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imagineteamfreewill · 2 years

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Partnering With You

Title: Partnering With You

Pairing: Costumer!Sam x Ballerina!Reader

Word Count: 7.5k

Warnings: Fluff

Square Filled: Ballet AU

Summary: Y/N and Sam are the dream team of the Kansas City Ballet, but only one of them has dreams to take their partnership even farther.

A/N: This is a submission for the 2021-2022 SPN AU Bingo (@spnaubingo)! While this story is about ballet, it is entirely fictional and is not meant to be an accurate depiction of the ballet world. As always, thank you for reading and supporting me. I hope you enjoy! Dividers are by @firefly-graphics

Sam’s studio is one of your most favorite places in the entire world. It’s where you’d gotten the call from the ballet asking you to become part of their corps, and it was there you’d gotten the call to become a soloist. You and Sam have dreamed up some of your best costumes on the cozy gray couch near the windows. Some of those costumes have yet to come to fruition, but you enjoy watching him sketch, sew, and piece them together during your free time.

Today is your busiest day of the week, which leaves you with very little time to visit your childhood friend. Sam welcomes you with open arms whenever you’re able to come see him, and the smile he sends your way as he paces the length of the studio is a welcome sight. His phone is pressed between his ear and his shoulder in a position that looks entirely uncomfortable and you make a face before dumping your bag and roller on the floor beside the elevator doors. He’s got his sketchbook in hand and he’s scribbling notes and sketching long lines across the paper as he listens to whoever is on the other end of the call.

“Who’s on the phone?” you ask, mouthing the words the next time Sam looks your way. His eye roll is enough to tell you that it’s a higher-up at the company and you grin before digging out your lunch. Sam’s probably already eaten, so you plop down on the couch and open up the plastic container without offering to share.

Finally, Sam ends the call and sighs. He dumps the phone and his sketchbook on his desk and heads in your direction, giving you just enough warning to pull your feet out of the way before he collapses onto the opposite side of the couch from you.

“Long morning?” you ask in between bites.

He nods and pulls your feet back onto his lap. He doesn’t mind your shoes on his jeans, which you appreciate. Your other friends, the ones you spend much less time with, always insist you take your shoes off in their spaces. You oblige, but you’d much rather keep your feet hidden outside the comfort of your own home. The beauty of your feet is one of the prices you pay to keep doing what you love.

“Brenda wants all the costumes redone with sequins instead of beads,” he sighs, and you groan around another bite of food.

“Brenda! You’re killing us!”

Sam laughs at your dramatics, his hand resting on your calves, and you grin at him after swallowing. You tuck the fork back into the container and click it shut, then tuck it back into your lunchbag.

“I’ve got another class today, and then we’ve got a dress rehearsal,” you tell him.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Another one?”

“Another one,” you confirm. “Apparently some of the corps learned different choreo, though I’m not sure how. We think it’s because Rowena broke her contract and left midseason for Romania.”

“You think she taught them the wrong routines on purpose?” Sam asks.

You shrug and crack open the lid on your shake, sniffing it and scrunching your nose. The vegetable shakes weren’t something you’d opted for voluntarily, but your doctor had insisted on changing some things in your diet now that you’re working harder and trying for principal next season. Sam is drinking the shakes in solidarity, but you know he likes them more than you did.

“You wanna see my new designs?”

That’s enough to perk you up, and you quickly nod, sitting up against the back of the couch. Sam grins and gets up to grab his tablet from its charging dock. He takes a second to open the file he wants, then hands it over.

You take your time on each design, carefully looking them over as you sip your shake. Sam is a master at the details, which is why you had insisted that the company hire him shortly after you’d first joined. After seeing his work, they’d agreed with you wholeheartedly and hired him on the spot. Now they keep him so busy he doesn’t have time to do any other designs, not that he minds.

“These are beautiful,” you finally say, looking up at him.

Sam sits quietly, taking in every part of your expression before giving you a small, relieved smile. “You like them?”

You nod and hand back the tablet, smiling back. “I think they’re your best yet. Is that for next season?”

