Sam sighed, and ran a hand through his long, messy hair. Glancing at the clock, he noticed it was nearly three. In the morning. Rubbing his eyes and closing the book on Pagan Lore in front of him, he shuffled over to his bed, in between the beds belonging to you and Dean.
You were completely still, and Sam took one quick glance over at you to make sure you were alright before kicking off his shoes and clambering into the bed, still in his jeans and shirt.
An odd thought crossed his mind.
"You're quite pretty when you're not shouting at me," he whispered to your sleeping form.
Sam yawned, and shook his head, confused with himself. Sleep-deprivation must have driven him insane. That was the only explanation. You had been hunting with the Winchester boys for two years, and though Sam knew for a fact that Dean used to be interested in you, he only saw you as a fellow hunter. Dean had, being Dean, immediately attempted to woo you with bad pick up lines and free cocktails, but you had turned him down repeatedly.
The classic, 'I don't sleep with colleagues' line was used so many times it has lost all meaning.
Pulling the sheets up higher, Sam turned onto his side, facing you, and fell asleep.
He was woken by the smell of frying bacon, and the low hum of the radio playing in the kitchen. Sam yawned, and sat up, looking around him. The beds on either side of him were empty.
A horrendous bout of desperately out-of-tune singing came from the closed kitchen door, and he grinned to himself. Looks like he had found you. He unbuttoned his creased shirt and threw it onto a nearby chair, then walked up to the door and opened it.
"Always gonna be another mountain... always gonna wanna make it mooooooveee"
Sam winced. Miley Cyrus. Seriously?
You were belting the song out with your eyes closed, using the grubby, bacon-covered spatula as a microphone. Sam noticed that you were still in your pyjamas, a large, baggy t-shirt and short shorts. He tried not to stare as the shirt hitched up slightly when you moved your arms in your elaborate dance-moves.
"IT'S THE CLIIIIIIIIIIIIMBBB!" you ended dramatically, waving the spatula around your head.
Sam sorted, and you jumped, whirling around, holding the spatula in front of you like a knife. Your body relaxed when you realised it was him.
"Sam," you breathed out in relief, then froze.
"How much of that did you see?"
Sam smirked, walking to the fridge to get some orange juice, "Just the grand finale. Where's Dean?"
He sat down, and you tried valiantly to not openly stare at his bare chest. What was it with Winchesters and public nudity? To be fair, he did have a gorgeous chest... but that was beside the point.
"At the library," you responded, plating up some bacon and eggs and putting them in front of him, "He's researching that Pagan ritual we saw in Wyoming-"
"Dean?" asked Sam incredulously, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. Dean didn't even load the dishwasher, why was he going out to research a case?
You smirked, thinking along the same tracks, "Apparently so."
Sam snorted, and shoveled forkfuls of eggs into his mouth.
"S'good." he complimented, gesturing to the quickly emptying plate, and you smiled again, before getting your own breakfast and sitting down opposite him.
"I heard you going to bed last night," you said.
Sam froze mid-chew. What was it he had muttered to the darkness last night, when he was positive you were asleep?
You're quite pretty when you're not shouting at me.
Fuck.
He continued eating cautiously. Maybe you hadn't heard him say anything. Maybe he had misheard your statement. Maybe a massive asteroid could crash through the ceiling and crush him to death so he didn't have to deal with this embarrassment.
Play it cool, Sam. Play it cool.
"Huh?" he answered, taking a swig of orange juice and desperately wishing it was something stronger.
"Yup," you answered, leaning forwards towards him, "I heard everything..."
Sam groaned inwardly.
"You know the whole 'don't sleep with colleagues' thing?" you continued, and Sam's eyes widened a fraction.
"Yes?" he responded cautiously.
"That was just because Dean wasn't my type."
Sam leaned back in his chair, a muscle jumping nervously in his jaw.
"So," he asked, trying to feign confidence, "What is your type?"
You stood up from the table and walked towards him, a cheeky smirk on your face.
"Well," you suggested, "Dean won't be back for a couple of hours, why don't we find out?"
His breath hitched, as he desperately tried to play it cool.
Standing up from the table and brushing a messy lock of hair out of your face, he smirked again.
"Sounds like a plan."