Work Text:
sam knows the plan is bad before dean finishes explaining it.
you know because he has the same expression he wears whenever dean suggests something that technically qualifies as a strategy only because there is an objective at the end of it. his mouth pulls into a thin line, his shoulders settle back against the motel chair, and one hand closes slowly around the coffee cooling beside his laptop.
across the table, dean finishes with, “we get arrested.”
sam stares at him.
“yeah,” dean says. “that’s the whole thing.”
“i was waiting for the part where it stopped being insane.”
“you’re gonna be waiting a while.”
you lower the newspaper article in your hands. three suspicious deaths inside green river county detention center in two months, all sudden enough to earn brief columns in the local paper and similar enough to make deacon call the winchesters. the prison recently reopened an older cellblock. normally, that would mean breaking in after dark, lying to a few guards, and hoping dean remembers not to call a federal employee sweetheart.
apparently, dean has decided that breaking in lacks ambition.
“so,” you say, “your plan is to commit a crime so the police put you inside the haunted prison.”
dean points at you. “see? she gets it.”
“that wasn’t approval.”
“still counts.”
sam drags a hand over his face. his hair falls forward when he lowers it, and you resist the familiar urge to reach across the table and push it away from his eyes.
eight months ago, you probably would not have had that urge.
back then, you were supposed to work one hunt with them. a poltergeist outside omaha, three nights, one ruined motel room, and enough rock salt embedded in your jacket to find crystals in the lining for weeks afterward. you knew the winchesters in the loose way hunters know one another before that—names passed through bobby, stories heard secondhand, paths crossing without staying crossed.
then dean asked what case you were taking next. sam found another one two counties over, and you went together.
one hunt became another. somewhere between missouri and colorado, your duffel stopped leaving the impala’s trunk after cases. nobody asked whether you were staying. nobody told you to go. you just did.
now, there are three toothbrushes beside motel sinks and three coffee orders at gas stations. dean complains when you change the radio station. sam sets aside whatever book he thinks you should read before you ask. your boots sit beside theirs outside motel bathrooms, your jacket disappears beneath dean’s on the back seat, and nobody remembers when any of it becomes ordinary.
dean looks toward you. “you’re staying outside.”
you blink. “excuse me?”
“somebody has to.”
“deacon’s already inside.”
“and deacon is the warden. kinda suspicious if he starts spending all day digging through records about his own haunted prison.”
“so i research from outside.”
“exactly.”
you set the newspaper down. “or i get arrested with you.”
“no,” sam says.
you turn toward him. he has straightened in his chair.
“absolutely not.”
“you’re both doing it.”
“which is already two people doing something incredibly stupid.”
dean presses a hand to his chest. “i’m sitting right here.”
sam ignores him. “we need somebody outside. someone who can call bobby, pull records, talk to deacon without a guard listening.”
“deacon can handle himself.”
“i know.”
“then why can’t i go with you?”
“because you’re not getting arrested.”
your eyebrows rise. “i wasn’t aware you had voting rights over me.”
his expression tightens, and you regret it almost immediately.
sam looks down at his hands, the argument leaving his shoulders in a slow release. “i know.”
the room quiets. dean develops a sudden fascination with the newspaper.
“i know i don’t,” sam continues. “i just think somebody should be outside in case this goes wrong.”
“when,” dean corrects. “when it goes wrong.”
sam glances at him.
dean lifts both hands. “realistic expectations.”
you look back at sam. he is not asking because he thinks you can’t handle prison. sam has watched you stitch yourself together in motel bathrooms and walk into houses where people died horrifically. he hands you loaded weapons without checking whether you know what to do with them.
this is different.
“you want a way out,” you say.
sam’s gaze returns to yours. “yeah.”
“and i’m the way out.”
his mouth moves slightly, almost a smile. “hopefully.”
you sigh. “fine.”
sam’s shoulders drop.
“great,” dean says, closing the newspaper. “everybody’s happy.”
“i’m not happy.”
“everybody’s participating.”
“also questionable.”
dean stands anyway, gathering papers from the table. sam keeps watching you.
“you owe me,” you tell him.
“i know.”
“big time.”
“i know.”
“possibly financially.”
that finally gets him.
the corner of sam’s mouth lifts. “we’ll negotiate.”
—
the last time you see sam before the arrest, he is standing beside the impala beneath the washed-out light of a convenience store parking lot.
clouds hang low over little rock, turning the morning pale and colorless. dean is inside buying coffee before they meet deacon, and sam has spent the last five minutes reviewing information you already know.
“you have bobby’s number,” he says.
“memorized.”
“deacon’s home number?”
“written down.”
“if henriksen catches wind of this—”
“sam.” he stops. “you’ve told me everything three times.”
“twice.”
“three times.”
“the first one was different.”
“you gave me the same phone numbers.”
“in a different order.”
you smile despite yourself. sam almost does, then his expression settles again.
“just be careful.”
the request is too quiet for teasing.
you move a little closer. “you’re the one getting arrested.”
“temporarily.”
“still, arrested.”
“technically.”
