You smile as you pull the perfectly baked cookies out of the oven. They are just the right amount of softness: slightly crisp around the edges but warm and gooey on the inside. They are chocolate chip. You had overhead Sam and Dean discussing cookies just before they left and decided it would be a good welcome home present. Since Sam has never told you his favorite cookie, you went with chocolate chip because everyone likes chocolate chip, and you used your grandma's recipe to make cookies so soft they melt in your mouth.
You resist the urge to taste one. One because you know you will probably get burnt since you have literally just pulled them from the oven. And two, you made these cookies for Sam. It seems impossible to wait for him to get home. The cookies smell amazing, chocolate permeates the kitchen, and you can't wait to spread it through the whole bunker.
You place a stack of cookies on a plate for Sam, putting the rest in a container for Dean when he returns. He's coming back to drop Sam off then going to spend the weekend with Jody, Donna, and the girls in Sioux Falls to give you and his brother some time to yourselves. As much as Dean moans and groans about you and Sam needing mushy, lovey-dovey time, you know he is glad to see his little brother happy. You put the cookies down on the island, pulling a piece of paper from the drawer writing in as girly of handwriting as you can make, "Missed you babe."
As you finish the last flourish, your phone beeps: a new text from Sam. "About ten minutes out," it reads.
You text back, "I'll be waiting." Let him decide if there is a hidden message there or not.
Thinking the guys are probably less than ten minutes out with the way Dean drives, you put the final pieces of your plan in motion. First, you take the plate of cookies and the note to Sam's room, propping them up on his desk. You know he will have books and notes to put away after the hunt, so his desk will be the first place he goes. Then you go back to the kitchen pouring two giant glasses of milk. Can't have chocolate chip cookies without milk.
Taking the glasses back to Sam's room, you set one on his desk and take the other with you. You open the closet door giggling at your deviousness. Hiding in the closet seems slightly juvenile, which is why it is something the younger Winchester would ever expect out of you. His brother maybe, but not you.
You get ready to sit and wait the designated time limit, when your phone beeps again. "Pulling up right now." You giggle a little at the update, but prepare to stifle it if you hear the tell-tale thud of work boots on steel. You don't respond. That would ruin the surprise.
A few moments later, you hear what you have memorized as Sam's footsteps coming down the stairs. Listening carefully, you hear only one set of footsteps, clearly Dean was serious about just dropping Sam off and heading out.
You stand silently in the closet, making sure the door is shut tight so as not to tip Sam off. Your body is trembling with anticipation, the glass of milk shaking slightly in your hand. You hear footfalls coming closer. Sam is almost to his room. You remove your hand from the closet door and slap it over your mouth to keep the squeak of excitement in. This is better than any surprise you've ever planned.
The bedroom door opens, and your ears are instantly on red alert. You analyze every sound, every movement. First, a thunk as a bag filled with hunting supplies hits the floor, followed by the plop of the clothes duffle. Next, one zipper then the other is pulled open. The swish of clothes sliding down the sides of the hamper is quickly followed by the thud as he not so gently drops stacks of books and papers on his desk.
Silence follows, and you know he is noticing your gift: the plate of still warm, gooey, half-melted cookies and the note, so far from your normal handwriting, all loopy and curly and actually legible. You hear a flick as the note is opened.
Sam gasps. Your grip on the glass tightens. You have been around Sam long enough to know his voices and his noises. That was not a happy gasp or a surprised gasp. It was one of fear.
You place your hand on the door, moving to open it. This is no longer a fun surprise. Something has changed in the situation. Changed enough to frighten Sam. And you know from experience the Winchesters don't scare easily.
You hear the click of a gun being cocked. Tension fills your body again. You realize that happened too fast for Sam to have pulled the gun out of the duffle. It must have been in his hand since the moment he entered the bunker. You freeze. It is paralyzing to not know what is going on outside the closet.
"Who are you? How did you get in here? What have you done? Where is she?" Sam is not using his normal voice. He is using the deep, booming voice full of menace with an underlying current of fear: the voice that matched his build. It is the voice he uses when he wants to intimidate: a suspect, a monster, or something threatening his family.
The last question rings through the bunker, leaving behind a residual echo that makes your skin crawl. You have only heard that tone a few times, and each time, it makes you shiver because it reminds you what the Winchesters are really capable of. It dawns on you as you finally come to your senses enough to process the situation Sam believes something has happened to you. You are not sure how he came to his conclusion, but you are sure he believes someone or something has somehow made it past all the defenses and intends to cause you harm.
