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the ghost catches fire at four thirty-seven in the afternoon.
after three nights of broken sleep, two interviews with increasingly suspicious neighbors, and one very unpleasant hour spent digging beneath what used to be a vegetable garden, the end of the hunt feels almost offensively simple. dean drops the match into the open grave. flame catches along the salt-soaked bones in a sudden blue-white rush, forcing all three of you backward from the heat.
you lift one arm across your face. beside you, sam watches the fire with his shovel still resting against one shoulder, dirt streaked across the knees of his jeans and a narrow scratch running from his jaw toward his ear. the spirit disappears somewhere behind you with one final crack of displaced air.
then everything goes quiet.
no screaming windows. no doors slamming inside the abandoned farmhouse. no invisible force attempting to throw dean down a staircase for the third time.
just cicadas.
dean stares into the grave.
“that’s it?”
sam lowers the shovel. “you sound disappointed.”
“i’m not disappointed.” dean nudges a loose clump of dirt toward the flames with his boot. “i’m confused.”
you wipe sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist. “by what?”
“it’s not even five.”
sam glances toward his watch. “that’s usually considered a good thing.”
dean looks personally offended by the concept. “when’s the last time we finished a job before midnight?”
you and sam both think about it, looking at each other with furrowed brows.
dean points between you with the hand holding his shovel. “exactly.”
the farmhouse stands behind him in the warm missouri afternoon, its peeling white paint turned gold by the lowering sun. someone has already started reclaiming the property from decades of neglect. the field beyond the house has been cut recently, leaving dry grass flattened in long rows, and a bright red real estate sign leans beside the gravel drive.
tomorrow morning, someone will probably discover the disturbed garden. by then, you will be gone.
the thought should feel ordinary. most towns become nothing more than names scribbled in the margins of john winchester’s journal, places you remember by whatever tried to kill you there.
this one already feels different. maybe because, for once, the sun is still up when you survive it.
dean begins filling the grave after the fire dies low enough to approach. sam joins him without being asked, which leaves you responsible for gathering the gasoline, salt, and canvas bag of supplies scattered around the garden.
you are carrying everything toward the impala when a distant burst of music reaches across the fields.
you stop. somewhere beyond the trees, a brass band stumbles enthusiastically through a song you almost recognize.
sam looks up from the grave, and another sound follows. children shouting, then the faint mechanical whine of something large enough to belong at a carnival.
dean plants his shovel in the dirt. “what the hell is that?”
you look toward the road. a banner hangs across the intersection half a mile away. you notice it for the first time now that the three of you are not driving past at sixty miles an hour while arguing about nineteenth-century property records.
summer days festival. august 18–20. food, games, rides, live music.
you glance toward sam, but sam is already looking at you.
“no,” dean says.
you turn. “i didn’t say anything.”
“your face did.”
“my face didn’t do anything.”
“it did the thing.”
sam leans against the shovel handle. “what thing?”
dean gestures vaguely toward you. “the thing where she sees something dumb and decides we’re doing it.”
“that is not a thing.”
“last month we drove forty minutes out of the way because you saw a sign for the world’s largest ball of twine.”
you lift the canvas bag into the trunk. “and now you can say you’ve seen it.”
“i could’ve lived without that.”
“you took a picture.”
“for evidence.”
sam ducks his head, but not fast enough to hide his smile.
you point toward him. “sam liked it.”
dean’s expression turns betrayed. “sam likes libraries.”
“that isn’t mutually exclusive,” sam says.
“it should be.”
the distant music rises again. you look past them toward the banner. dean follows your attention and groans.
“fine,” he says. “food. one hour.”
your smile arrives before you can hide it. sam sees, and something about his expression changes. only for a second, then dean throws a clump of dirt at his boots and tells him to stop standing around.
—
the motel shower produces hot water for approximately four minutes.
you discover this after spending most of those four minutes trying to rinse graveyard dirt from your hair. by the time you finish, the water is cold enough to make your teeth hurt.
still, when you step outside twenty minutes later, clean clothes sticking lightly to damp skin, the evening feels too warm to complain.
the motel sits three blocks from the town square. strings of carnival lights are already visible above the rooftops, glowing faintly against a sky that has not yet gone dark.
sam and dean wait beside the impala. dean has changed shirts. sam hasn’t. he has washed the dirt from his face and hands, but the dark blue flannel he wears still carries faint dust along one elbow. his hair is damp near his temples, pushed away from his forehead in a way that will last approximately five minutes before falling forward again.
his attention moves toward you as you approach, then stops. your steps slow, and sam looks away. not quickly enough. heat gathers beneath your skin that has nothing to do with the weather.
dean pushes himself away from the impala. “everybody done staring?”
sam’s head snaps toward him. “what?”
dean tosses the room key from one hand to the other. “nothing, sammy.”
you walk ahead before either brother can look at your face.
the festival occupies four blocks surrounding the county courthouse. by the time you reach it, the sun has disappeared behind the rooftops, leaving streaks of orange and pink above the buildings. food trucks and temporary stands line the streets beneath strings of lights. children run between adults carrying glowing plastic toys. someone is selling handmade jewelry beneath a striped canopy. another booth has arranged jars of honey beside hand-painted signs advertising three counties’ worth of local bees.
the air smells like fried dough, charcoal, hot pavement, and kettle corn. for several seconds, you forget what town you are in. that almost never happens.
usually, even on quiet nights, some part of your mind remains attached to the case. exits, weapons, the distance to the car, or whether the person passing too close behind you is actually passing.
tonight, the ghost is gone, the three of you are alive, and there is absolutely nothing left to kill.