He shrugs and locks the tablet again, then reaches over to set it on the small table off to the side of the couch. If Sam hadn’t been so dead set on going into costume design, you would’ve nagged him harder to train with you. His height is a bit above average for the men in your company, but he moves gracefully and controls his body with more ease than some of the most advanced dancers in the corps. You attribute it to genetics in addition to the few years of ballet training you’d had together as kids, but Sam always brushes you off. If you didn’t know him as well as you do, you would assume that he’d kept dancing, but you know that he only works with a personal trainer a few times a week.

“I’ve just been toying around with ideas for different shows. They haven’t contacted me about next season yet.”

“Don’t they normally give you the schedule around this time?” you ask. You pull your legs up close, wrapping your arms around them and resting your chin on your knees. He shrugs again and you frown. “Sam, is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine.” He smiles, but you can tell it's forced.

Before you can push the issue any further, the timer on your phone goes off and you unfold yourself from the couch.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta go. Are we still on for dinner this weekend?” you ask as you collect your lunchbag and head over to the pile of stuff you’d left by the elevator.

Sam stands as well, but he doesn’t move away from the couch as he watches you get ready to leave. “As long as your rehearsal doesn’t go late. I’ve got an early morning on Sunday.”

“You’re going home for your mom’s birthday after training, right?” When you glance over at him, he nods, and you smile. “Tell Mary I said Happy Birthday?”

“I’ll do that,” he says, and you straighten up with your belongings piled against your chest. “Be safe in class.”

“I always am!”

You jab the elevator button with the only finger you can wiggle without dropping everything, and the doors open right away. Sam is still watching you when you turn around inside to press the ground floor button. His smile has faded into melancholy as he pulls one hand from his pockets to wave goodbye. Your heart sinks with the elevator and you make a mental note to text Dean to check up on him this weekend, knowing that whatever’s going on is obviously something he can’t talk to you about. He already would have if he could, which worries you more than you’d like to admit. There are very few things Sam can’t tell you, and that thought hangs over you like a black cloud for the rest of the day.

You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment sewing up a new pair of shoes when someone knocks. Frowning, you look up at the door and squint. You hadn’t invited anyone over, nor had you ordered food, and you’re really not in the mood for someone trying to sell you something. You’d hung a “no soliciting” placard on the door last week. So far it hasn't done you any good.

Whoever it is knocks again and you sigh, climbing to your feet and crossing the living room. You peek through the peephole and your frown gets deeper when you see a rain-soaked Sam standing in the hallway..

“Oh my gosh, Sam!” You usher him inside, taking the two hanging garment bags from his hands and setting them aside before hurrying off to get him a set of towels. He’s soaked to the bone and dripping onto the carpet but you could care less.

He shivers as he peels off his jacket and trades it for the towels. “I should’ve called before I left, sorry.”

You shake your head and carry his coat to hang over the shower curtain rod in the bathroom. “It’s okay,” you call through the open doorway. “Why didn’t you take an Uber? It’s pouring outside!”

“I left my phone at the studio,” he shouts back, immediately lowering his voice when you step back into the main part of your apartment. “Sorry. I left my phone at the studio, but I didn’t have time to grab it in between my meeting and coming here. Are you busy?”

Gathering up your sewing supplies and the shoes, you shake your head again. You start tucking everything back where it belongs inside your bag.

“Not really, just prepping for the week. What was your meeting about? Did you show them those designs?”

“It wasn’t with the company,” Sam says, and you pause with a pointe shoe in each hand. “Do you still have some of my clothes here?”

Sam had lived with you for a few weeks earlier in the year when his building was getting fumigated, and you’re still finding things he left behind. You nod and gesture down the short hallway towards your room. He tugs off his socks before heading to search for dry clothes, the towels still in hand.

“So who was your meeting with?” you ask when he comes back a few minutes later. He’s found a pair of sweatpants but no shirt and you’re careful not to stare. Sam’s a beautiful man and you’d be stupid not to realize it, but he’s extremely conscious of his appearance after spending so many years working with male dancers.

You can sense Sam’s hesitation when he answers, “It was with someone from New York.”

Heart sinking, you zip up your bag and grab your water bottle from where you’d left it on the floor. You take a sip, leaning against the awkward pillar in your living room as you wait to see if he will elaborate.

Your building is an old house that's been converted into a few apartments, which means for some oddities. The pillar in the living room, the strange closet in the kitchen no wider than an ironing board, and the square green window at the top of your bathroom ceiling are the most notable.

