#and it was a wonderful era. amen | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

catscidr · 2 months

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Hallo... can I get some fluff for akademiya dottore where he, fem!reader, and a couple others are on an expedition and eventually dottore finds himself falling for reader cuz they share like all the same interests... 😊 eventually he confesses to reader and reader accepts happily. smiles :)

i. note — if akademiya dottore has ten lovers, i am one of them. if akademiya dottore has one lover, that's me. if akademiya dottore has zero lovers, i am dead. (๑•̀ㅂ•́)ง✧ also i meant to finish this like a week ago but shit happened n then i was bleeding in yamcha pose™ in my bed........ My Apologies ii. includes — akademiya era dottore (zandik), fem!reader and a very special friend :) iii. warnings — nothing but friendly banter and tooth rotting fluff amen. also not proofread we die like [redacted] iv. wc — 3,2k -> also on ao3 if u prefer to read fics there

You wish you had slammed your door shut the second you saw who was on the other side earlier today. Instead of having a relaxing, free day, you were out on a hike with people whom you were acquainted with at best and with one of the biggest enigmas in the Akademiya, Zandik. If it wasn’t for your curiosity and deep yearning for an answer as to why he sought you out specifically to go out on an expedition, you wouldn’t have accepted— but alas. Here you were, sweating your body mass away in the humid, sticky weather of Sumeru.

The group only got to the other side of the bridge leading out of the city, right after passing through an old tree trunk serving as a makeshift overpass, when you had to take a break. It wasn’t your fault you weren’t used to walking for long periods of time; being a Rtawahist student meant you didn’t need to go outside of the city as much as other darshans. You weren’t the only one that held that sentiment though, so you all (thankfully) took a brief moment of respite before heading on.

You’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t enjoy the scenery at least a little bit. Even though your arm was starting to get sore from shielding your eyes from the bright sun, the flora almost made it worth it. The air felt crisp on your skin and in your lungs, the distant sound of a flowing waterfall was washing away the tension in your shoulders, and you started to think that maybe you should spend more time outside. Watching the water near the mystic domain in the area of Chatrakam Cave, you start to ponder if it would be worth it to go for a dip to cool off while everyone else discusses where to go next...

“Hey.”

An impatient voice rips a yelp out of you, pulling you right out of your daydreams. Minty hair obscures the sun, giving your arm a much-appreciated break from shielding your eyes. “We have places to be, you know. Are you ready to go or do I have to leave you out here for eremites to rob you?”

Blinking away the initial shock, you scoff at your schoolmate’s bluntness and drag yourself up to your feet. “And you wonder why you don’t have any friends,” you huff under your breath, patting away any dirt that had stuck to your uniform. Zandik rolls his eyes and frowns, sharp canines looking more akin to a puppy’s maw than a shark’s. “I don’t wonder why I don’t have any friends, mind you. I already know why I don’t have any,” he retorts, turning away from you to walk away. You grumble ‘sure you do’ quietly under your breath before catching up to him, glancing at the others in your group. “Guys, wait for us!”

You watch them begin to walk along the left side of the intersection and go to follow them before the aforementioned boy grabs your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. “Where do you think you’re going? You’re supposed to follow me. Or did you forget who invited you in the first place?” Yeesh, talk about a short fuse. Being (mostly) used to his sharp remarks, you manage to push down the urge to bite the bait he had laid out for you. “I mean, it’s not like you told me where we would be going or why I’m here. Besides, aren’t we supposed to stay grouped up? Professors have always warned us about Rishboland Tigers roaming outside the-” Zandik cut you off by tugging you towards him, away from the group of students.

“The stuff I need is over this way,” he said quietly. Irritation seeped through his pores, though for what reason you didn’t know. Wriggling your wrist out of his (lax) grip, you pick up your pace just enough to catch up to his long legs. The cliff to your left provided some nice shade, but the more he led the way the more he picked up the pace. You didn’t even have time to ask about your schoolmates— though it seemed like they were fine with you two splitting up from the group, anyways.

“Stop going so fast! Hey- what's up with you all of the sudden?!”

You place a hand on his shoulder in a poor attempt to stop his run for answers. Zandik shushes you with a harsh glare and his index to his mouth, earning himself a baffled expression from you. “What is your problem today?” you hiss, voice quieter than before. Too busy glaring holes into the back of his head, you fail to see the focused and starry eyes your friend had as he looked ahead. He stops walking abruptly, making you bump into him with an elegant ow fuck! Your face had met his nape, minty hair tickling your forehead as you step back to rub the ache away from your nose.

“I don’t feel like playing charades, Zandik. Seriously, what’s up with y-” he hushes you with a hand motion, frustration boiling in your gut. Ready to give him a piece of your mind, you step to the side to stand next to him; what you didn’t expect to see a few feet in front of him were sentient mushrooms— fungi, hopping and playing around a cluster of ores.

“...they look like matsutake,” you whisper, glancing at Zandik to catch a glimpse of his face. He crouches down and you follow suit, silently observing the fungi alongside him. There were three in total; they all seemed to be standing still, occasionally... wriggling in place, a dim green light emanating from their thick stems. “Are they feeding on the iron?” you murmur, dumbfounded. Since when did mushrooms eat rocks?

“They’re absorbing nutrients from the ground. It just so happens that there are an abundance of it around ore clusters,” Zandik explained, the lack of condescension in his tone puzzling you. “How do you know that? You’re not an Amurta student.” Though you couldn’t deny that seeing the fungi in their natural habitat was captivating, even if they were still just living mushrooms.

The boy exhales sharply, “I don’t care for the fungi themselves. It’s because—” leaves rustle, making him pause his sentence to look around, checking if anyone was listening. When the coast is clear he continues, “they’re... related to ley lines.” You peel your gaze away from the sentient vegetables to look at your friend with a look that clearly displayed your confusion. As the cogs turned in your brain though, you start to piece things together and come up to your own hypothesis about his claim.

“That makes... sense. They’re part of the forest, so it would make sense if they were extensions of ley lines since they’re kind of like roots...” you mutter your train of thoughts out loud, grabbing a stray stick to draw on the ground. Your sketch was... lackluster, but it got the point across. “Trees are rooted to the ground, and mushrooms grow on trees or around them—” you point at the messy “drawing” of a fungi you just made, “but if they gain some elemental energy from nearby ley lines, then they’ll become sentient!”

As you exclaim your new discovery, your eyes meet Zandik’s carmine ones— and your face flushes once you realize he had been staring at you this whole time. A choked noise of surprise rips itself out of your throat, the noise startling the fungi nearby, making them scurry away further along the dirt path. He smacks your head, “I told you to be quiet!”

You don’t have time to protest because a horde of fungi run up to you— so many of them that you couldn’t even take the time to count. A string of curses fly out of Zandik’s mouth, and as he scrambles to get up, he grabs your wrist, pulling you up to your feet to run. “They look harmless, but they can seriously injure you if they’re in a group— book it!” he shouts, jumping up on a moss-covered rock, climbing up on the hill going around the path blocked off by the fungi. He helps you up quickly and you both make a dash for it, in the hopes that they’ll stop coming after you.

You’re grateful that the sun had started to set before you and Zandik got ambushed, at the very least. The sky had turned a beautiful shade of indigo, orange and pink dotting the horizon and the clouds above. Without the sun sapping away at your energy you were able to get away scot-free and enjoy a breathtaking sunset; you hadn’t even noticed that Zandik was leading you somewhere, too engrossed in the familiar sight of the sky you had gazed into so many times.

“Look over there,” he places a hand on your shoulder to grab your attention and you look as he points to a small group of fungi. Their shape looked more like drills than mushrooms, and they definitely lacked the “natural” camouflage that their other skin had, since they were white and periwinkle, and not dirt brown. A quiet woah leaves you as you look at them, brain working overtime once again. Zandik walks with you, slowly, away from the fungi before you can get attacked again.

You begin to ramble about your theories to Zandik when you’re both far enough from the living vegetables, making grand, expressive gestures with your hands to emphasize your thoughts. The sound of your shoes crunching the grass beneath your feet, crickets chirping and the gentle evening breeze rustling the verdure around sound distant compared to the sound of your voice enthusiastically talking about the creatures you encountered. He absentmindedly scolds himself, wishing he had dragged you out of your dorm room earlier.

“Nara Zandik!” a voice says from behind him.

“Fucking Archons-” his head whips around to gawk at the culprit; a small, cyan colored mushroom creature. Completely oblivious to the newcomer, you halt your steps to look at Zandik’s mortified expression. “Why’d you stop?”

The boy’s attention is torn between you and Ararycan, head spinning. Based on your reaction (or lack thereof), you couldn’t see it; which brought up the question. Should he tell you the truth— that there’s currently a “friendly” sentient mushroom right beside you, or should he lie through his teeth and say-

“N-Nothing. Just keep going, I’ll catch up. I have, uh... a stomachache.”

Zandik has never been a good liar, but deciding to spare him the embarrassment, you nod. “Alright. Shout if you need me!” You walk off, looking over the hill to admire the large trees below, more akin to giant lotus plant leaves than actual trees. Your form retreats far enough that Zandik’s sure you won’t hear him if he whispers.

He looks down at the aranara, panicked red eyes meeting oblivious, beady black orbs and a smile that never faltered. “Why did you show up now?” Ararycan dismissed the harsh tone in which the boy spoke (or didn’t understand it); it didn’t care either way. The creature brimmed with optimism. “Nara Zandik should say what’s on his mind!” it says, little arms waving up and down. “The forest is happy, iron chunks are asleep, and the sky is bright! Why is Nara Zandik scared?”

His brows furrow, lips curling into a pout as he murmurs, “I’m not scared.” The aranara blinks at him, still smiling- waiting. “I’m not,” he repeats, “it’s just... argh, what do I do? Why is my head so...” “Fuzzy?” Ararycan finishes, tilting its bulbous head to the side, the leaves on its head flopping over. Zandik grumbles, hands coming up to cover his face

“Is the strange Nara nice?” it asks curiously, turning to look at your figure sitting on the hill a few meters away. You lean over carefully, observing the signs of life below; lanterns made from sticks and leaves, dirt paths separating in a multitude of directions and a small, round house with large leaves serving as a roof. Why you had never seen anything like this was a mystery to you, but you figured you’d just pester Zandik about it later since he was the one to bring you here.

Zandik looks back down at his friend, his expression having softened from just a few moments ago. “Yeah. That’s why I’m being... stupid. What do I say?”

Ararycan uses its tiny legs to turn back to look at the flustered boy, black eyes focused on scanning his face. “Talk to her about the sky!” it finally says enthusiastically, walking away before the boy can get a word in. “Hey-!” Little noises echo in the same rhythm as its footsteps, but right as Zandik turns around to ask something, the creature jumps up and disappears into the ground. A frustrated groan leaves Zandik’s gritted teeth, having resigned himself to the “advice” the aranara gave him.

You hear light footsteps behind you, drowning out the noise of your thoughts as you look back to see Zandik grimacing at you. Or not— his eyes weren’t focused on you, but you happened to be in his line of sight, which made it look like he was judging you heavily. Giggling at him, you pat the grass next to you and shuffle away to give him some space.

“Feeling better?” He remembers the excuse he gave you and cringes internally as he sits down, body stiff and awkward. “Yeah. Sure. Listen, uh...” Zandik trails off, losing his words. He sheepishly fiddles with the scarf draped over his shoulders, ears reddening the longer he stalls. You nudge his side with your elbow, “Did your stomachache affect your cognitive functions or something?”

The comment slides off of him as if it were water and he was made up of extra virgin olive oil. What did Ararycan say? Talk about the sky...

“Hey, can’t you see the stars clearly from here?” he manages to say, glancing up to look at the streaks of white in the welkin. You follow suit, mouth agape when you realize that you can, and the sky is so clear that you can see smudges of different colors in the sky. The navy backdrop was covered in soft shades of purple and blue, stars glistening so softly it was as if someone had gently and strategically placed them there.

“Woah...” you whisper, your eyes sparkling just as brightly as the constellations. You point out the ones you recognize, eager to talk about your field of expertise. "This one right there is called Leptailurus Cervarius, it looks like a cat!” He leans over to look at where you pointed at and there it was, a small cluster of six stars. He couldn’t say that he saw the cat you spoke of, but he didn’t want to bum you out either.

“It looks like it’s jumping,” he mutters. You turn to face him with a smile on your face, one that rivaled the brightness of the stars above your heads. He thought his heart would jump out of his chest and into your lap— but even then, he didn’t particularly mind if it did. “It is!” You nod quickly, pointing out more constellations with names he wasn’t even sure he would remember the next day. But he wanted to know more, to listen to you talk about the galaxy so much that he could be a Rtawahist student, too.

You soon begin to grow drowsy, having spent most of your energy talking Zandik’s ear off (not to mention the sprint from earlier). As you wobble, struggling to hold yourself up, Zandik gently takes ahold of your head and places it on his shoulder. The fabric of his uniform felt comfortable, earning him a small smile from you. His mind drifts away for a moment— his heart clenched in his chest as he thought back to all the time he spent with you.

From your roaring arguments about trivial matters to info dumping on each other, Zandik couldn’t help but wish you’d make more memories with him. Maybe it was selfish, but he didn’t like picturing someone else leaning their shoulder for you to doze off on. If he could be your pillow forever, he would take up the job in a heartbeat.

...What?

You jolt awake, surprised by Zandik’s sudden movement. He straightened his back, clearing his throat awkwardly. Thankfully there were any creatures around, or else you two would have gotten mauled already.

“We should get back.” The suggestion draws a groan out of you as you stretch your arms over your head, flopping back onto the grass. It was slightly cold and soft enough to relax your limbs once again, sleep pawing at you desperately, “It’s nice here though.”

Zandik pushes away whatever indecent thought had begun to brew in his head from seeing you laid on your back next to him. He carefully grabs the hem of your skirt and brings it down to cover your legs as he speaks, “You’ll catch a cold. Come on, we have to go.”

You blow a raspberry at him, turning away. “Maybe you will but I won’t. I’m strong, I can easily fight off a measly cold,” and you flex an arm to prove your point. It doesn’t convince him in the slightest, and he pulls you up to your feet with him. You decide not to point out the way he struggled ever so slightly— he definitely wasn’t hiding any beefy muscles under his uniform.

“Okay fine we’re going,” you huff while dusting off your skirt, “but you owe me!”

“Owe you what? I’m not the bad guy here.”

“Uh... a drink. You’re paying for my caffeine next time we go out,” you say, and Zandik rolls his eyes. Very typical of an Akademiya student.

“Fine. It’s a date.”

