I didn't want to disturb you. You have done enough last night." But even as says this, he seems stoic or worse, numb.
"Bullshit!"
Sam crosses the distance between the door and you. Kissing your forehead, he mumbles a 'thank you' and a hasty 'take care of yourself'. And before you know it, he is out of the door.
It's quiet inside the Impala. Dean doesn't question Sam about last night. But Sam's mind is in chaos as he mulls over the nightmare: the one he didn't tell you about, the one where he saw you pinned to the ceiling of the motel as flames engulf you.