Sam leans against the other side of the pillar, peering down at you. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything.” You take another sip of your water bottle.

“Yeah, but you’re thinking it.”

You shrug and he raises an eyebrow. “Fine,” you huff. “Why are you meeting with other people now, Sam, and in New York of all places? That’s so far away! Aren’t you happy designing for the company? Are they not giving you enough work?”

He searches your face for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, Sam asks, “Where did you put those bags I had?”

Looking around, you spot them draped haphazardly over the arm of your couch. You push off the pillar to grab them, setting your water bottle aside so you can hold one in each hand. The rainwater rolls down the slick outer covers of the bags and drips onto the carpet. The leather of the couch where they’d been laying is covered with droplets and a thin sheen of water.

Sam takes one of the hangers and lifts it to hang on the hook you’d put high up on the pillar for this exact purpose. He’d brought over enough costumes for you to need it. Carefully, he unzips the bag to reveal the bodice of a costume you’d never seen before.

“Sam, what’s—”

“Just wait,” he says, cutting you off as he takes the other bag from you. He lays this one out on the floor and unzips it, then pulls out the matching tutu. It’s a romantic style, with crystals that pack together at the waist and gradually scatter as you get farther down the skirt. The bodice has the same crystals gathered around the deep neckline.

“What is this for? Is this for me?”

You can’t bear to tear your eyes away from the silky fabric, but you manage to look between him and the hanging garment bag all the same. Sam’s watching you with a wide smile on his face.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

The fabric is the same color as the pointe shoes you’d been looking at weeks ago during your monthly off-season movie night. You’d never be able to wear them as part of the company, they had strict restrictions for your appearance on stage, but you’d marveled at them and bookmarked the page all the same. Sam had noted that the color would look good on you and that had been the end of the conversation.

“I love it, but why? Sam, there’s no show for this!”

He simply smiles and gathers up the tutu, standing. “Try it on.”

“Sam, I—”

“Try it on,” he repeats. The tutu is shoved into your arms and the bodice is suddenly there too, and he’s pushing you towards your bedroom before you can argue. Sam shuts the door behind you and you stand there, too flabbergasted to even begin to strip out of your day clothes.

In the living room, your warm-up playlist begins over your bluetooth speaker and you blink, jolted back into reality by the familiar music. Most likely Sam knew it would get your brain working again. You’d joked once that you had a Pavlovian response to the first song.

You look down at the costume in your arms and then very gently lay it on the bed. It’s one of Sam’s most beautiful creations, even if it is a bit understated compared to some of the others. The knowledge that it’s meant only for you and not for a show is enough to make it the best. Tears prick at your eyes and you quickly wipe them away before they can spill over onto your cheeks.

Sam is waiting for you when you come out of the bedroom. He’s perched on the arm of the sofa, tapping the cracked leather with one hand while the other fidgets with the case on your phone. He stands as soon as he sees you standing on the edge of the living room.

You fold your hands in front of you and give him a nervous smile. The costume fits like a glove; Sam always has your most updated measurements on hand, and you know he keeps careful track of the small fixes he has to make for different shows and costumes. As the years have passed, there are very few things he has to fix in your costumes just because he knows you and what you need so well. You try hard not to smooth your hands over the tutu or play with the beautiful embellishments as you wait for him to speak up.

“Does it look okay?” you finally ask. The music is still playing through your speaker, but it fades away in your mind as you meet Sam’s gaze.

“Do you like it?”

“I already told you I love it! Does it look okay on me?”

“You’re stunning, Y/N, but I always think that, no matter what you’re wearing.” He slips your phone in his pocket, his shoulders relaxing as he crosses your tiny apartment to take your hands in his. “I have one more surprise for you, but it won’t be ready until tomorrow, okay?”

You shake your head at him. “Sam, this is too much. What’s all this even for? I don’t— Are you okay? Did something happen with the company? Does this have to do with the meeting you had today?”

Though you know he won’t answer any of the questions, you ask them anyway. Sam simply squeezes your hands in response and pulls your phone back out of the pocket of the sweatpants. He taps a few times on the screen, typing something out before locking it again.

“There’s a pickup code in the notes on here, so you should be able to get your package tomorrow after class. It’s at the normal locker location where you get your stuff. Come over as soon as you’re ready to dance in this, okay?”