You nod quickly, eager to get a tasty drink and to save a handful of mora the next time you go out. Of course it’s not like drinks were that expensive in Sumeru, but it feels nice to be treated every once in a while-

“A date?!”

Some birds fly away in fear from the sheer shock your voice carried out. You gape at Zandik, cheeks flushed brightly and eyes wide like saucers. “Yeah. A date,” he repeats nonchalantly, a stark contrast from the way he was acting just shy of an hour ago. Gone was the nervous wreck that was Zandik.

“If you don’t want a free drink, you can always refuse,” he teases, nudging you with his elbow in the same way you did with him when you were sitting on the hill overseeing the lotus leaf trees. You scoff, then shake your head, and scoff again in pure disbelief. You were stunned; dumbfounded, even. But the idea of a date didn’t sound as unappealing as you made it out to be.

You glance away from him and mumble your answer. “What was that? I didn’t hear y-”

“Fine, it’s a date!”

He looks at you with a boyish grin, making your heart skip a beat. Was he always this handsome? The moonlight made his hair look ethereal, glowing almost pure white where the light shone directly on it. And his eyes— they looked irresistible. Crimson red orbs appearing to have more of a pink hue to them, though you weren’t sure if that was just your imagination.

Zandik grabs ahold of your hand and matches his steps with yours as you make your way down the hill, back to where you found the familiar dirt path you had walked on when the sun still shone brightly in the sky. As you get closer to flat ground you notice a small horde of mushroom-shaped... mushrooms, and get hit by a wave of déjà-vu. Although asleep, the fungi were blocking the path back.

“...How are we supposed to get back?”

#୧ ‧₊˚orderup!#my laptop went in sleep mode twice while i was writing this #bc i was writing on my bed and had genshin open #to get the location right and also the mobs right #but its fine idc if it overheats anything for babygirl dottie #i really need to do my dailies now my resin's been capped for like two hours #c ya #genshin x reader #genshin x you #dottore x reader #dottore x you #dottore x fem!reader #dottore x afab reader #dottore fluff #genshin impact fluff

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uncouth-the-fifth · 2 years

Text

playing house, p. 2 - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3. masterlist.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (vaguely kripke era).

Tags/Warnings: childhood friends-to-lovers, fluff, pining, undercover as a married couple, miiiight count as case fic, couples cruises, wingman!Dean, mermaids, sexual innuendos.

Word Count: 21,250

Notes: ahhhhhhh i'm so happy to be getting this out. it's long as FUCK, just for y'all <3 enjoy.

Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

You and Sam headed for the game deck next. At midday, it was easily the most populated floor of the ship, filled end to end with couple’s activities of all kinds. There was at least a football field’s worth of stuff to do. Before you got to any of it, you covertly dumped Dean’s gift on a couple passed out sunbathing next to each other (and never looked back).

“Looking at all this stuff really makes you wonder who Bobby called to get these tickets,” Sam commented.

He had a point. You could’ve guessed some of the amenities they’d have on board, like jacuzzis or cocktail lounges, but that was as far as your less-than-wealthy life could take you. On top of poolside bars, you and Sam passed an on-board spa, a salsa dancing class, a laser tag arena (which you might have given Sam a significantly competitive nudge toward), an outdoor painting class, and even a minigolf course. It was enough to root you both in place at times. Part of you was swamped by the money half of it all, but the bigger anxiety at hand was in finding this mermaid. The ship was fuckin’ huge. Huge and full of millions of hiding places.

Your amulet never did its thing on your circuit around the deck, so on your second time around, Sam pointed out two figures on the mini-golf course. “That’s Kelly, from breakfast,” you realized, “so that must be…”

“...her husband,” Sam finished. His brows jumped up his forehead, “Think he might know anything useful?”

You shot Sam a playful look beneath your matching cap, “Big time. Hope you remember how to play, Sammy. I’ll talk to his wife, you see if you can get something out of him.”

Sam nodded in agreement (correctly remembering who the boss was), but stopped you short before you could change course toward the crowd of chatting couples. The sly smile on his face sprinkled a little dread on your shoulders. He didn’t even bother to hide how pleased he was with himself when he drew you back by the arm, revealed his wallet, and slid it sensually into your hand.

“Darling,” he said, “would you be a dear and fetch my clubs for me?”

“You’ve never played minigolf a day in your life, have you?”

Sam shook his head, a little terrified. “Not even once.”

Rolling your eyes, you ran Sam through the general idea of mini golf, just so he wasn’t crashing Kelly’s golf-outing totally blind. It looked like some of the other girls from breakfast were there too, lined up to cheer their husbands on. Between the two of you, you were pretty sure you had a better chance at casually interrogating someone while working them over in minigolf, but there was a distinct women-don’t-play-sports vibe going on that your wealthy persona didn’t want to disturb. It would probably be more fun to watch Sam fail spectacularly anyway. The only sport he’d ever been good at was soccer—not counting the times he cheated height-wise in basketball as a kid. You were in for a show.

Most of the wives from breakfast had found a line of chairs to observe the game from, drinks in hand and their hair fluttering in the breeze. Past the railing behind them, a pretty spread of fluffy clouds kissed the endlessly churning horizon. The ship was too big to make you feel the power of it plowing through the waves, so on deck, the sea seemed to push ahead underneath your unmoving boat. Whoever had designed this place was extremely clever, because one of the millions of onboard bars was just a hop away from the gorgeous view.

All of the women stilled as Sam approached. Seeing that you were with him, (or, they had an excuse to coax him closer), the group became a small mess of jeweled hands waving you (but mostly Sam) over.

“Mr. and Mrs. Patton!” One of the women exclaimed. “Care to join us? We’re lounging.”

You put on your brightest smile. “I love to lounge,” you beamed, and not one bit of you had to lie.

“Sam?” Another wife called, “You’re more than welcome to join us. I know this is a bit of a girl’s show—”

“—but we’re just dying to get to know you!” A third giggled.

The women exchanged the most unsubtle, devouring glances you’d ever seen in your peers, which made you realize: right. Rich ladies. They weren’t your peers. A distant, forgetful part of you felt like throwing Sam over your back fireman-style and shouting mine! as loud as your voice could manage, which didn’t bode well for your continued mental health on this hunt. Instead, you took in a big girl breath and squeezed Sam’s wrist like a sane person.

“I really would love to… y’know, I-I just… uhm,” Sam blanked.

You swooped in for the rescue. Looping both arms around his middle, you swooned, “Sam was actually on a golfing team in high school! And lately, I’ve been so nostalgic to see him play again… You wouldn’t believe how good he was. He won every match I went to, and I saw every one! So, he’s going to play for me, if you don’t mind.”

Sam paled. A nervous, handsome chuckle bubbled out of him, and he wrapped his arm around you, not to be romantic, but to pinch the small of your back in revenge. He might’ve even succeeded, if it hadn’t been Sam’s big calloused fingers on your sensitive bare skin. You yelped. Everyone gave you a funny look.

“You’ll play for me, right, dear?” You begged of him, like this was some kind of romance and he was going off to war. You’ll write to me, won’t you, my love? He looked ready to melt into the deck. Good.

“Y-yeah,” Sam barely kept himself from glaring. “...Anything you want, honey.”

Since you were a fantastic and loving wife, you rented Sam his clubs and even delivered them to him yourself. He was smooth-talking his way into joining Kelly’s husband for a game when you returned. You inserted yourself into the circle of khaki-clad husbands, realizing, for the hundredth time today, that Dean had been right on the money: you were more than comfortable strutting around as Sam’s girl. When you adjust your bathing suit’s strap over your shoulder and look up at him past your cap, you’re not the only person aware of it.

The other vacationing men gave you owlish looks, especially when you reverently drop down a caddy of clubs in front of Sam. With agonizing slowness, you scoop up Sam’s huge hands, guide them onto the caddy’s handle, then cover them with your own, just to watch him squirm. And maybe for the chance to touch him more. Of course, you can’t leave him without a good-luck kiss.

You plant one on Sam’s cheek and he sighs. There’s just as much loving hatred in it as annoyed fondness, so you don’t pull too far away when you purr, “Break a leg, baby.”

With that, you sauntered back to your seat. Sam definitely watched you go.

Your lunch companions are halfway through their poolboy stories when you pull up a chair. Like before, you begin the odd, practiced process of needling them for intel, which you know is mostly filler. Anything more you could learn, you’d get from Kelly’s husband Luther. That’s up to Sam and Sam’s aim-game, now. Part of your character’s motivation today is to gaze lovingly at him as the other women gossip. It’s a lot easier than it should be. Your hunting instincts have you checking on him every other breath anyway, but Sam seems to be holding his own, focussing more on the conversation than the game. He gets this firm look on his face when he’s multitasking that is just… throb. It’s impossible to find a hunter of higher caliber, so yeah, Sam picks Luther apart and teaches himself how to play minigolf at the same time. The guy could shoot out a sniper’s scope from across the street with a rubber band and a pebble; you weren’t worried about his mini-golfing abilities, or about teasing him.

Luther starts to linger towards the back of the group, hushing something furtive to an attentive Sam. Boom. That’s my boy, you think to yourself.

The group of golfers is heading for the hole closest to your seating area when one of the women summons you.

“____… remind me how long you and Sam have been married, again?”

You whipped back toward the table, smiling serenely. “Around six years.”

Sofia picked her teeth with a toothpick from her martini. “Mm. I could never get past two. Divorced both of my husbands before our third year anniversary—what’s your secret?” She joked, “Separate bedrooms?”

“Oh, no,” you deepened your tone, “the opposite.”

Just a few steps from you, the group of men briefly dissolves into the group of wives as they come up on the next hole. The conversation gets a bit louder as the groups blend, but not enough to drown out your voice to Sam’s ears. A few of the husbands stay back to watch Sam, your ace, line up his next hole-in-one. He decides to be life-or-death invested in this one shot for whatever reason and makes sure you’re looking when he gets into position.

“You wanna know me and Sam’s secret to a long, happy, supportive marriage, Sofia?”

Sam winds back his club.

“Rough sex. And lots of it.”

…Sam’s shot goes sailing over the railing.

Sofia appraised the idea with pursed lips. “Hm. I’d give it a try, but my husband isn’t exactly as enthused as yours.”

Sprawling down in your role probably more than you should, you clasp your hands on the tabletop and let your eyes drift over your enthused husband, who’s awkwardly scrabbling up the club that’d gone flying out of his hands. He swears a coughing fit messed up his shot. Sam ducks away to “organize his caddy,” and you enjoy the sight of his plum-red neck and ears as reparation.

“My Sam is very giving,” you agree. The deep, dreamy sigh you add really gets her. Man, you could do this for a living or something.

His hands trembled trying to get his golf bag’s strap over his shoulder. God, Sam made it too easy to fluster him, sometimes—and so, so much fun. He even starts running his fingers through his bangs, all embarrassed. That’s why, a half-hour later when the game comes to a close, you throw yourself on him in a big winner’s hug. You’d forgotten in the thrill of the act that Sam was almost shirtless, and you only remember once you land skin-to-skin on a swathe of firm chest.

“Nice job out there, killer,” you muffle into his bare neck. Sam supports you with one non-committal arm, the other gripping his caddy for emotional stability. “Maybe you didn’t win, but your aim’s always been stellar to me.”

“You’re the devil,” Sam hisses into your cheek. You cup his to lay a noisy kiss on his face. Only then does Sam drop you, and he gives you a look that could dissolve the sun into a fizzing sparkler. It’s adorable. It’s so adorable, since he’s flushed from head to toe and wiggling his hand into yours without even questioning it. He draws you into his side like he always does, murmuring, “I got a description of our culprit from Luther. He said—”

“Good job, Sam, but hold on.” You indicate the table of couples behind you, and Sam instantly clams up. Probably because every woman over your shoulder is eating him for lunch with their eyes. “Let’s get out of here, first.”

“Please.” Sam complains, “I hate golf.”

According to Luther, the mermaid (or “broad,” in his words) who’d drugged him was essentially Jolene. The spell she’d put him under must’ve had some residual effect, since he described her in dreamy tones: flaming locks of auburn hair, iris skin, eyes of emerald green. The full nine yards. Poor guy.

Sam relayed this to you going mach-twenty on the deck, singeing a track in his wake and dragging you along on the wind. He was so determined to escape the shadow of the golf course that, had you not been tethered to him by your hands, you would’ve easily lost him in the crowd. Sam only slowed down once you were halfway across the ship. You found your safehaven behind one of the poolside bars, where you wondered how pissed Sam would get if you ordered drinks while he phoned Bobby.

He picked up after the fourth ring. Sam didn’t want to be overheard by any passing strangers, so he kept his speakerphone off, instead angling his phone between your ears so you could both hear. The drunken bubbly laughter in the air was almost louder than the churning ocean, so your cheek had to flush against Sam’s to pick up any scraps of Bobby’s voice. You felt kind of awkward leaning into his personal space without any way to stay upright, so you curled two fingers into Sam’s nearest beltloop. For balance. Sam sucked in a breath through his nose.

“Hey, good timing, you two. Me n’ your brother just hit the—blech—the motherlode.”

Somewhere behind Bobby, Dean clattered around, groaning with such disgust that the audio crackled. “We found the nest,” Bobby explained, not at all excited about it. “Looks like there’s three of em’.”

You and Sam shared a stern look. “Shit.”

“Three mermaids?” You asked, just for clarification. The boat’s wifi was kind of tinny.

“Yup,” Bobby sighed. “A pack of em. Looks like they were hiding in a maintenance room for one a’ the shut down elevators. What’d you find?”

“We have a description… for one of them,” Sam winced. He covered his other ear to hear better, shrinking into himself with guilt.

You knew he tortured himself when coming up short on bigger hunts like this, since Sam hated to be the weak link—or the little brother. After so many years of failing to meet expectations, he slaved away with every hunt, insisting on contributing the most and being the most helpful. He’d internalize this as a failure, too. Sam had probably created this image in his mind that, while you and him were goofing off on golf courses for brunch, Dean, Bobby, and Rufus were actually trying to help people. These thoughts welled up in you too fast to string together properly. You wanted to comfort Sam, or if it came to it, beg him to cut himself even the thinnest thread of slack. There was no doubt in your mind that the five of you would finish off these mermaids. So… yeah, maybe you’d coaxed him into enjoying his vacation. Not once in his whole life had Sam willingly given himself a break, so you’d slip it into his diet by force. He was so unkind to himself. Just once, you wish he’d soften up.

Bobby laid down your plan. All five of you were already equipped with shark tooth blades, and all five of you knew to puncture their lungs for the killing blow. Something something about the irony of drowning them in their blood, you get it. Mermaids drowning, very clever. Whoever came up with these roundabout rules for killing monsters would be hearing from your fuckin’ lawyer. For now, Bobby and Dean would camp out by the nest on reconnaissance, while you and Sam found Rufus, who was apparently dicking around elsewhere.