“there isn’t a version of that word that gets better with ‘technically.’”
sam looks down between you. there is barely a foot of space left, and you become aware of it because he does.
something changes in his face—not enough to name, only enough that you suddenly remember every other moment like this. motel hallways where one of you pauses too long outside the other’s door. the back seat when your leg falls asleep beneath his because neither of you moves. his hand on your waist steering you around broken glass after a hunt.
eight months of almosts so small you have never needed to call them that.
sam takes one hand from his pocket. for a second, you think he might hug you. instead, his fingers catch the edge of your coat collar and fold it down where it has twisted inward. his knuckles brush your neck, warm against the cold morning.
“there,” he murmurs.
you look at him, and sam’s hand falls.
the convenience store door opens.
“all right, felons,” dean calls. “let’s go.”
you and sam both step back.
“see you tonight,” you say.
sam nods. “tonight.”
—
by noon, sam winchester officially belongs to the state of arkansas.
deacon calls after intake, and you sit on the edge of the motel bed surrounded by newspaper archives while sam’s abandoned coffee cup leaves a dark ring beside his closed laptop.
“they’re in,” deacon says.
“both of them?”
“both.”
you release a breath, and deacon hears it. “they’re fine.”
“i know.”
“you don’t sound like you know.”
you ignore that. “when can i see them?”
a pause follows.
“that’s actually what i’m calling about.”
your hand stills. “what did dean do?”
deacon laughs. that tells you enough.
“during intake, they needed emergency contacts, visitor relationship information, stuff like that. dean thought it would be easier if you had a reason to visit more than once.”
you close your eyes. “deacon.”
“he put you down as sam’s girlfriend.”
you stare at the wall. “he did what?”
“for the cover.”
“sam knows?”
deacon clears his throat. “not yet.”
you slowly lower the article in your hands. “can i see dean first?”
“probably.”
“good.”
“why?”
“oh, no reason.”
deacon laughs again. “i’ll see what i can do.”
—
you do not see dean first.
deacon claims visitation assignments are handled by somebody else. you suspect self-preservation.
green river county detention center feels worse from inside. fluorescent lights bleach every hallway into the same cold shade, and the air carries disinfectant, old concrete, overheated machinery, and something metallic underneath. doors open only when someone else decides they should. every few feet, another lock closes behind you.
you surrender your purse, your coat, and everything in your pockets before sitting beneath lights that hum faintly overhead.
twelve minutes later, the door on the other side opens, and sam walks through.
everything you intend to say disappears.
the orange uniform should be funny. on sam, it’s not. his hair hangs disordered around his face, and a faint red mark circles one wrist where the restraints must have rubbed. his shoulders seem even broader beneath clothing designed to make everyone wearing it look exactly the same.
then, he sees you. the tension leaves his face so quickly that it hurts.
sam crosses to the chair opposite yours and sits. glass separates you.
you have never been unable to touch him before.
the realization arrives without warning. for eight months, sam has always been within reach—the front seat from the back, the other side of a diner booth, one motel bed away, close enough to hand you a book or push you behind him when he thinks something is dangerous.
now you could stretch your arm forward and never reach him.
sam picks up the phone. you do the same.
“hey,” he says. his voice reaches you through the receiver instead of the room.
“hey.”
sam studies your face. “everything okay?”
you nearly laugh. of course that is his first question.
“you’re the one in prison.”
“yeah.”
“wearing orange.”
his eyes drop toward himself. “also yeah.”
“it’s bad.” you scrunch your nose.
the smallest smile appears. “the orange?”
“mostly your hair with the orange.”
sam huffs a laugh. there he is. something inside you settles.
you exchange what you know about the case. sam and dean have a lead on an inmate named moody who died in the old cellblock; you promise to check his burial records. for a few minutes, it feels almost normal—research passed back and forth, theories tested, sam giving you that faintly impressed look when you tell him you have already started searching.
then a voice sounds overhead.
“five minutes remaining.”
both of you look up.
“five minutes?” you ask.
“apparently.”
“we just got here.”
“i know.”
there is something strange in the way he says it.
you look down at your notes, suddenly aware that everything you want to say has to compete with a clock. then you remember deacon’s phone call.
“by the way.”
sam becomes wary. “what?”
“apparently i’m your girlfriend.”
sam blinks and is silent for a moment. “what?”
“according to your paperwork.”
color starts moving into his ears.
“dean.”
“that was my response.”
sam closes his eyes. “i’m gonna kill him.”
“probably difficult from separate cells.”
“i’ll figure something out.”
you laugh. sam opens his eyes again, embarrassment still written across his face.
“you’re okay with it?” he asks.
the question surprises you. “with what?”
“coming here like that. saying you’re…” he stops.
“your girlfriend?”
the color reaches his cheeks. “yeah.”
you should tease him. instead, the answer comes easily.
“it’s fine.”
sam looks at you for a second too long.
“one minute remaining.”
you stare at the clock.
“seriously?” you ask the ethereal speakers. sam’s mouth tightens. “i’ll back come tomorrow.”
“you don’t have to.”
you give him a look.
“right,” he says softly.
the guard calls his name, and you lower the phone reluctantly. sam doesn’t, not immediately. he watches you until you pick yours up again.
“sam.” he raises the receiver closer to him, as if trying to get closer to your words. “i’ll see you tomorrow.”
his shoulders loosen. “tomorrow.”
this time, you both hang up.