“Package? What? Sam, I don’t understand…”

He smiles and leans in, pressing a chaste kiss on your cheek. “I promise everything will make sense tomorrow, okay? Do you trust me?”

“I always trust you,” you reply. You lean into his kiss, your heart skipping a beat at the contact. Sam may have been your best friend, but you’d always wished for a little more than he’d allowed you to have.

He seems satisfied with your answer because he moves away, handing your phone to you before heading into the bathroom to get his clothes. They’ve only had a chance to drip dry a little.

“Wait, Sam, at least let me call you an Uber!”

He’s dressed in his wet clothes again when he comes back out, and you scramble to order him a car. Sam doesn’t wait, though, and you have to chase him down the steps of your apartment in the costume.

You grab onto his arm before he can walk out into the rain. “What is going on with you?” Before he can pull away, you reach up and take his face in your hands. “Did you get hit on the head or something? Do I need to call Dean? Or Mary?”

The smile on his face doesn’t falter as he places his hands over yours for a moment, then gently pulls them from his cheeks. “I’m fine, Y/N. I promise. I just… I have a surprise for you and I’m excited. That’s all, I swear.”

Sam’s voice is warm and his words are steady, but you only feel slightly reassured. It’s so unlike him to surprise you with such a grand gesture, especially for no reason at all. The costume is more than enough to make you feel treasured, but after he threw in the package and then told you to come to his studio, you don’t know what to think.

Your phone chimes in your hand and you look away. The Uber you’d ordered is only a minute away. Sam sees it on the screen as well and he steps away, holding your hands for a moment longer before heading to the door. You stand there in the costume, your bare feet sticking to the dirty apartment tile as he steps back out into the rain, still smiling.

The next day, you’re distracted for the entirety of your warm-up, class, and rehearsal. It doesn’t go unnoticed by the ballet master and the scolding you get after the first break dampens your mood. The other dancers notice you're distracted as well, and it takes your partner pulling you aside to make sure you’re feeling okay to snap you back into your professional persona.

You get through the rest of your day with little trouble from the other dancers. By the time you’re able to go pick up the package Sam had ordered for you, you’re exhausted. The lockers are closer to your apartment than to his studio, but you trudge through the damp, semi-crowded streets and tug open the door to the grocery store that houses them as your heart skips every other beat, speeding up with the promise of surprise.

After punching in the code, a locker in the bottom row pops open and you bend down to pull out the box. It’s nothing special and just has Sam’s name and the locker address on the top. There’s nothing to tell you where or who it’s from, so you pull out your phone and give him a call.

“Do I get to open this box now or do I have to wait until I’m at the studio?” you ask as soon as he answers.

Sam laughs and through the usual background noise of his workspace, you hear other voices, and you frown. He preferred to keep guests out of the studio while he was working. It would only take one hand to count the number of times other people had been there the same time as you.

“Wait till you get here. Please?”

The polite manners make you smile. Sam was a Kansas boy, born and raised, and his upbringing always found a way to shine through, even if he was being crafty.

“Fine,” you groan. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he replies, and you end the call as you’re walking out the door of the shop.

You make it to Sam’s studio in seventeen minutes. You’d had to stop at your place and pick up the two garment bags containing the bodice and the tutu he’d left with you last night. Sam is waiting outside for the building when you arrive, and you slow as you near the front door.

“Hey, how was class?” he asks, more casually than you would have liked.

Giving him a nervous, but excited, smile, you shrug. “Fine. The pas de deux is coming along. Is this part of the surprise?” You pointedly flick your eyes up and down his body. Now that you’re closer, you can see he’s wearing sweatpants and a black t-shirt, a drastic change from his usual work attire. Sam is a firm believer in dressing professionally, even if that just means nice jeans and even if he’s the only one at the studio that day.

“You trust me, right?” he asks in response.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Sam…”

“Let’s go inside.” He turns and opens the front door for you, gesturing for you to enter first. You comply and head to the elevator, then jab your thumb against the call button. Sam stops beside you and holds out his hand for the garment bags, but you shake your head.

The two of you ride the elevator up to the top floor, and when the doors slide open to reveal the studio, it’s bustling with activity. There are more people in the space than there are permanent staff at the company and you stall in the doorway, heart pumping in your chest. It takes Sam’s gentle hand on the small of your back to spur your forward.