“We lost Rufus?” Sam barked into the phone. You felt your chest get tight.

“Hell if I know. He was working in concessions, then called me an hour or two ago and said they needed him to cover some other job. Said it was important. Then he hung up on me,” Bobby said. “Guy’s okay, he’s just busy doin’ god knows what. Find him, then haul ass here as fast as you can. Dean and I might be able to kill one of em’, but if all three of em’ show…”

“We’ll be there,” you answered, determined, and gave Bobby your goodbyes. Sam ended the call and immediately tried Rufus’ number, cogs whirling.

“Where the hell would he go?” Sam asked no one in particular.

“Bobby said concessions. That’s near the stage, right?” You tipped your head in the right direction. “Let’s try there first.”

When Rufus didn’t pick up, you and Sam started for the performance stage at the bow of the ship where the concessions stand was. You didn’t think much about why the boat had a stage, considering it also had a laser tag arena, but it crossed your mind that today’s show must’ve been interesting, since all the walking crowds had condensed into an audience there. Most of the people around you were heading that way. Every chair in the outdoor auditorium had been filled, so everyone else spilled out against the railings, each other, or on the deck, honed around today’s event. You still had a bit of a walk (and a lot of people-maneuvering) to get where you needed to go, so your thoughts about Sam from before floated back into your mind.

Sam chattered idly to you, wondering aloud what was important enough for Rufus to ditch his phone and his post. It must’ve been pretty damn important. He said this and you watched your footing, then his drawn, curious face, thinking to yourself.

“I dunno, but we’ll find him,” you reassured your partner.

Sam must’ve grabbed your hand again at some point, because he was using his height to his advantage and shouldering through swathes of people, leading you by your entwined hands. Sometimes other people would swoop by and you’d have to slide up against Sam’s back to not get clipped, but he didn’t seem to mind. He threw you looks over his shoulder, checking and re-checking that you were still close to him, still safe with him. You caught yourself doing the same with him all the time, but it was sweet coming from Sam. At least nothing bad would happen to you if the mermaids decided to nab you. Sam would make sure of it.

There was a weird intimacy in being on such a busy part of the ship. Everyone was squished together on the thinner walkway, so everyone was close, but Sam was the only person in sight that you knew. The proximity of other people only pushed you further into his bubble, too.

You brought yourself even closer to Sam, swallowing, “You know, I didn’t say it earlier, but… I’m still really impressed that you got that information out of Luther. You were just some stranger to him, but whatever you chose to say convinced him, and now we know something that could be crucial later.”

Trying to contain the bleeding honesty in your voice, you did your best impression of someone not emotionally attached to him in the least: “...You’re a really good hunter, Sam.”

Sam’s pace slowed by a fraction, and he sunk a bit into his sandals, breathing, “Thanks, ____.”

It hit you how, to Sam, being called a good hunter was not at all a compliment, so you struggled to clarify your feelings without pouring all of them over his head. “I mean it. I-I know it’s not what you want to do with your life, nobody does, but… m’ proud of you. And I’m always glad when I get paired up with you on hunts. You always know what you’re doing, and it makes me feel… secure.”

It wasn’t until you struck him with that word that Sam hit the breaks. Secure. He waited for a break in the sea of people to bring you next to him, guiding you toward him in a circle like a waltz dancer. Constantly, Sam was dragging you back beside him. Your heart did a weird little jig realizing that Sam probably liked to hold hands with his wife. Girlfriend. If he had one. Whatever.

He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, drawing your eyes up to his. “Hey. I like being paired up with you too. But don’t worry about me, okay?”

You couldn’t imagine a time or place where you would know how to answer that.

Sam answered for you. He leaned in to budge you with his shoulder, and you let him, so used to having Sam in your orbit now. Smiling, he baited, “You know you get emotional when you’re anxious, right?”

“And you get snotty,” you rejoined, earning you a look from Sam so full of fiery playfulness that you were turned into embers right there on the deck. Sam’s self-esteem: rejuvenated.

The line for concessions, where Rufus had been posted, was a real mile long, and there was no way you and Sam were waiting through it for ten dollar hot dogs and no answers. Instead, you wove around everyone to try and get to the side of the booth, but it was clear right away that Rufus wasn’t inside. It was even clearer that you wouldn’t be getting any intel from the scant sum of employees, either. They were way too wrapped up in their orders to help you out. Feeling a little lost, you and Sam paused to formulate.

“...so if he left that must mean it was leading him to the mermaid, right? That’s the only reason he’d leave. I can’t imagine anything else—”

“Sam.”

The show had just begun, so he sort of couldn’t hear you over the intro music.

“—I just can’t think of anything that would draw Rufus away. Maybe they forced a crappy job on him and he couldn’t say no? Or the crappy job involves the mermaid, cause’—”

“Sam,” you tried again, with mounting disbelief.

It wasn’t you that broke Sam out of his trance, or even the crowd erupting into applause all around you as the flashy sequin stage curtains drew back. Instead, it was the same voice that had, just last week, explained to you in explicit detail how to make toilet wine on a budget. You and Sam shared a look.

“Welcome back, everybody! We just finished up with Grace, Ethan, Nicole, and Arthur in our last round of—” a dramatic pause, then the whole crowd exclaimed in gameshow fashion: “The Newlywed Game!”

“Is that…?” Sam gaped.

“No fuckin’ way,” you said.

And there Rufus was, on stage, looking like Bob Eubanks if he’d just come back from a disco-themed seance that had not ended well. Rufus had traded his kitchen uniform for a flashy suit that was probably not his, given that it was a little too big on him around the glittering, eye-burning shoulders. For such a huge stage, he managed to seem suffocated by the heart balloons, streamers, and similar decorations orbiting him, but his microphone most of all, which he clutched with both hands like if he squeezed it hard enough it would electrocute him. His eyes shifted over the crowd over a sweaty, plastic smile. You had to get him out of there. Poor dude.

Without hesitation, you and Sam began to move toward the stage with purpose.

“Now, uh, if you caught our noon show, you’re gonna notice—hopefully—that I am not a blonde woman named Clementine, your previous host…”

Using your elbows, you wedged your way forwards in the crowd, hissing out apologies and trying to even guess a way of saving Rufus.

“Poor Clementine had some hairdo complications that required hospitalization , and is currently… uh… resting with the on-board medical staff. Let’s all root for her speedy recovery. For now, I’m your Rufus. Shit. I mean, I’m your host.”

Cue the laugh track. Jesus. He was totally talking out his ass. Just thinking about being up there made you want to crumple up and die a little bit, so you were impressed that Rufus could even string together a sentence. Mostly.

“Now, um, before we can begin, we’re obviously going to need some newlyweds to fill these, uh… these chairs behind me,” Rufus dismissively waved at the twin loveseats on both wings of the stage. Again, cue the laugh track. “And for this special edition of The Newlywed Game onboard the S.S. Harlequin… we’re going to take four special bastards… I mean, two lucky couples… from the crowd.”

The audience rippled with murmurs and chatter, every couple around you deciding between themselves if they should go for it. On instinct, you filtered it all out. You had to get Rufus and bounce. Bobby and Dean had found your mermaids, so the faster you killed them, the safer this boat would be for everyone—not just your two sitting ducks. And… you really, really wanted the story of how Rufus got into this. This was Dean-level hijinks.

You and Sam got as close to the stage as you could from the side aisle you’d fought your way through. Sam was tall enough to be noticed just standing there, but you helped anyway, waving your arms and gesturing snappishly with your hands. Sam was trying to stage-whisper to him, but the sizeable crowd had frozen Rufus in place so he wouldn’t glance your way.

“Now, our grand prize for the most connected couple is, um, uh—hold on.” Rufus fished a card out of one of his massive pockets, the stiff fabric scuffling loudly over the speakers, “It’s um. Oh. It’s five hundred dollars anddd… a half-off coupon for the gift shop.” Rufus coughed. “So… who… wants stuff? Can I get some volunteers?”

Rufus swung to stage right first, summoned by a very jumpy, rowdy cheerleader dragging up her husband’s wrist so he would raise his hand too. He didn’t look very enthused. A couple other raised hands swam in the sea of people, but Rufus was clearly running on nothing but adrenaline and ten-dollar hot dogs right now, so he went with the first two show of hands. “Alright, uh, you two. With all the jangly bracelets.”

Squealing with joy, the cheerleader popped up and hauled ass to get up on stage, leaving her husband in her dust. Rufus paid them little mind, so intent on making sure he went through every step of the instructions that’d been thrown at him. He turned for stage left. In the aisle, you and Sam started shouting, so everyone else did too, throwing your competition into uproar. It just made you more crazed to get Rufus’ eyes on you, having all these people bumping into you and hollering. A picture of Dean and Bobby being coughed up in hairballs by weird lady mermaids flashed in your mind. Looping your hands on Sam’s shoulders, you hauled yourself up onto his back and started waving your arms like you were ready for takeoff. Sam, your devoted husband, bolstered you up even higher by hauling your thighs up around his middle. You felt like an idiot. An idiot at a boyband concert.

This got Rufus’ attention. His eyes landed on you and Sam, then lit up with recognition. You sighed in relief. Since Sam was occupied with keeping you ten feet off the ground (holy shit, was he tall), it was your job to convey the situation to Rufus. You gestured wildly for him to get off the stage and mouthed, We gotta go.

For a fleeting moment, you were sure he’d read you right. Rufus’ face opened in relief …Then he started to shrug, and despite all of your desperate hand signals and mouthing, it wasn’t understanding that passed over his face, but resignation. He knew you’d be telling this story in hunting bars for many decades to come. But if he was going down, then he was going to take you and Sam down with him, damn it…

Dread pooled in your stomach. No. Anything but that.

Your worst nightmare became true.

“And let’s have you two up here! Muscles and his girl on his back. Get on up!”

Sam dropped you from your piggyback, mostly out of pure shock. The crowd seemed to close in on you, clapping and whistling, until you and Sam stood back to back among them like the last humans in a zombie hoard. You didn’t need a spotlight to feel like the center of attention. For a second you held it all together and were a big, tough demon-slaying hunter girl. Then Sam’s hand scrambled back to grab yours, shattering your facade in one push. There was no time to explain or deliberate. The jostle and energy of the crowd surged you toward the stairs on one side of the stage, sucking you in like a black hole. That’s it. Your cover was going to be blown wide open, and all that would remain of it would be a smoking crater where you and Sam had once stood.

Sam used the few precious seconds walking up to squeeze your hand, his fellow gallows-mate marching off to die with him. If you had even one more beat to spare, you knew you would’ve thrown yourself at him in a final kiss of death, spending your last moments the right way. Anything was better than… this. Dear god. If you remembered right, the Newlywed Game was the one where couples guessed each other’s answers to certain prompts—and yeah, you knew Sam pretty well, but. All the questions were couple focussed. Who’s the better kisser? How does he turn you on? What’s her bra size? Absolutely bullshit questions. You’d literally have to make shit up on the spot, then pray that Azazel had left even a wisp of psychic ability in Sam.

In a last-ditch breath of clarity, Sam leans between you and whispers: “Just get as close to the truth as you can.”

That’s all he can say before you’re between whisked across a rose-petalled stage to a cushy heart-themed loveseat. You don’t let yourself look at the crowd before you get there, just so you won’t see the magnitude of it and go sprawling on your hands. Sam, your knight in shining armor, shields you 90% of the way, letting you shuffle in awkwardly behind him with your hands sweatily tethered. He starts tapping out morse code on your knuckles just fast enough for you to translate it. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. No shit, Sam.

In front of you, Rufus is a disco ball with a mustache. He does not look even a little bit sorry about what he’s done to you. You are so honed in on nothing at all in your panic that it only really strikes you what’s happening the second you sit down, and Sam’s hand truly starts to become a comfort then. You bring it into your lap and feel a real moment of near-death experience comradery with him. Sam even leans in and kisses the side of your head, but it’s not for your cover—he’s genuinely that nervous.

You glance up at the crowd and feel your head spin. It’s even larger from this angle, a huge nexus of shuffling, big-eyed people who can all form opinions about you in their heads. You scoot closer to Sam. In the end, the sheer size of the audience is a good thing, since it honestly makes you feel so close to death that your body’s hunter instincts find their backup generator. It’s fine. You and Sam were going to sail right through this. If this is hard, then killing Azazel and all those other demons was child’s play.

“Alright, alright, everybody, let’s simmer down and get to money-makin’,” Rufus says, and fucking great, now he’s into it all of a sudden. Misery loves company. “Let’s start with some names. Who am I talking to today?”

He gestures toward your competitors first, a confident woman named Regina and her husband, who after a long, long time, finally decides that his name is Kieth. They’ve been married for twelve months. This, too, gives you some hope, since you and Sam have been fake-married for six years and real-life-not-married for decades longer. You have a serious upper hand.

If Rufus had few qualms about bringing you up here, then neither did Regina (and Keith by extension). She wants a victim. Once they’re done introducing themselves, this woman gives you the meanest, fiercest glare you’ve ever seen on a non-supernatural entity, and you instantly feel bad for her. Maybe if she’d been a good sport about all this, things would go smoothly. But instead, by giving you that one glare, she has single-handedly brought down on herself the most ruthless, unstoppable fighting force that heaven or hell has ever seen. Well. Two-thirds of that force, minus Dean.

You share a sharp look with Sam. This means war. We’re going to get that money and that stupid coupon, even if it kills us.

“My name is _____ Patton,” you introduce in your smoothest, surest voice, “and this is my amazing husband Sam. We’ve been married for…”

“—three weeks now,” Sam finishes for you. He’s making them think that you’re marriage amateurs, when, really, you’re professionals at this dumb marriage thing. Fuck, he’s clever. You could kiss the shit out of him. “We’re actually on our honeymoon right now.”

Rufus makes a strange face, probably fact-checking your cover story in his head. Or squinting at your matching hats. He coughs out, “Well… mazel tov.”

He stumbled through the rules of the game for the audience’s sake, but you were in full hunting mode, almost gnashing your teeth with anticipation. Sam’s knee had stopped bouncing anxiously. You both sit through the game’s lead-in like two pack animals circling limping prey, and beside you, the mechanisms in Sam’s mind go click click click as they align with yours. The adrenaline rush that came with hunting often made you ashamed of yourself, but something about being so in tune with Sam because of it melts those feelings away.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, let’s all get our whiteboards ready. C’mon, up and at em’, markers out. Face away from your partners and do not, under any circumstances, let them see your answers.”

