Work Text:
the first sign that somebody else is working the case is the neighbor’s description of a black chevy impala parked outside the dead woman’s apartment. she remembers it better than she remembers the two men who climbed out of it. one of them was very tall, she tells you, and the other asked most of the questions. both carried federal badges, though she keeps referring to them as accountants. neither looked much like one.
“federal accountants,” you repeat, glancing at the photograph tucked into the corner of the dead woman’s mirror. she is smiling in it, alive and sun-warmed, with none of the bloodless gray that settled over her face when the police found her. “that’s new.”
the neighbor folds her arms tightly across her chest. “they said they were investigating financial crimes.”
“of course they did,” you murmur.
you find the same story at the second victim’s house and a slightly different badge at the morgue. whoever the men are, they have already asked about the punctures beneath each victim’s jaw, the formal clothes neither had been wearing when last seen, and the dusting of shattered crystal caught in the most recent victim’s hair. they have also missed—or have not yet found—the smear of old wine beneath one man’s thumbnail and the matchbook in his coat pocket from a bar that has been closed for eighteen years.
the matchbook leads you beyond the edge of town, where the road narrows between close-set trees and ends at an iron gate strangled by ivy. the estate beyond it has been empty long enough for the town to build stories around it. according to county records, the last owner died without children. according to the bartender who gave you directions, music still carries from the house on moonless nights.
according to the tire tracks pressed into the damp earth beside the road, the federal accountants aren’t far behind you.
you leave your car beneath the trees and approach the estate on foot. waiting would be sensible, but it would also mean sharing the hunt with two strangers whose fake badges are either a promising sign or a very elaborate reason to shoot them. if they are hunters, they can catch up. if they aren’t, you would rather know before they get inside.
the front door opens beneath your hand.
inside, the house smells of beeswax, old wood, and something coppery beneath both. candles burn in the entrance hall despite the dust softening the floorboards. somewhere deeper in the estate, a record turns beneath a needle, its low orchestral music slipping through the rooms in a wavering loop.
the dining room waits at the end of the hall.
someone has polished the long table until it reflects the chandelier hanging above it. crystal glasses stand beside folded napkins. silver knives and forks frame empty porcelain plates, and dark red wine breathes in an open decanter. seven chairs line the table, but only two place settings look untouched.
the weapons hidden beneath your coat suddenly feel inadequate.
you have accounted for four vampires. the missing bodies and intervals between killings suggest a small nest, disciplined enough not to feed too frequently in the same town. four is manageable alone if you control the room and none of them surprises you.
there are seven.
one drops from the ceiling behind you. you turn in time to drive your machete through his neck, the blade catching briefly on bone before his head hits the polished floor. another slams into your side before you can recover it. the table tears across your hip, sending a wineglass spinning, and the room fills with pale faces and bared teeth.
you put a silver knife through one vampire’s hand, kick another hard enough to crack the chair behind her, and nearly reach your machete again. then a fist catches the back of your skull.
the chandelier breaks into a smear of white light.
—
when the room returns, you are sitting at the table.
your wrists are bound behind a high-backed chair, rope looped tight enough to numb the outside edges of your hands. more rope circles your ankles and secures them to the carved legs. someone has taken your coat, your gun, and every blade you carry. the weapons now rest on the sideboard across the room, arranged by size as though they are part of the decor.
five vampires remain inside. the sixth has disappeared, although the woman seated at the head of the table glances toward the front windows often enough to tell you where he has gone. she wears burgundy silk and a string of pearls. your blood freckles one pale cuff.
“welcome back,” she says, lifting her glass. “we were afraid you might miss dinner.”
you test the rope and feel it hold. one upholstery tack near your right wrist has worked partway out of the chair, its brass head rough against your knuckle. not sharp enough to cut with, but perhaps useful if you can loosen it.
“you know, most hosts wait until after introductions to assault their guests,” you tell her. your fingers search for the edge of the tack. “and the napkins don’t match the runner.”
one of the younger vampires bares his teeth. the woman merely takes a measured sip from her glass.
“you killed lucas,” she observes.
