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the bunker is quiet in the way it only ever is after midnight—not peaceful, never peaceful, just heavy with stillness.
the ventilation system breathes through the concrete, filling the library with a low mechanical hum. somewhere deeper in the bunker, an old pipe groans, the sound vibrating through the floor before fading into the soft turn of a page and the rhythmic clicking of sam’s keyboard.
you sit across from him with an open book resting beneath your hands. ancient burial rites, according to the cracked leather cover.
you’ve been staring at the same paragraph for so long that the words have lost their meaning. black ink blurs against yellowing paper, every line sliding through your mind without leaving a trace.
another click.
the light from sam’s laptop washes his face in alternating flashes of white and pale blue. his shoulders curve slightly toward the screen, hair falling across his forehead while he reads. an untouched cup of coffee sits beside his elbow, the surface gone still and cloudy with cold.
he looks tired. he always looks tired lately.
you try not to watch him, but you fail.
sam’s mouth barely moves. just the smallest pull at one corner, softening his face into a private smile. something inside your chest twists before you can stop it.
"good news?"
sam glances up. the smile disappears so fast that you could almost convince yourself it had never been there.
"what?"
you gesture toward the laptop with the end of your pen.
"you smiled."
"oh." his gaze drops back to the screen. "yeah. i guess."
you wait for him to explain. he doesn’t.
the cursor blinks inside a white message box. sam’s fingers hover over the keys before beginning to move again.
"case lead?" you ask.
"no." the answer comes too quickly.
sam clears his throat. one hand closes around the edge of the laptop, angling the screen away from you with a movement that is probably supposed to look absentminded.
it doesn’t.
sam guards his computer like it contains the launch codes to every nuclear weapon in the country, but he has never hidden research from you before. he complains when dean touches it. threatens him when he eats over it. he once spent half an hour checking the hard drive because dean used it to search for a burger place without asking.
you have never been included in that distrust until now.
"right," you say quietly.
you return to the book, though the paragraph has become even more impossible to read. a few seconds pass before the typing stops.
"it’s just someone i’ve been talking to," sam says.
your fingers still against the page.
"someone?"
"online."
the word settles like lead beneath your ribs. you keep your expression neutral—at least, you hope you do.
"oh."
sam nods, even though you aren’t looking at him anymore.
"we met a few weeks ago."
"that’s nice." the words sound thin and strange in the enormous room.
you turn the page without reading it. the paper scrapes against your thumb, a sharp physical sting that’s easier to focus on than the sudden warmth crawling up your neck.
sam watches you. you can feel it even without looking—the weight of his gaze lingering across the table, waiting for something you don’t know how to give him.
then his laptop chimes, and his attention returns to the screen.
the clicking resumes.
you last another three minutes before closing the book. the sound echoes more loudly than it should.
"i’m going to bed."
sam looks up again.
"already?"
"it’s almost one."
"you usually stay up later."
you push your chair away from the table. its wooden legs drag against the floor with a low scrape.
"i’m tired." another lie.
sam’s eyebrows pull together, concern appearing with such frustrating ease it almost makes you angry.
he notices when you skip lunch. when you favor one side after a hunt. when the bunker feels too quiet and you need someone to sit beside you without asking questions.
but not this.
apparently, he can notice everything except the way you look at him.
"okay," he says after a moment. "goodnight."
"night."
you leave without looking back.
the hallway feels colder than the library, the concrete leaching warmth through your socks as you make your way toward your room.
behind you, muffled by distance, sam’s laptop chimes again.
—
the next morning smells like coffee, butter, and something beginning to burn.
you find dean standing in front of the stove wearing an apron emblazoned with kiss the cook in large red letters beside a lipstick mark.
you stop in the doorway.
"where did that come from?"
dean glances down at himself as though he has forgotten he’s wearing it.
"a gift."
"from who?"
"myself."
"you bought yourself an apron?"
"self-care." dean shrugs as though this is the most ordinary thing in the world.
you move toward the coffee pot.
"that isn’t what self-care means."
"maybe not to you."
"when did you even buy it?"
"none of your business."
you pour coffee into your mug. steam curls against your face, warm and bitter, and you close your eyes for half a second as you breathe it in.
dean slides a plate of scrambled eggs across the counter before you ask.