Sam had already pulled your whiteboards out from under the loveseat and distributed them. In the crazed haze of the game, Sam remembers to give you the dry-erase marker that’s your favorite color. Together, you shuffle inwards, your knees to Sam’s knees so you can’t read what the other has written, and instantly you know you’re going to ace this. The crowd is this terrifying mass hovering to your left. Regina and Kieth are out of sight and out of mind. But across from you, Sam gives you this small winner’s smile that dazzles you into the next dimension. It’s conspiratory and clever, reminding you in a million ways how much you love to be on Sam’s team—to be Sam’s partner. He’s bathed in the glitzy stage lighting like the molten center of a pale star, there’s heart confetti stuck in his bangs, and his shoulders aren’t wound up on straining springs anymore. What gets you most of all is the band on his ring finger, which catches the light almost as well as he does. Your Sam. The sloppy, needy part of you that keeps fixating on your fake romance isn’t embarrassed at all to be up here. If anything, it’s giving a massive middle finger to the whole crowd. This is my husband, bitches. Kiss my ass!

Rufus roots through his pockets for another set of cards. “Okay, ____ and—Regina, that was your name, right? Right, _____ and Regina, this first one’s for you.”

Flourishing the first card off the deck, Rufus read it to himself, and you listened, bent forwards so you could write full-tilt. C’mon. What didn’t you know about Sam? His favorite singer was Celine Dion, his favorite food was dilled brusslesprouts, and he was lactose intolerant. He hated salt on his food because his demon blood made him choke on it, and he wished he could wear nail polish so he could stop chewing his nails (and because it looks cool). That was just the surface stuff. You had this in the damn bag.

“Ladies… describe your spouse’s ideal date.”

…Okay, maybe you didn’t.

You totally blanked. Already, you could hear Regina scribbling over your shoulder. The crowd murmured. You glanced up at Sam, who was writing the answer you were supposed to know, and remembered what he’d warned: get as close to the truth as you can. Ten, nine, eight…

The clock was ticking. Seven, six, five… A TV beside the stage was broadcasting Rufus’ timer, in case hearing him count down under his breath wasn’t nerve-wracking enough. A beat later, you committed to an answer and bolted it down in the clearest handwriting you could manage in such little time. Four, three… A second after you, Sam followed suit. Two, one… Ding.

“Alright, Keith, let’s get your answer first. What is your ideal date?”

Keith had to be budged by his wife to answer, and he did so by lazily propping his board up on his knee. He did not read his answer to the crowd. Rufus squinted at the writing instead, muttering, but eventually came up with: “...Beach. Keith’s ideal date is to the beach,” Rufus sighed, already tired of this, “What’d you say, Gina?”

With a careful, disappointed smile, Regina revealed her board. She’d written a paragraph of information down. She did you all the honor of reading the perky cursive script aloud, which you tuned out, stressed for the result of your own guess. Did you know Sam that well? Something geeky would probably work most of the time, but you were bound to get one of these wrong. Beyond the mortification of this moment, Sam probably wouldn’t be too happy with you failing to remember any of his preferences. You’d been friends since childhood and hunting partners for half that time. To be honest, you didn’t want to think about how you’d feel if Sam couldn’t at least guess this answer for you either. Or how you’d feel if he’d hit it word-for-word.

“...And on the opposite side of the aisle?”

Sam spun his board over in his hands so it faced the crowd, clearing his throat. You watched in real-time as a blush speckled its way up his neck and ears. “...We both pick out a book for each other at a bookstore, then get take-out for home and read next to each other.”

Well. Now you knew how you’d feel if Sam was his usual, perfect self: beyond flustered.

“And what do you think Sam’s ideal date is, ____?”

Without a word, you flipped your board over too. “The same,” your pulse throbbed in your blazing cheeks, “Bookstore, takeout… then we read together.”

The crowd whooped and clapped, responding to the loud, cheery plink of you earning your first point.

You and Sam caught eyes. His twinkled with pride, probably because he thought you’d done some insane mental math to get to your conclusion. But in truth, you’d just thought of the most date-like thing you always did with him and put it in writing. Pull from reality, right?

On slow weeks between hunts, Sam would finally convince you to pick up the novel he’d been nagging you to buy, and in trade you’d recommend one to him. Thinking about it too hard never failed to choke you with butterflies. You had been doing this together since you were teens, so Sam knew your reading preferences to a T. For you it was a bit harder—since Sam plowed through books like nobody’s business—but the reward of Sam getting hooked on one of your choices was always worth reaping. If you’d really struck gold, even months later he’d remind you of it: I wish I could read it for the first time again, ____. You always know what I like. The takeout part of your dates had started because you and Sam were growing, hungry teens. But smushing together on your couch and reading in comfortable silence was just part of the natural air of safety that followed Sam, the air you were still chasing to this day.

Out of all the stuff you did day-to-day together, that… technically… fit the “date” label best. You couldn’t exactly call running from cops and desecrating graves at four in the morning your average courting activity. It was a pretty logical conclusion. But you knew your answer hardly came from a logical place, so Sam… maybe it was as romantic for him as it was for you.

“Sam and _____, starting off strong with their first point,” Rufus drawled, unsurprised. “But that’s just question one, people, so let’s see how they handle question two: Gentlemen, when did your spouse know that you were the one?”

Right. Because of course you couldn’t just be handed the win. You stared at Sam hard, trying to meld brains with him, but he was thinking too deep for you to follow. Was he trying to figure out what you would say for someone else? Like, if this was some imaginary husband neither of you knew? Or was he guessing what you would say for him?

Well. You had no clue when it’d struck you, the truth about the weird feelings squirming within the pine box you’d buried in your mind. There had never been a precise moment. Love was a tree that’d taken root inside you before you could stop it, and love had confirmed its branches around your body so long ago that you couldn’t remember life without it. Suddenly you were sixteen and suddenly you knew. On top of comparing every man or boy you met to him, your golden standard, you could talk to Sam for hours, from dawn to dusk, ‘til your mouths were cotton and there was nothing left to say. And when you did stop talking, Sam was the soft, warm, quiet void you loved to exist in. He never pressured you. He never isolated you. He was just your outlet, your springboard, your shoulder to cry on. Your Sam.

There was a surprising amount of anguish laying for you in that question. Since age sixteen, you’d been victim to the most exhausting and soul-destroying pleasure man had ever known. Being in love with Sam was the prettiest and ugliest double-edged sword. You wanted to bask in the feeling and never lose it. You hated him for not loving you, but loved him—endlessly, endlessly—for the exact same reason. Just him sitting next to you burned. It ached like nothing else could, but there was something beautiful in Sam just being there, too. You loved him. You hated him. You wished he knew but would die before telling him.

Right now, on this stage, you’d prided yourself knowing so much about Sam. You knew he was doing the same. Yet he would never, ever know the pure magnitude of your feelings for him, so the truth was that Sam hardly knew you at all. Your stupid tree and your pathetic pine box had robbed him of that chance. Some days there wasn’t a thing you wouldn’t give to get over him; just as often, you loved to love Sam.

He’d always been the one.

This was a lot to swell up in you at once, so again, you fell behind. Stick to the truth. But your pine box was your truth alone, so you scribbled out the first parallel between you and Sam that came to mind.

Regina and Keith gave their answers. You didn’t even pay attention to what they’d said, you were so far down your own train of thought. When you managed to drag yourself out of it, you found yourself admiring Sam on instinct, and fuck—so many people were looking, they could all probably tell—but Sam was still yours today, so weirdly, it was fine for them to see. Just this once, everyone could see that you loved him.

God, your chest ached.

“Sam,” Rufus spoke. He enunciated each word, pushing them out with emphasis like he was playing matchmaker instead of The Newlywed Game.“...When did _____ know you were the one for her?”

Arms stiff with nerves, Sam turned his board over. After a terrified, clammy beat, Sam explained, “I-I take care of her every time she’s sick. She’s a big baby and insists on toughing through it, so I help her be less stubborn.” Sam’s gaze danced toward yours, then back to his lap. “But I think she really likes it when I do.”

His shyness wasn’t helped by the audience’s big, sweeping aww at his answer. Sam shrunk into his seat, clicking and unclicking the head of his marker, while you stared at him with the weirdest feeling stirring inside you. It pulled and pushed at your reason. Sitting there, you were swamped with the sensory memories of those days: how hard it was to live in your own ill skin, how good Sam’s touch felt. If you closed your eyes you swore you could feel Sam’s cool hand checking your temperature or his presence in the room, adjusting your blankets and researching beside you. Those were the days when you loved your pine box and the tree it was made from.

“____?” Rufus did everything short of winking at you when he asked, “When did you know Sam was the one?”

You swallowed. The lights fluttered, spinning over you in disco-ball shards. The audience inched forward, every ear perked for your answer.

“...Um, he’s right. Sam always goes out of his way to take care of me when I’m sick,” you managed, barely keeping the melancholy grin from your face. “Even if he gets super sick too every time he does it.”

Another point. The crowd exploded into claps again, and Sam spun toward you, gleaming with competitive delight. His usual magic settled over you; the combustive mass of people faded to a distant rumble and all that existed was Sam, looking at you as you looked at him. You always thought of the scene in West Side Story where Maria and Tony see each other for the first time. It’s love at first sight across the dance floor, everything but their bodies blurring on the film, all the people who would judge them fading into white noise… It was that exact same feeling with Sam, this hyper-focus that fuzzed out all else. He was a big dimply smile and shaky hands in a circle of silver light. He’s beautiful. The game went on, but you couldn’t keep your eyes or your thoughts away from him.

You wondered, again, what way he was looking at all this. Was he just thinking of a sweet memory you shared, or was it emotional to him for different reasons?

There was one time when you’d been hit with such a bad flu that you couldn’t get a full breath in. Sam had laid in bed with you all day, roaming his palm in circles across your back and letting you sneak closer and closer to him. You woke up with imprints of his sweatpants’ waistband on your cheek, but it was worth it to have Sam doting on you. He was the victim of Dean’s doting so often that the opportunity to care for someone else envigorated him. Beneath the gloss of your sickness, you remembered Sam kissing your head and running the tips of his fingers down your arms, cooing in a soft rasp, You feelin’ better? Is there anything I can do for you, honey?

Rufus went through more cards. You answered more questions. Regina and Keith tried to keep up, they did, but every time you glanced over at Sam he was already giving you his mean little grin. They stood no chance. You could win anything with Sam smirking at you like that.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re being lead off the stage on leaden feet, handed a coupon, given an envelope full of glitter and cash, and that’s that. Someone tied a heart balloon around your wrist and there’s even more confetti in Sam’s hair than before. Rufus disappears to lose his suit in a dumpster somewhere, and you’re too overwhelmed to think about grabbing him and following Bobby’s instructions—haul ass. The audience is clogging up the exits, so you’re forced to just stand there with Sam and keep your mind from seeping out of your ears. For too long you both just look at the envelope, grinning to yourselves when you want to be grinning at each other.

“You really pay attention when I talk, huh,” Sam scratched his jaw.

“Yeah,” you bit your tongue. “It’s kind of what friends do, Sam.”

He blinked long and slowly at you, melting into the floor a bit. The shock and embarrassment of going onstage had given him a pretty intense blush you’d missed. Before Sam could reply, Rufus came clattering out from behind the stage, replacing his previous eyesore with his concessions uniform.

You didn’t double-guess if this new outfit was better than the last, and blurted, exasperated: “Now what the hell was all that? How did you even—?”

Rufus raised a hand for silence. He swept right past you and Sam, but his voice clung with a clear and tangible threat.

“Don’t,” he said, “ask.”

Sam jogged to catch up, only to jolt to a stop, sensing something crucial was missing. After checking that all of his limbs were attached, it dawned on him that he was missing a precious one—Sam spun around in a stiff circle to give you his hand. Rufus was already leaving you in his dust, so you didn’t waste a single second collecting Sam’s clammy fingers. Together, you did an awkward gallop to catch up.

“Sorry, man, but I have to,” Sam guffawed. “The suit? The, the going on stage part? How did you get from concessions to—to that?”

“We got bigger things to worry about, kid,” Rufus said, embarrassed. “So pull your—”

A dark-haired woman slithered between you, almost breaking you and Sam away from Rufus, who was still blubbering his way out of an explanation.

Oh, no way in hell. You were going to get it out of him, one way or another. Maybe it would focus Dean’s teasing-laser off you and Sam long enough for you to breathe, or at least distribute it better. Just thinking about Dean being in the crowd during your little excursion gave you hot flashes. If you were determined to share Rufus’ story with everyone you knew (excluding your own hand in everything, of course), then Dean would be plastering it up on billboards. Hey, _____, remember that time you and Sam were on a couples gameshow, and were such huge dweebs about each other that you won?

Your chest was starting to feel prickly. Really prickly. It was just more strange sensory information to add to your on-stage overload, so you didn’t think much of it at first, until the internal burning became external.

“Ow,” you complained, rubbing at your chest. “Hold on—ow! Like really ow!”

Detaching yourself from Sam, you took your amulet by the chord and split it with one mean pull. And good thing, too, since the second you did it really started pouring on the heat. The little teal rock steamed long enough for Sam to turn around and see it fizz like a bath bomb, then the little face carved into the stone sloped to one side and melted into a smoking puddle on the deck. You jumped to avoid dripping lava on your sandals. Holy shit. It actually worked!

“We found one!” You realized.

“Where?!” Sam said, and as one you started whipping around in circles, searching for the mermaid that’d turned your necklace to dust.

There was still some charred remains climbing up the chord, so you swung it around, an old prospector with his lantern. For an instant the crowd was one bubbling, uninterrupted slew of people, then further down the deck you saw it: a breakage. Someone was elbowing through.

Sparking power spurred to life in your chest. It was the dark-haired woman who’d brushed your arm stalking past. The setting sun played strangely across her layered hair, glinting like scales.

“There,” you pointed her out to your fellow hunters, “that’s her. I’m sure of it.”

She dared to glance back to see if she was being pursued. Without a thought you palmed the thin, bone-cold shape of the sharktooth dagger flush to your thigh beneath your jean shorts. Sam’s barrel chest went still with the breath he was holding. The human instinct to chase and outlast wasn’t natural to you or him, even when hunting as long as you had, but neither of you could deny it when it reared its head to run.

Maybe no one had been pursuing the woman before, but they certainly were now.

By the time you and Sam smuggled yourselves back to your cabin, the mermaid blood was starting to congeal stiffly over your clothes. The cool dusk air drying the body-warm blood on your throat made your skin crawl. You knew better than to scratch at it, but Sam sensed you squirming as he fought to get your door open and, predictably, offered you the first shower. Only Sam could still be a gentleman with blood crusting in his hair.