“he dropped in unannounced.” you lean back, forcing the chair to creak so the movement of your hands disappears beneath it. “i assumed manners weren’t important here.”
her gaze settles on you with the quiet concentration of someone deciding which utensil to use first. “we so rarely entertain hunters. most of you die with terribly little ceremony.”
you tip your chin toward the flowers between you. “maybe they saw the centerpiece.”
the arrangement is a vase of dead roses, their petals browned at the edges. the vampire nearest them crushes one beneath his fingertips, but the woman at the head of the table gives a small, indulgent smile.
“keep talking,” she says. “it will make the silence later much sweeter.”
so you do.
you criticize the wine without tasting it. you question the structural integrity of the chandelier. you ask whether the blood in the crystal pitcher is locally sourced. all the while, you work the brass tack back and forth until it begins to give. the vampires shift around the room, irritated and hungry, but they watch the front hall too. there is another engine outside now, low and unmistakably close. a door slams. footsteps cross the gravel.
then a crash sounds somewhere in the east wing.
the woman’s smile widens. “our other guest has arrived.”
the fight moves through the house in blunt collisions. furniture scrapes. glass breaks. for several seconds, the sounds draw closer; then something heavy strikes a wall and the estate goes still. you curl your fingers around the loosened tack and pull, but it remains caught in the upholstery by a narrow point.
the dining-room doors open.
two vampires drag a man between them. he is tall enough that they struggle to control his shoulders, even with his hands bound behind his back. his hair hangs over his forehead. blood darkens the corner of his mouth, and his suit jacket is missing, but he plants his feet against the floorboards until a third vampire drives a fist into his ribs.
he folds just enough for them to force him into the chair beside yours.
“you’re late,” you tell him.
the man turns his head. his eyes move over the rope at your wrists, the cut near your temple, and the stolen weapons across the room before they reach your face. confusion gives way to something almost amused.
“did we have plans?” he asks.
“we do now,” you say.
one corner of his mouth lifts despite the blood on it. the expression vanishes when a vampire wrenches his arms against the chair and secures them there.
the woman at the head of the table watches the exchange with open delight. “how fortunate. i was worried you might have nothing in common.”
the vampire who ties him drops a wallet beside his place setting. a federal identification card has been bent nearly in half, but the photograph is clear. so is the name printed beneath it.
“agent plant?” you ask, reading upside down. “really?”
he looks at the card and winces. “it was dean’s turn to pick.”
“your partner?” you ask.
“my brother.” his attention flicks toward the windows. “the one you sent outside.”
the lead vampire taps one fingernail against her glass. “he followed exactly where we wanted him to.”
the man beside you doesn’t look at her. he studies the sideboard instead, then the doors, then the chandelier you have already deemed questionable.
“he’ll be back,” he says.
there is no bravado in it. the words land with the weight of a fact, and you find yourself believing him before you have decided whether that is wise.
his attention returns to you, and you give him your name. he repeats it quietly, as though committing it to memory matters even here.
the vampire picks up his identification. “sam winchester,” she reads. interest sharpens her face. “well. this is an occasion.”
you glance at him again. the name has traveled through enough hunter bars and badly encrypted message boards to reach you, usually attached to stories that improve each time they are repeated. sam seems less legendary while strapped to a dining chair with a split lip, though the calm in his expression makes a stronger case than the stories ever did.
“great,” you mutter. “now my death’s going to be overshadowed by a winchester. deeply embarrassing.”
sam turns toward you as far as the chair permits. “we’re not going to die.” his voice is low, meant only for you. beneath the edge of the table, one of his wrists shifts against the rope.
you look at the lead vampire instead of at his hands. “you always this optimistic?”
sam’s attention returns to the rope at his wrist. “only at dinner parties.”
the woman rises and gestures to the others. one vampire fills the glasses around the table from the crystal pitcher. another places covered silver dishes between the roses, lifting each lid to reveal nothing but more polished serving ware. the performance is almost more unsettling than a straightforward attack. they have done this before, enough times to turn murder into ritual and hunger into etiquette.
“a proper meal requires conversation,” the woman says as she returns to her chair. “since our guests have only just met, perhaps they should become acquainted.”
“we’re doing fine,” you reply.
she settles back into her chair. “tell him something about yourself.”
you glance at sam. he has angled his chair a fraction closer to the table. the rope at his right wrist brushes repeatedly against a raised strip of metal beneath the upholstery, each scrape hidden by the record still turning in the next room.
