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sam moves his arm the third time you shift against him.
“am i squashing you?” he asks, lifting the blanket to give you room. his notebook slides toward the gap between the cushions, and you catch it before it disappears. there’s already a pen down there, along with something that crackles whenever either of you moves. you have decided against investigating.
“your couch is squashing me,” you tell him, passing the notebook back. “i think it gets smaller every time i come over.”
“pretty sure that's the laundry.” sam hooks a sweatshirt off the armrest and drops it onto the floor. then he looks at the space he has cleared with sufficient satisfaction that you have to kiss him. he catches your chin before you withdraw, stealing another, slower kiss that leaves you smiling against his mouth.
by the time you settle beside him again, something funny has happened on the television. sam tries to explain it, which makes very little sense without the scene you have missed. you tuck your feet beneath the blanket he bought after you complained about being cold here once. he insists the apartment needs another blanket anyway, but you have never seen him use it without you.
his fingers return to your hair as soon as his hand is free. he brushes it away from your temple, his thumb lingering near your ear, and you let your eyes close. there’s no particular rhythm to it. sometimes he forgets what he is doing and rests his palm against your head, and sometimes he notices you leaning into him and starts again.
you have caught him doing it while reading, while talking on the phone, while trying to convince you that five more minutes of studying will actually be five minutes. once, in the library, he reached across the table to move a piece out of your eyes and knocked over an entire cup of pencils. he spent the next several minutes collecting them with red ears while you pretended to help.
tonight, his touch almost puts you to sleep. then you turn your cheek, catch hair between your face and the cushion, and sit up with an irritated breath.
sam withdraws his hand. “sorry. was that me?”
“no.” you rub your cheek and reach for the elastic around your wrist. “my hair's staging a protest.”
“against the couch?” he asks. his smile deepens when you glare at him, and he draws his knees back to let you turn. “okay. fair.”
you gather the section that keeps bothering you and begin separating it by touch. normally, the movement takes very little thought, but your fingers feel slow tonight. you lose one piece while following a conversation on-screen, then another when you turn to ask sam what someone just said. he can’t tell you because he was watching your hands.
“can i try?” he asks.
you hold the elastic toward him. “here. just a second.”
sam takes it but keeps looking at you. “i meant the braid.”
your hands stop. he sounds so matter-of-fact that it takes a moment to understand what he is offering. sam has never needed an excuse to touch your hair, but this is different enough to make you look at him properly. his expression changes under the attention, his mouth curving a little uncertainly.
“you'd have to show me,” he adds.
“you want to learn?” you ask, lowering your arms.
“yeah.” he turns the elastic between his fingers. “if you don't mind.”
you smile before you can help it, and his uncertainty eases. shifting onto the cushion in front of him, you sit with your back to his chest. sam makes room around you, one knee bent beside your hip, and pulls the blanket over your feet again. he slips the elastic back onto your wrist for safekeeping before touching your hair.
“all right, winchester,” you tell him. “pay attention.”
“i usually do,” he says, pressing a kiss beside your ear.
“to the lesson,” you clarify, although the warmth in your face makes the correction less convincing.
he laughs softly and sits back. you show him where to start, dividing the hair and placing each section between his fingers. his hands are warm from being beneath the blanket, and considerably more careful than the task requires. you guide one piece across the center, then show him how to change his grip without releasing the others.
for a few movements, everything goes well. you begin to relax, listening to the film and the quiet sound of sam breathing behind you. then his hands stop.
“what?” you ask, resisting the urge to turn.
“nothing.” his fingertips shift. “i think i have an extra one.”
you press your lips together. “an extra what?”
“section.” he pauses again, and you can hear the frown in his voice. “there were three.”
the laugh escapes before you can stop it. sam leans sideways to look at your face, and the indignation in his expression makes it worse. you reach back to cover one of his hands, apologizing badly enough that he shakes his head.
“you're supposed to be helping,” he reminds you.
“i am helping.” you separate the pieces again. “i'm providing a supportive learning environment.”