The memories of finishing off the mermaids tried to play through your mind while you showered, but the constant pound of your heart kept you in the present, eyes glued to the tile. If you found a thought, your mind lost sight of it soon. There was a word Dean had for this particular adrenaline high. Under the spell of hot, heady energy, you couldn’t really remember it, but you knew it was something you scolded yourself for enjoying. It was better this way. Instead of fixating on Sam’s weird reactions to you today, you just got a flashing slideshow of images from the hunt without commentary. The mental snapshot of him on stage, beaming in a silver circle of confetti and applause, was already drying in permanent ink on your psyche. He was so beautiful. It was just lame, how much he mystified you.

After everything was over—chasing the mermaid to the nest, ambushing the others there, getting Bobby and Dean out—Rufus figured the best place to dump the bodies was overboard. It’d taken a lot longer than you would’ve liked, but eventually, all three mermaids dissolved into the sea foam they were made from. Bobby, Rufus, and Dean crept off to clean up. That left you and Sam. You found him by the ship’s railing with his head bent, mumbling something to himself or the water or the sky, and even if you could be caught any second, you hovered by to ask him what he was whispering.

Sam fidgetted with his clasped hands. “It’s um, an Atlantean funeral prayer. Cas gave it to me, y’know, and I just…” he didn’t look at you. “They were just eating. They didn’t know any better. I thought it would…”

“...make things better?” You offered.

Sam had shrugged. He’d settled his wrists on the railing, bent up with bitter remorse. “I dunno. Maybe only better for me.”

You’d tried to summon something wise to say, but Sam always took the words out of you. Instead, you’d fumbled to warm your palm over his clasped hands, and tried to comfort him with the little sense you had. “There’s no guilt-free way to do this job, babe,” you murmured, “But I think some mothers out there are going to be happy their sons are alive, and some kids aren’t gonna have to grow up without their dads.”

“Their shitty, cheating dads,” Sam had muttered, and you’d snorted even if it was probably inappropriate.

“...It crossed my mind once or twice,” you’d admitted to him. “I mean. Maybe these guys are getting their just desserts, you know? Cheating on the wives they promised to love until death. Nobody deserves to die over that, but… I’d be pissed enough to let a mermaid eat my husband if he cheated on me, yeah.”

Sam had sighed through his nose, and a humorless smile twitched on his face. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He paused, realizing the context he’d forgotten. “Y’know. Since I’m your husband n’ all.”

There was no way for you to respond to that without bursting at the seams, so you just sat there, feeling Sam’s hands under your own and gazing up at him. Blood was still under your fingernails and slathered across your clothes and faces. Some of it had smeared on Sam’s wedding ring, since he’d been twisting it obsessively all day.

You summoned your courage. “How does the prayer go, Sam?”

He’d softened all over, and though he wasn’t really your husband, and neither of you had an excuse to be touching each other anymore, Sam had wiggled his hand out from under yours and used it to bring you close to him like he always did.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. The pronunciation’s easy. It goes like this…”

After a bit of fumbling and a lot of repeating, since you were no Sam when it came to ancient languages, you said it with him over the still-churning ocean. The waves were beyond loud and the two of you were whispering, so you could hardly hear each other. But at least Sam would know that the guilt was shared. You’d avenged the deaths of several people and prevented who knows how many more: in your book, that was a win.

This replayed in your mind without sound, just two figures over a peach sunset squinting at the reflection off the sea. What other way was there to look at it? When were you going to stop playing your part? Now, or when the ship docked? You watched the soap circle around the shower drain, your whole body roaring with fascination and excitement and liking. You waited until you felt as clean as you looked to finish, buzzing into a set of casual clothes, then whizzing out into the main space of your cabin with Sam.

Without opening the door you could tell Dean was visiting, his warm, barking laugh filling your cabin and chasing Sam around the room. He changed targets when the door opened. “Hey, pretty girl. Sorry, I mean,” his clever smile slid to Sam, “Mrs. Patton. Frog and Toad wanted to get some celebratory booze, and I want to get my hands on the shot special they have. You up for it?”

Hmm. You bunched your mouth to one side in thought. Drinks did sound good, especially after a successful hunt, but… “Sam, what are you thinking?”

He had done the chore of disposing of your bloody clothes (bye, sexy swim trunks), and had since wedged himself into the bathroom to start his deserved shower. Hints of red, like washed-away lipstick, dusted his face and exposed chest. If Sam got an adrenaline high from hunting it was already gone, leaving him sluggish and—awkward? He seemed shy. That was probably because Dean’s suggestive notions about the two of you were hanging like a cloud over the room still. Maybe. Neither of you had taken your wedding bands off yet, and you didn’t want to be the first.

“Shower,” he rasped, voice slathered with sleep. “Then I think I’m gonna crash. Maybe stay up and read. You two go ahead and have fun, though.”

Dean smirked. “You sure, Sammy? You trust me with your girl like that?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Oh, that hasn’t gotten old yet.”

He shut the door with his foot, leaving you and Dean to take what you wanted from that reaction. Though you had been itching to get your party on for the whole trip, you knew yourself, and you knew all you’d think about was Sam sleeping away a potential good time. Plus, those thoughts mixed with some alcohol? You refused to end this trip drunkenly sobbing over Sam in his brother’s arms.

Dean knew you just as well, because a beat after the door shut, he guessed: “You gonna stay with him?”

“Yup,” you sighed. “I begged him all day to let himself have a little fun, but, well. It’s Sam. I’m gonna give it one more shot.”

Dean clapped you on the shoulder and puffed up with a big, wistful sigh. “Even the best of us can’t pull the stick out of his ass, sometimes. But if anybody can do it,” he nudged your arm with his fist, “s’ you.”

You followed his open arm into a goodnight hug, sliding your palms under his jacket and worming in as close as he’d let you. Dean insisted on being the tallest in the hug regardless of who he was embracing, so you’re smushed comfortably in his arms for a second before he lets you go.

“Run off and enjoy your vacation,” you murmured into his shoulder. “Please.”

“Somebody’s got to. I’ll knock some shots back in your honor. And hey—”

Dean paused in the half-open door, eyes glittering slyly. He wiggled a finger at the bathroom. “Go get em’, tiger.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone for the first time in too long. Dean’s whistling faded down the hall, Sam’s shower was on full blast, and then there was you, simmering in the warm air of your cabin. The room smelled like fresh laundry and Sam. You waddled over to the bed and collapsed on it stomach-first, sinking into one of the few places you’d shared with Sam and only Sam. You would miss that. One of his abandoned shirts taunted you from the foot of the bed, but you weren’t Sam’s girlfriend or his wife, so you didn’t have the luxury of wearing his clothes or holding his hand. Not anymore. Maybe you’ll have to keep your cover until you port, but there’s still no hunt to perform for. Just strangers and each other. Dean will push and push and push with his go get em’, tigers’, but you don’t think you’ll ever have the strength to tell Sam how you feel.

Five military-efficient minutes later, you hear the door creak open behind you. Sam makes a small noise when he notices you melted on the bed. “Thought you were going with Dean?”

He sounded scolding, but you saw the guarded, pleasant surprise hidden beneath his bangs.

You hide your sly smile behind your phone. This vacation had been a treat for so many reasons, but seeing Sam in comfortable, impractical clothes was really high on your list. Sam didn’t own snuggly pajama pants or sleep shorts, so you’d guess he was half-hiding in the bathroom because he was only in boxers and his tee. That had been okay a night ago, but apparently the unspoken allowance for intimacy in the air had changed for Sam. It’s okay, you wanted to say. Please, please, it’s okay. You wanted to coax him closer. You wanted everything from today to remain as it was, to have everything from today all the time—to be Sam’s girlfriend. Now that you’d had your taste of the free trial…

“They’re just gonna sit around and tell boring old man stories,” you pouted.

Sam drummed his fingers on the door, building his way up to saying something. Instead: “...But you love old man stories.”

Okay, sure, Bobby’s retelling of the first werewolf he’d ever hunted was sick as fuck, regardless of how many times you heard it, but that wasn’t the point. Sam caring to remember this about you wasn’t the point either. Before you could find it, Sam apparently figured out what he wanted to say.

“Honey,” Sam blurted. He slammed the breaks, immediately embarrassed by the slip, and only started talking again once he’d busied himself by the sink doing nothing. “You’ve been talking about the weird slushy combo drinks they make all day—so go try one. I won’t be mad at you for having fun.”

The idea alone made you scoff. You’d sat up to talk with him, and chose this moment to dramatically throw yourself backward onto the mattress. “We got two whole days til’ we leave. I can drink then.”

“So can I.”

“Sammy, come on,” you groaned, and this asshole had the stones to laugh at you. It was a deep, warm sound that made your ears tingle. “I find it hard to believe you will. So, what is it then? You sick of me or something?”

His laugh faded into a softer, more buttery sound. Sam sighed. “...No. I think you’re the only person I’m not sick of, lately.”

Sam continued to fuss around in the bathroom out of sight, and with nothing else to do you closed your eyes and soaked in the ambiance of it, the sound of him in your space, something tinking against the sink and bottles brushing together in the other room. A humid wave of what you could only describe as hot guy steam flushed out of the open door. It filled your every breath with Sam’s body wash and shampoo, to the point where you almost wanted to turn over and stuff your face in the pillow to escape it. Too much of a good thing. Way too much. You turned onto your side and away from him, forgetting how to breathe.

“Sam, you’re not some obligation to me,” you scoffed, but it came out in a laugh. “I stayed back because I want to spend time with you. And maybe—”

The carpet scuffed; Sam was leaning into the doorframe, now. His voice was low with humor. “Give it one more shot at pulling the stick out of my ass?”

Your first instinct was to swipe up the nearest pillow and throw it at him, which you did. Sam barked a laugh. That little jerk, of course he would eavesdrop. When you swung around to scold him, he was grinning hard enough to take the wind out of your sails. Dimples. Too much of a good thing.

“Those were Dean’s words, not mine.” You cooly corrected. “But yeah. I want you to enjoy yourself, that’s all.”

“This isn’t a vacation.” Sam took his first step away from the bathroom to scoop up your pillow. “Maybe the mermaids we know about are dead, but there could be more. There could still be work to do. I want to read those accounts for that Spanish trade ship I didn’t get to, maybe learn more about how mermaids were pushed to extinction in the first place…”

You crossed your arms.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, and clarified, “Okay. The hunt may be over, but we’re still on hunting grounds. I don’t mind being the one who hangs back to be thorough.”

“Sam.”

He wrapped his arms around the pillow. “Yeah.”

You clasped your hands together in full business-woman mode. “Remind me again what every single account we read told us about mermaid’s traveling habits?”

It was a damn miracle you’d never been in a classroom with cute, geeky high school Sam, because he appears in front of you for just an instant to answer grudgingly: “...They never hunt alone.”

“Exactly,” you reasoned. “So why would we find a stray one away from the pack? We got em’ all, Sam. Besides, if you really want to get to that stuff, I promise I’ll help you with it later. But… maybe we weren’t on vacation before, but we are now.”

Cute, geeky high school Sam was also a mathlete and an AP student, so you have a snowball’s chance in hell winning a debate against him. Still, you have to try. Sam doesn’t actually want to be cramped up in your room. It’s just his instinct to stay behind, to cover the fort like he did for his Dad and Dean when they left him alone for weeks on end. Though you love Sam at his busiest, you crave seeing him at his slowest. At Stanford. When he was with Jess. What does that Sam—the normal, domestic Sam who brushes his teeth beside you and forgets to make his

bed—look like? Where was that little kid who waited at the door of your plastic kitchen for you?

“So,” you beam, “how do you want to spend it?”

After an eternity of intense thinking, Sam sums up his thoughts. “Sleeping.”

That’s it. You give him your most convincing frown of disappointment, then gesture for him forward to your bedside. Sam shuffles closer like it’s a judge’s bench.

You’re just as fast as Sam is, so by the time you’ve pinched another pillow by its corners and whapped him with it, your shot connects with a pillow-shield instead of his dumb smiling face. Instantly, you’re up on your knees. He expects your pillow’s left hook too, so you feint at the last second and bounce a satisfying blow off Sam’s middle. Your victim cowers behind his pillow, ducking low to make himself a smaller target.

“That’s lame!” You accuse, cackling. “You’re on the only cruise you might ever enjoy in your life and you want to sleep through it?!”

The cabin’s pillows are ultra-soft, but of course, Sam, your gentlemen, pulls his punches. He takes advantage of how exposed you are winding up for your pillow’s next hit and baps you in the side. “Yeah! What about it?”

His attempts to be gentle only incur your wrath. What? You’re too much of a pretty princess to handle a full-charge Sam Winchester pillow fight? No way in hell. Your next one is for Sam’s stupid pretty face, which earns a mouthful of pillow for daring to go easy on you of all people. He ducks, giggling, with his still-wet hair in his eyes, shadowing them into shining slits of black. In the whirlwind of ducking and blocking and swinging, you know you get a few more deserved hits in. The face of your pillow is damp from Sam’s shower hair and your legs are aching, trying to stay upright.

“You can sleep at home, grandpa! When do we ever finish hunts ahead of schedule?” Since you’re both being middle schoolers at the moment, you peer-pressure him with chanting. “Do fun stuff! Do fun stuff! Do fun stchuf—”

Sam learns his lesson. You don’t have as much mobility kneeling on the mattress, and it is an obvious weakness you’ve been praying Sam exploits. Spitting out feathers, Sam reels back his pillow with two hands—and boom, you’re knocked sideways and on your back before you can finish.

The second there’s air in your lungs again you’re opening your mouth to chant more, but it’s quickly impossible. You’re laughing so hard your chest feels light, pampered by all those old-new bubbly Sam feelings, then fighting for your life with your pillow to keep Sam at bay. Okay. He’d definitely been going easy on you before. It’s even harder to return hits when you’re on your back, so you’re basically defenseless when he clambers up onto the mattress and bops you right over the head. Sam’s laughter fills your ears and mouth and nose like shower steam. It’s humid and perfect in ways that make your heart ache. You yelp his name when Sam disarms you, so even when you get his pillow off your face you’re utterly weaponless. Well. You’re also twelve, so not totally weaponless—you scramble up a hand to pull Sam’s hair but fuck, he’s smart, because through all the giggling and panting he seizes your wrist and slams it over your head. A hot flash of oh I think I like that a little too much captures your whole body, then Sam’s mercilessly tickling under your arm.

A squeal shocks out of you. “Sam!”

You fight. You honestly do. But Sam’s a lot bigger than you, he’s making you shriek and laugh so hard your sides split, and even if you could survive all that, he also leans down and curses hot and close to your ear, “God, you’re annoying.”