“i hate dinner parties,” you say.
sam’s gaze drops briefly to the knife placed beside your plate. “i’m starting to see why.”
the lead vampire’s smile thins. “and you, sam?”
he watches you rather than her. “she talks when she’s nervous.”
“that’s not a fact about yourself, and i don’t get nervous,” you tell him.
“then you just talk a lot,” sam replies.
the answer startles a laugh out of you. it’s brief and poorly timed, but sam’s expression warms as if the sound has surprised him too. beneath the table, the faint rasp of rope continues.
you turn back to the woman and give her exactly what she asked for. you tell sam about arriving through the west entrance because the front hall offered too many blind corners. he remarks that his brother tends to circle east after a split, which tells you where dean will reenter the house. you describe the vampire you saw leave through the conservatory doors; sam mentions that dean never follows anything far when he suspects a decoy. every detail sounds like an answer to the vampires’ questions. together, they become a map and a clock.
the woman asks how many monsters you have killed. you give her a number that changes twice before the end of the story, drawing three vampires into an argument about whether a werewolf should count if someone else fired the fatal shot. sam keeps working.
“did they bite you?” he asks quietly when the argument swells.
his eyes move to your throat. the question is practical, but the tension at the corner of his jaw is not.
“no,” you answer. you keep your voice light. “they have been terrible hosts in every other respect, though.”
some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “did they make you drink anything?”
you shift against the chair. “not unless getting hit in the head counts.”
“it doesn’t.” he studies the blood dried near your temple. “you black out?”
“briefly,” you admit.
sam’s gaze sharpens. “nauseous?”
you raise your eyebrows. “are you always this much fun at parties?”
sam’s eyes return to yours, steady and intent. “are you?”
you decide not to mention the headache gathering behind your left eye. “i’m having a great time.”
his mouth tightens, but he lets the lie go. the scraping beneath the table stops. a moment later, his freed right hand appears beside his thigh and disappears behind the chair again.
you turn your attention to the silverware. the vampires have placed it deliberately close enough to see and too far forward for bound guests to reach. the steak knife beside sam’s plate rests nearest the edge. if you lean far enough, you might catch the handle with your teeth, but every eye at the table drifts between the two of you.
you need them looking somewhere else.
“this wine is corked,” you announce.
the lead vampire looks offended for the first time. “you haven’t tasted it.”
you wrinkle your nose. “i can smell it.”
the vampire nearest the pitcher scoffs. “you can smell blood.”
“i can smell poor storage.” you nod toward the decanter. “and desperation, apparently.”
two vampires turn toward the woman, waiting for her response. sam sees the opening at the same time you do. he shifts his knee against the underside of the table, striking it hard enough to overturn one of the filled glasses. blood spreads across the linen in a dark, quick stain.
while the nearest vampire curses and snatches for a napkin, you pitch forward. your teeth close around the knife’s handle. metal knocks against porcelain, loud enough that your pulse jumps, but sam coughs sharply over the sound. you drag the knife toward the edge until its weight tips into his waiting hand.
you sit back before the vampire turns.
sam lowers his hand beneath the table. the blade moves against the remaining rope at his left wrist, then the knots around his ankles. he keeps his face composed through each small movement, listening as the lead vampire launches into a lecture about the age of the wine and the cellar in which it has been kept.
when he is free, he brings the knife between your chairs. the handle presses against your palm.
his fingertips close briefly over yours to guide your grip. the touch lasts no more than a second, but it leaves you suddenly aware of how close his shoulder is and how carefully he moves around skin he cannot see.
you begin cutting through the rope behind your back.
sam takes over the conversation. he asks about the house, the nest, and the dead guests who came before you. his questions are measured and almost polite. he keeps the vampires talking without challenging their pride, and you understand why witnesses answered him even when his badge said federal accountant. he makes listening seem like surrender when it is really another way of taking control.
the last strand at your wrists separates. you lower the knife to your ankles, cutting until the rope there loosens too. you quickly pass the knife back to sam. neither of you moves from the chairs. five vampires still stand between you and the sideboard, and even a winchester can’t turn a steak knife into five clean decapitations.