“Sam…”

He smiles down at you and takes the garment bags in one hand, then leads you over to the couch. A plump woman with a kind smile pats the seat beside her.

“You must be Miss Y/L/N. We’ve heard a lot about you,” she says, and you give her a wavering, confused smile.

“I… can’t say I’ve heard a lot about you, unfortunately.” You cast a slightly pointed glance in Sam’s direction, but he’s busied himself with hanging the bags in the changing area of the studio. “You are?”

“My name is Eloise Vernon. I’m with the American Ballet Theatre.” She holds out her hands to shake and your stomach drops as you force a more confident, polite smile on your face.

Reaching out a hand, you shake hers and set the package on the couch. “It’s so nice to meet you. Please, forgive me for being so rude, I—”

“No apology necessary.” Eloise waves one hand dismissively. Her smile is knowing as she continues, “Mr. Winchester explained that our presence here would be a surprise to you. I expected a bit of confusion on your part, though maybe not this much.”

You glance over at Sam. He’s gathered with a group of men in the corner of the studio. The dance space there is normally used for dancers—mainly you, since you’re always Sam’s first guinea pig—to try out their costumes while moving. Now, however, there are women arranging various costumes on a rack nearby. A white photo backdrop has been set up along the edge of the dance floor. Another man, probably younger than Sam, is standing behind a camera. He peers into the lens and adjusts the position of the tripod, pointing it towards the backdrop.

“May I ask why you’re here?” you finally reply, looking back at Eloise.

“To see you, Miss Y/L/N.”

You blink at her, shocked. You’ve never reached out to the theatre, and the ABT is so prestigious that you have to be invited to audition for their company. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Like I said earlier, we’ve heard a lot about you. It was Mr. Winchester who initially pointed us in your direction, but since then we’ve seen videos and live performances. You’re an excellent dancer, and we decided it was time to connect face-to-face with you. These circumstances are a bit unusual, of course. We don’t normally recruit dancers with so much fanfare.” She gestures around the studio that’s teeming with energy despite the setting sun.

Sam’s suddenly at your side, a hand on your shoulder, and you look up at him from your spot on the couch. He reaches down with his free hand to move the box into your lap.

“Open it,” he urges.

Eloise rises and gives you another kind smile before moving off towards the other people that you can only assume are part of the ABT as well. You’re distracted by the ongoing commotion in the room, and after a second, Sam crouches down to block your view of them.

“Hey,” he says, and you blink to try and focus on him. “You okay?”

“It’s just… This is a lot, Sam. ABT? How did you get in contact with them? Why did you get in contact with them, and why are they here now? Is this an audition? I’m not prepared for an audition, and if I’d known, then I’d—”

“Y/N. Just open the box, will you?”

You inhale sharply, a bit irritated that Sam’s avoiding your questions, but he’s never steered you in the wrong direction. His calm reassurance is enough to soothe your nerves just a little bit. You trust him, and you love him, and you’d follow him anywhere. So, you open the box.

Inside is another box, and this time it’s a familiar sight. The brand of shoe you wear is emblazoned across the top and you swallow thickly.

“Sam, these are expensive!” you hiss, leaning to the side to peek at Eloise. She’s still talking with the others on the far side of the studio. “You didn’t have to buy me another pair of pointe shoes, the company helps pay for them.”

He smiles. “Open it.”

You glance at him and then obey, prying open the shoebox. The shoes inside are pointe shoes, but they’re not your usual. They’re the shoes you’d seen online, the ones that match the costume Sam has made for you, and you gasp. Instantly, you’re blinking away tears at the gesture.

“I—”

“I know that you haven’t prepped them, but they should be the exact kind you get, just a different color. You can get them ready in what, twenty minutes?” he asks, and you nod dumbly at him. “Change into the costume when you’re done, okay?”

You swallow thickly, staring at him with teary eyes for a long moment, and then you’re throwing your arms around Sam’s neck to pull him into a tight hug.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his ear. “I love them. I love you so much, Sam.”

