Work Text:
dean has been talking about buying a ping-pong table since the bunker stopped feeling borrowed.
sam said the interest would pass, and you pointed out that most of dean’s plans involving recreational equipment disappear as soon as he realizes he has to assemble it himself. dean responded by circling a table in an old sporting-goods catalogue and leaving it open on the library table for three weeks.
months pass without a table. the catalogue eventually vanishes beneath case files, unopened mail, and a newspaper dean insists he will finish reading someday. you assume that is the end of it.
then, one saturday morning, the bunker door opens and dean shouts for help.
you look up from the lore book spread between you and sam. your chairs have gradually shifted together throughout the morning until your knees touch beneath the table and sam can read over your shoulder without leaning very far. neither of you has acknowledged it.
dean shouts again, louder this time.
“sounds urgent,” you say, although you make no attempt to move.
sam turns a page. “he’d sound like that if he needed help carrying groceries.”
“i heard that,” dean calls from the top of the stairs.
sam’s mouth curves. he closes the book around one finger to hold your place, then reaches for the coffee mug sitting near his elbow. he hands it to you before standing, apparently aware that it belongs to you despite having two identical mugs beside him.
outside, a faded red pickup sits near the bunker entrance. a folded ping-pong table has been strapped upright in the bed with three different kinds of rope and what appears to be an extension cord.
you stop beside sam. “you actually did it.”
“thirty-five bucks,” dean says proudly. he pulls at one of the knots securing the table. “guy outside town wanted it out of his garage.”
sam studies the truck. “where did you get the pickup?”
“borrowed it.”
“from the guy?”
dean gives him a patient look. “does that matter?”
sam releases a long breath through his nose. “i’m going to say yes.”
“then don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.”
getting the table into the bunker takes nearly forty minutes, two scraped knuckles, and one argument about whether the map room railing can support its weight. sam takes the lower end while dean guides it down the stairs. you walk backward in front of sam, keeping one hand near the corner whenever it threatens to strike the wall.
“left,” dean orders from above.
“my left or yours?” sam asks through clenched teeth.
“the useful one.”
the table clips the railing. sam’s shoulders tense beneath his shirt as the weight shifts toward him, and you instinctively reach for his arm.
“you okay?” you ask.
sam adjusts his grip. “yeah. just move that box before i step on it.”
you push the box aside with your boot and remain close enough to catch absolutely nothing if he drops the table. sam glances down at your hand still curled around his forearm, and something warm passes through his expression before dean tells him to keep moving.
the table eventually finds a home in an unused records room off the library. dean opens both halves with ceremonial reverence. the blue surface is scuffed around the edges, one corner is held together with silver tape, and the white line down its center has faded to grey.
dean looks at it as though he has brought home buried treasure.
“she’s perfect,” he says.
sam crouches beside one of the folding legs. “this bracket is bent.”
“she has character,” dean corrects.
“it’s also missing a bolt.”
“more character.”
sam unfolds the instructions that came taped beneath the table. the paper has yellowed with age and appears to have spent several years absorbing motor oil. dean takes one glance at it before reaching for the loose net.
“we don’t need that,” he says.
“you put the support on backward.”
dean looks beneath the table, then at you. “does that look backward?”
you tilt your head, considering it. “not from here.”
sam stares at both of you. “you’re standing on the wrong side.”
dean points at you with the end of the net. “see? negative attitude. this is why he’s not in charge of morale.”
you help dean attach the net while sam fixes everything the two of you assembled incorrectly. when the table is finally upright, dean produces two red paddles and a box of white balls from his jacket. he tosses one paddle toward you without warning.
you catch it against your chest. “why me?”
“sam’s got research.” dean nods toward the doorway, where sam is wiping dust from his palms. “you’ve got nothing.”
“i have things.”
“name one.”
you look at sam for support. his eyes move from your face to the paddle in your hand, amusement gathering at the corners.
“you could play,” you suggest.
sam hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. “i thought dean challenged you.”
“scared, sasquatch?” dean asks.