—
the motel is too quiet. you discover that ten minutes after returning.
you have spent hundreds of nights alone, which makes your inability to settle especially irritating. you spread research across both beds and open sam’s laptop because yours died somewhere outside tulsa two months ago and nobody bothers pretending the computers belong to individual people anymore. after all, dean doesn’t have a laptop yet he still watches porn.
you make coffee and automatically get three cups out of the cabinet. you stare at them then put two back.
later, you find a reference to the old cellblock and turn toward the chair beside the table.
“sam, look at—” you stop.
the room stays empty. outside, tires move over wet pavement.
“great,” you mutter.
you work until after midnight. moody looks promising. violent history, death in the old block, buried locally. you pass everything to deacon before lying down on the bed nearest the door.
that is usually dean’s. your bed is the other one, and sam usually takes whichever side leaves him closest to the window.
eight months of motel rooms have rearranged space without asking permission.
you turn onto your side. the other beds remain empty. sleep takes almost an hour to take you.
—
moody is not the ghost. another prisoner dies after sam and dean burn his remains, which sends you back through older records while the brothers start looking for another pattern.
the second time sam enters visitation, you notice the bruise along his jaw immediately. you’re standing before he reaches the chair.
sam sees your expression and touches his face. “it’s nothing.”
you pick up the phone. “what happened?”
“good to see you too.”
“sam.”
“i’m fine.”
“you’re bruised.”
“it’s prison.”
“that is not an explanation.”
he glances down. “there was a misunderstanding.”
“with someone’s fist?”
his mouth twitches. “sort of.”
“sam.”
“dean started it.”
“that is somehow more believable and less reassuring.”
sam smiles despite himself.
you update him on the old cellblock. more deaths than deacon initially realized, most listed as sudden heart attacks. prisoners of different ages and different backgrounds, all spanning years.
“someone who worked there,” sam murmurs.
“that’s what i thought.”
“medical staff.”
you nod. “i’m checking nurses.”
sam’s eyes lift to yours. “you’re good.”
“you sound surprised.”
“i’m not.”
“little offensive.”
“i meant—”
“i know.”
his smile grows.
the speaker clicks.
“five minutes remaining.”
your own smile disappears, and sam looks at the clock.
“every time,” you mutter. you glance at your notes, trying to decide what matters most.
“did you sleep?” sam asks.
you look up. “what?”
“last night. did you sleep?”
“we have five minutes left, sam.”
“that’s enough time to ask.”
“you’re in prison.”
“you keep mentioning that.”
“because you keep acting like i’m the one who needs checking on.”
sam tilts his head. “did you?”
you hate how well he knows when silence means guilt.
“some.”
“how much?”
“enough.”
“that isn’t a number.”
“you’re annoying.”
“you didn’t sleep.”
you sigh. “two hours.”
sam exhales. “come on.”
“i was working.”
“you can’t work if you’re exhausted.”
“you do.”
“yeah, and it’s a bad habit.”
you fold your arms. “wow. prison really changes a man.”
he gives you a tired look. “eat something tonight.”
“sam.”
“promise.”
“you’re unbelievable.”
“promise me.”
you stare at him, he waits, and the clock keeps moving.
“fine.”
sam relaxes. something about that bothers you more than it should. he has five minutes with you, and he spends part of them making sure you’re okay.
“you too,” you say.
“what?”
“eat.”
“i have been.”
“something that hasn’t been prepared by the state.”
sam glances down at himself. “options are limited.”
“when you get out.”
he looks at you.
when. not if.
“when i get out,” he agrees.
the final announcement comes too soon. you hang up first because one of you has to.
sam watches you leave.
—
the next morning, dean calls.
the first thing he says is, “before you freak out, sam’s fine.”
you stop halfway through pouring coffee. “why would i freak out?”
“great question.”
“dean.”
“he’s fine.”
you put the pot down. “what happened?”
“ghost got another guy last night.”
your grip tightens around the receiver. “sam saw it?”
“part of it.”
“is he hurt?”
“no.”
you close your eyes.
“we need you to check a name,” dean says. “nurse glockner. worked the infirmary in the seventies. white hair, messed-up eye. apparently patients had a habit of going in with colds and leaving in body bags.”
“heart attacks?”
“bingo.”
you reach for a pen. “i’ll find her.”
“atta girl.”
“dean.”
“yeah?”
you hesitate. “is sam really okay?”
dean’s voice changes. “yeah.”
you look toward the cabinet where two unused coffee cups remain.
“okay.”
“he’s driving me nuts, though.”
“how?”
“keeps asking whether deacon’s heard from you.”
you go still. “he does?”
dean sounds entirely too pleased now. “he thinks you’re not sleeping.”
“i’m sleeping.”
“apparently two hours doesn’t count.”
“he told you?”
“sam tells me lots of things.”
“you’re lying.”
“sometimes.”
you smile despite yourself.
dean lowers his voice. “come see him.”
the humor disappears.
“i’m already scheduled this afternoon.”
“good.”
before you can ask why he sounds like that, the line goes dead.
