Work Text:
The bunker stays quiet in that way that never feels empty. It feels aware. Like the walls listen. Like the lights hum on purpose.
You and Sam sit at the table with two mugs you keep forgetting to drink. The conversation wanders like it always does with him. It starts with random stuff. Big ideas. Weird little questions. A story he tells that turns into you laughing so hard you almost snort, and Sam doing that soft, embarrassed smile like he hates attention but loves making you happy.
Tonight starts easy.
Then your past shows up.
It always does. Like a bruise you bump into in the dark.
You don't mean to get serious. You just… do. Your voice goes smaller. Your chest tightens. You stare at the table like the wood might answer you if you stare hard enough.
Sam notices right away. He always notices.
His face shifts. Less joking. More present. "I know it's hard," he says, quiet. "Not knowing, living with a blank past."
You let out a breath that sounds like defeat. "It's like… I'm missing pages. Whole chapters."
Sam nods once. He thinks for a moment, eyes focused like he's hunting a clue. Then he says, "I have an idea. It might pull something out."
Hope hits you so fast it almost feels rude. Like, oh, you're still allowed to want things? "Yes," you say, too quick. "Whatever it is. Yes."
Sam's chest tightens at your eagerness, at the raw hope in your voice. It hits him harder than it should, makes him want to give you a thousand breakthroughs just like this one. His mouth twitches, like your response touches something tender in him. "Okay." He straightens a little. "Close your eyes."
You do.
You hear the bunker fade. Not the sounds, not really. More like the weight of it. Sam's voice stays, steady and close. Like he's standing right beside you, even if he isn't.
The timbre of it wraps around you like safety made of sound, warm and grounding. You want to stay in that voice forever, let it guide you through every dark corner of your missing life.
"Picture waking up," he says. "You get out of bed. You get dressed. It's your day off. Saturday, or any day. You can do anything you want. What do you do?"
At first it's blank. Like staring at a white wall.
Then something forms.
"I… I think I walk downstairs."
"Good," Sam says right away, like he catches the word before it slips away. "That's something. So you get downstairs. What do you do?"
You swallow. "I'm looking around. I don't know."
"That's okay," he says. "Just walk through the house. What do you see?"
A kitchen. A living room. A couch. It's fuzzy, but it exists.
"A kitchen," you say. "And a living room with a couch."
Sam's voice warms, like he's proud of you for finding anything at all. "Nice. Okay. You go outside? You go somewhere? Or you stay in? Remember, it's your day off. You get to pick."
You don't even have to think.
"I stay in."
"Alright." You hear a smile in his voice. "So you stay in. You do something at home. Now imagine you have a spot that's yours. Not the couch. Not the kitchen. A space you like to be. What's there?"
You search.
"A laptop," you say. "I'm on it a lot."
"Games?" Sam asks.
"No. Work. And… other stuff."
"Okay," he says. "Look around again. Anything else?"
At first you see nothing. Then it hits like a door swinging open.
"A messy spot," you blurt. "Crafts… no. Art. Paintings. I paint! I'm a painter!"
The words tumble out fast, like they've been trapped behind your ribs.
"Bright colors," you add, breath catching. "I don't know what I paint, but it's bright."
Your eyes pop open.
Sam sits there, watching you like you just performed a miracle. His eyes go wide for half a second, then soften, relief and joy and something deeper flooding his expression. Like watching you light up does something to him he can't quite name. Like he wants to give you a thousand more moments exactly like this. His face holds so much open emotion it makes your breath catch.
"Wow," you whisper. "Sam… thank you."
He gives you that real smile. Not cocky. Not teasing. Just honest.
"I'm glad it worked," he says sincerely.
You stare at him, stunned and grateful and a little shaky. The intensity of his gaze makes something flutter in your chest, makes you acutely aware of how close you're sitting, how you could reach across the table and touch his hand if you were brave enough. "I wouldn't have figured that out without you."
Sam's voice drops. "You did it. I just… helped."
You blink hard, because your eyes sting and you refuse to cry over a memory of paint. Even if it's the best thing you've felt in weeks.
Then your brain kicks back on and starts sprinting.
"Wait, what kind of paint?" you say. "I saw an easel. So… not watercolor. Oil or acrylic, maybe."
Sam tilts his head. "Oil paint smells. Strong chemicals. Did you smell anything?"