“of you?” sam’s gaze returns to you. “not really.”
there is an answer hidden in the pause, but he turns toward the library before you decide what it might be.
dean tosses you a ball. “first to eleven.”
you have watched people play ping-pong. you know the general principle. the ball goes across the net, the other person returns it, and eventually somebody misses. compared to the things you do for a living, it shouldn’t be difficult.
your first serve bounces twice on your side and rolls beneath the table.
dean looks down at it. “intimidating start.”
“practice serve,” you say.
“you don’t get one.”
“i just took one.”
you retrieve the ball and try again. this time, it clears the net without touching your half of the table first.
dean catches it against his paddle. “that’s also not a serve.”
“it went over.”
“you know it has to bounce on both sides, right?”
“obviously.”
dean’s expression suggests otherwise. you serve a third time, producing a legal but embarrassingly weak bounce that barely reaches him. he sends it back. the ball clips your side of the table before you can move, then disappears through the open doorway.
“one-nothing,” dean announces.
“that was luck.”
“sure.”
by the time sam returns with his book, dean has acquired seven points and you have acquired one. your point resulted from him laughing too hard to return a serve that struck the edge of your paddle and flew sideways.
sam leans against the doorframe. “how’s it going?”
“great,” you answer at the same time dean says, “she’s terrible.”
you aim your next serve directly at dean’s chest. it strikes the net and falls back toward you.
dean raises his eyebrows. “really making your case.”
sam tries to hide his smile by looking down at the open book in his hands. the effort makes warmth crawl into your face. you straighten your shoulders, adjust your grip, and serve again.
the ball shoots off the table and hits the wall several feet to dean’s right.
“eyes over here,” dean says. “sam’s not playing.”
“i know where i’m looking.”
sam clears his throat. when you glance toward him, he is already retreating into the library, although the tips of his ears have turned pink.
dean wins eleven to two, and you demand a rematch.
the second game ends eleven to three. the third ends eleven to one, which dean claims is statistical proof that you are getting worse. by the fourth, he has found a piece of cardboard and started recording his victories in permanent marker.
you spend the rest of the morning pursuing a win that becomes less attainable with every attempt. the room fills with the hollow tap of plastic against wood, dean’s increasingly obnoxious commentary, and your threats to use the paddle for something other than its intended purpose.
sam remains in the library, but he finds an unusual number of reasons to pass the open doorway. he refills his coffee twice. he returns three different books to shelves along the wall outside the room. once, he walks in to retrieve a pencil that you are reasonably certain has never belonged to him.
every time he appears, your attention follows him.
every time your attention follows him, dean scores.
near noon, sam returns carrying three plates. he sets dean’s sandwich on the edge of the table, then brings yours directly to you. the bread is toasted, there is more mustard than dean considers acceptable, and the pickle from sam’s plate has somehow found its way onto yours.
you look up at him. “you gave me your pickle.”
sam sits on the edge of a cabinet. “you like them.”
dean lowers his sandwich. “that’s touching. really. can we keep the love story away from the playing surface?”
“there is no love story,” you say too quickly.
sam becomes very interested in arranging the remaining chips on his plate.
dean watches both of you for another second before taking an enormous bite of his sandwich. “right.”
you nudge sam’s shin with the end of your paddle. “play the next one.”
his gaze drops to the paddle before lifting to your face. for a moment, he looks tempted.
then he gestures toward the book tucked beneath his arm. “i should finish this.”
you cover your disappointment by reaching for a chip. “afraid i’ll ruin your reputation?”
“you’d have to beat me first.”
“wow.” you press one hand to your chest. “and here i thought you were the nice one.”
sam smiles. “i am the nice one.”
dean swallows his mouthful. “low bar.”
sam stays until you finish eating. he watches your first serve of the next game, offers a quiet, “there you go,” when it lands correctly, and returns to the library before dean scores five consecutive points.
the afternoon wears the fun out of losing.
your palm aches from gripping the paddle too tightly, and a tender spot develops along the inside of your wrist. dean’s cardboard scoreboard now contains eleven marks beneath his name and none beneath yours. you manage individual points, sometimes even several in a row, but never enough to win.
dean offers to stop after game eight. you refuse. he offers again after game ten, and you tell him to serve.
this time, sam is sitting just inside the doorway with his back against the frame. his legs stretch in front of him, ankles crossed, while a heavy book rests open across his lap. he hasn’t turned a page in several minutes.
you bounce the ball against the table. it slips off the edge before you can serve.
dean catches it with his foot. “you know, the ball usually works better on the table.”