—
sam has spent eight months knowing where you are. he doesn’t realize that until green river.
before prison, knowing required no effort. if dean drives, you are usually behind sam with one knee tucked against the seat. if the three of you research, you sit wherever the best lamp is. if you disappear from a motel room, there is always a note explaining you went for coffee or food or to threaten an ice machine that ate your quarters.
he never has to wonder. then a steel door closes and suddenly, he wonders constantly.
dean says something stupid in the cafeteria and sam turns automatically, already expecting your expression. except, you aren’t there.
someone leaves a dinner roll untouched and he thinks you would steal it because you insist prison-quality bread probably tastes exactly like motel breakfast bread. you aren’t there.
at night, somebody shouts three cells down and sam wakes hard, hand moving before his thoughts catch up.
for one disoriented second, he expects the edge of another motel bed. he expects your breathing, expects you. his fingers hit concrete.
sam lies awake afterward listening to the prison refuse to become quiet. metal shifts, toilets flush, guards walk past, somebody coughs, someone else mutters in sleep.
he wonders whether you locked the motel door. of course you did.
he wonders whether you ate. you promised you would.
he wonders why three days without you feel longer than eight months with you.
that question is harder.
—
you find dolores glockner. mara daniels finds her too.
the public defender arrives with information about glockner’s burial shortly before your next visit, and deacon catches you near security long enough to tell you that everything is moving faster than planned.
henriksen is there, but you already know. his car sits outside.
“how long?” you ask.
deacon glances toward the corridor. “sam wants out tonight.”
“and dean?”
deacon’s expression answers.
you close your eyes. “of course.”
“they need to finish this.”
“they need not to get extradited to five different states.”
“tell them that.”
“i get five minutes.”
deacon gives you a tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “make them count.”
—
the bruise on sam’s jaw has darkened when he walks into visitation, and there’s another mark near his temple.
you stop outside the chair.
sam looks tired in a way sleep cannot fix. trapped tired, the kind that settles beneath the skin.
his shoulders relax when he sees you anyway.
you si, but neither of you reaches for the phone immediately. the glass reflects both of you faintly beneath the fluorescent lights, your faces overlapping in places where the angle catches wrong.
sam finally raises the receiver. you follow.
“hey.”
“hey.”
he hears something in your voice immediately. “what happened?”
“henriksen.”
sam’s jaw tightens. “you saw him?”
“his car.”
“did he see you?”
“no.”
“are you sure?”
“sam.”
“are you sure?”
“yes.”
he breathes out. “okay.”
“deacon says you’re getting out tonight.”
sam looks briefly toward the clock. “that’s the plan.”
“i’m beginning to hate that phrase.”
“me too.”
you tell him about glockner. how she was nurse in the old infirmary with inmates dying around her. she was killed during the prison riot and buried nearby.
relief briefly moves through his face.
“good,” he says. “that’s good.”
you look at the bruise near his temple. “what happened there?”
“nothing.”
“your definition of nothing has gotten worse.”
“fight.”
“another one?”
“dean and i needed deacon to pull us out without making it look suspicious.”
you blink. “you fought dean. on purpose.”
“sort of.”
“you punched each other as part of the escape plan.”
“mostly shoved.”
you stare at him. sam has the decency to look embarrassed.
“this is why you guys need me,” you say.
the words leave before you think about them. sam goes still. you mean common sense. probably.
instead of laughing, he watches you.
“yeah,” he says quietly.
the speaker crackles.
“five minutes remaining.”
you both look up. something close to anger flashes through you.
“i swear to god.”
sam smiles faintly. “you’re really starting to take that personally.”
“because it is personal.”
his smile fades, and you look at each other through the glass. five minutes left. again.
“there’s something else,” sam says.
“what?”
he hesitates. “somebody asked about you.”
your stomach drops. “henriksen?”
“no. an inmate.”
“why?”
sam looks suddenly interested in the counter. “he asked if the girl who keeps visiting was mine.”
warmth comes without warning. “and?”
“and what?”
“what did you say?”
sam looks up, his ears already turning pink.
“sam.”
“i said yeah.” your heartbeat stumbles. “for the cover,” he adds quickly.
you nod. “right.”
sam’s expression changes. he notices, of course he does.
“i mean—”
“i know.”
“no, i—”
the clock ticks above you. sam looks frustrated with himself.
“he asked how long.”
“how long what?”
“we’ve been together.”
you stare at him. “what did you say?”
a long moment passes.
“eight months.”
everything inside you goes quiet. omaha flashes through your mind. rock salt, a destroyed lamp, dean arguing with a motel manager while sam handed you a beer in the parking lot. eight months ago.
“why eight months?”
sam opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
“three minutes remaining.”
he glances toward the speaker as though considering whether he can fight the ceiling.
“i don’t know.”
you know sam well enough to recognize a lie. “yes, you do.”
“it was the first thing i thought of.”
“why?”
his fingers tighten around the receiver. “that’s when you started hunting with us.”
“i hunted with you before.”
“not like that.”
“like what?”
sam looks directly through the glass. “you stayed.”
two words, that’s all. they settle more heavily than anything else he could have said.
your throat tightens. “sam.”
“two minutes,” a guard calls from behind him, closer this time. sam looks over his shoulder. when he turns back, urgency has entered his face.
“listen.”