You close your eyes again, replaying the feeling like it's a movie you can pause.
"No," you say. "I see brushes in water. So… acrylic then."
"That sounds right," Sam says.
You sit back, dazed. "I need to think about this when I'm not running on fumes. I need sleep."
Sam glances at the clock. He looks mildly horrified. "We did it again."
You yawn so hard your eyes water. "Yep. Bed."
You stand, and Sam stands too. Not rushed. Not awkward. He just moves like it's natural to walk with you, like staying near you feels right, feels necessary in a way he doesn't question.
The hallway feels longer at night. Quiet. Warm. Safe in a strange way.
At your door you grab the handle, then turn back to him. You notice how close you're standing, how the dim hallway light catches in his eyes. How easy it would be to reach out, to close the small distance between you. How badly some part of you wants to.
"Aw," you say, grin tugging at your mouth. "Thanks for walking me to my room, such a gentleman."
Sam's lips twitch. Your playfulness makes his chest ache with something tender and wanting. "My pleasure, Madame."
You chuckle. "Good night, sir." You curtsy, holding an invisible skirt.
Sam laughs under his breath, soft and real. "Good night."
The moment hangs there.
Sam doesn't move right away. You don't either. He's acutely aware of every inch between you, fighting the urge to reach out and tuck that loose strand of hair behind your ear, to lean closer, to find an excuse to stay in your doorway until morning. His hand twitches at his side.
Then he turns and heads for his room.
He walks away. Slow. Like leaving costs him something. Like every step takes effort. You watch him go, watch the way he moves even in retreat, and your pulse does something complicated.
That night, you lie in bed with your thoughts bouncing.
Paint. Bright colors. An easel.
Sam's face.
Sam's voice.
The way he looked at you like you weren't broken. Like you were a person with pieces worth finding.
Your stomach flips remembering his smile, the soft way he said "my pleasure, Madame" like the words were just for you. You replay it like it's your favorite song, let it loop through your mind until sleep finally pulls you under.
You fall asleep holding that.
* * *
A couple weeks later, the guys have been on a hunt for a few days. You hear the Impala pull into the garage and the space fills with noise. Heavy footsteps. Bags rustling. Dean's voice, already complaining like it's his favorite sport.
"Seriously?" Dean grunts. "I am not a damn pack mule."
You step into the hall, smiling because they're back safe, and freeze when you see that they're both carrying boxes and with shopping bags hanging from arms.
"Hey, welcome ba…" You stare. "What is all that?"
Sam looks way too pleased with himself, practically radiating satisfaction. He's got that grin that says he's been waiting days to spring this surprise, and he watches your face like his life depends on your reaction. "It's a surprise," he says, grin huge. "Come on."
He leads you to one of the storage rooms. Dean follows, complaining on principle. "He made us drive out of the way," Dean says. "And he interrogated the sales guy like he was a suspect. Endless questions. And the guy? Total chatterbox. Every single answer came with a novel."
"Dean," Sam says, flat and warning.
Dean shrugs. "I'm just saying. It filled up the whole back seat. The whole thing."
Sam ignores him with the practiced ease of a lifetime of brotherly bickering, setting boxes and bags down with careful precision. He shifts a large box, and you catch a glimpse of the picture on the side: professional studio lights.
"We got you something," he says.
"Me?" Your stomach flips. "What is it?"
You stare, confusion warring with something that feels dangerously like hope. "What...?"
He tips another box onto its side. The picture is an easel. Your mouth drops open.
Sam keeps going. Acrylic paint. So many tubes they look like candy. Brushes. Palettes. A water basin. Canvases. A desk. Rolling storage carts. A chair. More lighting. It's like he's trying to rebuild a missing piece of you, right here on the bunker floor.
The realization hits you all at once: He did this. For me. He spent days planning this, driving out of his way, asking endless questions to get it right. And that does something dangerous to your heart, something that makes it hard to breathe.
You stare like it can't be real. Then your eyes sting. "Oh my gosh," you whisper. "No way."
You walk around it like it might vanish if you breathe wrong. Your throat tightens. "I can't believe you did this," you say. "Thank you."
You hug Dean first because he's closest and because your body needs to do something with all the overwhelming emotion. Dean stiffens for half a beat, he always does, then relaxes into the hug, but refusing to look soft, he gives you a couple pats on the back.