"eat."
you look down at them.
"good morning to you too."
"you look like crap."
"thank you."
"you’re welcome."
you carry the plate to the table. dean turns back to the stove, prodding a strip of bacon that has curled almost completely in on itself.
footsteps approach from the hallway. you know they belong to sam before he enters.
you hate that you know.
he appears a moment later, already dressed in jeans and a dark flannel, his laptop tucked securely beneath one arm.
your gaze catches on it.
then on his hands.
then anywhere else.
"morning," sam says.
"morning," dean answers.
you lift your coffee in silent acknowledgment.
sam’s eyes settle on you.
"sleep okay?"
"fine."
"you were up early."
you nearly choke on your coffee and look at him over the rim of your mug.
"how do you know?"
"i heard you walking around."
"you were awake?"
his fingers adjust against the laptop.
"couldn’t sleep."
dean looks between the two of you while slowly chewing a piece of bacon.
"riveting."
sam gives him a tired look.
"what?"
"nothing." dean takes another bite. "please continue discussing each other’s sleep schedules. it’s not weird at all."
you roll your eyes, and a faint flush creeps across the tops of sam’s ears.
he sets his laptop on the table.
the screen wakes before he can close it. a notification appears in the upper corner.
new message from elena.
the name burns itself into your mind before you can look away.
sam notices. his hand moves across the trackpad, closing the notification.
dean notices too. of course he does. teasing sam is an opportunity he never misses.
"elena," he says, dragging out the syllables.
sam’s jaw tightens.
"dean."
"who’s elena?"
"a friend."
"doesn’t look like just a friend."
"you saw one notification."
"one very friendly notification."
"you didn’t even read it."
dean points his fork at him. "it had a heart."
your stomach drops. sam shoots him a look.
"it was just an emoji."
"a heart-shaped emoji."
"most hearts are heart-shaped."
dean looks at you as though sam has just proven his point. you focus very hard on your eggs.
"online friend?" he asks.
sam’s expression darkens.
"why do you care?"
"i don’t." dean grins. "i’m happy for you, sammy."
"don’t."
"your new internet girlfriend."
"she isn’t my girlfriend."
"yet."
sam closes the laptop harder than necessary and stands.
"i’m going to the library."
"tell elena i said hi."
sam mutters something under his breath as he leaves, carrying the laptop against his chest. dean watches him disappear through the doorway, then he looks at you.
"don’t." you take a drink of coffee and ignore his gaze.
"i didn’t say anything."
"but you’re about to."
dean just shrugs.
you push the eggs around your plate. the smell that had seemed comforting a few minutes ago now turns your stomach.
dean leans one hip against the counter and says your name, pulling your attention from the now-unappetizing eggs.
"you okay?"
you scoff. "why wouldn’t i be?"
"your face did that thing." dean waves his fork in your general direction.
you frown. "what thing?"
"the thing it does when you’re pretending you’re not upset."
"i’m not upset."
"there it is again."
you stab a piece of egg harder than necessary.
"sam can talk to whoever he wants."
"never said he couldn’t."
"good."
after a beat, dean says, "you’re jealous."
your gaze snaps up in response, and dean’s mouth curls into a knowing smile.
"i am not jealous."
"sure," he says, dragging out the word.
"i’m not."
"you’re currently trying to murder breakfast."
you release the fork. it clatters against the plate.
"i lost my appetite."
"because of the eggs or elena?"
you glare at him. dean raises both hands, still holding his fork in one.
"just asking."
you take your coffee and stand.
"for the record," he calls as you leave, "the eggs didn’t deserve that."