“food,” dean announces.
he disappears toward a stand advertising smoked ribs before either of you answers. sam watches him go.
“one hour,” he reminds you.
you look toward the ferris wheel rising above the buildings at the far end of the street.
“sure.”
sam follows your gaze. “that sounded convincing.”
“i have no idea what you mean.”
“you’re doing the thing.”
you turn toward him. “what thing?”
“apparently, your face has a thing.”
“don’t encourage him.”
sam smiles.
you have known him long enough to recognize several different versions of that smile. there is the quick, satisfied one that appears when a piece of research finally fits. the slightly smug one he gets when dean is wrong about something and sam has evidence. the tired one after a hunt, when relief matters more than exhaustion.
this one is softer. you see it more often lately, and usually when he is looking at you. you try not to think too much about that.
“come on,” you say instead.
sam’s brow rises. “where?”
you begin walking backward through the crowd. “anywhere.”
his smile widens, then he follows.
—
the first thing you do is buy lemonade.
the second is nearly spill it down the front of sam’s shirt when someone pushes through the crowd behind you.
sam catches the cup before it tips, and his other hand catches you. his palm closes around your waist, warm and broad through the thin cotton of your shirt, pulling you forward before you can stumble into the couple passing behind you.
your free hand lands against his chest. everything stops. not the festival, though. it continues loudly and without concern. a little girl screams from the top of a spinning ride. grease crackles behind a food stand. the band on the courthouse lawn begins testing microphones, sending a burst of feedback through the square.
but something inside you stills.
sam’s fingers remain against your side. your palm remains over his chest. beneath it, his heartbeat is faster than you expect.
his eyes meet yours. “you okay?” he asks.
the question comes quieter than everything around you.
you nod. “yeah.”
neither of you moves. sam’s gaze drops. not far, but just enough that you know exactly where he looks before his attention returns to your eyes.
your fingers curl slightly against his shirt.
someone bumps sam’s shoulder, and the moment breaks. he releases you, and you take your lemonade from his other hand.
“thanks,” you say.
“yeah.”
sam rubs his palm once against his jeans. you pretend not to notice.
the lemonade suddenly tastes much too sweet.
—
dean finds you fifteen minutes later beside a game booth. he’s carrying a paper tray piled with ribs in one hand and a beer in the other.
you are holding an enormous stuffed dog.
dean stops. “no.”
you hug the dog more securely against your chest. its head is large enough to block half your face, one floppy brown ear falling over your shoulder.
“what?”
“where did that come from?”
you look at sam. sam looks toward the booth.
dean follows the exchange.
“sam.”
“what?”
“how much?”
sam clears his throat. “doesn’t matter.”
you lower the stuffed dog enough to see him properly. “twenty-eight dollars.”
dean closes his eyes.
“it was rigged,” sam says immediately.
“which should’ve been your first clue to stop.”
“i figured it out.”
“after twenty-eight dollars?”
sam gestures toward the dog in your arms. “obviously.”
the booth operator, a college-aged guy wearing a visor with the festival logo printed across it, leans over the counter.
“your boyfriend got competitive.”
sam goes completely still. you feel something warm spark beneath your ribs.
the booth operator doesn’t notice. “kept saying the bottles were weighted wrong,” he continues. “never seen anybody analyze a carnival game before.”
dean slowly turns toward sam. you bite the inside of your cheek.
sam looks at the booth operator. “i didn’t—”
“he was very determined,” you say.
sam’s attention snaps toward you. you smile innocently.
the booth operator points at the stuffed dog. “worth it, though. she wanted that one.”
“she said it was ugly,” sam protests.
you run your hand over one of the dog’s ridiculous eyebrows. “affectionately.”
dean looks between the two of you. then toward the beer tent across the street. then back.
you know that expression.
“don’t,” you warn.
“didn’t say anything.”
“you’re thinking something.”
“i’m constantly thinking.”
sam takes the stuffed dog from you before its giant foot can knock the lemonade from your hand. the thing looks even more ridiculous beside him. one long arm wraps around the dog’s middle while the head rests near his shoulder, making six-foot-four sam winchester look like he has stolen something from a child’s bedroom.
you laugh, and sam gives you a look.
“you wanted it.”
“i know.”
“you called it ugly.”
“i love him.”
something changes in sam’s face at the word love. then he looks down at the stuffed dog.
“him?”
“obviously.”
“does he have a name?”
you consider this.
“sam.”
dean chokes on his beer. sam stares at you. you keep your expression serious for approximately two seconds.
then you break. sam shakes his head, laughing under his breath.
