"Sam! Sam?!"

Dean's cries would have broken Chrys's heart if it hadn't been too busy beating so hard it made her chest ache. Sam had screamed only once, but it was already on the list of the top five worst moments of her life. It was remarkable how many of those moments featured losing Sam.

She ran her hand down his face, trying to relax his clenched jaw and furrowed brow. "Come back, Sam," she said softly, "Come back to me."

Dean stood and started to pace, his movements jerky and agitated. She knew the lamp was done for before he reached it. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!' he cried as he tossed it across the room. The sound of it shattering made her jump a little, but she didn't move from where she'd pulled Sam's head into her lap.

"We've got to get him away from here," she said gently, still stroking Sam's stubbly cheek.

As she spoke, his hazel eyes fluttered open. Her heart thumped hard in her chest again, and she smiled down at him. "Hey, hey, take it easy, okay?"

He stared at her for a moment, then surged up and wrapped his arms around her to crush her to his chest at an awkward angle. She blinked, then leaned into him and tilted her head, giving him more room to press his face into her neck. He was breathing hard, and he barely even grunted to acknowledge when Dean dropped to his knees next to them.

"How long?" Sam asked in a ragged voice.

She frowned, wishing her arms weren't trapped between them so she could touch him. "How long what?"

He didn't let her go, just spoke into her neck. "How long was I… Was I gone?"

Chrys met Dean's worried gaze over Sam's shoulder. "Gone?" Dean questioned. "You mean how long were you out? Two minutes, three tops, man."

Chrys leaned back just a little, just enough to get Sam to look up at her. "How long was it for you?" she asked softly, watching those lovely hazel eyes for signs of deception.

She needn't have bothered. There was just hollowness, fear, and the echo of pain there. "About a week, it felt like."

She winced, and finally wiggled an arm out from between them. She ran her fingers through his hair, assuring herself that he was alive and well. "Well, you're here with us now," she said in a low voice. "And we'll get you out of here, okay?"

He leaned into her touch and nodded. "Yeah, yeah, let's go."


It was late when Dean finally felt they'd travelled enough to be a safe distance from the town the Arachne had been in. Chrys watched both brothers like a hawk from the backseat, looking for signs that Dean was too tired drive, or that Sam was about to go down again. She'd wanted him to sit in the back with her, but he'd insisted he was fine.

My ass, she thought resentfully as Dean navigated the Impala into the parking lot of a little motel. Her anxiety level was too high to just sit there, so she was already opening the door when he put it into park. "I'll go get the room."

"Get two," Dean said as he dug cash out of his coat pocket and handed it to her through the open driver's side window.

She nodded and took the bills. "Done and done."


Sam watched as Chrys walked to the office, appreciating the way she moved for a moment before turning to his brother. "Why two rooms?"

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, I'm gonna sign up to watch you two make googly eyes at each other all night. No, thank you."

Sam frowned. "Come on, it's not like we can't control ourselves."

Dean sighed and looked upwards. "Why does everyone think I'm the insensitive brother, again? Is it because I'm the better-looking one?"

Sam ignored him. "What are you talking about?"

Dean sighed and ran a hand down his face. "Look, Sam, C is gonna need you. Trust me, two rooms is the way to go."

"Why would you think that?"

Dean groaned. "Look, she's gonna want to… I don't know, man, I know her, and she's just gonna need you."

Anger started to bubble in Sam's chest. He latched onto it, it was better than the soul deep fear and guilt that was threatening to drown him. So anger it was. "And how would you know that, exactly? And what's with calling her 'C?'" He was starting to warm to his subject. "You two seem awfully damn cozy-"

"Fuck you, Sam," Dean interrupted, his voice low and dangerous. "Just go fuck yourself, all right? You didn't have to be here. You didn't have to pick up the pieces, you didn't… You didn't have to see her." When his brother turned to look at him, the rage in Dean's eyes took Sam by surprise. "You were dead, and we had to keep going somehow. So, yeah, we kept an eye on each other."

Sam took a deep breath and nodded briefly. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry."

Dean's face didn't change an iota. "And God help me, Sam, if you bring this up to Chrys, I hope she breaks your fucking arm." He levelled a finger at Sam. "I mean it, don't. She went through some rough shit, don't you drag her through it again. Understood?"

Sam stared at his brother. Dean was right, the anger Sam had been clinging to wasn't justified. He knew they hadn't done anything even remotely romantic. He knew Chrys backward and forward, he knew the way she moved when she'd been intimate with someone, and she didn't move that way with Dean. She'd moved that way with Bella, but not with Dean. Sam wasn't so insecure that he had to be jealous of nothing.

"Understood," he said softly.

"What's understood?"

They both turned at Chrys's suspicious voice through the open window. She was holding room keys and a receipt, and her pretty blue eyes were narrowed at the two of them.

"Nothing," Dean said too loudly. "Got the rooms?"

She stared at them for another moment, then handed Dean one of the keys. "Smooth," she said dryly, "but whatever. Let's get some rest, Winchesters."


He looks so tired.

Chrys got them settled in for the night silently, keeping a worried eye on her soulmate. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his movements were slow and careful. It broke her heart a little bit, but she restrained herself. She suspected Sam wouldn't let her coddle him like she wanted to.

But when he sank onto the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands, her control shattered. Fuck it.

She knelt in front of him, fought with herself for a moment, and started to unlace his boots. When he put his weight on his forearms and let his hands dangle between his thighs, she didn't look up at him. She just tugged until he lifted his leg enough that she could pull the boot off, then she repeated on the other.