“just give it back.”
he nudges it toward you. you crouch to retrieve it, aware of sam watching from the doorway. the knowledge sits between your shoulder blades like a hand.
your next serve flies past the corner of the table. sam catches it before it can strike him in the face.
dean points his paddle toward his brother. “hey, you finally hit a winchester.”
sam rolls the ball between his fingers. “your wrist is turning over too early. try keeping the paddle level when you—”
“sam, you don’t have to pretend this is salvageable,” you interrupt.
his fingers still around the ball. “i wasn’t pretending.”
“or make me feel better.” you hold out your hand for the ball without looking directly at him. “i know i’m terrible.”
sam’s expression closes so subtly that you might miss it if you didn’t spend so much time studying the shape of his moods. his mouth flattens, and his shoulders pull back from the doorway.
“i didn’t say you were,” he replies.
guilt arrives before he finishes speaking. “sam—”
he tosses the ball gently into your waiting hand. “i’ll let you guys finish.”
the library swallows the sound of his footsteps.
dean lowers his paddle. the teasing has disappeared from his face, leaving something more careful behind.
“okay,” he says. “break time.”
“i don’t need a break.”
“maybe i do.”
you turn away and begin gathering balls from the floor. there are more than a dozen scattered beneath shelves, cabinets, and the table itself. you have no idea when dean opened the second box.
he folds his arms against the table. “he wasn’t making fun of you.”
“i know.”
“then why’d you bite his head off?”
you reach beneath the cabinet for another ball. “i don’t know.”
dean watches you add it to the box. “you didn’t care when i watched you miss.”
“you’ve watched me embarrass myself plenty of times.”
“so has sam.”
you glare at him. dean’s eyebrows lift, and the realization passing over his face is immediate enough to make you regret answering.
“don’t,” you warn.
“i didn’t say anything.”
“your face did.”
“my face is minding its business.” dean sets the paddle on the table and reaches for his jacket. “i’m getting dinner. you want anything besides your dignity?”
“funny.”
“fries, then.” he pauses in the doorway. “and for what it’s worth, you almost had me in game six.”
“you won eleven to five.”
“closest one all day.”
dean disappears into the library. a low conversation follows, too muffled by the shelves for you to understand. when he returns, he is alone and spinning the impala keys around one finger.
“try not to destroy my table while i’m gone,” he says.
the bunker door closes behind him several minutes later. the silence he leaves behind makes the records room feel larger.
you continue collecting balls. one has rolled beneath the table and settled near the back wall. you kneel to reach for it, stretching until your sore wrist protests.
a hand appears beside yours and retrieves it easily.
sam places the ball in the box before offering you his other hand. an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel rests against his palm.
“dean sent you?” you ask.
“no.”
“did he tell you my wrist hurts?”
sam crouches beside you. “he didn’t have to.”
you look down at the hand you have been favoring for the last hour. “it’s fine.”
“you’ve been rubbing it since lunch.”
of course he noticed. sam notices when your coffee has gone cold and replaces it before you remember you poured any. he notices when you reread the same paragraph too many times, when your shoulder aches after a hunt, and when you linger near the front door because the bunker occasionally feels too far beneath the sky.
you surrender your hand.
sam’s fingers close carefully around your wrist. he turns it toward the light, his thumb moving over the tender tendons without pressing hard enough to hurt. his hands are warm and large enough to make yours look small between them.
“nothing’s swollen,” he says. “you’ve just been gripping the paddle too tightly.”
“if you laugh, i’m taking back my apology.”
sam glances up. “you haven’t apologized yet.”