“i am.”
“tonight might get messy.”
fear moves coldly beneath your ribs.
“don’t.”
“i need you to know where—”
“no.” sam stops. “don’t give me instructions.”
“if something happens—”
“nothing is happening.”
“you don’t know that.”
“neither do you.”
his mouth closes. you lean toward the glass.
“if you have something to tell me, tell me. don’t spend whatever time we have left telling me where dean keeps emergency cash.”
sam’s eyes hold yours.
one minute.
you can see the thought moving through him. fear, decision.
then sam says, “you know you’re not actually my girlfriend.”
for one second, you cannot breathe. his face changes immediately.
“that came out wrong.”
you look down. “yeah.”
“i mean—”
you force yourself to look at him again. his knuckles have gone white around the receiver.
“i don’t like that.”
you stare. “what?”
“that you’re not.”
the world seems to stop somewhere beyond the glass.
sam swallows. “everybody here keeps calling you that, and every time they do, i have to remember they’re wrong.”
your lips part.
the guard moves behind him. “time.”
sam looks toward him, then back at you.
“sam.”
he opens his mouth to say something, but the guard interrupts. “time, winchester.”
you lower the receiver, and sam does the same. but neither of you stand. the guard reaches the partition.
you lift your hand. you don’t plan it, but your palm still presses flat against the glass.
sam looks at it, then his hand rises. his palm settles opposite yours.
the glass is cold beneath your skin. his hand should be warm. you know exactly how warm.
you have held it while wrapping split knuckles after hunts. fallen asleep with his fingers loosely around your wrist in the impala. grabbed him hard enough to bruise when something came through a door neither of you expected.
you know the shape and feel of his hand, but you cannot feel any of it.
“come back to me,” you say.
sam cannot hear you with the phone already down, but he reads your mouth. you know because his entire face changes.
his fingers spread against the glass until they align with yours. sam nods, his mouth forming two words.
i will.
then the guard takes his arm.
your hands slide apart.
—
you don’t sleep.
you do eat because you promised sam, though the sandwich tastes like cardboard while you wait for a phone call.
deacon finally calls after dark. “they’re out.”
you grip the phone with both hands. “out?”
“on their way.”
your knees nearly give. you sit on the edge of the bed.
“they’re okay?”
“yes.”
“you saw them?”
“yes.”
“sam?”
“yes.”
you close your eyes.
deacon lets you breathe, then he says, “they’re going after glockner.”
you open them again. “of course they are.”
“you surprised?”
“not remotely.” your duffel is already packed beside the door. “where?”
deacon gives you the cemetery, and you are moving before he finishes.
—
green valley cemetery lies far enough outside town that the road becomes narrow and dark before you reach it. trees press close to both shoulders, branches catching briefly in your headlights before disappearing behind you.
you park your rental car beyond the entrance. henriksen already knows the impala, and there’s no reason to make his night easier.
your hands shake when you turn off the engine. you shove them beneath your thighs.
deacon says they are out. deacon says sam is fine. you repeat both facts until they begin to resemble words instead of things you need to survive.
the first pair of headlights appears fourteen minutes later. you sit forward.
wrong car. it passes.
several minutes later, another engine approaches. you know this one before the headlights reach the bend. there are sounds you learn through repetition, and the impala is one of them.
you are out of your car before dean finishes pulling onto the gravel shoulder.
the impala stops crookedly beneath the trees, and dean gets out first. relief hits hard enough that you nearly stumble.
then the passenger door opens.
sam unfolds from the car. he is still wearing prison pants beneath his jacket. his hair is a mess, dirt marks one side of his face, and exhaustion drags at every line of him. but, he’s alive.
sam sees you. neither of you hesitates. you run, and sam does too.
gravel shifts beneath your shoes as he rounds the front of the impala so quickly dean has to move aside. you reach him near the hood, and the impact knocks the breath from your lungs.
sam catches you. both arms close around you with enough force to lift your feet from the ground. one locks around your waist while the other wraps across your shoulders, pulling you completely against his chest.
your face disappears against his neck, and you wrap your arms around him just as tightly. sam’s hand moves up the back of your head, fingers spreading through your hair.
he holds you as though there is still something trying to take you away. for days, every touch has stopped at glass. now there is none.
there is sam’s chest beneath your cheek and his breath against your hair. the hard line of his arm across your back. the warmth of his neck beneath your face. the frantic beat of his heart close enough that you can feel it.
something inside you finally gives. “sam.”
his grip tightens. “hey.”
you laugh once, but it breaks in the middle. sam hears that too. his face presses deeper into your hair.
“i’ve got you.”
the words nearly undo you. you clutch the back of his jacket.
neither of you moves. the first desperate second becomes five, then ten. the panic should be gone. sam still does not let go, and neither do you.
behind you, the impala’s trunk opens. dean begins moving equipment around with considerably more noise than necessary. he does not say a word.
you breathe sam in. “you’re crushing me.”
his arms loosen instantly. “sorry.”
you tighten yours before he can pull away. “don’t.”
sam goes still. then his hold settles around you again, gentler but no less complete.
his breath leaves him slowly against your hair.