“absolutely not.”
“sam junior?”
“worse.”
“sammy?”
“don’t call it that.”
dean points at you with one barbecue-covered finger. “do it.”
sam looks betrayed. “whose side are you on?”
“whichever one’s funnier.”
you reach for the stuffed animal, but sam lifts it out of reach.
“hey.”
“you lost naming privileges.”
“he’s mine.”
“i spent twenty-eight dollars on him.”
“as a gift.”
sam looks down at you. “is that what this is?”
the teasing thins unexpectedly. you become aware of how close he is again. the stuffed dog remains wedged between you, but sam’s attention has dropped to your face with that same quiet intensity from earlier.
“isn’t it?” you ask.
something in his expression softens.
“yeah,” he says. “it is.”
dean makes a noise around another bite of ribs. both of you look toward him.
“what?”
he swallows. “nothing.”
you narrow your eyes. dean finishes his beer and glances toward a hand-painted sign outside the bar across the intersection.
pool tournament tonight. $20 buy-in.
his entire face brightens.
“oh, hell yes.”
sam follows his gaze. “dean.”
“what?”
“you said one hour.”
“plans change.”
dean crumples the empty food tray and throws it into a nearby trash can. “you two clearly have…” he gestures between you. “…whatever this is handled.”
sam’s grip tightens around the stuffed dog.
“what does that mean?”
“nothing.” dean digs into his pocket and pulls out the impala keys. he tosses them toward sam.
sam catches them automatically. that gets your attention.
“you’re letting sam drive?”
dean points at his brother. “three rules. don’t scratch her. don’t eat in her. and if anything happens to her, i kill you and bury your body somewhere no one will ever find it.”
sam looks down at the keys. “comforting.”
“i mean it.”
“i know.”
dean turns toward you, saying your name.
“what?”
“don’t encourage him.”
“to do what?”
dean looks between you again, his mouth twitching. “you’ll figure it out.”
before either of you can respond, he disappears into the crowd. you stand beside sam in silence. the stuffed dog stares blankly between you.
finally, you say, “he’s weird.”
sam looks toward the bar where dean disappeared.
“yeah.”
“you know what he meant?”
“no.” the answer comes too quickly.
you smile into your lemonade.
“you’re a terrible liar.”
sam adjusts the dog beneath his arm.
“where to next?”
you look around the festival.
“you’re still coming with me?”
his expression shifts with genuine confusion.
“why wouldn’t i?”
you lift one shoulder. “dean bailed.”
“dean found a pool table.”
“same thing.”
sam studies you for a moment, then takes a small step closer so the crowd can move around you.
“i wasn’t here because dean was.”
the words settle somewhere warm.
you look at him. “then why are you here?”
sam’s eyes hold yours. for half a second, you think he might answer. instead, he raises the stuffed dog.
“because somebody had to win you this thing.”
you laugh, and sam smiles again.
you let him get away with it. for now.
—
you ride the ferris wheel first.
sam insists the giant dog cannot come. you insist he can, and the teenager operating the ride sides with you.
sam ends up sitting across from both of you, knees nearly touching yours in the small metal carriage while the stuffed animal occupies half the bench.
“comfortable?” you ask.
“very.”
his knees are folded at an angle that looks painful.
“you could sit over here.”
the invitation escapes before you think about it. sam’s gaze moves toward the open space beside you. there is barely any, the stuffed dog takes up most of the bench. you shove it toward the corner.
sam hesitates, then the wheel lurches. his hand shoots toward the side of the carriage.
you laugh. “scared?”
“no.”
“you grabbed the railing.”
“it moved.”
“that’s what ferris wheels do.”
“i know how ferris wheels work.”
the wheel carries you higher. lights spread beneath you as the courthouse drops away. the surrounding town extends outward in quiet blocks, streetlamps coming on one by one beneath the violet evening sky.
when the carriage reaches the top, it rocks gently.
sam looks down. his hand tightens around the railing.
you stare at him. “sam winchester.”
“don’t.”
“are you afraid of heights?”
“i’m not afraid of heights.”
the carriage rocks again. sam looks directly forward.
you begin laughing.
“you hunt monsters.”
“monsters usually stay on the ground.”
“you’ve been in airplanes.”
“when i had to.”
“you went to college in california.”
“buses exist.”
you are laughing hard enough now that the carriage shakes beneath you.
sam’s expression finally breaks. “you done?”
“not remotely.”
he kicks the toe of your shoe lightly with his. you kick him back.
the carriage begins moving again. when you reach the bottom, the operator keeps the wheel going. sam exhales subtly.
you catch it, and he sees you.
“say one word.”
you hold your hands up. “wouldn’t dream of it. we’ll let dean believe he’s the only one scared of flying.”
a minute later, your carriage rises again.
this time, when it slows near the top, sam moves.
“scoot over.”
you look at him. “what?”
