Chapter Text
You volunteer before you can think it through. All you can think is how you'll be able to stand close to him. There's not much room in front of the sink. You really want to be close to him.
"I'll help," you say, already standing, already moving toward the sink.
Sam looks up, surprised but not unwelcoming. "You don't have to…"
"I want to," you say, too quickly.
He turns the water on and starts washing. Steady. Efficient. Totally fine. You tell yourself to match that. Be normal. Be a friend. The counter forces you close enough that the air between you feels thin. You could take half a step back. You don’t.
He hands you the first plate. Your fingers brush, and the jolt goes straight to your heart like somebody flips a switch inside your chest. One beat drops, then everything slams back online. You almost fumble the plate. You catch it fast and dry it like you're on a cooking show and cameras are rolling.
Sam keeps moving like nothing happened. No pause. No glance. No sign. So of course he doesn’t feel it. That would be insane. This is your problem. Your dramatic body. Your stupid heart.
He hands you another plate, and you do something dumb on purpose. You let your fingers linger for half a second longer. You angle your hand so skin touches skin again. The shock hits your chest sharp and hot, and you feel your breath snag. You keep your face calm because Sam’s face stays calm. He talks about something normal, like a hunt detail or a book Dean wrecked, and he sounds friendly and steady like you’re not standing here getting wrecked by dish duty.
That makes it safe enough to want more.
He reaches for the soap and his forearm brushes yours. Bare skin. Warm skin. The jolt hits your chest and your heart stutters like it forgets the next beat. You concentrate very hard on your own expression, neutral, casual, totally unbothered, until Sam shifts and the moment is gone.
You need another plate. The one you want is slightly past him on the other side of the sink. You reach across anyway instead of asking him to hand it. Your shoulder brushes his arm through his shirt, and even through the fabric the contact hits your heart like there’s no fabric at all. You grab the plate and pull back and look at it like it’s fascinating.
Boots pass in the hall. Dean’s voice drifts by, distracted. "Anybody seen my… never mind."
You and Sam separate like you’re guilty, even though you’re not. Not technically. Dean keeps walking. The moment passes. You both resettle into your positions, slightly closer than before.
You keep trading plates and towels. You keep your voice light. You keep your face calm. You keep finding reasons to stand close, because close hurts in a way that feels alive.
"Almost done," Sam says.
You nod. You don’t trust your voice.
Then you both reach for the faucet.
His hand lands over yours. Full contact. His palm covers the back of your hand, warm and solid, and the shock hits your heart like a punch behind your ribs. You freeze because your body locks up, not because you think it means something. It can’t mean something. Sam is just turning off water. Friends do this. People bump hands. Normal.
You give yourself one stolen second anyway. You curl your fingers slightly under his hand, tiny and stupid, like you can’t help grabbing one more beat of it.
Sam lifts his hand away right away. Polite. Quick. Like it’s nothing.
"Sorry," he says, easy.
"No, you're fine," you say, too fast.
You put the last dish away with careful hands. You keep your shoulders loose. You keep your face calm. Then you escape to your room as soon as you can, because your heart keeps slamming and your skin keeps buzzing like it remembers.
You sit on your bed and press your palms to your face.
You do it on purpose. You keep doing it on purpose.
And he stays so normal that it feels like you’re the only one getting tortured by it.
Which means you need to stop.
Which means you want more tomorrow.