“we need an opening,” you murmur, barely moving your lips.
sam glances toward the east doors. “we’ll get one.”
you glance toward him. “that famous winchester confidence again?”
sam keeps his eyes on the east doors. “dean.”
his certainty settles something restless in your chest. you curl your freed hands around the chair as if the ropes still hold them.
“all right,” you whisper. “whoever gets out of the chair first gets first choice of weapons. loser buys coffee.”
sam looks down at the severed rope hidden behind your back. “you’re going to cheat.”
you look offended. “you met me twenty minutes ago.”
“i’m learning fast,” sam murmurs.
the lead vampire sets down her glass. conversation quiets around the table as she stands, smooths the front of her dress, and walks toward you.
“i believe our first course has talked enough,” she says.
sam’s freed hand closes around the knife beneath the table.
the woman stops behind your chair. cold fingers settle against the side of your neck and tip your head aside. you let your gaze find sam’s, keeping your hands still. the room narrows to the cold pressure against your throat and the minute change in his face.
until now, he has hidden every decision beneath calm. it breaks all at once. his jaw locks, his shoulders shift forward, and the knife rises a fraction beside his leg. there is something alarmingly personal in the way he looks at the hand on you, as though the last half hour has been long enough for this to matter.
you give the smallest shake of your head.
wait.
sam holds your gaze. the muscles in his forearm remain taut, but the knife stops moving.
the vampire bends over you. one fang catches the side of your neck, opening a thin line of heat. sam’s chair creaks beneath the force of his restraint.
the dining-room doors slam against the walls.
dean winchester stands in the doorway with a shotgun braced against his shoulder. dust streaks one side of his jacket, and blood that doesn’t appear to be his darkens the machete sheath at his hip. the muzzle of the gun points directly toward the head of the table.
the vampire behind you lifts her face and smiles. “rock salt doesn’t work on us.”
dean’s finger settles against the trigger. “wasn’t aiming at you.”
sam looks above your head. understanding flashes across his face. “duck,” he tells you.
you fold forward, and sam does the same as the shotgun fires.
the blast strikes the chandelier. bulbs burst in a chain of white sparks, and crystal tears loose from the frame. glass crashes across the table, shattering plates and scattering the vampires away from the sound. the record skips once in the next room before the house falls into near-darkness.
you throw off the cut ropes and surge out of the chair. sam rises beside you, his shoulder knocking yours as both chairs skid backward.
“first,” you say.
“not even close,” he replies.
the nearest vampire lunges over the table. sam catches the edge and overturns it into him, sending dishes, flowers, and silverware across the floor. you snatch another steak knife from the table and drive it through a vampire’s palm when she reaches for you. as she recoils, you break toward the sideboard.
your machete is exactly where they left it.
the grip meets your hand like something returned. you turn and take the first vampire’s head as he clears the overturned table. it hits the floor among dead roses and broken crystal.
dean discards the shotgun and draws his blade. he intercepts one vampire near the doorway, forcing him back with two quick strikes before his third removes the vampire’s head. across the room, sam reaches the sideboard and comes away with his own machete. moonlight catches the blade just before he swings.
the fight becomes a series of glimpses in the dark: pale faces, silver edges, the white flash of sam’s shirt beneath his suit. a vampire moves behind him while he is still pulling his blade free. you cross the space between you and cut through her neck before her hands reach his shoulders.
sam looks at the body, then at you. “thanks.”
“put it on my tab,” you tell him.
something hits you from the side. your lower back strikes the ruined table, and the lead vampire pins you against it with one hand at your throat. her pearls have broken; small white beads scatter beneath her shoes as she leans close to the scratch she left on your neck.
“you should’ve stopped talking,” she hisses.
before her teeth reach you, sam’s machete drives through her shoulder. she twists toward him with a snarl, loosening her grip long enough for you to wrench free. sam catches her arm. you recover your blade from the floor and bring it through her neck.
her body crumples between you.
for half a second, neither of you moves. sam’s hand is still locked around her wrist. your machete hangs at your side. then another head strikes the floor near the doors, and dean straightens over the last vampire.