“i was getting there.”
he sits on the floor beside you and places the ice pack over your wrist. his hand remains beneath yours, supporting its weight.
“i’m sorry,” you say. “you were trying to help.”
“you were frustrated.”
“that doesn’t mean i get to take it out on you.”
sam adjusts the towel around the ice pack. “i wasn’t pitying you.”
“i know.”
“do you?”
you lean your shoulder against the cabinet. sam’s knee rests beside yours, close enough that the denim brushes whenever either of you moves.
“i know now,” you admit.
sam looks toward the table. “you didn’t seem embarrassed when dean watched.”
“dean doesn’t count.”
his gaze returns to you. “why do i?”
the question is simple, but the answer isn’t.
you study the faded lines on the floor rather than the patient uncertainty in his face. “you make everything look easy.”
a quiet laugh escapes him. “that’s definitely not true.”
“you research entire dead languages for fun.”
“not for fun.”
“you pretend it isn’t fun so dean leaves you alone.”
sam smiles despite himself. “that doesn’t mean i’m good at everything.”
“you’re good at the things that matter,” you say. his smile softens before you add, “the things that matter to me.”
the room becomes quiet around the faint hum of the bunker’s electricity and the distant drip of a pipe somewhere inside the wall.
sam’s thumb goes still against the side of your hand. you feel his attention settle over you, warm and complete, but you can’t bring yourself to meet it.
eventually, he lifts the ice pack away and examines your wrist again.
“better?” he asks.
“a little.”
sam stands and offers his hand. “come on.”
you allow him to pull you to your feet. “where are we going?”
“nowhere.” he retrieves dean’s abandoned paddle from the table. “we’re playing.”
“absolutely not.”
“one game.”
“i’ve already humiliated myself in front of you enough for one day.”
sam holds the paddle toward you. “you haven’t played me yet.”
“that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“i wanted to play with you.”
the admission stills your hand before it reaches the paddle. “then why didn’t you?”
sam glances down at the red rubber surface. “you looked like you were having fun with dean.”
“i kept waiting for you to come over.”
his eyes lift to yours. “you did?”
“why do you think i kept looking at the door?”
a slow understanding moves across his face. it’s followed almost immediately by the kind of shy, uneven smile that makes you forget what you were saying.
sam offers you the paddle again. “one game. we stop if your wrist hurts.”
you take the paddle. “don’t go easy on me.”
“wasn’t planning on it,” sam replies.
“i’m serious.”
“so am i.” sam moves to the opposite end of the table and picks up a ball. “but we’re changing the rules.”
you narrow your eyes. “to what?”
“we keep the ball moving as long as we can.”
“that’s not a game. nobody wins.”
“we both do.”
you stare at him.
sam’s confidence wavers. “or we can keep score.”
“no,” you say, moving into position. “dean would hate this.”
his smile returns. “that’s a point in its favor.”
sam’s first serve is slow enough to follow without being insulting. you swing too early and miss it completely.
he catches the ball after it bounces from the floor. “again.”
“strong start.”
“you’re gripping the paddle too tightly.”
“because it keeps betraying me.”
sam walks around the table. he stops beside you, close enough that his shoulder nearly touches yours.
“can i?” he asks, gesturing toward your hand.
you nod.
his fingers settle over yours, loosening them around the handle. he turns the paddle slightly, then lifts your arm until your elbow bends near your side. the touch is practical, but your heartbeat doesn’t seem to understand that.
“keep it here,” sam murmurs. “don’t swing with your whole arm. keep the movement small—mostly from your forearm.”
he moves behind you to guide the motion. one hand remains loosely over yours while the other steadies your forearm. his chest brushes your shoulder when he leans closer, and his breath stirs the air near your temple.
“relax your hand,” he says.
“that’s difficult with you standing there.”
sam immediately begins to step back. “sorry.”
you turn before he can move far. there is hardly any room between you, and the apology dies as his eyes meet yours.
“i didn’t say i minded,” you admit.
sam goes very still. his gaze moves over your face, searching for any sign that you didn’t mean it. when he finds none, his fingers close around your wrist again.