Wanting to put a stop to his horrible train of thought immediately, you turn the knob minimally not wanting to startle him. "S.." you begin to say when you hear a bang. Instinctively, you scream and duck dropping the glass of milk. You are unconcerned with the shattering glass instead focusing on the buzzing noise that has just made its way past your ear. You hear a crack as what you have now identified as a bullet embeds itself in the wall behind you.
You stay crouched down, panting, attempting to get your emotions under control. Sam just shot at you. You have no idea why except that for some reason he suspects you have been kidnapped by a fugly. "Sam," you whisper, once your breath returns. You are still partially curled on the floor, facing away from the door, afraid to move, afraid of being shot at again. You swallow. "Sam," you say a little louder hoping to get his attention.
You hear the click of a safety being put on. "Hello?" You hear the careful question in his voice, the uncertainty.
"It's me," you say, your confidence slowly returning.
The closet door is ripped open with such force you are surprised it doesn't come flying right off the hinges. You can tell the first thing he sees is the bullet in the wall even though you are still facing the ground. Sam's sharp intake of breath and subsequent, "Oh no," give it away.
You glance up, shifting only slightly. Fear is still coursing through you along with adrenaline. "Sam?"
The gun is immediately stowed in the waistband of his jeans. "I almost shot you," he whispers coming down next to you. "I could have killed you." He places a hand on the back of your head pulling you close. At first, you want to pull away still shaking from his revelation. He really could have killed you. Understanding how much Sam needs this, you allow him to pull you in. He begins stroking your hair, and you start to feel wetness slide down your hair then down your cheeks. Not only is Sam crying, but you are as well. It has been a trying few minutes for both of you.
Suddenly, you push Sam away realizing not only are your tears staining his shirt but bits of blood are as well. In your terror, you had dropped the glass of milk and proceeded to crouch in the glass shards. Tiny cuts dot your hands and arms, which are also covered in a light layer of the drink. You push away, feeling horrible for not only covering the younger Winchester not only with your tears but blood and milk and probably some snot as well.
Sam looks down, still holding you close unwilling to let go despite your attempts. Abruptly, he releases you, causing you to fall back into the closet and sprints down the hall.
You use the closet door to lever yourself up hissing as touching anything stings your cuts. The sound of boots has stopped, but entering the hallway, you hear the sounds of retching. Knowing it's only you and Sam in the bunker. You rush down the hall all the while contemplating what you can do to help. "Sam!" you call. "Sam, answer me! Are you okay?" The only response is the sound of deep sobs in between the retching, which only makes you pick up the pace. "Sam?"
"'M fine," you finally hear a muffled reply from behind the bathroom door as you slide to a stop in front of it.
"I'm coming in," you state, knocking just to be polite even though you have no intention of staying outside the door.
"No, said I'm good." You can hear shuffling on the other side of the door. Assuming it's Sam's attempt to move to block the door, you swiftly slip open the door and squeeze between the crack.
"And I said I'm coming in." You enter the bathroom only to see Sam sprawled in front of the toilet one hand cushioning his head from the porcelain bowl. "Are you all right?"
"I said…"
You cut him off. "I know what you said, which is clearly a lie. You are not fine. I don't know why I even bother asking. You could be losing a limb, and you would still insist you're fine, and it's all good."
"I…" Sam groans leaning his head against his arm as though he is waiting for the next round. He takes a deep breath and turns to you. "I think I'm done."
"Good," you say stepping around him to flush the toilet. "You are going to get cleaned up. Then we are going to talk."
"But…"
"No buts," you say stepping out of the bathroom and closing the door behind you. You listen to the water for the shower start before taking a seat against the door. You have no intention of backing down or letting Sam weasel his way out of this one. You are going to get to the bottom of this. And find out what exactly what the hell happened in that bedroom.
You lightly doze as you listen to the sounds of the shower spray, then of Sam brushing his teeth. You shift onto the wall because if Sam opens the door with you leaning on it there will be an undignified tumble into the bathroom.
The bathroom door creaks, and you can hear his bare feet pad past you. You get up to follow. "Don't think you are getting out of this that easy." You follow Sam to the kitchen where he grabs handfuls of cleaning supplies. Probably more than he needs to clean one little spot of milk and broken glass. "Sam Winchester, you are going to tell me what happened."
He ignores you, padding back to his room with his armful.
"Sam, talk to me."