“you said there was room.”
your heartbeat changes. you pull the stuffed dog onto your lap. sam shifts across the narrow carriage and sits beside you.
his thigh presses along yours immediately. there is no avoiding it. not that either of you tries.
his shoulder rests against yours. his body is warm after the cooling evening air, and something about having him this close makes every other detail sharpen.
the wind lifting your hair. the faint smell of his soap beneath the lingering trace of graveyard smoke. the slow movement of his knee against yours whenever the carriage sways.
“better?” you ask.
sam looks down at the festival.
“yeah.”
you smile. his hand rests on the bench between you. yours does too. the backs of your fingers touch, and neither of you pull away. a rush travels through you so quickly that your breath catches.
sam’s fingers shift, barely. his little finger hooks against yours. you look down, then at him. sam is already watching you.
the ferris wheel stops. not at the bottom, at the top.
your pulse jumps. sam’s gaze drops toward your mouth. you don’t move, and neither does he.
the stuffed dog begins sliding from your lap. you grab it automatically, and sam catches the other side. the moment breaks beneath several pounds of badly stuffed polyester.
you stare at each other. then you both start laughing. by the time the wheel moves again, your fingers are no longer touching.
you notice anyway.
—
the photograph happens because you need somewhere to put the stuffed dog.
a small booth near the courthouse advertises four pictures for two dollars. beside it sits a bench exactly large enough to hold one enormous carnival prize. you drop the dog onto it.
sam studies the photo booth. “no.”
you pull back the curtain. “yes.”
“we already spent twenty-eight dollars.”
“you spent twenty-eight dollars.”
“on you.”
there it is again. on you. you pretend the words don’t do anything to you .
“then two more dollars won’t kill you.”
sam folds his arms. “why am i paying?”
“because i’m holding the curtain.”
“that logic doesn’t make sense.”
“you went to stanford. figure it out.”
“that’s not how stanford works.”
you step inside. sam remains outside, so you sit and wait. the curtain does not move.
“fine,” you call. “i’ll take them by myself.”
three seconds pass before sam appears.
you smile. “thought so.”
“move over.”
the booth is not built for him. he has to duck beneath the frame, then fold himself onto the narrow bench beside you. his shoulder takes up half the space. your hip is pressed tightly against his, and one of his knees angles awkwardly between yours.
you stare at the tiny screen.
“this seems intimate.”
sam exhales a laugh.
“your idea.”
a countdown appears. five, four, three…
you smile normally before the flash fires.
sam blinks. “great,” he mutters.
the next countdown begins.
you turn toward him. “you blinked.”
“it was bright.”
“that’s generally how cameras work.”
“thanks.”
you laugh just as the second flash fires.
“you ruined it.”
“you were the one talking.”
the third countdown starts.
sam looks at you, and you look toward the screen.
“sam.”
“what?”
“camera.”
“okay.”
the flash fires. he is still looking at you. you catch it in the reflection of the screen immediately afterward.
your heartbeat stutters.
the final countdown appears.
sam seems to realize what happened at the same time. neither of you turns forward.
three.
his eyes remain on yours.
two.
you stop breathing.
one.
the flash catches both of you looking at each other. the booth falls quiet.
sam’s knee remains between yours. your shoulder rests against his chest. outside, music begins on the courthouse lawn. inside, neither of you moves.
“we should…” sam starts.
“yeah.”
he doesn’t finish, and you don’t move.
finally, the machine makes a mechanical grinding sound beneath the screen. both of you jump. a strip of photographs emerges outside.
you laugh under your breath. sam opens the curtain first, cool air rushing into the booth. you follow him out.
the photographs develop slowly.
first picture: you smiling, sam caught halfway through blinking.
second: you laughing at him while he looks toward you with exaggerated annoyance.
third: you face the camera, but sam doesn’t. his attention rests entirely on you.
then the fourth darkens into view. neither of you is looking at the camera. you are looking at each other, and your smiles are gone. the expression on sam’s face makes your stomach turn over. soft, unguarded, wanting.
you run one thumb over the white edge of the strip.
sam clears his throat. “you can keep it.”
you look up. “you don’t want it?”
“there’s only one.”
“we can cut it.”
his eyes move toward the third picture.
“keep it.”
you slide it carefully into your pocket. something tells you he will remember it without needing the photograph.
—
the band is better than expected. not good, exactly, but enthusiastic.
they play covers everyone knows, and by the third song enough people have gathered on the courthouse lawn that the grass becomes a makeshift dance floor.
you stand near the edge with sam. the stuffed dog is back beneath his arm.
“dance with me.”
sam nearly drops it. “what?”
you nod toward the crowd. “dance.”
“i don’t dance.”
“everyone dances.”
“dean doesn’t.”
“dean absolutely dances.”
“not sober.”
“neither are half of these people.”
sam looks toward the lawn.
a middle-aged couple moves past you holding hands. a group of teenagers jumps badly in time with the music. three little kids spin in circles until one falls over and immediately starts laughing.
you hold out your hand. “come on.”
sam looks at it.
“you scared?”
his eyes narrow. “of dancing?”
“apparently.”
“you just found out i don’t like heights. don’t push it.”
you smile. “two fears in one night. huge progress.”
sam looks toward the crowd again. then at you. his hand closes around yours, warmth rushing straight through your arm.