Shit. That’s all your mind can putter out before you’re fighting again. You were not raised to be a fair player, so you buck, thrash, wheeze, and feel up his side to try and tickle Sam too—but he’s already set his mind to defeating you. He doesn’t even flinch. Sam keeps you pinned with the arm he’s tickling you with, his skin soft post-wash, and every attempt to tickle him back is like playing piano on a brick wall. Some droplets from his hair get on your shirt. Fuck, he’s the best.

He doesn’t stop until raw tears of mirth are rolling down your face and you’re offering up your firstborn. The millisecond Sam’s off you, you’re already rolling away, curling up, and clapping both hands in your under-arms to protect yourself from the fucking tickle-monster you apparently live with. Jesus Christ. You’re still giggling to yourself between labored breaths a minute later, when Sam also starts to cool down.

“Motherfucker,” you pant.

Sam rolls onto his back, legs hanging off the edge of the bed. His barrel chest rises and falls so hard with his pants that the bed dips each time. “S’ what you get, bein’ so stubborn,” he rasps.

“M’ not done being stubborn,” you insist. “C’mon, Sam, any—anything. Drinking’s just one option. It’s not too late for us to get dinner, or go on a walk… The arcade’s open too. If it’s what you really, really want, I’ll even stay up here and read with you. But you have to pick something.”

Sam’s breath gradually slowed. You felt your neck prickle as he gazed at you, but no matter how much you thought you knew about him, you couldn’t guess what he was thinking.

“...Please, Sam.”

“If I decide something,” he swallowed, “will you get off my case?”

Dripping with dishonesty, you promised, “Sure.”

Sam rolled to look at you. Taking that as your cue to do the same, you turned back, wary of his fiendish hands, and felt lava-hot butterflies pour into your stomach the second you settled. Your pillow-turned-tickle fight had ruffled his hair around his face. All the action had flushed Sam cheeks to nose, too, making him glow by the lamplight. His cheek was smushed into the sheets. He looked—at home, but not how he did when he was sitting in the Impala or under bar lights with you and Dean. Relaxed. This was the Sam you’d been chasing.

He gave you a dry, playful look.

“The pool,” he finally said.

“You wanna swim?” You asked, doubtful. There was probably a Sam-loophole in this somehow.

“We walked around them all day but never went in,” he shrugged. After another thoughtful, hanging pause, the corner of Sam’s mouth slanted down, “...But, y’know, it’s so late. It’s probably closed. I guess we’ll just have to stay here.”

And there it was. Nope. He was not getting out of this. Just thinking about it put you in the mood to swim, and the only pools you saw on the road were the tiny shitty motel ones. If you were lucky they had one, that is. Without breaking the eye contact you were already chained to, you dragged over the shirt Sam had left on the bed behind you, rifled around in the fabric, and in one slow and simple pull presented his roll of lock-picks to him.

Sam didn’t even pause. “No.”

“Yes.” You smirked. “What? Afraid we’ll get caught breaking in?”

“Yes! And then they’ll check our room and find all our weapons!”

“That’s half the fun of it, babe.”

Again, Sam flopped onto his back, pouting. “Really. Cause’ when my dad caught us sneaking out as kids, that is not what you told me—y’know, after we were allowed to talk to each other again a month later.”

There was a sliver of heat in his voice, but that was about it. Sam’s mouth snapped shut the moment he finished talking, then his lips pressed together, unconvinced by even himself. The same eternal story was written all over him: you offering to do something risky yet fun, Sam pushing, you pushing back, then Sam giving, because underneath all that squareness was a very wild circle. The rebellious, cute, geeky high school kid in Sam was failing to talk him out of it.

You crept a hand between your bodies to poke Sam in the arm. “If you’re that worried about it, we can stash our stuff somewhere else before we go. How does that sound?”

Sam bit his tongue. “My swim trunks got blood on them. I’ve got nothing to wear.”

“What? You’ve never swam in your underwear before? What are you, the pope?”

He was loosening, and smiling too. Those pretty palleted eyes gave you a bracing look, “If we get caught…”

Excitement whirled up in your chest. “It’s all on me. I’ll tell em’ I coerced you with blackmail.”

Just to prove the merit of your seriousness, you initiated an ancient, unbreakable vow and extended your most righteous pinkie to Sam. For a million different reasons, Sam’s effect on you had fucktoupled in the last two days. Just having his eyes flicker over your face in thought made your arms sizzle with goosebumps. A little furrow pressed between his brows. You wondered helplessly if Sam had ever hyper-focused on you this way, but seriously doubted it.

Sam finally hooked pinkies with you.

“Hell yeah,” you hissed.

With his pinkie still attached to yours, Sam jabbed at you with an accusing finger. “I still don’t like this,” he said, vibrating with rebellion.

So many of your hunter instincts were piloted to hold, to pull closer, to caress today, so without thinking about it you brought the back of Sam’s hand up to your mouth. The second you kissed it your whole body shriveled up with raw mortification, so you squeaked out, “Get your shoes on.”

You disappeared in a puff of smoke to grab yours, leaving Sam sinking into the marshmallow bed. Hot all over, he turned his wedding band with his thumb, hand flat to his chest…

Sam gripes the whole way there, because of course he does. You’re used to this, so it becomes a part of the simple flow of the conversation as you pack your weapons, stash your weapons, then sneak away to break and enter; Sam being his straight-arrow self and you teasing him for it. Thinking of this as a side-quest for your hunt puts him in the zone pretty quick though, and soon you’re approaching the castle-esque main gates to the pool deck on dead silent feet.

Tonight is hotter than the last, but darker, giving you and Sam plenty of shadows to hide in. Though you’re missing moody thunderstorms, the sea wind is present and romantic, kissing up your legs and brushing under your shirts. The moon is a blotch of yellow paint blended out on a black-blue sky. The friendly, adventurous vibe you’d been aiming for goes sailing over the ship’s railing pretty much the second you leave your room. Somewhere along the walk you notice the tree-ring callouses on the meat of Sam’s palm, and you notice because it’s slipped against your own. You don’t think it was you who took Sam’s hand but you can’t say it was him for sure. Regardless, neither of you pull away. Just in case someone wonders what these two strangers are to each other.

Ironically, the most illegal parts of the adventure are the routine ones. You and Sam picked locks and cut alarms after every Tuesday dinner. The real fun is in your first view of the S.S Harlequin’s olympic swimming pool, waterslides, and hot tubs, which are laid out for your taking the second Sam unlatches the gate. He holds it open for you to squeeze through first. The wild rush of doing something you shouldn’t doesn’t hit you until Sam’s through too, and it’s just you and him in half a football field’s worth of dark cruise ship waterpark.

Sam pauses. No security comes changing out of any crannies. No lights or alarms scream to life. It’s just you and him with the ship’s pool as your oyster. Neither of you had been sure you’d get this far.

You turn to each other at the same time, grinning ear-to-renegade-ear. There’s nothing better than being a bad influence on him. Considering the giddy, conspiratory squeeze Sam gives your hand, you know he loves being influenced badly.

“What do we do now?” Sam whispers, alive with frenetic energy.

You nudge your shoulder with his, gleaming. “I guess we swim.”

Together, you crept toward the middle of the main pool. A ladder dropped two steps into completely black water, and considering there was so much of it, you were a little intimidated. Ten feet was a lot deeper than it seemed—and this was only five. But showing that shit around the boys you’d grown up with would only end with Dean shoving you in, so you might as well do it yourself. Besides, there was a strange beauty in it. The only light on this portion of the ship was star and moonlight off the sea and pools. All the water, on the horizon and on the ship, breathed in the same direction. It was mystifying, like it was all connected regardless of distance.

Finding Sam with your hands, you tease, “Don’t worry. I won’t let any of the mermaids swimming around in there getcha, Sammy.”

Sam snorts. His voice, even at its softest, echoes across the concrete. “My hero.”

Like always, Sam continues to keep you on your toes. You figured with his hesitance that you’d be forced to make the first move, but when you turn Sam is prying off his shirt and toeing off his sandals to head into the water first. You’re impressed. Proud, even. This is also more shirtless Sam in one day than you’ve had in your whole life, so your brain shuts down for a full three seconds watching the muscle in his back twist and roll under his skin as he shirks off his shorts. Then Sam’s just… climbing into the water. Because when he’s not being shy for your enjoyment, he hunts and kills monsters with his time. Yeah.

“Water’s not bad,” he whispers, and sinks up to his shoulders in the cool black water. His voice is the only sound for half a mile, so it fills your ears like the sound of your heartbeat.

Sam twists to look at you, or at least his silhouette does, the water rippling around him in silver discs. There’s a brief flash of white which you think is Sam’s smug, shivering grin. Well… you can’t be shown up by lawboy here. You chose to kick off your shoes first, then slide off your vacationing shorts. It’s once you get your shirt over your head that you really feel like a hot girl in a horror movie, left only in your underwear. Being a hunter, you identified most with the girls who made it out of those movies alive—but dying near-naked in a pool while making out with Sam sounded fuckin’ superb. Maybe those girls had the right idea.

You scanned the walkways of the pool. Empty. Okay, fuck it.

Taking a couple steps back, you did the math. Then, at full tilt, you veered for the edge of the pool and leaped clear over Sam, your shadow flashing over the water. You only heard the front half of your sick-ass cannonball, instead falling into a void of roaring bubbles tickling up from your legs. You bobbed slowly to the top, just in case you’d woken up the whole neighborhood.

Sam was shushing you and wincing the second you came up.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” you laughed, spitting out chlorine. “B-beat that, Winchester.”

“I'm gonna kill you if you get us caught, I swear,” Sam hushed. You got a picture-perfect mental flash of kid Sam in a hotel pool somewhere, shyly bunched up in the pool’s corner. So he didn’t have to speak above a whisper, he floated into your bubble and grumbled, “Ass.”

You just giggled at him. “Are you having fun, though?”

Sam sinks into the water up to his nose and refuses to answer because, fuck yeah, this is way better than pouring over research sites for hours. You can hear it in his voice how delighted Sam is. You loved being on the road with the boys and you loved Sam’s brother, but… It’d been too damn long since you’d snuck out together, and apparently, you’d both been feeling it. Point for team _____.

Of course, Sam is cursed with being-handsome-all-the-time disease, so he can’t even be soggy in a pool without making your heart skip beats. Water beads on his shoulders and neck like silver freckles. The wet ends of his hair shine and flare out all cute. He’s not as waterlogged as you, though. This needs to be rectified.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Yea—”

You splash him in the face. The urge to rough-house bursts out of the stable he’d left it in, so Sam is already slicing back at you before the water you’d pushed even settles. You shriek, since you’re barely adjusted to the cold, and Sam fucking shushes you again right before he arcs a second wave your way. God. Now you have to kill him. His hair’s plastered to his forehead and there are all these droplets rolling down his face, because Sam is even gorgeous choking on pool water. You see your chance to take your tickle revenge and leap for it—landing on Sam’s back, which is sun-warm and slippery. It’s just enough leverage to tip Sam face-first into the water, single-handedly creating a geiser in the center of the pool. And boy is Sam pissed and hot when he surfaces.

You try to scramble back, giggling out of your mind at the result of your work: Sam, a huge black shape blocking out the moon, soaked head-to-toe and laughing like a supervillain.

“Oh, that’s it,” he snarls, and you’re not two steps away when Sam goes in for the kill.

Two huge arms haul you clear into the air around the waist, pulling even your tip-toes out of the water. You kick and flail and stifle your squeals, sliding a bit against his chest, but Sam’s hold is determined. Already you’re both laughing just like before, sides split and ribs aching. You feel his deep belly laugh seep into the bare flesh of your back.

“Sam, Sam, no no no don’t oh shit Samue—”

You’re tossed as far as Sam can manage, so, far, and the clapdown is just as explosive as before. If all the splashing water doesn’t rat you out, then the noisy, flirty laughter definitely will. Cause, wow. Sam hasn’t been this touchy with you in… well, ever. The heat in you face feels like it could boil the entire pool. You came up coughing, snickering, and generally cursing his name.

You tried to say something tough, to goad him to get you in his arms like that again, but you’re laughing too hard to breathe. Sam stops his barrage to join in with you, and it’s easily the purest thing you’ve ever shared with another hunter before. Just losing your minds for a full minute because you’re having so much fun. You don’t think you’ve even heard Sam wheeze like that before. You’re unsure if you could even picture it this morning.

The second your shared assault of giggles starts to break, you throw all you’ve got at him, slicing huge swaths of water at Sam until the surface around you is foamy and popping. The second you’re close enough to grab Sam plucks you out of the water again, unable to resist the allowance of your personal space he’s been given today. Two hands far too familiar with your waist and your back and your belly scoop you into bridal style. You cackle being hoisted up by Sam, and devour the happy little giggles seeping from his mouth to your ear where your face is suddenly flush to his neck. You’re drunk on it. None of this feels lucid.

Then you’re in Sam’s arms. Movie-style, his hands scooped under to press into the flesh of your thigh and bare arm. His hips cant up to support your weight, angling his top-half back for leverage and planting his feet. To support you. Cause’ he’s a damn gentleman. Sam is also ridiculously close. While you’re squeaking and scrambling for purchase, he turned his head in and you turned99 in yours, and oh my fuck he’s going to kiss you what the fuck—

It’s not a kiss. You panicked. Sam’s just adjusting, which is something people do when they suddenly decide to pick up other people. The rough pads of his fingers slip a bit trying to get a good hold on you, but when they do, Sam’s still losing it, so you can feel the rumble of it pressed against one whole side of your body. The water is black and full of a million little reflections. You have to be the only two people in the whole galaxy, since that’s what it always feels like with him.

“Plug your nose and then guess what color I’m thinking.”

“Oh god,” you groaned, amused, “not this fuckin’ game.”

Sam jostled you in warning. “Do it or I dunk you.”

The effect of sitting in his power-taut arms starts to take hold, making you stutter. “Th-that’s bullshit! You’re—you’re just gonna dunk me either way!”

“I won’t,” Sam chuckles, barely hiding his evil grin. “I promise.”

Seeing Sam’s muscle is one thing, but feeling it is bucket-loads more. In every way imaginable, he is nothing like the tadpole you used to push around the playground. Now when you push Sam, he pushes back with over two-hundred pounds of pure southern beef, knocking you out of orbit. The hand-holding and the sweet-talking you could handle… But Sam’s firm chest is flushed so close to yours that your skin sticks together, and his biceps are all surged up against you, solid and dizzying. The flat of your palm is cupped around the shivering nape of his neck. The life you lived rarely allowed for trust as sweet-tasting as this to survive, so it’s only half about Sam’s sexy muscles and the way the water beads into the seam of his lip.

