[Lima, Ohio]

Sam

The road trip is Puck's idea, but Sam is the one who is chosen to persuade the girls.

"Chicks trust you," Puck explains, elbow deep in the hood of his truck, dark streaks of oil scattered over his forearms like spots on a Dalmatian. "You give off that, I don't know, Mr. Nice Guy vibe."

Sam feels oddly insulted, which Puck must notice, because he adds, "It's a good thing, dude. Just—ask them, okay? They'll listen to you. Especially Quinn, and if she goes, Rachel will go."

Especially Quinn. He almost wriggles with pleasure at this qualifier. Puck's lips twitch, but he gives Sam the courtesy of not commenting on the fact the mere mention of his relationship with Quinn turns him into a five-year-old on Christmas morning.

They're sitting in Puck's garage, waiting for their respective girlfriends to show up. Every time Sam hears tires crunch on the patch of gravel in front of Puck's driveway, he leans forward, as if he can see the car through the trees that line the street.

"Dude," Puck says, laughing. "They'll be here."

"I know," he answers, leaning back in his chair self-consciously. "I just—"

Puck extracts himself from the guts of his pick-up, grabbing a rag—which is, in itself, filthy—and wipes his hands and arms with it. "Oh," he says. "I see."

He moves to the mini-fridge in the corner, extracting a Bud Lite and turning to Sam, raising an inquisitive eyebrow, but Sam shakes his head. Ever since "Alcohol Awareness Week" last year, when he woke up with a hangover the size of Texas, not to mention two energetic younger siblings, he's decided that he'll wait to have another drink until he's of age.

"You see what?"

Puck pops the tab on his beer and takes a swig, perches on the fender, and says, "You're that couple."

Sam blinks at him. "I don't understand…"

"You're that couple who argues about who is going to hang up first, the one that says I'll miss you before you leave, even if you're going to be apart for about twenty minutes," Puck elaborates. "You're the couple that can't keep their hands off each other."

Making an attempt at male bravado despite the blush he knows is staining his cheeks, Sam says, "Well, can you blame me?"

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Sam regrets them. This is the guy who has a child with Quinn, the one whose glare was hot enough to drill into Sam's back the first time he saw them together in glee club.

Granted, that was a year ago, and he's with Rachel now…but Sam knows from experience that Quinn Fabray isn't the type of girl you can easily get over.

"Hey, man, I'm—"

Puck waves his hand, dismissing Sam's apology before it has even left his mouth. "No, it's cool. I don't blame you at all, actually. Quinn's gorgeous."

Sam feels as if this is an understatement, but he doesn't say anything about that. "But you—you love Rachel, don't you?"

Grinning, Puck reaches out and punches Sam lightly on the shoulder. "Yeah, I do," he says easily. "But even if I didn't, I wouldn't go after your girl. I'm not like that anymore."

"I know."

There's that crunch of gravel again, and this time, Sam spots the flash of sun along chrome in between the branches. He's on his feet before he remembers that Puck is even there, and he's out on the driveway first.

He sees Quinn smile at him through the windshield, and his own smile stretches across his face instinctively. He opens the passenger door for her—her car, her poor Beetle that she loved, was completely totaled in the accident—and reaches down to pull her into his arms.

Her throaty chuckle is in his ear as she notches her chin over his shoulder. "Hi, baby."

"Hi."

Sam turns his face so that he can kiss the top of her head, and he feels her smile against his neck. He spots Rachel over her shoulder, and feels heat creep across his cheeks again. "Uh—hi, Rach."

She giggles. "Hi, Sam."

Rachel tugs gently, playfully, on Quinn's skirt. "If you can detach yourself from Sammy, we have to get the groceries inside."

As she's walking toward the house, a brown paper bag in her arms, Puck swoops out of the garage like a hawk and picks her up, swinging her around, which makes her shriek with laughter. "No-ah!"

Quinn pulls away, sliding her hands along his ribs, sending bolts of heat through the pit of his stomach. They've been together again for about seven months now, ever since Sam transferred back to McKinley, but the way each touch electrifies him hasn't faded at all.

She stands up on her tiptoes for a kiss. Sam's instincts, not to mention his hormones, beg him to snag her by the hips and kiss her back until she's clinging to him, but then she strokes his cheek, and he softens, melts.

"I love you," she says, and still, after seven months, he doesn't quite believe that he's heard her right.

"I love you, too."

He helps her carry the rest of the groceries into the house, trying to discern the contents of the bag in his arms. "What's this stuff?"

Quinn elbows him. "No peeking! Rachel wants it to be a surprise."

"Is it vegan?" Sam asks, wrinkling his nose, and Quinn laughs.

"Not entirely. She's trying to convert Puck, but she knows you and I are carnivores through and through," she assures him, lips curling back over her teeth in a mock snarl.

From the kitchen, Puck interjects, "I am not eating vegan!"

"Oh, Noah…please? Just try?"

The corners of Sam's lips work upward at the look on Puck's face, a stricken mixture of a desire to make Rachel happy and an intense fear of vegan food. He sets the bag on the counter and claps Puck on the back.

"Come on, dude," he teases. "It can't be that bad."

Puck just stares at him. Behind him, Sam can hear the muffled sound of Quinn's laughter, and he turns to see her with her face partially buried in the groceries that she's helping Rachel unpack, her eyes scrunched up.

"Noah," Rachel says again, moving to grab onto his arm and peering hopefully up into his face. "Won't you at least try? Please? For me?"

He sighs, defeated. "I'll try. One piece."

Rachel claps.

/

Later, when they've finished eating and Rachel assigns herself clean-up duty, Puck gives Sam a prodding look.

"Why don't we help?" Sam asks Quinn, and she follows him into the kitchen with a little shrug of acquiescence.

They form an assembly line—Sam scrapes the remaining scraps of food into the trash, handing the dishes to Rachel for washing, while Quinn dries. The girls' voices weave into a pleasant rope of sound that pulls Sam into his own thoughts, while their words flutter around him like birds.

"…dorm…"

"…I'm worried about…"

"…don't, they'll love…"

"…but what…"

"…single?" Quinn says, and Sam's head snaps up, his heart in his throat.

"I thought about that," Rachel's responding, "but I thought it would be a more meaningful college experience if I had a roommate."

Sam relaxes, and as their conversation falls into a lull, he finds his opportunity. "Hey, girls?"

They look at him, Quinn's hands still tangled up in a dishtowel. "What?" she says.

"Well, I—Puck and I were talking earlier, and we thought—since you're going to be so far away next year—" He pauses, working through a pang of distress at the thought. "—we thought you'd like to go on a road trip. The four of us. Some time together before you go?"

Well, no one is going to accuse him of being an easy salesman, but he hopes the way he's looking at Quinn, employing what she refers to as his "kicked puppy" face—wide, pleading eyes and a downturned, pouty mouth—will be sufficient. Rachel reaches for him.

"Oh my God," she says. "What is that? What is that face?"

Quinn sighs, but Sam can see a smile fighting to pull up the corners of her mouth. "It's a face that means we're going on a road trip," she says.

From the living room, Puck whoops.