“i thought i wasn’t gonna see you again for a second there.”
your eyes close. “me too.”
sam’s hand slides from the back of your head to your neck. he draws away only enough to see you.
you hate the distance immediately. apparently so does he.
one arm remains around your waist while his eyes move across your face in quick, familiar passes. forehead, cheek, mouth, eyes.
“i’m okay,” you whisper.
“i know.”
he keeps looking. your throat tightens. this is not an injury check.
sam touches your cheek. his thumb moves once beneath your eye. you lean into his palm before you can stop yourself.
his breath catches.
three days. eight months. every almost crowds the narrow space between you.
you lift your hand and trace the bruise along his jaw.
sam’s eyes close for a second. when they open, something changes.
“you came back,” you murmur.
his gaze drops to your mouth. “i said i would.”
you kiss him. or sam kisses you. later, you will not be able to decide who moves first. there is only the space disappearing.
his mouth meets yours with one startled second of stillness, like neither of you fully believes it is happening.
then sam’s hand slides into your hair. your fingers close around his jacket. he pulls you against him again.
the kiss changes. not frantic exactly, but there are eight months inside it.
eight months of his knee touching yours beneath diner tables. your head on his shoulder in the back seat. sam bringing you coffee without asking how you take it because he already knows. your fingers stitching cuts along his ribs while he watches you beneath bad motel lighting.
eight months of not noticing you are waiting for something. three days of glass tells you what.
sam kisses you like he has finally been allowed to stop pretending.
your hand slips around his neck. he breathes against your mouth and kisses you again closer. your heart beats so hard you can feel it where your chest rests against his.
metal slams behind you, and you break apart.
dean stands beside the open trunk holding two shovels. his expression is carefully neutral.
“hate to interrupt whatever felony this is,” he says, “but glockner’s still dead, henriksen’s still pissed, and we should probably keep moving.”
heat rushes into your face. sam doesn’t step away completely. his hand remains at your waist.
dean notices. his eyes drop toward it, then back to sam. something like satisfaction passes through his face.
he tosses sam a shovel. “here, lover boy.”
sam catches it. “shut up.”
you hide your smile by reaching for the salt.
—
dolores glockner burns beneath a moonless sky.
the three of you stand around the opened grave while flames crawl through old fabric and dry remains. lighter fluid sharpens the air. dirt covers sam’s hands and the knees of his prison-issued pants.
you keep looking at him. you try not to, but you fail. every time, sam is already looking at you. dean notices approximately the fourth time.
“guys,” he complains. you both turn. “focus.”
“we are focused,” sam says.
dean points between you. “you’ve been making eyes at each other over a corpse for ten minutes.”
you look toward the burning coffin. “romantic.”
“it’s deeply disturbing.”
sam’s mouth twitches. sirens rise somewhere far down the road, and all humor disappears.
dean turns toward the cemetery entrance. “that’ll be our cue.”
you refill the grave badly and run.
halfway to the impala, sam catches your hand. you look down as his fingers thread through yours. not because something is chasing you, not because you need help, but because he wants them there.
you squeeze once. sam looks toward you.
“any day now!” dean shouts from the car.
you run. sam doesn’t let go until you have to climb inside.
mara sends henriksen to the wrong cemetery. you discover that twenty miles later when deacon calls, and dean laughs hard enough to nearly miss a turn.
for the first time all night, something loosens. normally sam takes the passenger seat. tonight, he climbs into the back beside you.
dean looks at him through the rearview mirror.
“what?” sam asks.
dean’s eyebrows rise. “nothing.”
the impala accelerates onto the interstate. for several miles, you and sam sit close without touching.
which is ridiculous.
you kissed beside a cemetery less than an hour ago. he held you hard enough that your ribs still remember it.
but the adrenaline is fading and reality returns. you become aware of dean ten feet away, of the road unspooling behind you, of everything that kiss means and everything neither of you has said.
sam’s hand rests on the seat between you. his smallest finger brushes yours when the car rounds a curve.
neither of you moves. another mile passes.
his hand turns, and your fingers slide together. sam looks out the window. you do too. in the rearview mirror, dean sees everything.
he turns the radio louder.
—
you drive until arkansas is something behind you.
dean chooses a motel that takes cash and asks no questions. the sign outside promises cable television and continental breakfast beneath two missing letters, and the room has two nice-sized beds, which dean declares a miracle until the toilet starts running nonstop.
normal problems return. bags come out of the trunk, weapons disappear beneath beds, and sam takes the first shower because apparently prison gave dean new standards about personal hygiene.
you sit on the bed closest to the window and listen to water move through the wall. dean flips channels.
he lasts six minutes, then he drops the remote. “i’m getting food.”
you look at him. “now?”
“yep.”
“you ate in the car.”
“i’m a growing boy.”
“you’re a grown-ass man.”
“still growing spiritually.” he picks up the keys.
you narrow your eyes. “dean.”
“what?”
his innocence is badly performed. you glance toward the bathroom.
dean follows your attention. “he could take a while.”
“dean.”
he opens the door. “have fun talking.”
you throw a pillow. the door closes before it reaches him, and the pillow hits wood.
“coward.”
the shower shuts off.
your heartbeat immediately changes. you hate that.
several minutes later, sam comes out wearing sweatpants and a grey shirt, damp hair pushed away from his forehead. he looks toward dean’s empty bed, then at the pillow on the floor.