“Oh, nuh-uh, you always pull this shit.” It’s hard not to feel a little inferior in the face, abs, arms and pecs of someone so built. You decide to level the playing field and utter near his face, “You know, m’ not stupid, Sammy. I know you only like to play this game cause’ you get to touch me—”

And you’re dunked. Sam drops your top half in the water long enough to stun, then you’re lurched back up, coughing and spitting into the warm night air until you can giggle again.

Sam’s still smiling, and you think that has to be a record. “Shut up and guess the damn color.”

“Bossy,” you mumbled. It’s too dark for Sam to notice you rolling your eyes, so it’s too dark for him to notice you sunbathing in his shadow too. The water is only just feeling lukewarm but Sam’s fingertips blaze inkprints on your skin.

Plugging your nose, you nasally guessed: “Black.”

As you’d expected, Sam dunked you. There was no way you were guessing right on the first try with him. When he pulled you up and you had your breath back, you blinked the stinging chlorine from your eyes and groaned. Cooly, Sam explained, “Black isn’t a color. It just absorbs all the light on the visible spectrum.”

Being a geek earns Sam another mighty splash to the face. You probably should’ve thought about who’s holding whom before retaliating, though, because Sam doesn’t hesitate to tantalize your reacquaintance with the water, jostling you like he’s gonna dunk you again. Naturally, you shriek and cling to him like a monkey. He can’t dunk you if you’re bodily glued cheek-to-cheek. But Sam can start cackling again, and he can even smush his nose into your hair as he does, cause’ this is a free country and he can drive you insane anytime he likes. Especially half-naked in a pool you’re not supposed to be in.

“Keep guessing,” Sam urged into your shoulder.

You plugged your nose again, only to dissolve into giggles. You honestly forgot to close your eyes and end up gazing up into his face, holding eye contact that neither of you allowed to fizzle out. Again, you guessed, “Light green.”

Sam dunked you for the third time. A hoarse tickle pushed at your throat from all the water you were coughing up (very sexy), but it, along with the chill of the pool and the ever-hovering risk factor, slipped easily from your mind.

It took you two more rounds to blurt, “You didn’t even pick a color, did you, you cheater?”

“No,” Sam confesses, a little too sweetly and gently for your racing heart to handle. It’s unfortunate how well his puppy eyes work on you. The worst part is that you can’t even be mad at him—you want this moment to last longer, too.

When Sam’s weight shifts in the water to set you back on your feet, you let him, leaving your enthusiasm behind in his arms. It’s unreasonable to expect Sam to cart you around forever. You remind yourself of this at least a dozen times in the next minute, the phantom feeling of Sam’s hot, rough palms squeezing you into him tingling sharp down your outer thigh. It’s such an extreme feeling that you swear the handprints are visible, like lipstick marks smeared where he touched.

Trying to hold in your disappointment, you shivered by yourself in the water for a bit, then pointed out, “You know… the water for the slides is still on.”

As one, you and Sam faced the waterslides. They weren’t much to write home about, but considering they were water slides in a water park on a water boat, you were kind of transfixed. Two stood over the deep end, one a straight shot down and the other its winding neighbor. Dean would probably want to hear about you hitting the waterslide—or, y’know, digging up the few rebellious bones Sam had in his body. Thinking about sharing any of this night with Sam’s brother put a pit in your stomach a hundred feet deep. It should’ve been fine, really, something for you to brag about, but too many possessive fevers were pounding through your body. Tonight’s Sam was your own.

The two of you shared a look. One blink, and you were racing him to the pool’s edge.

Your race against Sam ends the second he’s out of the water, since the clap of your feet on the cement could wake the whole ship and Sam’s too chicken to trip. Instead, you shushed and slapped each other’s hands on every stair to the top. Before you crept for the winding slide, the eerie, echoing court of pools waited below you. You could see over the gates from up here. Long navy shadows kissed the plowing ship, which glittered like a china platter of gold crumbs. Whiskey light lined the lounge floor a few decks above you. Cabin lights glowed in the dark too, almost close enough to reach the slide’s tower. The only sound under the roar of the sea is the trickle of the slide and the soft pad of Sam’s walk beside you.

“Together?” Sam pointed for the swirly one. His grin presses into his dimples, giddy.

“Sure,” you shrugged, and Sam gestured for you to get comfortable first. “But we’re gonna go flying off this thing if it’s both of us.”

“I think that’s the point.”

When you’re seated in the bowl of rushing water at the mouth of the slide, staring down your first arc, Sam wiggles in behind you. His legs line up with yours and you instantly burst out laughing, because you’re hunters shimmying onto a fucking waterslide. This is so outside the few pleasures you’re allowed in life that you feel out of your element. Then you’re utterly, totally in your element, or at least what you want your element to be, as you snuggle backward into your partner. Sam’s hands flounder. They’re unsure where to settle, so for the second time this night you just say fuck it and use him like a seatbelt. A soaking wet, muscly seatbelt. Shit. He wraps an arm around your belly and then you’re a bullet in a gun, shooting down the dark slide at lightspeed.

Your weight plus Sam’s tears you down the curves so fast that you brush up against death a few times on the way, only to narrowly survive crashing into the deep-end ass-first. Somewhere between takeoff and landing you lose Sam in the water. The world quiets. Your crazed whooping and Sam’s hearty laughter cuts off. You sink with your momentum, and three seconds in you start to understand just how deep ten feet feels—bottomless. The dim star and boat lights only push through the first few inches of the water, so being fully submerged is no different from being in the undeveloped ends of space. A cold and endless black void. An illogical fear starts to twist its way between your ribs as you realize that you’re unsure which way is up, how far you’ve sunk, and where your own limbs are. You twist up—the way you hope is up—and—

Warm, familiar hands find yours. They don’t just scoop yours up, but close around your wrists and draw you to the surface. You’ve thought non-stop about Sam’s hands, but the truth is that you’ve been touching him all over, too. His hair, his knees, his neck, his back. Because for whatever reason Sam is okay with that all of a sudden, and you don’t know when that privilege will be revoked. That stupid hope gnaws at you again. Sam has to have a reason for all this, and there’s no way it’s the one you’re thinking. Wanting. He hasn’t had a girlfriend in years—maybe the couple stuff just made him miss it? Sam gets touch-starved too, and it’s not like John and Dean raised him to seek that out in healthy ways. It’s possible he would just get cozy with the first person who let him in. Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?

The swarm of sudden and rotted feelings winded you more than you’d thought, so when Sam pulls you up, his hands stay where they are.

Breathless and amused, Sam asked, “You okay?”

“That slide is not nearly as gentle as it looks,” you joked.

You must’ve looked like you were having trouble not-sinking even with Sam tethered to you, because he steps in further with a gentle, “Here…”

Those hands, those maddening fuckin’ hands cup under your elbows, then smooth under your arms, all on the route to support you around the back. You’re hoisted up so you’re comfortably slung against his chest. Sam sweeps an arm out to keep you both afloat, but otherwise lazes there. Not one molecule in your body gives a shit about resisting. Logically, you should be stepping back from all this and not smushing your face into his neck, but you’re so tired of examining and re-examining and yearning. You want to be angry, but nothing could convince you that Sam was doing any of this for a bad reason. Constantly, he put your feelings above his own. Sam put your feelings on a damn pedestal and knelt before it every day. There had to be a reason for the… the touching, and the… flirting… and it wouldn’t involve your unrelenting urge to convince yourself that Sam has feelings for you.

(Your face is so hot with just his palm resting on your back that you worry Sam’s shoulder will be cooked).

Sam gives a sideways look at the slide, which you now know is the kind with seams that break your back on the way down. “Yeah. My ass hurts.”

“Lucky. My whole body hurts,” you snorted.

After a long pause, Sam bit his lip. “Kinda want to do it again.”

You chuckled a bit, but more than anything you just wanted to stay there, sinking deeper into him. “Okay,” you sighed, “in a minute.”

You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this. Every single time, the same answer would come back to punch you in the teeth. Going into this hunt, you’d known some lines would be blurred, and more importantly, you’d known you’d be the one to see them without your most realistic lenses on. You were a hunter: naturally, you picked up and analyzed these types of things. It always came back to this. Since childhood, it’d always come back to this.

Maybe Sam did feel the same way.

…Fuck, it was so middle school.

Your first instinct is usually a strong no. But now, with your legs mingling with his in the water, with Sam’s fingers stroking your back, your no weakens. Significantly. Every time you circled back to the idea you just ended up hurting your own feelings. Going in this time, it’s only going to be worse. Sam has been nothing but romantic for the last two days. You’re pretty cute too, when you’re flustered. Or, I’ll be the best fake husband you’ve ever had. Then there was… him trusting you with his mother’s wedding ring, for starters, on top of the sunscreen request. You do give good backrubs, Sam had said. Sneaking off with you. Sharing a bed with you. Holding hands with you. Knowing all the little details you forgot about yourself, because that’s just what friends did. Almost skinny-dipping with you. Rough-housing with you. Racing at every chance to touch you. Whatever the fuck this was, with you. The odds were starting to stack.

You thought. How much of that would Dean, your usual frame of reference, do for you? Say to you? You tried to picture hanging off Dean the way you were clinging to his brother now, and of course, his adage floated back into your head. You’d be way more comfortable strutting around as Sam’s girl, wouldn’t you? It was all technically possible with Dean... but none of the pieces were neat. You were Sam’s girl. You were sure you always would be, pathetic as it all was.

…When it’s over, at least he was happy tonight.

“My poor wife must be so exhausted,” Sam coos, fucking with you. But it sounds a bit like he means it. Maybe he did keep some of those psychic powers, and one of them happens to include giving you full-body tingles.

Muffled into your arm, you smiled, “I’ve been busting my chops trying to keep my husband happy, yeah. And, y’know,”

“—being a badass monster hunter?” Sam winked open an eye.

A laugh shocked out of you, since you wouldn’t have guessed Sam’d say that, but yeah. A badass monster hunter. You hummed. “I still can’t believe I killed two mermaids. That is so weird.”

“I still don’t know how to feel,” Sam admitted, and you hummed your agreement. “But… I can believe it, y’know. You’re a really good hunter. And whichever lucky guy you end up with… he’s gonna have the perfect wife.”

The gauge in your heart for this—whatever this is living between you and Sam now—quietly shatters.

You’re not stupid. This is the perfect time for Sam, the imaginary Sam you’ve invented in the past two days, to confess his feelings. You understand why he wouldn’t, since you’re choked by those same feelings now. But it’s just—you want you want you want. Boiling, ugly frustration carves a hole in your stomach. Even with you tethered to him and nothing else, alone together, face in his neck and heart flush to his, Sam still thinks that there’s someone else for you. He just doesn’t get it. And you’re not about to tell him because you’re a shuddering coward, so this cycle is doomed to repeat itself in your mind forever. For the millionth time, you’d fallen into the trap of convincing yourself that this was real. It’s exhausting.

Reaped by raw embarrassment, you could think of nothing else to do besides jerk back from him and flubber, “Th-thank you, Sam. That… uh. That means a lot. Let’s, uhm, let’s try that slide now, huh?”

The glowing ease in Sam’s face crumpled. You were three steps up the nearest ladder when Sam went, “Hold on, wait—wait a second.” His voice breaks. “_____.”

You turned back. It was an exercise in being neutral, and Sam worked you for all he had, wilting you to the pool floor with a big, hopeful smile. The signs of a full-body Sam panic shut down just wail their obviousness to you after so long. You realize he’d been blushing before, purely because he’s as white as a sheet now. When the shadows part along his face long enough to paint his eyes, they’re wild, a sheep in a shrinking pen.

“We can do that later,” Sam begs you, his voice a hoarse worried whisper. “Come… come play house with me.”

You flush to the tip of your nose.

Oh?

“I-In a pool, Sam?”

He hung there. A line of lights on the deck above you blinked off, swallowing the last of the light. All day you have been put into these positions with Sam: being alone with him in massive crowds of people, touching nothing but water, and being connected to him completely in an empty pool. Absolute darkness is the final vulnerable layer. Knowing Sam, he was forcing himself to be an open, wide-paged book for you right now. But the night was so dark and all you saw of him was his scared-still silhouette… and the hand he extended to you in the dark.

“Yeah,” Sam swallows. “We can pretend it’s a… natural disaster. Flooding? Something. Just… come play house with me.” He swam closer, offering you his hand, “I’ll be the dad, and you can be the mom, you know?”

You face the ladder. Hot tears sting behind your eyes.

In your clearest voice, you lie, “Sam… I’m kind of all housed-out from this weekend.”

The hold you have on the ladder’s rail clenches. The metal’s cold, just like the pool, but Sam radiates so much heat and trust and love behind you that you wouldn’t be surprised if he generated light. A coarse breeze off the ocean bit at your wet back. If he was lying to you… If he meant something else… This would, by far, be the cruelest thing Sam could do to you. Unknown to him, Sam had done nothing but yank your chain for the last two days. My wife, he calls you. Honey, darling, he says. It would be evil to hang that bait over your head.

Sam is so far from evil.

“You’re going through all this trouble just to get me to enjoy this vacation, right?” Sam asked, and you nodded. “Look, ____… Maybe I haven’t shown it, but these last two days have been more fun than I’ve had in, in years.”

A mirthless chuckle seeped out of him, but his heart wasn’t in it. There was something in his voice, this broken, longing pitch that begged on its hands and knees for you to believe him. Sam was sensitive, but you wouldn’t call him emotional. Half the time he tried to pry some internal dialogue from Dean he was bottling up most of his own. So to hear his honesty… and you are, because it’s real and unmistakable in his voice… it slams you on your breaks. Insatiable hope spurs to life in your hammering ribcage. Maybe. Maybe he did. Maybe he had this whole time.

“It’s—we’re playing a game, right, but. It’s not a game to me.” His words came out thready and rasped, laying it out for you plainly. “This whole time it hasn’t been a game to me.”

You stop breathing.

As a hunter, it’s in your nature to hear this and viciously dissect it. A million miles away from here, the plastic toy kitchen you and Sam had adored as kids was probably rotting in the bottom of Bobby’s shed, eaten by spiders and time. It’d yellowed with age and all the stickers had fallen off. But when it was factory white and the clock on the oven still read three o’clock, Sam hadn’t been playing games. This hadn’t been a game to him the first time you’d played with it or the last, just minutes ago. The realization slowly pinged in your mind. You had never been a game to him, either.

