Walking is lonely and cold tonight.
Before you'd moved into the bunker, you used to open a window and listen to the crickets to calm your mind on the nights when you couldn't sleep. It's been several months now; the Winchesters have made every effort to help you settle in, but nights underground are long and far too quiet.
You've taken to walking when insomnia strikes. The bunker definitely offers enough space to do so. Some nights you don't even walk the same hallways twice.
Dean and Sam have their own means of dealing with their occasional insomnia. Dean watches movies, listens to music, drinks, sometimes even punches things. You've joined him for a few of the less violent pastimes, at his invitation. You would never have intruded on your own, but he saw you pacing in the hallway and called out. Dean is easy to spend time with, and in the months you've known the Winchesters, you've grown more comfortable with him than any other person, save one.
Judging by the lack of sound effects from Dean's room, the elder Winchester seems to be enjoying a rare night of easy slumber.
Sam has his own sleepless nights, and he resorts to fairly Sam-typical activities to occupy his mind. He does occasionally watch movies, mostly documentaries, but mostly he reads.
Sam reads so much, so often, that the library seems odd without him seated at the table, several volumes spread out around him, his notebook and laptop fighting for space on the crowded surface. He always has suggestions for books from the library, subjects you would never have considered but somehow never fail to interest you. Sometimes you curl up in a chair with a warm drink, letting the sounds of his scratching pencil or tapping keyboard mesmerize you.
Either Winchester would be more than welcome tonight, but at some point during your time in their bunker, you've come to anticipate your quiet nights with Sam. Soothing and quietly welcoming, Sam's presence helps you sleep better than a full day of hard labor.
You love watching Sam work with his hands, any task really, but especially writing in his notebooks. His hand dwarfs any writing utensil he uses, and yet his fingers curve and glide so elegantly across the pages. He doesn't mind you watching, just keeps at his research, though you've noticed lately that he's smiling more than he used to.
Seems like it to you, anyway.
The library is depressingly empty tonight, feeling far too open and drafty without its most frequent inhabitant. You chafe at your arms, trying to buff some heat into your goose-bumped skin, and frown at the polished table top.
Absent of its typical stacks of dusty tomes and scribbled notes, the table seems almost superfluous. But it isn't the table or even the library itself that drew you here on your nighttime stroll. You realize with a start that you've begun to take Sam's occupancy of the library for granted, counting on the comfort of his welcoming smile and quiet inclusion.
Something to consider, you think, momentarily at a loss. Another draft whispers past, and you shiver.
Maybe he managed to find some peace tonight. Never one to begrudge someone a good night's sleep, you decide to try an old trick and head towards the kitchen, running through the options of hot drinks in your restless mind.
Soft music drifts from the open kitchen doorway, floating out of the dimly lit room. The golden light of a small lamp makes the industrial room seem softer, more intimate than its usual stark appearance. Sam sits at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug, nodding vaguely in time to Van Morrison emanating from his phone's speaker.
At the sight of him, relaxed and easy, warmth suffuses your body from your fingers to your cold-stiffened toes. You can't help but smile; you don't often get to see Sam this peaceful.
You clear your throat quietly, not wanting to startle him. He turns, his eyes meeting yours, and he sits up straighter. Your heart flips at his infectious smile.
You're ninety-seven percent sure that his face lights up a little extra.
"I hoped you'd wander this way," he says. Even his voice is calmer tonight, and you take a moment to simply drink in the serenity of the room. The empty spot across from Sam seems terribly inviting as he waits for your reaction.
Being the direct subject of Sam's attention is suddenly a little more intense than you can handle. Rather than confront that thought, you glance around, looking for some new subject of conversation. You raise your eyebrows and nod questioningly at the little lamp on the table. Sam follows your gaze, and his smile turns a little bashful.
"Didn't feel like researching tonight. The library was too cold, so I snagged the lamp and brought it with me. This is easier on my eyes than the overheads, especially since the whole point is to relax. Y'know?"
Yeah...yeah, you do know.
The song on Sam's phone ends quietly, switching to the next.
Half a mile from the county fair,
And the rain came pouring down...
"I, uh…" He clears his throat, some of the bashfulness apparently spreading to his vocal cords. His fingers shuffle awkwardly around the mug as he glances away and then back. It's difficult to tell, but in the dim light, Sam's face seems oddly flushed.
"I made some extra mulled cider, in case you, uh… I thought you might...if you want some. It's in the pot on the stove."
Your own cheeks heating, you smile your thanks and move across the room to the shelf where the coffee mugs sit.
You're not short, not exactly, but something about living with a pair of giants who each have at least six inches on you can be slightly irritating at times. For example, when the first row of mugs have been used and the second row are just at the edge of your reach.
We just stood there, gettin' wet,
With our backs against the fence...
You sigh and stretch, inadvertently bumping the mug back an inch or so.
For the love of…
"Here, sorry, let me-"
And then Sam is behind you, reaching up to help. His chest presses against your back, so warm, and his arm brushes against yours as his hand accidentally grabs your fingers instead of the mug in question.
Your breath catches in an embarrassingly half-squeak, half-gasp as a tremor runs down your spine, and you both freeze.
Your body sings at every contact point. Your entire universe narrows down to this room, this one moment. It's all you can do not to lean into Sam, turn in his arms, and just -
"Are you...are you okay? I'm sorry!" Sam's voice comes out in a hushed stutter.
Afraid to move, not wanting to break the spell, your gaze travels slowly up his arm to where his fingers are caged tentatively around your own. Your hand doesn't seem to be sweating yet, thank god, but…
Oh, the water.
Oh, the water.
Hope it don't rain all day.
God, he's so warm.
Sam's fingers curl around yours, careful and decisive, and he draws them down to your side. He turns his hand so that you're palm to palm and slowly twines his fingers with yours.
His other hand moves up to rest on your waist, exactly where it's meant to be. He leans down, his arms pulling you close, his jaw resting light and scratchy against your temple.
"Is this okay?"
You swallow hard against the sudden paralysis in your throat. All those nights in the library, watching those same fingers flipping pages, scratching notes, combing back through his hair, and somehow you never realized.
And it stoned me to my soul.
Stoned me just like going home,
And it stoned me.
An invisible knot in your chest loosens, and suddenly your breath comes easier. There is absolutely nothing stopping you from leaning back, taking this metaphorical step. In the dim, golden light of Sam's little lamp, the two of you alone with the quiet, crooning song, Sam's strong arms around you, everything suddenly feels easy and simple.
It feels like home.
Your turn your face to his. You've never been this close, close enough to see the fine lines around his eyes, the creases pressed into his skin from more than a lifetime of suffering and laughter and fighting. His eyes, dark in the muted light, are wide and still as he waits for you to decide.
Just as he's done every night. No need to make him wait anymore.
You press your lips to his before you lose your nerve, and his intake of breath sweeps cool over your mouth before he returns the kiss. Careful and deliberate but with a hint of the strength that lives within him. And so very warm.
You pull back just enough to bump the tip of your nose against his. Eyes still closed, he exhales, a short little chuckle that curls his lips and relaxes his shoulders.
"Yeah, Sam. This is definitely okay."