—
after that, elena seems to exist everywhere. not physically. that might have been easier. instead, she lives inside every soft chime that carries through the bunker and every private smile you catch from across the room.
she is there every time sam looks down at his phone during breakfast or closes a window when you enter the library. every night he stays awake after you leave, the light beneath his bedroom door cutting a thin blue line across the hallway floor.
you know almost nothing about her, but that does not stop your mind from creating her.
she is probably beautiful. the effortless kind, with shiny hair that never tangles and a smile that looks natural in photographs. she probably has a real job she can talk about without inventing a new lie every few seconds. she probably owns clothing that has never been soaked in monster blood.
maybe she likes books. sam would like that.
maybe she listens when he talks about the things no one else understands. maybe she asks about his day and receives the kind of truth he usually keeps locked away.
you hate her a little.
then you feel guilty, because she has done nothing except speak to someone you have no right to claim.
that is the worst part.
sam isn’t yours. he has never been yours.
you have only collected fragments of him over the years, mistaking familiarity for belonging.
the way he takes his coffee dark but forgets to drink it while researching. the scars he never talks about. the crease between his eyebrows when he is worried.
the way his hand finds the small of your back whenever danger gets too close, guiding you behind him as though his body could stop every terrible thing in the world from reaching yours.
none of it belongs to you.
elena only makes that impossible to ignore.
so you begin spending more time with dean.
not intentionally. at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
dean is easy. he’s safe. there is no careful distance to measure with him, no fear that touching his hand will expose everything you have spent years hiding.
he lets you choose the movie even while complaining about it. he passes you a beer without asking. he fills the silence before it has a chance to become painful.
tonight, you are sitting beside him on the couch while an action movie plays across the television. rain drums steadily against the bunker’s exterior door, too distant to hear clearly but loud enough to soften the silence between explosions.
on-screen, a car sails over the edge of a bridge.
"that should’ve exploded," dean says.
the car hits the ravine and erupts into flames.
"it did explode."
"not fast enough."
"you’re criticizing the realism?"
"there are standards."
you laugh, the sound escaping before you can stop it.
the bunker door opens behind you.
cool air follows sam down the stairs, carrying the smell of rain and wet pavement. grocery bags hang from both hands, their sides speckled with water.
"hey," you say, looking over your shoulder.
sam stops near the bottom step. his eyes move from you to dean. more specifically, to dean’s arm stretched across the back of the couch behind you.
something flickers across his face, though it is gone before you can name it.
"hey."
dean pauses the movie. "you get pie?"
sam carries the bags toward the kitchen table.
"no."
dean looks personally offended.
"but you went to the store."
"we needed actual food."
"pie is actual food."
sam starts unpacking the bags. a box of pasta lands on the table harder than necessary.
you glance at dean. dean glances at you.
"i’ll help." you leave the couch and approach the table.
sam keeps his attention on the groceries.
"you don’t have to," he says, not looking at you.
"i know."
you reach into the nearest bag at the same time he does. your fingers brush, a brief shock of warmth against chilled skin. sam pulls his hand away almost immediately. the movement is small, but it still hurts.
you take out a jar of pasta sauce and study the label as though it contains something worth reading.
"how’s elena?"
sam’s shoulders tense. "fine."
"you two still talking?"
"yeah."
"that’s good."
"is it?"
you glance up.
sam is watching you now. rain has darkened the ends of his hair, and one drop trails slowly from his temple toward his jaw.
there is something sharp beneath his expression. something almost accusing.
"why wouldn’t it be?" you ask.
"no reason." he turns back to the groceries.
"okay."
dean clears his throat from the couch. neither of you looks at him.
sam takes a carton of eggs from the bag.
"you and dean having fun?"
"we were watching a movie."
"looked fun."
you blink. "it was."
"good."
you pause before asking, "why are you acting weird?"
sam laughs once, but there is no humor in the sound.
"i’m not."
"you are."
“i’m putting groceries away."
"yeah, angrily."
"i didn’t know there was an angry way to put away eggs."
"you’re about to crack them."
sam looks down. his fingers are pressing dents into the cardboard.
his grip loosens.
"i’m just tired."
"right." you step away from the table.
sam exhales through his nose. "i didn’t mean—"
the laptop chimes from inside the bag hanging across his shoulder.
both of you freeze.
another message.
your eyes move toward the sound before you can stop them. sam notices. again.
"you should get that," you say.
"it can wait."
"she might need something."
"she doesn’t."
"how do you know?"
"because i know her."
the answer cuts more deeply than it should.
you fold your arms across your chest. "then why are you always hiding her?"
sam’s eyebrows knit together. "what?"
"the screen. the messages. every time i walk into a room, you close something or turn the computer away."
"that isn’t—"
"then why are you always talking to her?"
the question leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
the room goes silent. even dean doesn’t say anything.
sam stares at you. heat spreads across your face as the meaning of your own words settles between you.