“doesn't feel supportive.” he lets you reposition his fingers, watching closely as you ease his thumb away from the section he has accidentally trapped. “my hands are too big.”
you examine the hand resting in yours, turning it palm up. “they seem fine to me.”
sam looks at you rather than his hand. you lift it and kiss the base of his thumb, which does nothing to improve his concentration. for a moment he simply watches your mouth against his skin. then he bends forward and kisses your cheek, smiling when you try to turn far enough to catch him properly.
“you're distracting me,” he murmurs.
“you're very easily distracted.” you face the television again and return his hand to your hair. “try using your fingertips. you don't need your whole hand for each piece.”
he tries again. this time, you describe each movement before he makes it, and he follows with a concentration you recognize from the nights he brings difficult assignments to bed. his knuckles brush your skin. once, a section catches, and he immediately loosens his grip.
“did that hurt?” he asks.
“no. you're okay.” you rest your hand on his knee. “i'll tell you if it hurts.”
he nods against the back of your head before remembering to sit upright. you can feel him getting more comfortable, the pauses between movements shortening, although a sudden burst of sound from the television costs him his place again. he reaches past you for the remote and pauses the movie with a determined little press of his thumb.
you stare at the frozen screen. “it's serious now.”
“apparently,” sam replies. his knee nudges your hip. “hold still.”
by the time he asks for the elastic, you have stopped keeping track of his mistakes. the apartment is quiet except for traffic beyond the open window and his neighbor moving something heavy across her floor. his hands settle into a gentler, more certain rhythm, and your shoulders ease beneath them. when he finally releases the braid, you almost ask him to keep going.
instead, you turn toward the dark window to inspect his work. the reflected shape is uneven, with a loop that doesn’t appear to belong anywhere. sam notices you looking at it and immediately reaches forward.
“i can fix that,” he offers.
you catch his wrist. “don't you dare.”
“it's coming out.” he studies the offending section over your shoulder. “already.”
“then you'll have something to do tomorrow.” you turn fully and kiss him, your hand sliding to the side of his neck. he responds easily, the worried crease between his eyebrows easing as you kiss him. when you pull away, his eyes remain closed for a moment longer than necessary.
“tomorrow?” he asks, opening them.
“unless you're busy.” you settle beneath his arm again, carefully choosing a position that leaves his work undisturbed. “very demanding student. might need a lot of practice.”
sam draws the blanket over your lap. “i can make time.”
he asks whether it’s comfortable before restarting the movie. you tell him it is, and mean it. whatever the braid looks like, your hair stays out of your face when you rest your cheek against him. his hand settles on your waist, warm and familiar, and sometime before the next scene ends you fall asleep.
—
he does make time.
there’s another attempt the following evening, and one during the week while you read notes aloud from the floor beside his bed. he asks you to repeat a sentence because he is concentrating, then answers the question you were going to ask before you reach it. you accuse him of showing off. he loses a section while laughing, which you consider fair punishment.
he learns where you like him to begin and which pieces are better left alone. he learns that secure doesn’t have to mean tight. eventually, you stop reaching back to guide his hands, and he finishes with the smug expression of someone who knows he has done well.
then dean arrives looking for their father, and the stories sam told you in the privacy of his apartment acquire addresses and bodies and photographs.
you know enough to understand why he goes. deciding to accompany him takes longer than packing does. the first case becomes another, then several more. by winter, you have arranged time away from school, learned to load a shotgun, and developed strong opinions about motel heating.
sam still touches your hair while he reads.
in indiana, he does it with three obituaries spread across his lap and dean eating french fries on the other bed. the television murmurs through an advertisement. you lean against sam while sorting newspaper clippings, and his fingertips move absently near your temple until he catches himself obscuring the page.
“sorry,” he murmurs, moving his hand.
you catch it before he can withdraw completely and return it to your head. “you weren't in the way.”
dean looks up from his food, considers saying something, and apparently decides the fries deserve his attention more.