“one song,” he says.
“sure.”
you pull him onto the lawn.
sam was right, he cannot dance. not disastrously, though. there is rhythm somewhere beneath all those long limbs, but he thinks about every movement too much. his shoulders stay tense. his hands keep hovering in uncertain places as though he needs instructions.
you laugh. “stop thinking.”
“helpful.”
“you’re counting.”
“i’m not counting.”
“you absolutely are.”
“i like patterns.”
“this isn’t research.”
“everything has a pattern.”
you step closer, and sam stops talking. you take one of his hands and put it against your waist. his fingers spread automatically.
“there,” you say.
your hand slides onto his shoulder.
“other one.”
sam looks down at you, then his free hand finds your other side.
“better?” his voice is lower.
you swallow. “yeah.”
the band moves into something slower. not a slow song, exactly, but close enough that the people around you shift nearer to one another.
sam notices. you know because his thumbs stop moving. you didn’t realize they were moving until they stop. small strokes against your waist barely there. your arms settle around his neck.
sam’s eyes darken.
“still counting?” you ask.
“no.”
“good.”
you sway with him beneath the festival lights. every few seconds, someone brushes past. each time, sam draws you closer.
eventually, there is almost no space left.
your chest rests near his. his hands have moved from your waist to your back. your fingers find the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck.
sam breathes in. you feel it. his eyes drop again. your whole body seems to recognize what is happening before your mind catches up.
you tilt your face. sam leans closer.
then someone crashes into his back, hard. sam stumbles forward, and you catch his shoulders. the teenager responsible shouts an apology before disappearing through the crowd after his friends.
sam closes his eyes, and you bite back a laugh.
“you okay?”
“yeah.”
he opens his eyes. you are still holding him, and he’s still holding you.
the almost-kiss sits between you obviously now, it’s impossible to pretend otherwise.
sam’s jaw tightens.
“do you wanna get out of here?”
your heartbeat trips.
“where?”
he looks at you.
“anywhere.”
—
the impala smells like leather, gun oil, and dean.
you slide into the passenger seat with the stuffed dog wedged awkwardly across the back. sam shuts the driver’s door and adjusts the seat automatically, though dean has already shoved it nearly as far back as it goes.
the festival glows beyond the windshield.
you look toward the bar. “should we tell dean?”
sam opens his phone. “probably.”
he sends a message.
less than thirty seconds later, his phone buzzes. sam reads it, and his mouth flattens.
“what?”
he turns the screen toward you.
don’t wreck my car. be back before checkout.
you laugh. “that’s permission.”
“apparently.”
sam starts the engine, and the impala rolls away from the curb.
for several minutes, neither of you say anything. the festival disappears behind you. streets become quieter, businesses giving way to houses, then fields. warm night air moves through the open windows.
sam keeps one hand at the top of the wheel. the other rests beside him on the seat. you look at it, then out the window, then back.
you have spent years touching sam in ways that don’t count. pulling him out of the path of something dangerous, passing weapons, checking cuts, falling asleep against him in the back seat, squeezing his hand beneath hospital lights when dean is hurt.
nothing about those touches is meaningless, but they have always had explanations. tonight keeps taking the explanations away.
his hand at your waist, his finger hooked around yours, his body against you while you dance, his eyes on your mouth, your eyes on his.
you look toward the road. “where are we going?”
sam glances at you. “you said anywhere.”
“that isn’t a location.”
“i’m working on it.”
“you don’t know?”
“not exactly.”
you smile.
“sam winchester driving without a destination.”
“don’t tell dean.”
“he’d be devastated.”
“he’d blame you.”
“probably accurately.”
sam smiles toward the windshield.
you watch him, but he catches you.
“what?”
“nothing.”
“you’ve been looking at me for, like, thirty seconds.”
“have not.”
“you have.”
“eyes on the road, winchester.”
he laughs quietly. your chest aches with it.
the road rises gradually outside town. sam eventually turns onto a narrow overlook above the river, gravel crackling beneath the tires. the place is empty except for one battered trash can and a wooden guardrail overlooking the dark water below.
he parks, and the engine goes quiet. cicadas immediately fill the silence.
you look through the windshield. moonlight catches the river in narrow silver pieces beyond the trees.
“not bad.”
sam nods. “saw the sign earlier.”
“when?”
“driving to the farmhouse.”
you turn toward him. “you remembered an overlook sign while we were hunting a ghost?”
he shrugs. “thought you might like it.”
the answer disarms you more effectively than anything else tonight. you look down at your hands.
“oh.”
sam’s attention remains on you.
you reach for the door. “come on.”
outside, the air has cooled. you climb onto the hood before sam can tell you dean would object. the metal remains warm beneath you, heat from the engine seeping through your jeans.
sam gives you a look.
“what?” you ask.
“dean’s going to kill us.”