You’d known that this hunt would put some romantic pressure on you, but the truth was that it didn’t feel like pressure at all—it’s fucking effortless. Every day of your life, you could hold Sam’s hand and call yourself his wife. Playing house with him wasn’t playing house at all—it was being home, in Bobby’s backyard or the movie theaters you snuck into or the motel pools you played in together. It was limping away from shitty hunts together. It was rough-housing like the little kids you never got to be, and forming a silent pact to never tell Dean about it.

On the ladder, you turned to get a look at him. Sam was sunk up to his chin in the water, and still, you can’t see much of him, but what you do see is soul-stealing. His hand is trembling and the soft impressions of his face in the dark are drawn hard with conviction.

He cursed. “I got it into my head that I should… should tell you the truth. Dean thought this hunt would, y’know. Give me the courage.” Sam huffed like yeah, what a great idea that was. “That’s why I’ve been weird all weekend. I-I… m’ sorry, _____. M’ just plain sorry. I’ve been sitting on this for so damn long and just—” Sam smiled, sour, “I hated lying to you. We tell each other everything, and s’... s’ gotta be one of the biggest parts of me. It… it… it sucked.”

You sniffled, left ten steps behind what was being said. “I hate lying to you too.”

“Yeah.” Sam grimaced. He retreated deeper into the water, up to his lip. Then he decided how immature that must’ve looked, because he squared up, floating toward the ladder and pouring every terrified ounce of himself into holding eye contact with you. “I know you don’t feel the same way. S’ okay, I’ve more than made peace with it—I only needed you to understand. You, being on the road with us. It’s more important to me than anything. So, um—”

“Wait,” you gathered your voice. “S-Sam, wait a second.”

Sam’s mouth snapped shut.

It felt dumb, clarifying it out loud, but crazed, hazy adrenaline clogged your brainpan. “...You have a crush on me?”

“More.” He shook his head, mortified.

“More what?”

Sam gave you a chastising, helpless glare, “Than that.”

Oh. Oh, wow. Holy fucking shit. Oh, wow wow wow. Your hand sluggishly rooted over your mouth, and in the process you slipped a little on the ladder, yelping. He’s dead serious. Sam, out of all people, would never joke about this. The same warm flashes that you always get when with him exploded across your body, but tenfold, twentyfold, turning the whole pool to singeing steam. You genuinely couldn’t think. What?

“I have feelings for you too,” you gawked. Wait, no, that sounded lame. “I’m—guh—me too. I. yeah. Wow.”

Sam laughed, but it sounded wounded. “You don’t have to…”

“I’m serious.” Well, you probably didn’t look very serious, fists mashed down to your sides like a third grader playing tough. “M’ not messing with you. Since we were little. I thought you didn’t, you know. Feel that way. About me,” you cleared your throat.

He laughed for real this time. Neither of you could fully believe what you were hearing. For such a casual, disjointed conversation, it was the culmination of a decade’s worth of—of carving your initials next to his in trees, of carrying him home, so for a minute after the two of you just sat there and lost your damn minds.

It started as a slow giggle, then mounted into full-bellied, snorting laughter that Sam matched with his own. You tried to shush each other, but in the end it was useless. Sam doubled over in the water, shoulders bouncing with pure mirth. You had to sit down, your sides were so split, and you thunked onto the first rung of the ladder clutching your middle.

When it broke, Sam hooked both hands around the ladder’s rail, boxing you in. He kept the open space between you the way it was, but for the first time you noticed the crawling neediness in his hands, which fluttered around, curious. He wanted to touch you like before. You didn’t know if you could remain on this mortal coil anymore if Sam touched you like he had before, knowing what you knew now. If he entwined your hands, your smaller fingers in his longer ones, and all of his callouses mingling with your own, then it would all be real. Your heart almost fucking burst: every time Sam had pulled you into his side or wrapped an arm around your back today, he’d been in love with you.

Breathless, Sam sighed, “I thought you didn’t.”

“Oh, please,” you uttered, “M’ damn crazy about you, Sammy.”

He—lights—up. And holy shit, does it feel good to say it out loud. You’d never felt the full magnitude of your silence until it’s done grinding you into the floor with its weight. Thrilled, elated energy swelled up within you like a hot air balloon over a flame.

Sam wheels himself in entirely, pulling himself up to your face so you can see the unabashed joy glowing all over him up close. “Not nearly as crazy as I am for you,” he vows.

That’s when it all slides into place for you. Sam was in love. When Dean had dropped his position on this hunt to give it to Sam, he’d done it for two reasons instead of one. While you’d laid tortured in bed, his presence next to you clogging your every sense, Sam had curled up on his belly so the temptation to admire you couldn’t be satisfied. He twisted his ring every time the onslaught of that’s my wife that’s my girl overwhelmed him again. Sam remembered what you preferred on your breakfast plate, and cared to do something as trivial as picking your favorite color marker while fearing for his life. He watched for you through every pursuit, and had itched with anxiety every time you left the safe closeness of his bubble. Sam protected you. While you were over-thinking yourself into a hole whether Sam felt the same, he’d been agonizing over when to tell you and how to tell you. Every time you’d hated him for not loving you had been completely unfounded, and every time you’d loved him for the same thing had been useless. All that pain and angst when he started dating other girls in high school… The second dose you got when he left for college… and Sam Winchester had been into you the entire goddamn time. What the fuck.

Cheeky happiness flushed into your cheeks. “You still wanna play house with me?” You hoped.

“It was kind of a metaphor,” Sam ducked his head. “But, hell yeah.”

Together, you clambered back into the water, which opened up and embraced you with warm arms. After your moment out in the cold, the water’s welcome washed over your body like an external hot chocolate. Sam is only warmer. Even in these conditions he’s a furnace, his every pore blazing with magnetic heat that leeched the temperature right out of the water. You’re drawn to him like always, but for the first time you have no reason to resist the urge to worm closer. Sam has no qualms about you getting up into his space either. You don’t put your hands on him right away—there’s a certain magic in just lingering a few inches away, all of your senses straining toward him for contact.

“Okay,” you gathered your breath. “How about I be the worker, and you um, be the housewife.”

There was no Dean, Bobby, or Rufus to tease him for this, so Sam easily replies, “Sure.”

You assume your roles with only a little snickering. There’s no briefcase for you to lug home after your long day at work, and the plastic kitchen is so far from here. But you work with what you’ve got. Strutting up to an invisible stoop, you realize you’d left your invisible keys in your invisible car, and knock on your invisible door instead. It swings open to reveal your beautiful, burly housewife. For nostalgic reasons, Sam spreading his arms wide for a big, giddy hello hug, the exact same way he would when you were kids, makes your throat tight with tears. His wingspan’s as wide as the horizon now, but little else has changed.

“Welcome home, honey,” Sam whispers. It is the same quietly relieved tone he unveils when you’ve returned home safe from a hunt, but this time gushing with love. “How was work?”

You leap into his arms for the hug you’ve been waiting years for, and it’s so much of everything you missed that you don’t even force your character’s ragged, grateful sigh. “Exhausting, dear.”

Sam doesn’t just support you, like before. He takes. After a whole day of you praying for him to enjoy himself, to be selfish, Sam finally, finally is. Two big, firm arms seal around your back, squeezing you against him. His nose smushes into your ear. His whole face smushes into your neck. You’re bodily hauled into him, used as a stuffed animal. It’s not for a silly pool game. He holds you because he wants to, and it feels good, and it’s been so long.

It’s impossible to resist curling your fingers into the wet ends of his hair. At this, Sam lifts his head to look at you, dazzling you in no way you’ve ever felt before. Droplets cling to his lashes and slide down his face. There’s a mole by his eye you’ve never gotten to see up close, and like everything else about him, it’s just plain kissable. Your pulse roars in your ears. A lock of hair wet hair dangles over his brow, tempting you. Smoothing it away with your fingers pops fireworks in your belly that roar alongside spiraling butterflies and airy laughter. Man, he’s cute. Christ, his eyes. Instead of just hazel, they’re a stupid amount of colors, low-lidded and sincere. Sam’s brows are even furrowed together. Apparently you have an effect on him.

You coo, “You weren’t waiting long, were you?”

Those low eyes wandered across your face, devouring you, memorizing you, drowning with pure happiness. “Ages,” Sam confessed.

Since you gave Sam his hello hug, per tradition, you have to give Sam his hello kiss.

With trembling hands, you cupped Sam’s slippery neck and found his chin with your thumb. A little hoarse gasp jumped out of him. Again, the spell Sam’s personal space had on you took hold, and your flurry of half-finished thoughts clips off. Fear snaked up your back but you’re not messing this up, not when Sam’s right here and drooling with comfort and warmth. His eyes slipped shut the second you were close enough, and he nuzzled his nose into yours, squirming with the effort to take things slow. He’s desperate for a kiss. You’d cursed him for tempting you, but how long had you been stringing him along? Your stomach drops. Poor Sam. You were shaking you were so terrified to mess this up, but—he deserves a good movie kiss. Both of you had waited too long for anything less.

Your first taste of him is a little stiff for a kiss, but any leftover anxiety is… it is… God. Sam presses back, soft and open and fulfilling, giving himself over to you in one tender act. It is a thousand welcome homes, a thousand open doors and hello hugs. For each kiss you never followed through with playing house, Sam makes up for one now. He tastes enough like chlorine to tell you that you’ll never enter a pool again without fainting into a clay puddle. His cheeks are burning with a heavy blush, so when you go to cup his face you can soak up your effect on him. It is a hug as much as it is a kiss—many, many kisses—because you just won’t let go of him, and you don’t think you ever will again. You’re both so lost in it that the water licks up to your chins, but you’re sure you and Sam could sink to the floor of the ocean without realizing it. You’ve always been in love with him, but now it fills the pool, then the world, bursting from your chest in one unending ray.

It very quickly went from kissing to making out, because Sam was obsessed with you and you were hard-wired to make him happy. All you wanted was more, closer, Sam’s fingertips tickling your hair, his heaving chest keeping you afloat, his soft sighs flooding your prickling ears. He is a determined kisser. And an awesome kisser. You are the pampered subject of his single-minded focus, every molecule of Sam orbiting around you. It’s only right that you give him the same dizzying lovesick treatment, so it’s not even a thought in your mind to stop. Or look around. Or pay attention to people coming in through the gate.

“What was—hey!” Suddenly, the beam of a flashlight fell on you, and instead of jumping apart in surprise, Sam hides you in his chest while you gape. “What are you two—”

Fuck. The blazing light swiveled between you, putting dots in your nocturnal vision. Okay, maybe you’d been being loud, but you hadn’t actually thought you’d get caught for realsies. The picture you and Sam must make flashes in your mind: him, sopping wet and covered in the last of your lipgloss, shielding you, also sopping wet, as you cling to him in the deep end. It’s a little sexy. Until you squint past the beam and count three familiar assholes.

The three familiar assholes burst out laughing, pouring raw, unfiltered dread into your stomach. “Shit,” you and Sam said.

“No fuckin’ way,” Dean hollers, honing in the flashlight on his brother. “Is that who I think it is, skinny dipping in the deep end? Woo-boy! Didn’t know you had in ya, Sammy!”

No. No. Come on! Could the universe not give you one break? Must the price of kissing the love of your life in a pool be so high?

Rufus is still laughing his ass off, and Bobby can’t help but laugh too, though he restrains himself. Dean starts to wolf whistle. They’re all piss-drunk and howling like it. If you’re lucky, maybe they won’t remember this in the morning. Beside you, poor Sam hides his face behind a hand and shrinks up to his nose in the water.

Dean doesn’t hesitate to start in on him, laughing hard enough to almost tip into the pool. “Man, the end of an era! I waited twenty fuckin’ years for you chumps to quit squirreling around each other, you know that? Twenty! Sam’s been writing Mr. Sam _____ in his notebooks since he was too shy to walk past a bra store—and look at him now, a full-on lady killer! They really do grow up too fast. But I am a little worried about your standards, _____—”

You shrink into the water too, but hardly out of embarrassment. While you’re five stages into your plan to kill Dean, you remember, happily, that you have a partner-in-crime who would be more than happy to bury him in a watery grave.

If he insisted on taking this moment from you, then he would be tasting your revenge. Dean laughed you and Sam out of the pool, slowly accumulating more and more of your rage. Soon, glaring holes into his head wasn’t enough for you. The second you hustled your pants on, you stalked after him, reminding him of the likelihood of finding a body at sea while looking about as intimidating as a wet corgi. Your whole deck could probably hear you snarling and swearing if Dean’s satisfied laughter hadn’t drowned it out. Aw, look at her grin, boys, Dean drawled. Since Rufus and Bobby hadn’t yet fallen under the beam of your vengeance, they do the smart thing and take your side. Before Dean could react, Rufus divested him of his flip phone and Bobby blocked the exit. While Dean’s whining to have it back, you slap both hands on his chest and send him spiraling into the drink. Bobby and Rufus dissolved into laughter, and you left the task of fishing Dean out to them, as payment for shifting alliances. It was clear in the air that you—and Sam by extension—were not to be toyed with.

You find Sam hiding behind the gate, fully dressed in his water-patched pajamas. By the amber light of the deck, he shimmers like a mirage, glowing all over. Sam greeted you with a flushed, pleased smile that melted into shyness. It occurred to you that he’d looked at you that way before. Just a few hours prior, his gaze had rippled with that same overwhelmed happiness when you were on stage for that stupid game show. Trapped there in the moment, you would’ve never guessed how grateful you’d be to have that memory to look over. Or any of your memories from this weekend. Sam had loved you then. He loved you now. How fucking cool was that?

To placate you, Sam greeted, “See? You are a great wife, defending my honor.”

That same happiness that always tingled up your spine when Sam praised you sparked, and on instinct you shoved it under your heel. Like usual, squashing your feelings didn’t do much of anything—and for the first time in your life you didn’t have to squash them. You can show them all you damn well please. Sam seems to like it when you do.

Bursting at the seams with glee, you skipped the last few steps to him and dropped both palms on his shoulders. Sam was way ahead of you. He sinks down to meet your eager, rejuvenating kiss, and the moment it ends he shivers all over with delight. It’s so natural to have his hands on you that you don’t register them shyly sliding into yours. The sensation becomes one of a million others flooding your brainpan with Sam, and you melted, knowing he’s going through the same thing right now.

“Your girlfriend,” you flirted into the corner of his lip.

Sam’s poor cheeks smoke with heat. Lassoing you around to his side, like always, Sam pulls you until your hips bump and your arm is flat to his. “Yeah,” he smirks, “my girlfriend.”

tags: @daiziesssart @lacilou @cookiemumster1 @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-loou

#uncouthspn #spn #supernatural #sam winchester #sam winchester x y/n #user uncouth #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you

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