—
the marlowe house stands at the end of a street lined with bare trees. plastic covers several ground-floor windows, and a roll of carpet lies abandoned on the porch. the renovation foreman meets you beside a dumpster, rubbing his hands together against the cold. he looks at the badges dean produces and immediately begins explaining that the staircase has passed inspection twice.
three dead bodies will do that to a man. according to the reports, two contractors and a night custodian fell down the same rear stairs within eighteen days. the foreman has an explanation for the first, a theory about the second, and nothing at all for the third.
“there wasn't anybody else here,” he tells dean. “i checked the sign-in sheet myself.”
sam glances at you over the man's shoulder. you finish securing your braid and drop your hands, catching the look before he turns back to the house. while dean persuades the foreman to show him the inspection paperwork, you and sam walk toward the rear entrance.
“you always do that before we go in,” he observes, nodding toward your hair.
“keeps it out of the way.” you test the elastic with one finger. “i like being able to see what's trying to kill me.”
sam's mouth tightens at the joke. you brush your hand against his before opening the door, and he catches your fingers briefly. neither of you lingers. the foreman is calling for dean to mind a loose board, and the house has swallowed most of the afternoon light.
inside, plaster dust coats the staircase. the rear landing is narrow, with a corridor running toward the main hall and an expanse of wall where workers have stripped away the wallpaper. you stop beside a rectangular outline in the plaster. sam brings his flashlight closer, revealing the corner of an old wooden frame.
“was there a door here?” you ask when the foreman rejoins you.
he peers at it. “looks that way. we started taking this wall back last month.”
you look at sam. the first death occurred two days after that work began. his expression tells you he has made the same connection, but before either of you can ask another question, three dull knocks sound from the other side.
the foreman goes pale. “that's what she heard.”
dean lowers the inspection report. “who?”
“the cleaner. she quit last week.” the man takes a step toward the stairs. “said somebody kept knocking. i told her it was the pipes.”
sam reaches for the meter inside his jacket. the needle jumps as soon as he switches it on. cold moves through the landing, sharp enough that you feel it inside your nose, and dean tells the foreman to go outside. something in his voice prevents argument. the man's footsteps hurry down the staircase while you reach for the salt in your pocket.
a woman appears between you and the wall.
you see a grey uniform, a face turned partly away, one hand lifted toward the covered doorway. then her head snaps around. you have time to move your hand before an invisible force catches you across the chest and throws you sideways.
your left shoulder strikes the banister. pain flashes down your arm, and the stairs tilt beneath you. you grab for the rail with your right hand, catching it hard enough to jar your teeth. somewhere beyond the ringing in your ears, you hear sam shout.
the shotgun blast tears through the landing. the woman disappears, and sam is beside you before you can straighten, one arm braced around your waist. dean stands in the corridor with another weapon raised, watching the patch of air where she vanished.
“we're leaving,” he orders. “move.”
sam stays beside you down every step. outside, you sit on the impala's rear seat with the door open while he crouches in front of you. your shoulder throbs beneath your jacket. when he asks whether you hit your head, you answer immediately, then let him help you ease the fabric away from the bruise beginning beneath it.
“just here,” you tell him, touching your left shoulder. “i caught the railing.”
his eyes move to your right hand, still curled tightly in your lap. he covers it with his own until you uncurl your fingers. behind him, dean tells the foreman to keep everyone out of the building. sam looks back at the house once, then turns toward you again.
“we'll figure it out from the room,” he says. “come on. let's get you back.”
—
by the time dean returns from the county records office, you have an ice pack wrapped in a towel, two pillows supporting your arm, and a boyfriend who keeps rereading the same paragraph.
“sam.” you touch his knee with your good hand. “i can feel you looking.”
he glances down at the newspaper on his laptop as though it might defend him. you wait. finally, he exhales and shifts closer, careful of your shoulder.
“you were right next to the stairs,” he says.