“then he shouldn’t have given us the car.”
sam considers that, then climbs up beside you. the hood dips slightly beneath his weight.
you sit shoulder to shoulder facing the river. for a while, neither of you speaks. the quiet doesn’t feel awkward. it rarely does with sam.
somewhere below, water moves steadily over rocks. insects pulse through the grass. an occasional car passes on the distant highway, headlights appearing briefly through the trees before disappearing again.
you reach into your pocket. the photo strip is slightly bent, so you smooth it against your thigh.
sam notices.
“survive?”
“barely.”
you study the pictures again.
“you blinked.”
“we established that.”
“terrible first picture.”
“you look fine.”
“you look possessed.”
“an occupational hazard.”
you smile. your thumb moves down to the third picture. sam’s amusement fades, you feel it.
“you weren’t looking at the camera.”
he looks toward the river. “no.”
“you did it twice.”
“apparently.”
you wait. sam knows you are waiting.
he rubs his palms once against his jeans, then rests them beside his legs.
you look at the fourth picture.
“what were you looking at?”
sam exhales.
“you know.”
your heartbeat begins to climb.
“i want you to say it.”
his head turns.
moonlight catches one side of his face. his hair has fallen forward again, exactly as you knew it would, and the small scratch near his jaw has darkened against his skin.
“you,” he says. the word lands softly.
you look back at the photograph.
“why?”
sam laughs once beneath his breath. not because anything is funny, but because you have made things difficult, and he knows it.
“seriously?”
you turn toward him.
“seriously.”
his gaze moves over your face.
“because i wanted to.”
“that’s not an answer.”
“it is.”
“not a good one.”
sam lowers his head. for a second, you think he will retreat. then he reaches into your hand and takes the photograph.
his thumb settles over the third picture.
“you want a good answer?”
“yeah.”
he looks at you.
“i’ve been trying not to look at you like that for months.”
all the air leaves your lungs. the insects continue in the grass.
sam looks back at the strip.
“probably longer.”
your hand tightens against the hood.
“why?”
his mouth twists faintly.
“you ask that a lot.”
“sam.”
“because you’re my friend.”
something inside you drops. sam sees it.
“no.” he shifts toward you immediately. “that came out wrong.”
“really?”
“yeah.” his knee presses against yours. “you’re my friend, and we hunt together, and this life is already…” he gestures vaguely toward the road, the car, everything beyond it. “complicated.”
you wait.
“and i didn’t know if you…” he stops.
for once, sam seems unable to find the correct words. you have seen him translate latin while concussed. you have watched him lie to police officers with a straight face while blood from a monster dried beneath his fingernails.
you have never seen him this uncertain.
“if i what?” you ask.
his eyes lift.
“wanted me.”
the honesty of it hurts.
you stare at him.
“sam.”
he shakes his head.
“you don’t have to say anything.”
“you just told me you’ve been trying not to look at me for months.”
“yeah.”
“and now you think i don’t have to say anything?”
“i’m giving you an out.”
“i don’t want an out.”
sam goes still. you can actually see the words reach him. the tension in his shoulders changes first, then his mouth, then his eyes.
“you don’t?”
“no.”
his attention drops to your hand against the hood. slowly, he moves his own beside it. your fingers touch. the same rush from the ferris wheel moves through you again, but stronger now.
sam looks down too. his fingers turn beneath yours, and your palms meet.
“every time,” you admit.
his eyes return to your face.
“what?”
you thread your fingers through his.
“every time you touch me.”
sam’s breath catches, and you smile nervously.
“all night.”
his thumb passes over your knuckles. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
something warm and almost disbelieving spreads across his face.
“me too.”
you laugh softly.
“we’re idiots.”
“probably.”
“dean definitely knows.”
“definitely.”
“that’s humiliating.”
“only a little.”
you look down at your joined hands.
“how long?”
sam’s thumb keeps moving across yours.
“i don’t know.”
“that’s not like you.”
“what does that mean?” he asks.
“you know everything.”
“that is wildly inaccurate.”
“you know how many miles we drove yesterday.”
“three hundred and twelve.”
you give him a look.
“but that proves nothing,” he continues.
“you know how many cups of coffee dean had this morning.”
“four.”
“sam.” he smiles, and you lean closer. “how long?”
the smile fades into something gentler.
“maybe that case in arizona.”
you search your memory.
“the werewolf?”
“yeah.”
“that was six months ago.”
“i know.”
your chest tightens. “why that one?”
sam looks toward your hands. “you got hurt.”
you remember.
three stitches in your shoulder after a werewolf caught you before sam could fire. objectively, not even close to the worst injury you have taken.
“i’ve gotten hurt before.”
“i know.”
“then why?”
his jaw shifts.
“because i couldn’t think.”
you fall quiet. sam looks toward the river.
“you were bleeding, and dean was talking to me, and i knew what i needed to do. i knew the wound wasn’t bad. i knew you were conscious.” he swallows. “but all i could think about was getting to you.”
your fingers tighten around his. sam looks back.
“and then you were okay, so i told myself i was being stupid.”
“were you?”
“apparently.”
“that’s not what i meant.”
his mouth curves faintly.
“no.”
you study him for another moment. “i think mine was before that.”
sam’s eyebrows rise. “really?”