“everybody done?” he asks, breathing hard. “because i’m officially out of dramatic entrances.”
silence settles over the dining room. the chandelier swings gently from its chain, stripped of most of its crystal. broken bulbs tick as they cool. somewhere in the dark, the record reaches the end of its groove and begins clicking softly beneath the needle.
sam releases the dead vampire and crosses the space between you without looking at his brother. “let me see.”
you know what he means before his fingers touch beneath your jaw. he tips your chin toward the fractured moonlight, careful not to press the cut. his other hand hovers near your shoulder as though he expects you to lose your balance.
“it’s shallow,” you tell him.
“hold still.” sam leans closer, his eyes tracing the narrow line left by the fang. the urgency from moments ago has not fully left him. “did she make you drink anything?”
“no,” you answer.
his fingers remain beneath your jaw. “you’re sure?”
“sam.” you wait until his gaze lifts from your neck. “i’m sure.”
his thumb rests just below your pulse. relief softens his face, and neither of you seems in a hurry to remember that you met less than an hour ago. close up, you can see where his lip has split and begun bleeding again. you lift your hand and brush your knuckle beneath it.
sam goes very still.
“do legendary hunters always get captured this easily?” you ask.
his breath warms your cheek when he answers. “only when someone gets to the trap first.”
you let your hand fall from his mouth. “so you were following me.”
sam’s expression turns carefully innocent. “we were following the vampires.”
you tilt your head. “and i happened to be in front of them.”
“apparently.” his mouth curves. “does that make you feel better?”
“a little,” you admit.
dean clears his throat from the other side of the ruined table. when you look over, he is cleaning his machete on a burgundy napkin and watching both of you with undisguised amusement.
“i leave you alone for twenty minutes and you pick up a date?” he asks.
sam’s hand falls slowly from your jaw. “we were both kidnapped.”
dean surveys the bloodied table, the scattered silverware, and the dead vampire at your feet. “at dinner. still counts.”
“he owes me coffee,” you tell him.
sam looks at you in disbelief. “you lost.”
you gesture toward the overturned chairs. “my feet touched the floor first.”
sam shakes his head. “your chair tipped forward.”
you shrug. “sounds like a skill issue.”
dean points his bloodied napkin toward the hall. “you two can keep flirting after we make sure there aren’t any more fangs in the house.”
sam opens his mouth to object, thinks better of it, and bends to retrieve your coat instead. he shakes broken glass from the fabric before holding it out to you. when you slip it on, his hand settles briefly between your shoulder blades, steadying you over the debris.
it remains there until you reach the hall.
—
the only diner open at two in the morning has cracked red booths, a pie case turning slowly beside the register, and coffee strong enough to remove paint.
dean chooses the booth first. he takes the outside seat, claims the half of the table closest to the pie case, and orders before the waitress has finished setting down three menus. sam slides into the opposite side. after a moment’s hesitation that feels more deliberate than it should, you sit beside him.
your shoulders nearly touch.
the waitress returns with coffee and pauses when she sees the cut on your neck, sam’s lip, and the bruise beginning beneath dean’s eye. dean tells her you were at a wedding. she looks at the three of you, decides she does not want details, and leaves the pot on the table.
“a wedding?” sam asks once she is gone.
dean reaches for the sugar. “you got a better explanation for the formalwear?”
“bar fight,” you suggest.
dean glances around the booth. “in a house?”
you lift one shoulder. “private bar.”
sam pours coffee into your mug before filling his own. “you’re both terrible liars.”
“you were agent plant,” you remind him.
dean points a packet of sweetener at sam. “that one was mine.”
“i know,” you say.
dean’s grin makes it clear that he likes you. sam hides his reaction behind his mug, but not before you catch the smile.
food arrives in crowded plates. dean eats as if the vampires kept him tied to a chair instead of sam, pausing only to describe the decoy that led him into the trees and the second vampire waiting near the conservatory. sam listens with the resigned patience of someone who has heard several versions already. beneath the table, his knee brushes yours once and shifts away.
the conversation returns to the case. you compare the evidence that led each of you to the estate and discover that you missed one another by minutes all day. sam found the same matchbook at the morgue. you spoke to the groundskeeper before dean could. the brothers identified six vampires through property records and old photographs; you found the seventh through a missing-person report from three counties over.
“so we both would’ve gotten there,” sam says.
you steal one of his fries. “i got there first.”