“i know.” your fingers tighten around his knee. “i was there.”
his mouth moves into a small, reluctant smile. you lean forward and kiss it before he can lose it again. he follows when you sit back, resting his forehead against yours until dean drops a roll of photocopies onto the table.
“good news,” dean announces. “the county's got seventy years of building permits. bad news, i now know what seventy years of building permits smell like.”
you help sam clear a space on the bed while dean spreads out a floor plan. the linen room marked beside the service staircase occupies the space behind the covered door. on a later drawing, its entrance is gone. dean taps the date printed beside the alteration: november, 1948.
sam turns his laptop around. “clara bell. twenty-four. worked there until october that year.”
the newspaper photograph is grainy, but you recognize the shape of the woman's face. the article beneath it says she disappeared after being accused of stealing a guest's necklace. there is more space devoted to the value of the jewelry than to clara herself. you read it twice, then move on to the next clipping sam has found.
six years later, police recovered several pieces of stolen property from the owner's locked office, including the necklace. his name is edward marlowe. clara's appears only once in the report, in a sentence stating that her whereabouts remain unknown.
“he lets everyone think she runs off with it,” you say, tracing the line with your finger. “then closes up a room the next month.”
“might be where he put her,” dean replies. he looks from the plan to the photograph. “would explain why she's so pissed about somebody opening it.”
sam looks at the little square marked linen and reaches for his phone to ask the foreman about access. you study clara's photograph while he talks. she stands beside another woman on the boardinghouse steps, caught halfway through a smile. you wonder who gave the paper that picture, and how many times they asked for someone to keep looking.
the arrangements take another hour. by then, your shoulder still aches, but you can move your arm comfortably below a certain point. dean will open the doorway, sam will search, and you will cover the corridor from the landing. when sam looks uncertain, you talk through where you will stand and what happens if the spirit appears. he listens, then moves your position farther from the stairs on the plan. you agree.
dean leaves to load the car. you sit in front of the motel mirror and try to repair the braid loosened during the attack. raising your left arm pulls at the bruise immediately. you lower it with a frustrated breath, the elastic caught around your right fingers.
sam's reflection appears behind you. he holds out his hand.
“i can manage,” you begin, then look at his face and amend it. “badly.”
“i've got some experience with that.” he smiles when you hand over the elastic. “turn a little.”
you sit sideways on the edge of the bed while he settles behind you. his knee touches your hip, and you remember the couch so clearly that you almost expect to hear his neighbor through the wall. sam carefully undoes the remaining crossings before starting again. he doesn’t need you to place the sections in his hands this time.
“your first one looked like it survived a haunting,” you tell him.
“you said you liked it.” his fingers move with practiced ease, leaving the troublesome area near your temple comfortable.
“i did like it.” you watch him in the mirror. “i liked the person making it more.”
sam lifts his eyes to meet yours. the tiredness in his face eases, and for a moment he looks exactly as he did in the apartment, trying not to smile too much because you will tease him for it. you reach back with your right hand and touch his wrist. he turns his hand just enough to brush his thumb over your fingers before continuing.
“too tight?” he asks.
you shake your head carefully. “just right.”
when he finishes, he presses his lips to your temple and stays there for a second. you close your eyes. dean knocks on the open doorframe, keys turning around one finger, and waits until sam sits back before asking whether you are ready.
—
the house sounds different without the workers. every footstep travels ahead of you, and the plastic over the windows breathes inward with the draft. you take your agreed position away from the stairs while dean starts breaking through the blocked doorway. sam stands beside him with a flashlight, its beam following each piece of loosened masonry.
the first opening reveals darkness. then a shelf, folded fabric turned grey with dust, and something pale beneath the collapsed wood. sam's light stops moving. dean removes another piece of the obstruction and steps back enough to let him through.
“we found her,” sam says quietly.
you keep watching the corridor. behind you, dean clears the last of the doorway while sam works the fallen shelf away from the remains. you hear the salt container open, and the sharp smell of gasoline reaches you. then comes a sudden scrape that has nothing to do with either brother. the temperature drops, and your next breath appears in front of your face.