“maybe.”
“when?”
“i don’t know.”
“you just gave me a hard time for not knowing.”
“different rules.”
“how convenient.”
you bump your knee against his. sam nudges yours back.
the touch lingers, and your face feels warm despite the cool air.
“i just remember noticing things.”
“what things?”
“you.”
he watches you. “that’s specific.”
“shut up.”
“you demanded details.”
“i changed my mind.”
sam smiles. you look toward the river because looking directly at him has become difficult.
“i noticed when you were tired before you said anything. i knew which shirts you hated even though you wore them anyway. i knew when you were pretending to read because you’d been on the same page for twenty minutes.”
sam’s expression softens. you continue before courage can disappear.
“and i started knowing when you walked into a room without looking.”
the confession feels larger than saying you want him. maybe because wanting can be temporary and this never has been.
sam’s thumb stops over your knuckles.
“i do that too.”
you look at him. “what?”
“with you.” he leans slightly closer. “i always know where you are.”
the night seems to narrow around you.
sam’s gaze falls toward your mouth. this time, nothing interrupts. no falling stuffed animal, no stranger crashing into him, no camera flash. just sam sitting close enough that you feel his breath when he exhales.
his hand releases yours. for one terrible second, you think he is pulling away.
instead, his fingers rise toward your face. they stop before touching.
“tell me if i’m wrong.”
your heart pounds hard enough to hurt.
“about what?”
sam’s mouth twitches.
“you know.”
“i want you to say it.”
his eyes close briefly. “you really like making me work for things.”
“apparently.”
his hand finally touches you. fingertips brush along your jaw, and your whole body goes warm.
sam watches your face carefully.
“tell me you don’t want me to kiss you.”
you lean into his hand.
“that would be a lie.”
something in him gives, and sam kisses you.
the first touch is careful, softer than everything building toward it. his mouth presses against yours as though even now he is making sure you mean it, giving you one final second to move away.
you do the opposite. your hand catches the front of his flannel and pulls.
sam makes a quiet sound against your mouth, then the careful part disappears.
his other hand finds your waist, and yours slides behind his neck. he kisses you again, deeper now, and every almost-touch from the entire night seems to collapse into this one moment. his thumb presses beneath your jaw, and your fingers disappear into his hair.
sam draws you closer until your knee slips between his and your shoulder turns fully toward him.
you kiss him harder.
he laughs softly against your mouth. the sound makes you smile.
“what?” you whisper.
sam shakes his head.
“nothing.”
“what, sammy?” you repeat.
“i just…” he looks at you from inches away. “i’ve wanted to do that for a really long time.”
your chest aches.
“then you should probably do it again.”
his smile appears slowly.
“yeah?”
you pull him in by his shirt.
sam kisses you before you can answer. this time there is nothing hesitant about it.
his hand slides into your hair, holding the back of your head while his mouth moves against yours. your palm finds the warm skin beneath his jaw. every breath becomes shared, interrupted, forgotten.
you have kissed people before, but none of them have felt like this. maybe because none of them were sam.
none of them knew you before they touched you. none of them knew exactly how you take your coffee or which nightmares make you leave the motel room instead of trying to fall asleep again. none could tell when you lie about being hurt from the way you tie your boots.
sam knows all of it, and now he knows the way you kiss him too.
you shift closer. his hand tightens against your waist.
then something enormous falls inside the impala. both of you jerk apart. a muffled thump comes from the back seat.
you stare through the windshield. the stuffed dog has fallen sideways against the door.
silence lasts one second, then you laugh.
sam lowers his forehead to your shoulder. his body shakes with his own laughter.
“he ruined it again,” you say.
sam lifts his head.
“we are not naming that thing after me.”
“he keeps interrupting us. seems accurate.”
“i hate you.”
“no, you don’t.”
the words come out before you think about them.
sam stills. your smile fades slightly, and his hand remains around your waist.
“no,” he says softly. his eyes hold yours. “i really don’t.”
something about the answer feels dangerously close to another confession. one neither of you are ready to make tonight.
you are strangely okay with that.
for once, there is no rush. you know what his mouth feels like now. you know he wants you. he knows you want him. tomorrow can have the rest.
you brush your thumb across his cheek.
“kiss me again.”
sam does.
—
dean is awake when you return. of course he is.
the motel room door opens before sam finishes unlocking it, revealing dean standing barefoot on the carpet with his gun lowered at his side.
“finally.”
you look at the weapon.
“were you about to shoot us?”
“you took my car.”
sam holds up the keys. “it’s fine.”
dean immediately steps past him and looks toward the parking lot.
“you scratch her?”
“no.”
“hit anything?”
“no.”
“let her drive?”
“hey,” you protest. dean ignores you.
sam shakes his head. “no.”
“good.”
dean takes the keys, then he looks at sam. really looks.
his eyes move from sam’s hair to his face, then toward you.
you suddenly remember what the two of you were doing five minutes ago.
you run a hand through your hair. that probably makes it worse.
dean’s expression changes slowly and horribly.
