Work Text:
Last night was pretty scary. We were in one of Bobby's safe houses with Charlie. Dean came in hot. He just got back from a snack run at a convenience store and announced that the Stynes found him. He insisted that Sam burn The Book of the Damned. You, Dean and Charlie fought off the Stynes while Sam threw the book into the fire. But you remembered afterward. What Sam threw in the fire wasn't The Book of the Damned.
Tonight, you find him in the library the way you often do. He has a book open, looking handsome as always with a lamp throwing warm light across the side of his face. He looks up when you come in and his face does the thing it does.
You set a mug of tea on the side table next to him and settle into the chair closest to his with your own.
"Hey." He closes the book, one finger keeping his place. He always seems glad to see you. Three months in and it still catches you a little off guard.
"Don't stop on my account."
"It's not important. You okay?"
"Yeah. I just..." You wrap both hands around your mug. "I want to tell you something I remembered. About before. About my life before I got here."
He shifts toward you, just slightly. "Okay."
"There was someone I loved. He made a decision I thought was wrong and I told him so. I laid out the whole case, but he was still convinced he knew what he was doing. I trusted him because I didn't want to make it into something bigger than it needed to be and it turned out fine." You pause. "The second time it happened, I did the same thing. I told him my concerns, and then when he wasn't convinced, I trusted his judgment." You look down at the steam curling off your mug. "That time it didn't turn out fine. It ruined lives, mine included."
"I'm sorry," Sam says, and he means it.
"The thing is, I don't think I'm ever going to stop being that person. The one who trusts." You look up at him. "I love people who I trust, and I trust people that I love, and I don't know how to separate those things. I'm not sure I want to."
He nods. He's watching you the way he does when he knows there's more.
"So what I'm trying to say is, you can tell me anything. I want you to. Even the things you're pretty sure I'll push back on. I'll be honest with you, but I won't go around you. I won't go to Dean, I won't undermine whatever you've decided. I promise."
"I know," he says slowly, and there's a question in it.
"I know you know. I just want it said out loud. Because you and Dean have a habit of carrying things alone, keeping things from each other, and I get why, I do. But I don't want it to be that way between us."
He takes your hand. After a moment he says, "You're right. I'm sorry. I should have told you."
You wait.
"That wasn't The Book of the Damned I threw in the fire."
You let out a slow breath. Not surprise, exactly. More like relief that it's finally in the room with you. "I figured."
"You remembered."
"Yeah. I wanted to give you the chance to say it first."
Something moves across his face. "I was going to."
"I know, Sam. And I understand why you kept it. I've watched what the Mark is doing to him and I know you're not going to stop until you find a way out of it. And honestly, given how that conversation would have gone if you'd told Dean the truth..." You shake your head. "I don't know what else you could have done."
He looks at you for a long moment.
"Just don't do it again, okay?" you say. "Not with me. Even if it's hard. Even if you think I'll try to talk you out of it."
"I promise." He says it like he means it, which is the only way Sam Winchester knows how to say anything.
"Good." You sit back. Then, because you can't help it: "Also, just so you know, I'm probably going to remember whatever you're hiding before you tell me. So..."
He laughs, quiet and a little tired. "Yeah. I really should have seen that coming."
"You should have seen me seeing that coming."
He shakes his head, smiling now, and it changes his whole face.
You let the quiet settle between you for a moment. Then you set your mug down.
"I need to tell you the truth about one more thing."
"Yeah?"
"I love talking to you. I love our late night conversations. I mean that. Honestly, there have been nights I knew exactly how late it was getting and didn't say anything because I wasn't ready to stop." You hold his gaze. "But not tonight."
He tilts his head.
"Tonight," you say, "I want..." You draw it out. "You. Right now. I want you to take me and do things to me that make me scream." You raise one eyebrow for emphasis. Then remember you've never actually been able to do that, so it was probably both.
He's already setting his book on the side table, not bothering to mark his page, already standing, already picking you up to carry to your room.
The tea goes cold.