"You're welcome," Dean says, like it's no big deal. "But it was Sammy's idea." He jerks his chin at Sam. "He said you're a painter, and we had to get you the good stuff."
You step back and turn to Sam, your heart doing this messy little flip. Warm. Hurts. Hopeful. All at once.
"Aww, Sam." Your voice cracks on his name. "You… you remembered I said that?"
Sam's mouth twitches, almost a smile, like your surprise catches him off guard. "Of course I did." He says it plain, like remembering you takes zero effort. Like you matter in a way he doesn't even think to explain.
Your heart literally skips because it's not just that he remembered, it's that remembering you is effortless to him. Like you're written into his thoughts as permanently as breathing.
Then his eyes soften. His voice drops, goes rough with how deeply he means it. "And maybe it'll help." He glances at the supplies like they're a lifeline. "Maybe it'll bring more memories back."
Behind him, Dean watches you both, pretending he isn't watching. He sees the way Sam tracks every micro-expression on your face, the way you look at his brother like Sam just handed you the world. Dean's eyes narrow slightly, and he clears his throat deliberately, looks away like the ceiling suddenly gets interesting.
You don't overthink it. You just move.
You wrap your arms around Sam and press in, like you're making sure he's real. His arms come around you steady and sure, and for a second your whole body lights up, this bright humming current under your skin.
Electric.
You fit together perfectly, like you were designed for this. You have to fight the urge to press your face into his chest, to breathe him in. But you do breathe, just a little, and he smells like Sam, soap and old books and something warm you can't name but would recognize anywhere.
Like your brain goes, Oh. This is safe. This is home.
Sam's breath catches. You feel so right in his arms, fit against him like you belong there. He has to resist the urge to pull you closer, to rest his chin on top of your head, to memorize every detail of this moment because he's not sure when he'll get it again.
Dean starts edging toward the door like he's suddenly remembered an urgent appointment with literally anywhere else. The look he shoots Sam over your shoulder is pointed, knowing, and Sam suddenly finds the boxes on the floor extremely interesting.
"Dean, wait. We need to put this together."
Dean pauses mid-escape. "Uh, yeah. I was just… gonna… get the rest."
You squint. "The rest?"
Dean points vaguely down the hall. "The rest of the stuff."
Sam's stare could bend steel.
Dean mutters, "I'll be right back," and disappears.
Sam starts opening boxes. He reads instructions. Of course he reads instructions. He lays pieces out in neat rows like he's prepping for surgery.
You keep touching things. The brushes. The paint tubes. The blank canvases. You wave your hand over lined up colors of paint tubes. Like proof you exist beyond missing memories.
"You have no idea how much this means to me," you say, and your voice cracks. "I can't wait to start."
Sam looks up at you and his eyes go soft. "You deserve something here that's yours," he says, voice rough with emotion. "Not just… work. Not just helping us."
Your chest hurts in the best way.
Dean returns approximately two minutes later loaded down like a walking department store, dumps the additional bags with considerably less grace, and immediately finds another reason to make himself scarce.
You and Sam build the setup together. When the easel stands, it feels like a small victory. When the lights click on, the room looks different. Brighter. Like it holds more air.
When it's done, Sam steps back and looks at it, proud and a little nervous. Like he's waiting to see if he did it right.
"Let me know if you need anything else," he says. "Maybe shelves for organization. And the guy at the store said you might need more light. So... if you need anything let me know. I can grab it on the next trip."
You smile so hard it almost hurts. "Thanks."
You walk to the easel. You stare at the blank canvas. Then you feel Sam close behind you. Not touching. Just there. He's acutely aware of the inches between you, fighting the urge to rest his hand on your shoulder, to step closer and close the gap.
His voice comes low, careful. "So… what do you paint?"
You laugh softly, wiping at your eyes. "Bright colors."
"Yeah. I know that part." Sam chuckles. "But, whatever you paint," he says, quietly, voice loaded with meaning, "I want to see it."
Not just the paintings, his tone suggests. You. All of you. Everything you create and discover and become.
You swallow. Your heart flips. "You will," you whisper.
You look at the paints lined up like a rainbow army, each tube bright and loud and vibrantly alive. And one thought keeps circling back, steady as a heartbeat: Sam listens. Sam remembers. And he doesn't just hear what you want, he hears what you need.
And you're starting to realize that you need him too.