“oh.”
sam closes his eyes. “don’t.”
dean looks delighted.
“oh.”
“dean.”
his gaze drops toward sam’s hand. you follow it.
somewhere between the parking lot and the motel door, sam has placed it against your waist. neither of you noticed.
dean looks back at his brother.
“about damn time.”
you cover your face.
sam sighs. “can we not do this?”
“do what?” dean steps back into the room. “i haven’t said anything.”
“you literally just did.”
“three words.”
you follow him inside. the giant stuffed dog takes up half of sam’s arms when he carries it through the doorway.
dean stops again.
“what the hell is that?”
you lower your hands.
“sam junior.”
“no,” sam says immediately.
dean’s face lights up.
“sam junior?”
“do not encourage her.”
dean takes the stuffed dog from him and examines it.
“kinda see the resemblance.”
sam glares. you drop onto the edge of your bed, laughing hard enough that your stomach hurts.
dean sets the dog upright in the motel chair.
“there. family portrait.”
“i’m going to kill you,” sam mutters.
dean looks toward you.
“see? his paternal instincts already kicking in.”
you fall backward onto the mattress.
sam throws a pillow at his brother, and dean catches it.
“wow.” he tosses it onto his own bed. “dating for five minutes and you’re already violent.”
sam goes still. so do you.
the word hangs in the motel room.
dating.
dean notices, you see his expression change subtly. for all his teasing, he knows when he has stepped onto something neither of you has discussed.
“i’m showering,” he says.
he grabs clean clothes from his bag and disappears into the bathroom. the door closes.
silence settles.
you sit up, and sam remains beside the other bed.
“so.”
he rubs the back of his neck. “yeah.”
“dating.”
“dean talks too much.”
“he does.”
sam glances toward the bathroom door. water starts running.
he looks back at you.
“but…”
you wait. he takes two steps closer.
“if you want.”
your chest goes warm.
“if i want?”
“yeah.”
you stand. sam watches you cross the space between you.
“you’re making this sound like i’m picking dinner.”
“i’m trying not to assume.”
“sam.”
“yeah?”
you reach up and straighten the collar of his flannel, though nothing is wrong with it.
“i spent the entire night trying to get you to kiss me.”
his eyebrows lift. “the entire night?”
“most of it.”
“you could’ve said something.”
you stare at him. “you could’ve.”
“fair.”
your hands remain against his chest. sam’s settle at your waist again more easily this time, as though they already know where to go.
you look up at him.
“yes.”
his brow furrows.
“yes what?”
“yes, i want to.”
understanding moves across his face. then the smile comes. soft, warm, yours.
“okay.”
“okay?”
“yeah.”
“that’s all i get?”
sam leans down.
“no.”
he kisses you. you barely have time to smile before his mouth covers yours.
behind the bathroom door, dean bangs once against the wall.
“i can hear you not talking!”
you pull back. sam’s forehead drops against yours.
“i hate him.”
you laugh quietly.
“no, you don’t.”
“right now, i might.”
dean shouts something else through the running water.
sam reaches toward the nightstand and turns the television on loud.
you laugh into his shoulder.
his arms close around you. it happens without hesitation this time. no startled pause, no question. you fit yourself against him, cheek resting over his chest while some late-night sitcom fills the motel room with canned laughter.
sam presses his mouth into your hair. the gesture is so simple that it almost hurts more than the kisses.
you look toward the ugly stuffed dog in the chair.
“we’re keeping him.”
sam follows your gaze.
“fine.”
“and his name.”
“absolutely not.”
“sam junior.”
“no.”
“sammy junior.”
“worse.”
you tilt your head back.
“you said i could have anything i wanted tonight.”
sam’s eyes narrow.
“i did not say that.”
“you implied it.”
“when?”
“every time you asked where i wanted to go.”
“that’s not the same thing.”
“feels the same.”
sam looks down at you for a long moment. the amusement slowly softens from his face. his hand rises to tuck your hair behind your ear.
“you know i would, though.”
your smile fades.
“what?”
“take you wherever you wanted.”
his fingers linger lightly near your cheek. the words are quiet. not a promise, not exactly. something better, maybe. something true.
you think about the road outside. the thousands of miles behind you and all the ones waiting ahead. bad motels and worse coffee. haunted houses and graveyards and nights where getting to morning feels impossible.
you think about sam beside you through all of it. then you look at his mouth.
“anywhere?”
his gaze drops to yours.
“anywhere.”
you rise onto your toes, and sam meets you halfway.
this kiss is slower, easy. his hands settle around your waist while yours curl over his shoulders.
there is no rush now. not because you want him any less. because for the first time, you know there will be another kiss after this one.
another tomorrow, another town, another road.
when you finally pull away, sam keeps you close.
the bathroom door opens behind him.
dean steps out with a towel around his neck, takes one look at you, and immediately turns around.
“nope.”
you and sam laugh.
when dean begins complaining about needing a room of his own from now on, sam doesn’t move his hands from your waist. he doesn’t step away, and he doesn’t pretend.
neither do you.
for once, there is nowhere else you would rather be.