"forget it." you turn.
sam catches your wrist. not tightly, just enough to stop you. his palm is warm against your skin. his thumb rests over your pulse, and you wonder whether he can feel how violently it jumps beneath his touch.
"why do you care?" he asks.
you look down at his hand. "i don’t."
sam’s expression hardens. "you’re a terrible liar."
the lie catches in your throat.
"so are you."
his fingers loosen, and you pull away before he can feel your hand begin to tremble.
"enjoy your conversation."
you leave the room without waiting for an answer.
—
dean finds you in the laundry room an hour later, folding one of sam’s shirts.
you do not realize it belongs to him until you recognize the faded grey fabric and the tiny tear near the hem. you have seen him wear it beneath flannel shirts a hundred times. once, after a hunt outside cheyenne, you fell asleep against his shoulder while he was wearing it.
you remember waking with your cheek pressed to soft cotton and sam’s jacket tucked across your lap. the memory makes your hands tighten.
"he thinks you’re dating me," dean says from the doorway.
you nearly drop the shirt.
"what?"
"sam."
"sam thinks—" you turn toward him. "why would he think that?"
dean gestures vaguely at you and himself.
"because we hang out."
"we all hang out."
"you wear my jackets."
"because you leave them everywhere."
"you steal my food."
"you steal mine."
"you sit beside me during movies."
"because sam’s always on his laptop talking to elena."
dean points at you. "and there it is."
you fold the shirt again even though it is already folded.
"there what is?"
"jealousy."
you scoff. "i’m not jealous."
"you’re folding that shirt like it owes you money."
you look down. deep creases run through the fabric beneath your fingers.
you smooth them out.
"he likes her."
"he’s never met her."
"that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like her."
"he likes you."
a quiet laugh escapes you. dean doesn’t join in, and your smile fades.
"no, he doesn’t."
"yes, he does."
"he barely talks to me anymore."
"because he thinks you want me."
"that’s ridiculous."
"yeah, well." dean crosses his arms. "welcome to my life."
you look down at sam’s shirt again.
"he made a dating profile."
"because he thought you weren’t interested."
your fingers stop moving.
"he told you that?"
"not exactly."
"then you don’t know."
dean sighs. "you two are exhausting."
he pushes away from the doorway.
"where are you going?"
"out."
"it’s almost midnight."
"pie waits for no man."
you stare at him.
"you bought pie yesterday."
"then i’m buying more. sam didn’t buy me any."
"dean—"
he turns back, the humor slipping from his face. "talk to him."
"there’s nothing to talk about."
"then go tell him that."
you clutch sam’s shirt against your stomach.
"what if you’re wrong?"
dean studies you for a moment. when he answers, his voice is quieter.
"then i’m wrong." the honesty hurts more than any reassurance would have. he glances toward the shirt in your hands. "but i know my brother."
"so do i."
"apparently not as well as you think."
he leaves before you can answer. a minute later, the bunker door closes.
you remain in the laundry room with sam’s shirt pressed against you and the unsteady hope dean left behind pressing painfully against your ribs.
—
sam is in the library when you find him. of course he is.
his laptop sits open in front of him, but the screen has gone dark. his hands are folded beneath his chin, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the table. he looks up when your footsteps reach the edge of the room.
"hey."
"hey." you stop on the opposite side of the table.
the distance between you is only a few feet, but it feels enormous.
"you can sit." sam gestures toward the chair across from him.
"i know."
his hand falls back to the table.
you hate this—the careful voices, the space neither of you knows how to cross, the feeling that every conversation has become something you have to survive. it is becoming too much.
"dean left," you say.
"i heard."
"he said he was getting pie."
sam huffs a quiet laugh. "sounds right."
the sound aches somewhere inside you. you sit. sam watches your hands as you fold them in your lap.
"can i ask you something?"
his expression becomes guarded. "sure."
you glance at the laptop. "is she your girlfriend?"
sam follows your gaze. "elena?"
you nod.
"no."
a breath leaves you before you can hide it. sam notices.
"do you want her to be?" you ask.
his eyes return to yours.
"why are you asking?"
"because i want to know."
"you didn’t seem interested before."