“okay,” he says softly.
he returns to his place behind you. neither of you mentions the warmth spreading beneath your skin or the way his voice has changed.
sam guides your hand forward. the paddle strikes the ball cleanly, sending it over the net. it lands once on the opposite side before rolling off the edge.
you turn toward him. “i did it.”
“you did.”
“you technically did most of it.”
“then do it again without me.”
sam steps away. the absence of his warmth feels immediate, but he returns to the other side of the table before you can dwell on it.
your first independent serve hits the net. the second clears it.
sam returns the ball gently. you send it back, awkward but successful. it bounces from his paddle to yours and then to his again before you strike too hard and launch it through the doorway.
“three,” sam says.
“that was only three?”
“we’ll beat it.”
the next rally reaches five. the one after that reaches eight. you begin learning the rhythm of the ball, the small adjustments required to keep it centered, and the difference between swinging harder and moving deliberately.
sam never laughs when you miss. he only retrieves the ball and sends it back. when you make a difficult return, his approval appears in the widening of his smile and the soft crease beside his eyes.
at twelve, you become too excited and hit the ball into the ceiling.
at sixteen, sam backs into the cabinet while trying to save a wild shot and nearly knocks over a stack of old records. your laughter leaves you breathless enough that the next attempt doesn’t make it past two.
eventually, you reach nineteen.
the ball travels toward sam in a clean, gentle arc. instead of returning it, he watches it bounce once, then twice, before it rolls past his hand.
“you were supposed to hit that,” you say.
“i know.”
“then what happened?”
sam bends to retrieve the ball. “lost track of it.”
“it bounced directly in front of you.”
he straightens, rolling the ball between his fingers. his eyes meet yours for a moment before dropping toward your smile.
“got distracted,” he says.
you wait for him to explain. sam walks back to his side of the table and prepares to serve.
“ready?” he asks.
you aren’t, although the ball has very little to do with it.
the next attempt reaches twenty-three. you barely register the final return. sam sends the ball toward your left, you catch it against the edge of the paddle, and it lands safely on his side. when he knocks it back, you answer with a shot that clips the white line.
sam misses, and the ball strikes the floor. both of you stare at it.
“twenty-three,” you breathe.
sam’s grin spreads slowly. “twenty-three.”
you drop the paddle and rush around the table. your arms go around his neck before you consider what you are doing, and sam catches you around the waist with a startled laugh.
“we did it,” you say against his shoulder.
“we did.”
the celebration should end there. instead, your arms remain looped around him while his hands stay warm and steady at your waist. when you pull back, you only move far enough to see his face.
sam is already looking at you.
his laughter fades. one of his hands shifts against your side, his thumb tracing a small, unconscious line through the fabric of your shirt. your gaze drops to his mouth. when you look up again, his eyes have done the same.
sam leans closer.
the bunker door opens somewhere beyond the library.
“if neither of you comes to get this food,” dean shouts down the stairs, “i’m eating all the fries.”
you and sam spring apart. the paddle near your feet skitters across the floor when you step on its handle.
dean appears in the doorway carrying two paper bags. he looks at you, then at sam, then at the paddle lying several feet away.
“huh,” he says.
sam clears his throat. “you get burgers?”
“yeah.” dean continues studying the two of you. “did i interrupt something?”
“no,” you and sam answer together.
dean’s eyebrows rise. “good. that sounded believable.”
he carries the food toward the kitchen. you reach for the abandoned paddle at the same time sam does, and your fingers brush around the handle. neither of you looks directly at the other.
dinner is an exercise in pretending.
dean demands to know the score. when sam explains that you were counting consecutive returns instead of points, dean looks personally offended.
“that is not how ping-pong works,” he says around a mouthful of fries.
“it worked for us,” sam replies.
his knee presses against yours beneath the table. he could move it, and you could move yours. neither of you does.
dean looks between you again, then reaches for the ketchup. “i leave for forty-five minutes, and you two ruin a perfectly good sport.”