“and got captured,” he replies.
you take another fry. “you got captured too.”
sam turns toward you. “because you had already alerted the nest.”
you point the stolen fry toward dean. “because your brother chased an obvious decoy.”
dean looks up from his burger. “i’m sitting right here.”
“we noticed,” you and sam answer together.
the shared reply leaves a small pocket of silence. sam looks down at his plate, smiling. you take another fry to give your hands something to do.
dean watches this happen, finishes the last bite of his burger, and reaches for his plate. “i’m getting pie.”
“they bring it to the table,” sam tells him.
“not where i’m sitting.” dean slides out of the booth and takes his coffee with him. “yell if you need a chaperone.”
sam waits until his brother reaches the counter. “sorry about him.”
you study his face. “you don’t sound sorry.”
sam’s mouth lifts. “i’ve had practice.”
without dean filling the other side of the table, the booth feels quieter. the fluorescent lights hum overhead. a truck passes on the highway outside, washing the windows in white before the diner settles again.
sam turns his mug between both hands. “do you always hunt alone?”
“usually.” you trace one finger through the condensation beneath your water glass. “i work with people when a case needs it. they just tend to make more noise than they’re worth.”
sam glances toward the counter, where dean is attempting to convince the waitress that one slice of pie is not enough to judge the quality fairly. “sometimes.”
you glance toward dean. “you two work well together.”
“we’ve had practice at that too.” his gaze returns to you. “you’re good.”
the simplicity of it catches you off guard. there’s no condescension in his voice and no surprise that you held your own. he says it like another fact, as certain as he was that dean would come back.
“you’re not bad,” you allow.
sam laughs softly. “thanks.”
you lean back against the booth. “i did save your life.”
sam mirrors the movement. “and i saved yours.”
you turn your mug between your palms. “that sounds like a tie.”
sam’s eyes hold yours. “i thought ties were boring.”
you study him over the rim of your mug. exhaustion has softened the careful edges of his expression. without the vampire watching, his quiet no longer feels guarded. it feels attentive. even now, he keeps glancing toward the bandage the waitress gave you for your neck, checking that no blood has seeped through.
“there’s a possible shifter case about two hours north,” you say. “three people missing, all seen after they supposedly left town.”
interest sharpens his eyes. “we heard about that.”
“of course you did.” you shake your head.
“dean and i were going to look into it after this.” sam pauses, thumb resting against the handle of his mug. “we could share what we have. if you want.”
the offer is practical enough to protect both of you from what else it means. another case. another chance to see whether the rhythm you found while tied to matching chairs survives daylight and unlocked doors.
you take out your phone and slide it across the table. “put your number in.”
sam does. he types his name, then calls himself so your number appears on his screen. when your phone returns, his contact sits at the top of the list without the word agent in front of it.
“about that coffee,” you say.
sam leans back against the booth. “we got free at the same time.”
you set down your mug. “i was standing first.”
sam’s smile returns. “you were falling.”
you refuse to concede. “still counts.”
he looks down at his mug, and for the first time all night, uncertainty finds him. it appears in the careful breath he takes and the way his fingers tighten once around the ceramic before he meets your eyes again.
“then we could call this a date,” sam says.
the diner continues around you. a spoon strikes a saucer at the counter. the waitress opens the pie case. dean, facing determinedly away from the booth, tilts his head just enough to listen.
you let sam wait only a second. “only if the next one has fewer vampires.”
relief eases through his smile. “i think i can manage that.”
—
dean is already behind the wheel when you step into the parking lot. the impala idles beneath a flickering sign, black paint reflecting the red neon from the diner window. your car waits several spaces away under a dead streetlight.
sam walks you to it anyway.
the night has cooled while you were inside. your breath fogs faintly between you, and the sounds of the highway feel far away. sam stops beside your driver’s door with his hands in his jacket pockets, suddenly looking less certain than he did with five vampires surrounding him.
“so,” he says, glancing toward the bandage on your neck, “the shifter case?”
you reach for your keys. “send me the address.”
“i will.” he shifts closer by half a step. “and maybe, after that, we could get dinner somewhere neither of us is on the menu.”
you glance toward the idling impala. “that seems ambitious.”
sam adjusts without missing a beat. “coffee, then.”
you remind him, “you do still owe me.”
sam smiles and looks down briefly. when he lifts his head, his attention settles on your mouth before returning to your eyes.