“where’d he go?”
“he went to get food.”
sam checks the clock. “at one in the morning?”
“apparently his spirit is growing.”
sam understands, color moving faintly into his face. “oh.”
“yeah.”
for a moment, both of you become intensely interested in ordinary things.
you straighten the blanket. sam folds his towel on the rack.
you check your duffel even though you know exactly what is inside. sam sets his watch beside the lamp.
it becomes unbearable.
you look at him. “eight months?”
sam freezes. slowly, he turns to look at you. “what?”
“you told that guy eight months.”
“yeah.”
“why?”
“i told you.”
“you gave me approximately half an answer before the visitation lady ruined my life.”
a smile touches his mouth. “you really hate her.”
“with my whole heart.”
sam’s smile fades into something softer, and you sit on the edge of the bed.
“why eight months?”
he looks down at his hands. “because that’s when you stayed.”
the same answer but without glass this time.
sam crosses toward the bed you’re sitting on and joins you. the room between you is narrow enough that your knees nearly touch.
“the omaha case was supposed to be one hunt,” he says.
“i remember.”
“then we went to nebraska.”
“you said kansas earlier.” sam gives you a look, and you smile. “researcher.”
“can i finish?”
“please.”
his mouth twitches before his attention drops to his hands again.
“every time we finished something, i figured you’d take off.”
that surprises you. “you did?”
“at first.”
“why?”
he shrugs. “that’s what hunters do.”
“you and dean don’t.”
“we’re brothers.”
“unfortunate for both of you.”
sam smiles down at his hands. “yeah.” the humor fades. “then after a while, i stopped thinking about it.”
“about me leaving?”
he nods. “i don’t know exactly when. i remember finishing a hunt outside des moines and dean asking where we were going next, and i was already looking for something all three of us could take.”
your chest tightens. sam glances toward you.
“i didn’t wonder whether you were coming.” his voice drops. “i just knew you were.”
you look down between your knees. all this time, you thought staying happened because nobody stopped you. you never considered that sam noticed every time you chose them again.
“so eight months,” you say.
“yeah.”
“because that’s when i became your fake girlfriend.”
sam groans. “that’s not what i meant.”
“green river county disagrees.”
“please never request those records.”
you and sam laugh lightly. the sound fades gradually, but the quiet left behind is different. his knee touches yours, and neither of you pretend not to notice.
“you said something else,” you murmur.
sam knows immediately. his gaze falls toward the carpet.
“through the glass,” you add.
“yeah.”
you wait. there is no announcement, no guard, no phone, and no countdown.
sam notices too. his eyes briefly move toward the bedside clock, but nothing happens.
“i missed you,” he says.
you smile faintly. “i noticed.”
“no.”
the humor leaves you, and sam’s eyes return to yours.
“i mean, i really missed you.”
you stop moving.
he looks almost embarrassed by the admission, which seems absurd after the cemetery.
“it was three days,” he continues. “i know that’s not…” he exhales. “it felt longer.”
you know. you lived it too.
“everything kept happening, and i kept turning around to tell you,” he says. “dean would say something, or i’d find something, and for a second i’d think…” he trails off.
“what?”
sam rubs his palms against his knees.
“i kept reaching for you.”
the words land somewhere deep.
“first night, i woke up and forgot where i was. i thought you were there.”
“where?”
“on the other side of the bed.”
your breath catches.
sam looks embarrassed. “we don’t even share beds that often.”
“often?”
“you know what i mean.”
you do. motels with one room left, injuries, nights when nightmares make separate beds feel unnecessarily far away. it was always innocent and easy until now.
“i did it too,” you admit.
sam looks up. “what?”
“made three cups of coffee.”
his eyebrows pull together. “why?”
“because apparently my brain thinks dean deserves coffee.”
sam laughs quietly. “terrifying.”
“then i found something and tried to show you.” you look toward your hands. “you weren’t there.”
sam’s knee presses more firmly against yours.
“the room felt wrong,” you say. “everything did.”
the air conditioner rattles beneath the window. footsteps pass outside and disappear toward the stairs.
sam’s hand moves slowly. his fingers touch yours where they rest on the mattress. you turn your palm, and he threads them together.
“i don’t want to get used to that,” he says.
“to what?”
“you not being there.”
sam holds your gaze. there is no uncertainty in what he feels anymore, only uncertainty about whether he is allowed to ask for it. that is so painfully sam that something inside you aches.
you squeeze his hand. “then don’t.”
his brow furrows. “don’t what?”
“get used to it.”
sam goes very still, and you shift closer, your knees and thighs now touching.
“i’m not going anywhere,” he says.
“i know what i chose.” he looks down at your joined hands as he squeezes back. “and i choose this.”
his thumb stills against your skin.
“saving people, hunting things?” you smile.
“no,” sam says your name in a hushed tone and looks up at you. “you.”
he stops breathing, or he seems to. “i choose you.”
the words exist now. eight months made them true long before either of you said them, but saying them changes something anyway.
sam’s eyes shine faintly beneath the motel lamp. he looks away for a second, gathering himself, then he looks back.