"i was trying not to be."
the words settle between you. sam’s expression softens, but only slightly.
"why?"
you laugh under your breath. "you really need me to explain that?"
"yeah," he says quietly. "i think i do."
you look down at your hands.
"because you smile when she messages you."
sam doesn’t speak.
"because you hide the screen whenever i walk past. because you stay up talking to her, and i don’t even know who she is, but she knows you."
"she doesn’t."
you look up, and sam’s gaze remains anchored on yours.
"not really," he continues. "she doesn’t know anything real."
"you’ve been talking for weeks."
"that doesn’t mean she knows me."
"then why talk to her?"
sam leans back. the chair creaks beneath his weight. his eyes close for a moment.
"because it was easier."
"easier than what?"
he opens them. "this."
your breath catches. "this?"
"wanting someone who doesn’t want me."
the bunker seems to go perfectly still. the ventilation system fades. the distant pipes. the faint electrical hum of the lamp. all you hear is your own heartbeat.
"sam—"
"i thought you and dean…" he shakes his head. "it doesn’t matter."
"yes, it does."
"you’re always together."
"because you’re always avoiding me."
"i wasn’t avoiding you."
"you pull your laptop away every time i get near you."
"because i didn’t want you to see it."
"exactly."
"because i was embarrassed."
you stare at him. sam looks down at the table.
"dean sent me the site as a joke," he says. "months ago. i ignored it at first."
"but you changed your mind."
his mouth twists. "i kept watching you with him."
"dean?"
"yeah."
"sam, dean is like my brother."
his gaze lifts. "he told me."
"then why didn’t you say anything?"
"what was i supposed to say?"
"anything."
"you could’ve said something too."
"you had a girlfriend."
"she isn’t my girlfriend."
"i didn’t know that."
"you could’ve asked."
"i did."
sam falls silent, and you look away before your expression can break.
"you never gave me a real answer," you say, tracing a scratch in the tabletop to avoid his gaze.
"because i thought you didn’t care."
"i care too much."
the confession comes out softer than you intend.
sam’s expression changes. the frustration drains from his face, leaving something open and vulnerable behind.
"what?"
your throat tightens again.
you have imagined telling him before.
after hunts, when adrenaline strips away good judgment and makes honesty feel possible. late at night, when you lie awake and hear him moving in the room beside yours. in the impala, watching his reflection in the window while dean drives and music fills every place words might go.
it always sounds easier in your head.
"i care," you repeat. "about you. about who you talk to. about why you smile at your laptop more than you smile at me lately."
"i don’t."
"you do."
"not because of her."
"then why?"
sam’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth. "because i’m usually talking about you."
you blink. "what?"
he reaches for the laptop. the screen wakes, bathing the table in pale light. a conversation fills the page. sam hesitates before turning it toward you.
you know you should not read it. you do anyway.
most of the messages are ordinary. books, work, complaints about insomnia, and sam’s careful, incomplete answers about his life.
then you see yourself. not your name, but pieces of you.
‘my roommate steals my sweaters and pretends she doesn’t.’
‘she makes coffee strong enough to remove paint.’
‘she falls asleep during research, but she always wakes up when i try to put a blanket over her.’
‘she’s probably watching a movie with my brother tonight.’
beneath the last message, elena’s response waits.
‘you talk about her a lot.’
then another.
‘have you ever considered that you joined this site because asking out the woman you actually like scares you?’
your eyes move toward sam.
"you told her about me?"
"not who you are," he says quickly.
"but you talked about me."
"apparently a lot."
despite everything, a small laugh catches in your throat.
sam smiles. it is the same smile you saw that first night, soft and private.
never meant for elena at all.
your chest tightens again, but the pain has changed. it is warmer now. almost hopeful.
"what happens now?" you ask.
sam looks at the screen, then at you.
"i already told her."
"told her what?"
he scrolls to the final messages.
‘i think you’re right.’
‘i’m sorry. there’s someone i should’ve been honest with.’
elena’s answer sits beneath it.
‘then go be honest.’
you read it twice.
"she seems nice," you admit.
"she is."
a small, ugly thread of jealousy pulls tight inside you.
sam notices that too.
"but she isn’t you."
the thread snaps.
"i wasn’t looking for her."
your breathing turns uneven.