“can i kiss you?” he asks.
the question is so plainly sam that warmth rises beneath your bruises. after an entire night of silent plans and unfinished signals, he refuses to guess at this.
“yes,” you answer.
his hand comes to your jaw, touching the uninjured side. the first press of his mouth is soft and cautious, a question asked twice. you answer by catching the front of his jacket and drawing him closer.
a quiet sound catches in sam’s throat when you draw him closer. his other hand settles at your waist, warm and broad through your coat. the kiss deepens without losing its gentleness, slow enough that you feel the smile beginning at its edge.
the impala’s horn sounds once.
you break apart with a startled laugh. sam closes his eyes and lowers his forehead to yours, embarrassment coloring the tops of his cheeks.
“i’m going to kill him,” he murmurs.
you laugh softly. “get in line.”
dean taps the horn a second time. sam laughs then, the sound warmer than the one you drew from him at the vampires’ table. he steps back only when he has to, his fingers lingering against yours before they separate.
“text me when you get to your motel,” he says.
you touch the car door behind you. “you too.”
sam glances toward the impala. “we’re ten minutes away.”
you look pointedly at his split lip. “and you attract trouble.”
sam concedes the point with a tilt of his head. he waits until you are inside your car before walking back to the impala. when both engines start, he looks over through the passenger window and lifts one hand.
you follow the black car as far as the highway. at the first split, the impala turns south and you take the road north. your phone chimes before its taillights disappear.
the message contains an address, a time, and one final line beneath both.
sam | still think i won.
you smile at the empty road and type your answer at the next red light.
keep telling yourself that, winchester. coffee’s on you. | you
—
a year later, sam sets a mug beside your elbow before you ask for it.
the bunker kitchen is warm from the oven, every light overhead still intact. four plates crowd the table between serving dishes dean insists constitute a real meal because he used more than one pan. castiel sits across from you, studying the food with the solemn attention he usually reserves for angelic tablets and particularly confusing television commercials.
sam returns to his chair and nudges the sugar toward you. he has already added the right amount to your coffee. you take a sip and feel his knee settle against yours beneath the table, familiar enough now that neither of you shifts away.
castiel watches the movement. his gaze travels from sam’s hand resting near yours to the pale line that remains at the side of your neck.
“how did you meet?” he asks.
dean begins laughing before either of you can answer. sam closes his eyes for a moment, accepting that there is no version of this story his brother will allow him to tell with dignity.
“at a dinner party,” sam says.
castiel looks around the kitchen table. “like this one?”
“not exactly,” you reply.
dean points his fork between you and sam. “they were the dinner.”
castiel considers this, brow furrowing. “then it was an attempted feeding, not a dinner party.”
sam turns to him with immediate vindication. “thank you. that’s what i keep telling them.”
“there were place settings,” you argue.
“and a centerpiece,” dean adds.
castiel glances at the bowl of potatoes in the middle of the table. “those details don’t change the purpose of the gathering.”
sam reaches for your hand beneath the edge of the table. his fingers lace through yours while dean begins explaining the chandelier, improving his own marksmanship with every sentence. by the time he claims to have fired without looking, sam is laughing too hard to correct him.
after dinner, castiel follows dean into the library to inspect what dean calls photographic evidence and sam calls a blurry picture of broken glass. you remain behind to stack the plates. warm water runs over your hands as sam carries the last serving dish to the counter.
“our first normal dinner party,” you observe.
sam steps behind you. his hands settle at your waist, and he bends to press his mouth to the faint scar beside your neck. the touch bears no resemblance to the cold hand that first exposed the skin there. it is slow, familiar, and safe.
you lean back against his chest. “no one even tried to eat us.”
“i think that’s as normal as we’re going to get,” sam murmurs against your skin.
you glance toward the library. “dean ate enough for everyone.”
from the library, dean raises his voice. “i can hear you.”
sam laughs into the curve of your neck. you turn in his arms, wet hands finding the front of his shirt, and kiss him while dean continues complaining beyond the kitchen door.
above you, the bunker lights stay warm and whole.