He hugs you back. When the two of you separate, you sniffle and wipe at your eyes to try and compose yourself. The little bit of makeup you’d put on that morning won’t budge with a few tears, but you don’t want to be a mess in front of Eloise and the others. You still have no idea why they’re there, which means leaving them with a good impression of you is more important than most things.

It takes you exactly twenty minutes to prep the shoes. Just like Sam had said, the specifications were the exact same as the others you wear, which means that he either snuck a peek at the boxes and your receipts or he knew you better than you thought he did. Sure, you were best friends, but knowing shoe specs wasn’t even part of his job as the company costumer.

Eloise and Sam are standing at his design table, pouring over stacks of papers, sketchbooks, and his tablet. You slip into the changing area while they’re still busy, and by the time you’re dressed in the costume and finished tying up your shoes, they’re waiting for you on the edge of the dancefloor.

Sam smiles wide as soon as he sees you, and you shy away from his intent gaze.

“What do you want me to do now?” you ask, unsure if you should be asking him or Eloise.

“Do you know the Act II pas de deux from Swan Lake, Miss Y/L/N?” Eloise asks, and you nod. She gestures towards a small group that has gathered on the far side of the dancefloor, and a man only slightly older than you steps out. He’s dressed in a costume similar to yours and he smiles warmly.

“You want me to dance for you?” you ask, though the question feels like a stupid one as soon as you ask.

Eloise only smiles, and Sam grins beside her. “Yes. We realize that your shoes are new, but we’ve seen you perform before. This is more of a formality than anything. Do you need some time to warm up?”

Her words are spinning in your brain and your breath catches in your throat. You want to ask if she means what you think she does—that you’ll be invited to be a part of the ABT—but you can’t bear to ask the question in case you’re wrong.

Slowly, you shake your head and step onto the floor. The man introduces himself in a soft voice as soon as you’re close enough to hear and you take a deep breath, smiling and doing the same. Once the pleasantries are out of the way, you take your positions and silently try to calm the swell of anxiety. Your heart is beating much quicker than you would like and you take another deep breath. The music starts on your exhale and you begin.

It’s easy to lose yourself in the dance. The pas de deux is one you’ve danced many times before, mainly last season, and though it’s been awhile since you’ve partnered with someone new, the man makes it easy. Sam, Eloise, and the others fade from your view as you dance. Your nerves are no longer at the forefront of your mind and all you can focus on is what comes next. Finally, you realize that the music has ended, and you carefully move back to a neutral position.

Sam watches you with utter awe on his face, while Eloise is simply smiling. Your partner shakes your hand with a smile of his own and you watch from the center of the floor as he retreats to his spot along the edge.

“That was lovely, Miss Y/L/N, thank you,” Eloise says. You bow accordingly, and she gestures to the photo backdrop when you rise. “We’d like some photos of you in this costume, if that’s alright with you?”

You nod and let her guide you over. Sam trails behind and stands at the edge of the group as you’re asked to pose, leap, pirouette, and move in front of the camera. You’re sweating by the time the photographer says he’s satisfied, and you finally relax as Eloise stands with him and looks through the photos on a nearby laptop.

“You doing okay?” Sam’s snuck up behind you with a water bottle and you jump. He laughs as you take the bottle and drink half of it in one go.

“This is crazy,” you hiss at him, turning your back on Eloise and the photographer. You’re smiling, though, and you know that Sam can tell you’ve been enjoying yourself. “The pas de deux? A photoshoot? Is this really what I think it is, Sam?”

He smiles, shrugging a little. “The world needs to see you dance, Y/N. You’re good enough to go all the way to the top, if that’s what you want.”

“What if… that’s not what I want?”

You hesitate to ask knowing how hard Sam must have worked to get the people from ABT here and to keep it a secret from you, but it’s important. Years ago, you would have done anything for a spot in their company. Now you love your life. Yes, you’d still love to move to New York and dance for them, but it wouldn’t be the same, not without Sam.

“What?” His face falls and he glances back at Eloise, then takes your arm to guide you to the corner of the backdrop where there are no people within earshot. “Y/N, what are you talking about? You’re always watching their videos and talking about how fun it would be to dance with them! Is this seriously not what you want?”