“we improved it,” you say.
“you removed the competition.”
“not everything has to be a competition.”
dean points a fry toward you. “that sounds like something a person with eleven losses would say.”
you throw a napkin at him, and sam slides the last of his fries onto your plate.
after dinner, dean challenges you to another game. you tell him your wrist needs the night to recover. he accuses you of cowardice, but his attention drifts knowingly toward sam when you promise a rematch tomorrow.
sam helps you clear the table. your hands touch twice while reaching for the same wrappers. the second time, his fingers hesitate against yours before he draws them away. nothing is said about the records room or about the way he held your waist.
by the time you leave the kitchen, the unfinished moment has settled beneath your ribs, tender and impossible to ignore.
you reach your bedroom and rest one hand against the door. sam says goodnight in the hallway, and you say it back before closing your door. the exchange feels strangely formal after spending the afternoon close enough to feel his breath against your skin.
you consider returning to the kitchen when footsteps approach. when you open your door again, sam stops several feet away.
“hey,” he says.
you hold the door open. “hey.”
one of his hands rises to the back of his neck. his gaze drops briefly toward the floor before finding yours again.
“about earlier…” he begins.
you attempt a smile. “our humiliating defeat?”
his mouth curves, but the smile disappears almost immediately. “after that.”
“oh.”
the quiet between you stretches. sam shifts his weight, his uncertainty visible in the careful set of his shoulders.
“i wasn’t sure if you were—” he stops and looks toward the empty hallway. “if you were glad dean came back.”
your hand slips from the doorknob. “i wasn’t.”
something in sam’s expression softens. “okay.”
“were you?”
he shakes his head. “no.”
sam steps closer. he moves slowly, leaving enough space for you to change your mind, but you have spent too long waiting for him to cross this distance.
his fingers brush your cheek. his palm settles against the side of your face only after you lean into the touch. sam’s eyes lower to your mouth, and the breath you take seems to catch somewhere between you.
this time, there’s no door opening overhead. dean doesn’t shout from the other end of the bunker. there is only sam’s thumb moving once beneath your cheekbone and the quiet sound of his breathing.
you close the remaining distance together.
the kiss begins carefully. sam’s mouth brushes yours as though he is still waiting for an answer, and your fingers curl into the front of his shirt to give him one. the restraint in him softens. his other hand finds your waist, returning to the place it left earlier, and he draws you closer as your kiss deepens.
sam exhales against your mouth. the sound catches somewhere between a laugh and relief.
when you pull apart, neither of you goes far. his forehead rests against yours, and the smile you feel against your lips makes one rise on your own.
“so,” you murmur, still holding his shirt. “was that what you wanted?”
sam’s thumb traces the edge of your jaw. “something like that.”
you laugh softly. “something?”
he kisses you once more, brief but certain. “yes.”
the answer warms everything inside you that the first kiss left unsteady. you remain together in the doorway of your bedroom, close enough that there is no room left for either of you to pretend this is friendship behaving strangely.
after a moment, sam draws back just enough to look at you. “what are you doing tomorrow?” he asks.
“apparently losing to dean again.”
“other than that.”
you raise an eyebrow. “i didn’t know i had plans other than that.”
sam’s hand slips from your cheek, though his fingers remain lightly curved around yours. “we could get out of here for a while. there’s that place outside town you wanted to try.”
“the one with the outdoor tables and apparently ridiculously good pasta?”
“yeah.” he looks down at your joined hands. “we could get dinner.”
“just us?”
sam nods. “just us.”
you let the silence linger until uncertainty begins to return to his face.
“that sounds suspiciously like a date,” you say.
his grip on your hand loosens slightly. “would that be a problem?”
“only if you don’t kiss me again.”
sam’s smile appears slowly, transforming his face before he leans toward you.
tomorrow, dean will demand his rematch. sam will stand in your corner, pretending his encouragement has nothing to do with the kiss dean will immediately know happened. after that, there will be dinner outside town and a table with two empty chairs waiting for you.
for now, sam kisses you again, and neither of you bothers keeping score.