Reach

"God damn it, Sam." You swore under your breath. You stood in the kitchen, hands on your hips, looking up at the top of the refrigerator. You'd been looking for your boots all morning, and had just found them, sitting there on top of the tall kitchen appliance. You knew you hadn't put them there. You were 5 feet tall and couldn't possibly reach, and seriously, who keeps their shoes on the fridge?

"SAM!" You hollered, seriously pissed now. You huffed over to the cabinet, and were just about to climb up onto it to retrieve the wayward boots when you saw his tall frame fill the doorway.

"Lose something?" A deep voice asked, obviously amused.

"More like someone stole something." You replied, pulling yourself up onto the counter top with an audible "oomph" and, getting to your knees, levelling yourself up to grab your boots. "Seriously, Sam, why are you constantly putting my shit where I can't reach it?"

He walked over to the refrigrator, took the boots from it right before you could grab them, and swung you down off of the cabinet in one fluid motion with his other arm as though you weighed next to nothing. "It's just fun." He said, winking at you. He handed you the boots and left the room.

"Fun for who?" You called after him.

"Fun for me!" He replied over his shoulder. "It gets dull around here." You could hear his feet resounding down the hallway. "By the way, you find your purse yet?"

"God damn it." You frowned. Wherever it was, you could bet it was someplace up high.

You did eventually find your purse. It was on top of one of the shelves in the file room. Instead of knocking boxes off of shelves in an attempt to climb to get it, and falling and possibly breaking a leg or an arm, you went to the utility closet to find a step stool. Only you found that the step stool that you knew was usually there had been moved. "God damn it, Sam." You found yourself saying again. You found yourself saying that a lot the last few days. "Put Everything Where Y/N Couldn't Reach It" was Sam Winchester's new favorite game while Dean was out of town and there were currently no hunts to occupy your time with. It was getting very annoying, for you at least. You weren't entirely sure why he was doing it or why he found it so entertaining, but then again, who knew why men did anything, especially the Winchester brothers.

You finally resigned yourself to asking for his help in retreiving your purse, and found him in the library (of course) reading a large book written in Latin (of course.) You sat across from him. He put down the book and looked at you, feigning innocence so badly, he looked like the worst actor in a cheap soap opera. "Sam," you began, folding your hands in front of you.

"Yes, Y/N?" He blinked at you innocently.

"I seem to have a problem that I require assistance with." You spoke to him as though you were conducting a business transaction.

"Oh?" He nodded slightly. "And this would be?"

"My fucking purse on the top shelf of the file room where only a giant can reach it!"

Sam tried to retain his composure, he really did, but at the sight of your face turning bright red, he lost it. He began laughing so hard, he could barely eke out the words, "did you try finding the step stool?"

It took all you had not to lunge across the table at him and strangle his giant ass. You regained composure. "Yes, Sam, I looked for the step stool, and it's mysteriously disseappeared. I suggest that be our next hunt. "The Case of the Missing Step Stool. But before that, it's in your best interest to come get my purse for me before I kill you."

He raised both of his hands up in a sign of surrender, tears of laughter in his eyes, and got up, heading to the file room. "All you had to do was ask. All you ever have to do is ask." He easily reached up, pulling the purse down from the shelf and handing it to you. He smiled, bent and kissed you on top of the head, and went back to the library. You rolled your eyes, just wondering what he was going to hide from you next.

You didn't have to wait long. It was your turn to make dinner that night, and when you went into the kitchen to start the spaghetti you'd set out earlier, you found that he'd placed all of the spices, the can of sauce, the noodles, the fresh tomatoes, and the pots and pans on the top shelf above the sink. You rolled your eyes. "God damn it, Sam," you found yourself saying for about the dozenth time that day. You dragged a chair over to the cabinetside and were unsteadily reaching up, body fully elongated to get all of the ingredients, when you felt a familiar form behind you. A strong arm encircled your waist to steady you, and the other arm started pulling ingredients down and setting them back on the counter in front of you. You turned slightly, coming face level with Sam. He looked at you and raised his brows.

"What?" He smiled at you slyly. "I told you earlier, all you had to do was ask."

"You've been hiding my shit way up high for days just so I'd come find you and ask you to get it for me?" You asked him. "What's the point of that?" He'd finished procuring the ingredients from the top shelf, but his arm was still wrapped around you.

He shrugged. "It's nice to feel needed sometimes." He smiled widely. "And you're seriously fun to mess with. You get so mad. And your mad face is adorable."

"Sam... you don't feel needed?" You turned, still standing on the chair, and sat on the counter. You looked up at him.

"Not really. You don't need much help in a hunt, you don't need any help researching... you never ask for anything. Ever." He shrugged. "Like, never."

"Just because I don't need help with simple shit doesn't mean you aren't needed... or wanted." You leveled with him. His hand had fallen from your waist. You picked it up and held it in both hands. "So basically, this last week, you constantly messing with me... is like a gown up version of you pushing me over in the sandbox and running away?" You looked at him hesitantly.

He hedged a bit. "Yeah." He smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, I guess it is. I mean it started out as just something to do, but yeah... it definitely is. I'm that punk in the sandbox." He shook his head. "Damn it. I never wanted to be that punk in the sandbox."

You laughed. "Well, what're you gonna do about it, then?"

He looked at you, very seriously. He placed both palms flat on the counter top, and leaned down towards you. "I guess that's up to you." He was whispering, his mouth very close to your ear. You were always surprised that he could go from goofy giant to serious and sexy that fast.

"What are my choices?"

"Well... I could kiss you." He started. Then his voice hitched. "Or I could put something else up really high and watch you try to get it down."

You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him in to a deep kiss. Breathless, you pulled back a little. "Let's go with option one," you said, biting his lip a little bit. "Because if you do option two, I'm going to have to hurt you."

He pulled you up towards him, and lets just say, no spaghetti ever got made for dinner that night, and not a whole lot more time was spent in the kitchen.

Two days later, you woke up in Sam's room. You looked around. He'd gone out for a run (of course) and had left you a note on the bedside table.

Babe,

went out for a jog. Let's go out to breakfast when I get back.

PS... bet you can't find your clothes.

PPS ALL your clothes.

PPPS... they're up really high.

"God damn it, Sam," you sighed under your breath, smiling to yourself, pulling on one of his shirts, and going to search for your damned clothes.