You search his face, then set the bottle down on the floor. Taking Sam’s hands, you tell him, “Dancing with the American Ballet Theatre would be a dream come true, Sam, but it’s not the only dream I have. I love living here and dancing with the company. I love getting to spend my free time with you and wearing your costumes every season. I love our movie nights and our day trips to see your family. I don’t want to give up those things. I don’t… I don’t want to chase something that’s only been a pipedream for so long and give up a really good thing that I already have.”

Sam’s arms are suddenly around you, crushing the tutu against your legs as he holds you tight. You cough out a laugh in surprise but quickly wrap your arms around his waist and close your eyes. He kisses the top of your head and you breathe in deep, pulling away just enough to look up at him.

“They offered me a job, Y/N,” he says, his voice soft under all the noise in the studio. “If you go, I go.”

Tears flood your eyes for the second time that day and you have to take another deep breath to steady yourself. “What?”

He nods, smiling wide. “They offered me a position in their costume shop as a designer. I told them I’d take it if they were willing to consider you, and…”

You laugh and hug him hard again. “Sam, that’s amazing!”

Sam laughs and you have to pull away to wipe your nose on the back of your hand as it runs. Some of the tears have escaped down your cheeks and you wipe them away as Sam turns to dry his own tears.

“Is that why you’ve been acting so weird?” you ask, and he laughs, nodding in response.

“Well, that and—”

Eloise’s voice makes you step further away from Sam and look in her direction. “Miss Y/L/N, are you up for one more thing?” she asks.

You nod, smiling politely and trying to contain the excitement as Sam’s job offer before it bubbles over into unprofessionalism. “Yes, ma’am. Where would you like me?”

Gesturing to the couch where you’d first sat together, Eloise starts walking. You trail behind. She sits in her spot from before with her phone in hand, and you note the voice memo app open on the screen as you sit.

“We just have a few questions for you before we make a final decision. You are aware that this is considered an official interview for a spot in the American Ballet Theatre, correct?” she asks. You nod. “Good. And that is something you’d be interested in?”

You glance at Sam, who’s smiling as he glances in between a man in a suit and the tablet in his hands, then nod again. “Yes. I would be very interested in dancing with ABT.”

Eloise smiles. “Very well. I’m going to be recording this, but only a few people will be privy to the recording. Is that alright?”

After you give your consent, Eloise starts recording and begins to ask you questions. She has them memorized, and you think to yourself that she must have asked them dozens of times to know them all by heart, just as you know your dances. She asks about your training, your performances, and your qualifications. She asks about injuries and preferences, hobbies, and likes and dislikes. She asks you about things that don’t even seem relevant to a job with the company, though you know better. When you dance with a company as big as ABT, anything and everything can impact your spot and your job. It’s part of why you’ve been so hesitant to even consider pursuing New York. Sam’s confidence in you is the only thing getting you through those doubts as you answered Eloise’s unending questions.

Finally, she stops the recording with a smile. “I have to say that I’m very impressed with you, Miss Y/L/N.”

“Thank you,” you say, smiling with relief. The nerves have all gone now. Whatever happens will happen.

“I cannot speak for the others involved with the invitation process,” Eloise continues, “but I think it’s safe to say that you should expect an invitation soon. You’re clearly a very talented, diligent dancer, and I think that you would be a great asset to the ABT.”

Your heart swells. You smile even wider at her, then find Sam’s eyes across the room. His expression no doubt mirrors your own.

“Thank you, Ms. Vernon. That’s really great news.”

You and Eloise finish your conversation, and then her and her crew begin to clear out. It’s easiest for you and Sam to stay out of the way, so you sit together on the couch, watching as they pack up equipment and costumes that you never changed into. They pack into the elevator in groups, filling every square inch and otherwise disregarding the weight limit. If you hadn’t been so stunned, you’d probably warn them that the building was old and that some of them should wait. The photographer is the last one out, and he waves as he steps into the otherwise empty elevator with his gear.

You heave a heavy sigh as soon as the doors close. Sam looks over at you, smiling a little, and he leans back against the couch.

“You okay?” he asks, his fingers intertwined with yours.

“I think so,” you reply with a nod. “I’m still processing, I think.”

“An offer to dance with the ABT is a big deal.”

“A potential offer,” you correct.

Sam only shrugs. When you stand to change out of your shoes and costume, however, he doesn’t let go of your hand. You look down at him, raising an eyebrow.