Instead of talking, he dumps the supplies on his desk almost spilling his own glass of milk. He grabs the roll of paper towels and rips a wad off. Then he snatches the closest bottle of cleanser, spraying it liberally over the closet. Leaving that to soak, he reaches around you to grab the garbage can, tossing the larger pieces of glass into it.
"Sam."
He continues to ignore you, focused solely on the task in front of him. Once he has picked up the larger pieces of glass, he again picks up his wad of paper towel moving to wipe up the smaller pieces of glass and the cleanser.
"Sam, stop." You touch his arm. When he shakes you off, you gently take his face and direct it toward his bare feet. "It's not safe." He pushes you off and makes to head back toward the bathroom to retrieve his shoes. You jump up and sprint toward the bedroom door. He may be tall, but you are speedy. He towers over you, to intimidate you into moving. You stand your ground. Arms and legs braced against the door frame. "No we are talking about this now! What the hell happened just now?!"
Sam could easily pick you up and move you out of his way. But he doesn't, instead your words cause him to bristle. "I ALMOST KILLED YOU! THAT'S WHAT HAPPENED!"
"AND I DESERVE TO KNOW WHY!" Normally, you don't participate in screaming matches, but as your mom used to say, there's a time and place for everything. Apparently, the time and place for a yelling match is now. That seems to be the only way Sam will listen to you.
Sam freezes at your words, "I…I thought you were a demon," he stutters out sinking onto his bed.
"A demon?" you prompt confused. What on earth would give Sam that impression.
"My girlfriend, the one I had in college…" he pauses. You can tell this is a struggle for him. All the previous anger is gone, and in its place Sam is deflating faster than a helium balloon. "…before I started hunting again. She died."
You nod. Dean has already told you as much.
"A demon murdered her and burned down our apartment. She…" he pauses again taking a deep breath, and you can hear his throat clog with tears, so you sit next to him on the bed. There is no more need to block the door. Sam has started this story, which means he is going to finish, not run. "The night she died, she made me cookies: chocolate chip. She left a note just like that one: word for word. And she had gorgeous handwriting. I came in, called her name, and saw the note and cookies. I heard the shower running, so I grabbed a cookie and lie down on the bed to wait for her."
You tense because even though you know the ending, hearing the details is so much worse.
"I started to doze off when I felt something dripping on my face. When I went to brush it off, I realized it was blood. Jess was pinned to ceiling with her stomach split open. There was nothing I could do to save her. "The silent tears that had begun to track their way down Sam's face turn to full blown sobs once again.
"Sam," you say taking both his hands in yours. "It wasn't your fault. Tonight wasn't your fault either."
"Yes, it was. I should have done something. Oh god," his crying slows. "I thought it was happening all over again. The note. The cookies. The silence. When you didn't answer…"
"The bunker's a big place Sam. Anyway, it was my fault. I never should have surprised you."
"No, you were trying to do something nice, and I messed it up." You can already see the guilt shining in his eyes. "I mess everything up."
"Sam you don't mess everything up. Everyone has a past. Everyone has those moments they'd rather forget and things that trigger them. I know I do. We just have to be more careful. And from now on, no more surprises." You laugh trying to get Sam to lighten up.
Instead your words have the opposite effect, causing his eyes to travel down to his hands resting in yours. He yanks them back. "This isn't a joke. I could have killed you. I still hurt you. I mean look at your hands. Told you. I'm just a big screw-up."
"Sam Winchester. You are not a screw-up. And if you are, so am I. I could have texted Dean and asked him what your favorite cookie was. I could have asked him if you like surprises. Instead, I chose to work by myself. There's nothing we can do to change what happened. All we can do is learn from it. Clean up, fix up, and start over. Speaking of cleaning and fixing it's going to be a little tough to take care of these cuts on my own."
"I've got it." You hold back a smile as Sam hurries out of the bedroom to get the first aid kit. You know the cuts aren't all that bad, but you are willing to try anything if it makes Sam feel better. He comes back and mutters an apology before sliding the cookies off the plate and into the trashcan, setting the first aid kit in their place.
"It's all right," you say. "I'll make brownies next time."
This finally earns a smile from Sam as he focuses on bandaging your hands, probably more than needed, but you can always take some off later. "See you are a fixer, not a breaker," you say.
When he is finished, you spend the night watching a Star Wars marathonbecause you are both still too energized to fall asleep. You curl yourself tightly into his side relishing the warmth and safety. He pulls you closer reassuring himself of your very much alive presence as you both drift off to the whoosh of lightsabers.