“dean,” you warn, bringing the shotgun up against your right shoulder.
clara appears inside the room. dean is knocked sideways into the shelving before he can raise his weapon, and sam hits the doorframe hard enough to lose his flashlight, the beam spinning across the floor. you wait until he ducks clear, then you fire.
the apparition breaks apart. the recoil travels through your body, dragging a sharp ache across your injured shoulder, but you keep your grip. sam turns toward you. you jerk your chin toward the bones, and he moves while dean struggles upright beside the shelves.
“finish it,” dean grits out, retrieving his shotgun. “i've got you.”
you lower your weapon enough to check the corridor. the knocking starts again, louder now, coming from the exposed room and the wall behind you at once. sam kneels beside the remains. you see his lighter catch, then lose the flame when something strikes his wrist.
clara appears between him and the doorway.
dean fires from inside the room, giving sam the moment he needs. flame takes along the salted bones. the knocking stops so abruptly that the silence seems to press against your ears. when the woman reappears, fire moves through her outline. she looks toward the open doorway, and then she is gone.
sam stays crouched until dean touches his shoulder and tells him to go. he comes straight to you, his gaze moving over your face while you lower the shotgun. you let him take it, then reach for the mark forming along his jaw.
“doorframe?” you ask.
“yeah.” he catches your hand and kisses your fingers. “shoulder?”
“angry, but still attached.” you move your arm carefully, showing him what you can. “i'm okay to walk.”
he nods, breathing out through his nose. you glance toward the room where dean is checking the fire, then touch your braid. everything remains where sam put it. the discovery makes you smile despite the ache.
“it held up better than the rest of us,” you observe.
sam laughs, brief and breathless. he bends to kiss your forehead, his hand settling at your uninjured side. “told you i'd get better.”
—
the motel shower runs cold before you finish washing the dust away. by the time you step out, sam has found a clean shirt that buttons down the front, saving you the trouble of pulling anything over your head. he looks up from the bed when you emerge, then quietly moves the first-aid kit within reach.
you sit beside him while he cleans a scrape on your hand. afterward, you take the cloth and wipe the dried blood from his jaw. neither injury amounts to much, but sam stays still beneath your attention, his eyes following your face. when you finish, he turns his head and kisses your palm.
dean examines the two of you from the doorway. “i'm getting food. actual food. anybody who complains about where it comes from can drive.”
“something with vegetables?” sam requests.
dean considers him for a moment. “i'll ask about ketchup.”
the door shuts before sam can answer. you laugh, then wince when reaching toward your hair pulls at your shoulder. sam shifts behind you without waiting to be asked, settling against the headboard while you sit between his bent knees. he places a pillow beneath your left forearm and waits until you are comfortable before removing the elastic.
his fingers find each crossing slowly. slightly wet from where the shower reached it, your hair slips easily from the braid, and he works without tugging. you rest your good hand over his ankle. the room smells faintly of soap and coffee.
“you take a lot less time now,” you murmur.
sam makes a quiet sound of amusement. “you don't stop every thirty seconds to laugh at me.”
“i was very encouraging.” you stroke your thumb over the bone of his ankle. “eventually.”
“eventually,” he agrees. his knuckles brush your cheek as he loosens another section. “you really did sleep in that thing.”
you turn your head enough to see him. “you made it for me.”
his hands become still. he looks down at the elastic around his finger, then carefully releases the last woven piece. you wait while he smooths the hair away from your face. when he speaks again, his voice is low enough that the heater almost obscures it.
“i miss the apartment.”
you look toward the dresser, where your toothbrushes stand in a plastic cup beside a stack of research. there are small things you miss so regularly that you stop mentioning them: knowing which drawer holds the spoons, walking somewhere without checking the back seat first, leaving a book open and finding it in the same place tomorrow. you move your hand from sam's ankle to his knee.
“me too,” you admit.
he nods, but something in his face tightens. you recognize the expression before he looks away. it is the same one he wears when a case takes another day, when the motel costs more than expected, when you fall asleep in the car and wake with your neck bent painfully against the window.