“You gonna let me change so I can go home? I’m starving, you know. I’d rather not make any innocent bystanders on the street have to deal with hangry Y/N.”

“Will you dance again for me before you change?” he asks.

You nod without giving it a second thought. It’s common for Sam to watch and take notes while you dance in a new costume. You’ve already danced once today, but you didn’t remember him with his notebook, so you assume that he wants to make some notes on the fit and style.

“Is there something specific you want?”

He stands. “The pas de deux would be fine.”

Frowning, you turn your back on him and head to the dance floor, then start to stretch a little, knowing that your muscles would be aching soon if you didn’t. “I guess I can do parts of it, but that requires a partner, Sam. You know that, or did that rain last night wash away all your knowledge of ballet?” you tease.

“I could partner.”

“What?”

He starts to stretch beside you and you automatically track his movements without truly looking at him, noticing that he’s doing all the same stretches the male dancers in the company do. Sam doesn’t even bat an eye at the ones that would be challenging or painful for people who aren’t used to them.

Finally, you stop what you’re doing, stand, and put your hands on your hips. “Sam Winchester, you’ve been hiding something from me, haven’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, but he’s staring up at you from the floor with such a wide grin on his face that you can’t even try to believe him.

“What are you not telling me?” you huff. He doesn’t respond and you narrow your eyes as he twists and grabs one of the foam rollers from beside the mirrors to roll out his muscles. He’s too comfortable with the action for someone who doesn’t do it often, and it’s then that you realize he’s taken off his sweats to reveal a pair of black ballet tights and slippers. “Sam, have you been dancing?”

Sam laughs. “I told you I’d been training, why is this such a surprise?”

You blink, a bit taken aback. You’d thrown the idea out there thinking he’d shoot you down and say that he’d just gotten into yoga or something, not actually confirm your suspicions.

“This is insane. You realize that this is actually insane, right? First the costume, then the shoes and ABT, and now you tell me that you’ve been dancing and I never even noticed?” You scoff and rest your hands on top of your head, turning to look around the studio for cameras just in case you’re being punked by some of the other dancers in your company. Sure, you play tricks on each other, but never anything this involved.

He stands and touches your waist, just above the tutu and just enough to get your attention. You turn back to him, swallowing hard at the tender expression on his face.

“I missed dancing with you,” Sam explains. “And I… I was a little self-conscious about it at first. I didn’t want you to ask why I’d suddenly gotten back into dancing after all this time.”

“Why did you?” you ask.

“Isn’t it obvious?” When it’s clear that you still haven’t caught on to whatever he’s trying to say, Sam steps closer and continues, “It’s because of you, Y/N. You’re my best friend, and I love you, and dance is something that you love. I want to be able to dance with you, and even though I can’t even remotely match your skills, I want to be a good partner on and off the floor.”

You stare at him for a second, and then you’re smiling. “Really?”

He nods. Sam still seems uncertain despite your wide smile, and you look down to grip his hands in yours. You lead them to your waist, and then you push up onto your toes. Immediately, Sam is supporting you just like any good partner should.

“You’ve really been training just to dance with me?” you ask, meeting his eyes. It’s easier now that you’re up on pointe and he chuckles.

“I have.”

“For how long?”

“Since we moved here,” he admits. “I learned a bunch of partner dances, including the pas de deux, just in case it ever came up. I convinced Eloise to have you dance the Swan Lake one today.”

You snort. “You convinced an ABT staff member to have me dance that specific pas de deux just so you could flirt with me later?”

Sam’s face and neck flush pink and you can’t help but laugh. You wobble a little and you adjust your stance, but Sam continues to help you keep your balance in his arms like he’s been your partner for years. You suppose, in a way, he has been.

“I can’t believe you hid it this long from me.”

“You got really close to finding out a few times. I’ll have to tell you about them tomorrow.”

Slowly, you lower yourself back down to the floor. Sam keeps his hands on your waist. “Why not now?”

He smiles wide. “Because right now I want to dance with you, Y/N. I’ve waited a long time for this and I don’t think I can wait another day.”

It’s your turn to shy away from his gaze, but Sam squeezes your waist and then lets go, moving to where he should be for the beginning of the dance. You watch him move, then carefully shift to where you should be as well. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and then when the music starts, you dance.

Thank you for reading! <3

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