"who were you looking for?"
you know the answer, but you still need to hear him say it.
sam stands. the table remains between you. his expression softens into something that looks almost afraid.
"you."
you stare at him.
"you already had me."
"did i?"
you push your chair back. the sound scrapes through the library as you stand and walk around the table.
sam turns toward you. the distance disappears slowly. one step, then another.
"you could’ve," you whisper.
sam’s hand lifts, but he stops before touching you. his fingers hover beside your face, close enough that you feel their warmth against your skin.
"can i?"
you nod.
his palm settles against your cheek, warm and calloused. his thumb rests beneath your eye as though you are something vital and fragile, and you realize then that sam is trembling too.
you lean into his touch. a breath leaves him. his forehead lowers against yours.
for a moment, neither of you moves.
you breathe him in—coffee, rain, laundry detergent, the faintest trace of the cheap soap he keeps in his bathroom.
familiar things.
sam.
"i’ve been jealous of dean for weeks," he admits.
you smile despite yourself.
"i’ve been jealous of a laptop."
a quiet laugh leaves him, warm against your lips. "you win."
"i hated her a little."
"you don’t even know her."
"exactly."
his thumb brushes slowly across your cheek.
"for what it’s worth, she figured it out before either of us did."
"figured what out?"
sam’s gaze meets yours, and all the humor fades.
"that i’m in love with you."
your heart stops.
sam seems to realize what he said at the same moment you do. something uncertain flickers across his face, and his hand begins to slip from your cheek.
"i didn’t mean to say it like—"
you catch the front of his shirt and kiss him.
the rest of the sentence disappears between you.
sam freezes only for a heartbeat. then his hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he pulls you closer.
the kiss is softer than you imagined. you’ve spent too many nights imagining it.
sometimes desperate, after a hunt that nearly kills one of you. sometimes hesitant, shared in the dark when neither of you has enough courage to turn on a light.
you never imagined this. sam kissing you like there is nowhere else he needs to be. like he has spent years holding something back and is still afraid that wanting it too much might break it.
his mouth moves slowly against yours. his other hand settles at your waist, fingers curling gently into your shirt.
when you pull away, you stay close enough that your noses brush. sam’s eyes remain closed.
"say it again," you whisper.
his eyes open. "what?"
"the part about loving me."
his expression softens.
"i love you."
the words are quiet, steady. your fingers tighten in his shirt.
"good."
the corner of his mouth lifts. "good?"
"because i love you too."
sam smiles—a real one this time. wide and unguarded, bright enough to transform his entire face. you barely get a chance to see it before he kisses you again.
the bunker door opens.
"all right, i got—"
dean stops halfway down the stairs. you and sam pull apart just enough to look toward him.
dean stands near the bottom step with a pie box balanced in one hand. his eyes move from sam’s hand around your waist to your fingers still tangled in the front of sam’s shirt.
his expression settles into deep, exhausted vindication.
"finally," dean groans.
sam lets out a slow breath. "dean."
"no. don’t dean me. do you know what i’ve been through?"
you raise an eyebrow.
"you went to buy pie. how awful," you say dryly.
"exactly." he continues toward the kitchen. "this better mean i never have to hear about elena again."
sam looks at you. you glance toward the closed laptop.
"you won’t," he says.
"good." dean stops in the doorway. "also, for the record, i expect credit."
"for what?" you ask.
"all of this." dean gestures between you and sam.
sam shakes his head.
"you caused most of it."
"details, schmetails," dean says, waving you both off before he disappears into the kitchen, muttering something about emotional incompetence and wasted gas.
you turn back to sam. his laptop remains on the table behind him, closed.
for once, he doesn’t glance toward it. his attention stays on you.
"so," you whisper. "what now?"
sam’s hand finds yours. his fingers slip between them naturally, filling the empty spaces as though they have done this a thousand times before.
"now," he says, drawing you closer, "i stop being an idiot."
dean’s voice carries from the kitchen.
"let’s not make promises we can’t keep."
sam closes his eyes. you laugh, pressing your forehead against his chest. beneath your cheek, his heart beats quickly.
"ignore him," sam murmurs.
you lift your head.
"gladly."
this time, when sam kisses you, neither of you notices the laptop chime.