“i think i’ve been choosing you for eight months.”
your chest hurts. “only think?”
“i’m trying not to sound insane.”
“you deliberately went to prison this week.”
“fair.”
you smile. sam’s thumb begins moving across your knuckles again.
“when that guy asked how long we’d been together, i didn’t have to think,” he says.
“eight months.”
“yeah.”
“because i stayed.”
sam nods. “because you stayed.”
you lean closer. “and if i hadn’t?”
something passes through his face. “i would’ve asked.”
“really?”
“eventually.”
you raise an eyebrow.
sam looks offended. “i would have.”
“when?”
“i don’t know.”
“another eight months?”
“probably not.”
“a year?”
“okay, enough.”
you laugh.
sam reaches for you, his free hand settling at your waist.
the laughter fades. you are close enough to feel his breath.
“you were terrible through the glass,” you whisper.
“me?”
“you almost confessed with thirty seconds left.”
“you told me to.”
“i told you to say something important.”
“i was trying.”
“you opened with telling me i wasn’t your girlfriend.”
sam closes his eyes.
you laugh softly. “truly spectacular.”
“i fixed it.”
“barely.”
he opens his eyes. “i said i wanted you to be.”
“not exactly.”
“close enough.”
“sam winchester, researcher, relies on ‘close enough.’”
“i was under pressure.”
“you had five minutes.”
“exactly.”
you are still smiling when his thumb touches your side. then sam becomes serious.
“will you?”
your heartbeat catches. “will i what?”
he gives you a look. you know, but you want to hear him say it anyway.
sam seems to understand. his fingers tighten around yours.
“will you be my girlfriend?”
something about the simplicity nearly hurts.
no prison paperwork, no cover, no guard asking how you know inmate s. winchester. just sam.
you lean in and kiss him. he makes a quiet sound of surprise before his hand slides around your waist.
you kiss him slowly this time. nothing chasing you, nothing burning, no sirens approaching.
sam’s mouth moves against yours with an intimacy the cemetery never allowed. his hand rises to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye before his fingers disappear into your hair. you touch the back of his neck.
when you pull away, sam follows for half an inch before stopping himself.
his forehead rests against yours. “was that a yes?”
you smile. “seriously?”
“i’d prefer verbal confirmation.”
“of course you would.”
you kiss the corner of his mouth.
“yes.”
his eyes close. relief passes through him so visibly that you laugh.
“you already kissed me twice.”
“three times,” he corrects.
“you counted?”
“obviously.”
you shake your head.
sam kisses you again.
four.
—
dean returns at two in the morning carrying burgers, fries, and absolutely no explanation for why obtaining them took nearly an hour.
he opens the door and stops.
you are lying sideways across the bed with your head against sam’s chest. sam has an arm around your shoulders, and your fingers are loosely intertwined over his stomach while the television plays silently across the room.
dean takes in the scene. his eyes move to your hands, then sam, then you.
“huh.”
sam lifts his head. “what?”
dean closes the door. “nothing.”
he sets the food on the table.
“that took a while,” you say.
“wanted to give you time.”
“for what?” you ask.
sam doesn’t say anything and throws a pillow.
dean catches it. “violence? after everything prison taught you?”
“shut up.”
dean tosses the pillow onto his bed and starts unloading burgers.
“so…” dean trails off. you and sam exchange a look, but dean sees it. “oh, come on.”
“what?” sam asks.
“do i need to update your emergency contact?”
sam’s face goes blank, but you understand immediately. a smile spreads across your mouth.
“nope.”
dean looks toward you as you settle back against sam. his arm closes around you automatically.
“paperwork’s finally accurate.”
dean stares.
sam presses his lips together, but it does not work. the smile escapes anyway.
dean points at him. “eight months.”
your head snaps toward dean, and sam’s smile disappears.
“you told him?” you ask sam.
“he was there.”
dean reaches for a fry. “guy asks sammy how long you’ve been together, and this idiot says eight months like you had an anniversary dinner booked.”
you look up at sam. “you left that part out.”
“i told you he asked.”
“you didn’t tell me dean heard.”
“didn’t seem relevant.”
“very relevant,” dean says.
sam gives him a look.
dean grins. “for the record, i would’ve said longer.”
you blink. “what?”
he reaches for another fry. “nothing.”
“dean.”
“food’s getting cold.”
“how long?”
“not getting involved.”
“you are literally the reason the prison thought we were dating.”
“and look how well that worked out.”
sam groans, and you laugh.
dean looks between you one last time. something gentler appears beneath the teasing. he saw the cemetery, he saw sam hold you, and he knows what neither of you understood until green river put concrete walls between you.
dean looks away first. “eat your burger.”
you take one, and sam reaches for the other at the same time. your hands bump. both of you pause, then smile.
dean makes a disgusted sound. “so i gotta deal with this now?”
the television flickers across the motel walls. cars move along the highway beyond the curtains, headlights passing in pale strips across the ceiling. sam sits beside you, warm and solid, his knee pressed against yours while he eats.
nothing separates you. no walls, no glass, no locked doors, no voice announcing how much time remains.
sam reaches for your hand again when he finishes. his fingers find yours without looking, and you hold on.
this time, nobody tells either of you when to let go.