“sam.” you turn carefully to face him. “i can miss it.”
“i know.” he helps you move the pillow rather than letting you struggle with it. “i know you can.”
you settle with your legs folded beside you, your left arm supported between you. sam looks at the bruise above your collar, then pulls his gaze back to your face. his thumb moves along the pillow seam.
“i used to worry about whether you'd get tired of coming over,” he says. “the place was always a mess. i'd forget to buy food until you were already there.” a small smile passes over his mouth. “now i can't even promise you a room with hot water.”
“you never could,” you remind him gently. “remember when your landlord took four days to fix it?”
he laughs under his breath, then shakes his head. “that's not what i mean.”
“i know.” you take the hand worrying at the seam and hold it between yours. “tell me.”
sam watches your fingers. “i keep thinking you'll need something and won't tell me. because dad's still missing, or dean's got another lead, or somebody else needs help.” his eyes finally lift to yours. “i don't want you to think you have to wait.”
you look at him for a moment, feeling the shape of his hand within yours. he has never made you feel unwelcome in the impala. he asks your opinion, listens when you disagree, remembers which roadside places make you sick. but you can remember swallowing a request to stop because the brothers were arguing, and saying you were only tired when you were homesick enough to ache.
“sometimes i don't know what to ask for,” you admit. “going back doesn't fix everything either. i'd get to the apartment and spend all night wondering where you were.” you glance at your supported arm. “but i don't want to go into another house tomorrow.”
sam answers immediately. “we won't.”
you rub your thumb over his knuckles. “i want to sleep in. and get breakfast somewhere we can actually sit down. maybe spend a day with you without a police report between us.”
he looks at the papers covering the table, then reaches over and closes his laptop. the small, definite movement loosens something beneath your ribs. when he turns back, his expression is tired but easier.
“i'd like that,” he says. “a lot.”
you lean forward and kiss him. sam meets you halfway, one hand rising to your cheek while the other steadies the pillow beneath your arm. his mouth is warm, familiar enough that you know the slight tilt of his head before he makes it. you kiss him again because he is still here, because you can ask for breakfast, because his hand settles so gently against your face.
when you sit back, he follows a little, and you smile against his lips. “i love you, you know.”
his thumb brushes your cheek. “i love you too.”
you keep your forehead against his for another moment. outside, someone starts a car, and the heater rattles itself into silence. sam kisses the corner of your mouth before drawing away enough to look at you.
“movie tomorrow?” he asks.
you smile. “how about the one we tried watching on your couch?”
he remembers immediately. you see it happen, the recognition followed by the warmth spreading through his expression. “we never finished that.”
“you kept distracting me,” you tell him, touching the hair beside his own temple.
sam catches your hand and brings it to his mouth. “i can probably do that again.”
—
dean returns with dinner, a grudging side salad, and the news that you have the room for another night. he announces the last part while setting down the bags, as though he makes the decision because repacking would inconvenience him. sam thanks him. dean waves a plastic fork in his direction and tells him to eat before his rabbit food gets cold.
later, an old comedy plays on the television while dean sleeps in the other bed. you are trying to settle beside sam when hair brushes your cheek, and you stop to find an elastic on the nightstand. he notices before you can reach it.
“want me to?” he asks, already sitting up.
you nod and move in front of him. there is nothing waiting beyond the door tonight that requires you to hurry. sam takes his time, and you let your eyes close while his hands work. when he finishes, he arranges the pillows so you can lean against his right side with your injured arm resting comfortably in your lap.
“feel okay?” he murmurs, drawing the blanket over you.
you lift his hand before he can check the braid, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “perfect.”
sam settles back with you against him. on the television, somebody misses an obvious chance to tell the truth, and you feel his quiet laugh beneath your cheek. his fingers find yours under the blanket. you intend to stay awake this time, but his thumb moves slowly across your hand, and there is always tomorrow.