When that was done, she gently rolled his socks off. She tucked them into his boots and placed them at the foot of the bed. Then she stood and took his hands into hers, tugging until he was standing, too.

He just stared down at her. "Chrys, what are you doing?"

"Shut up, Sam," she said softly as she took the hem of his shirt into her hands. "Arms up."

He frowned, but obeyed, and she stripped the t-shirt off of him, going on tiptoe to pull it over his head. She tossed it into the corner of the room, then placed a brief kiss to his warm, muscled chest before starting to unbutton his jeans.

"Chrys, I'm not an invalid, I can do this myself."

"Shut up, Sam," she said serenely as she pulled the zipper down on his jeans. She slowly slid them down his long legs, then tapped each calf in turn to get him to step out of them.

He did, but he was still frowning down at her. "Chrys, I-"

"Shut up, Sam," she repeated as she took his hand and tugged him into the bathroom. She met his eyes and silently begged. Please let me take care of you, it's the only thing I can think to do.

Though no words were spoken aloud, he seemed to get the message. He nodded briefly, and his eyes softened as he let her lead him to the shower.

Once there, she slid his boxers down his legs, then quickly stripped herself. She turned the shower on, made sure it was hot, then took his hand and pulled him in with her.

She put his back to the spray, then reached up and threaded her fingers through his thick hair. She used her gentle hold to tilt his head back, letting the water hit it. She let him go just long enough to pour shampoo into her hand, then reached up again to gently wash his dark locks thoroughly. She tilted his head back again to rinse out the suds.

Done with that, she took one of the washcloths and the bar of soap and started to wash the rest of him.

There was nothing sexual about the way she ran the cloth from his neck, along his broad shoulders, down his thick arms. Some part of her was appreciating the hard planes of his chest and the ridges of muscles in his stomach, but this wasn't about sex.

She washed across his stomach, his hips, down his legs. She washed him, trying to tell him without speaking how much she loved him, how glad she was that he was back, and how terrified she was about this new scary wrinkle in their lives.

When she was done, she stood, suddenly unsure of herself. She'd been so absorbed in her task, she wasn't sure what to do now that it was done.

The soft warmth in his hazel eyes made her pulse quicken. He cupped the back of her head and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Then he slowly took the soap and cloth from her. "Your turn."

She frowned and opened her mouth to protest. This wasn't about her, it was about him. He smothered her words with a kiss. "Please, Chrys," he whispered against her mouth.

She understood, more than he knew. So she nodded and let him gently rearrange them so she was standing under the spray. He washed her hair, and she found herself leaning into his touch.

"This is growing on me," he said softly, fingering the tips of her faded blue hair. "I like it."

She didn't open her eyes. "I couldn't keep it," she whispered. "I couldn't keep it long while you were gone. Or the skirts."

He stilled, and she winced. Dammit. She hadn't meant to say that, or to tell him anything about the year and a half his soul had been in hell.

The night after he'd gotten back, when they'd slept together for the first (second first) time, they hadn't talked. Not about anything important, they'd chatted about news and trends. They'd talked dirty, about missing one another's flesh and hands and mouths. But they hadn't talked about this.

He pulled her closer, and she automatically tucked herself into him. She hoped he would shut up about it, but she knew better. Her lover wasn't the kind of man who let things go.

"Tell me about it," he said softly, his low voice rumbling in his chest.

She thought for a beat, then, "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."


Sam listened raptly to Chrys's story.

His heart broke when she told him about going back to NA, about long nights shaking and digging her fingernails into her palms. About the two times she actually had keys in hand to leave to use, but had put them down, locked herself in the bathroom, and called Dean. Sam dried her off gently as she spoke, to hide his own trembling hands.

Once they were dressed and in bed, facing one another on the same pillow, he listened as she told him about living with Kevin, Serene, and Jesse. She told him about Jesse's growing control of his powers, and his growing height. "He might be as tall as you someday, Sammy." She told him about the routine they'd fallen into, about how it had helped.

She told him about the decision to cut her hair and ditch the skirts. About moving into her own apartment and learning things about herself. About cooking and old movies and long nights spent in silence, just exploring her own company.

Then, in a halting voice that was barely above a whisper, she told him about Bella.

How they met, their first few dates, the decision to move in together. Sam quelled the burning jealousy in his heart. Not just over Bella, though he very much despised the idea of someone else's hands on Chrys, man or woman.

He was jealous over the life Bella had been able to give Chrys. The apartment, the job, the peace. No matter what he did, Sam could never give her those things.

He managed to keep those feelings off of his face, though. She didn't need all of his crap on top of hers.

Her face was tucked into his neck, and they were tangled up in each other as she wound down.

"I never stopped turning to talk to you, when something happened. I never stopped talking to you."

He blinked and pulled her closely. "Really?"

She nodded, never lifting her head. "Always. And it never stopped surprising me when you weren't there."

He leaned back just enough to press his lips to her forehead. "I'm sorry, beautiful."

She looked at him frankly. "I know. I understand, it's okay."

It really hit Sam then, that she was in love with him. The woman in his arms was not the one the outside world saw every day. The softness here was something no one else got to see, at least not to the extent he did. She was hard and biting and mean, not soft and lovely.

Shit.

"You're right," he said roughly.

She blinked, then smiled softly. "Well, yeah. But about what?"

"No more. No more investigating, or digging. If we're somewhere and I think I was there before, we'll leave. I'm sorry I pushed, we'll-"

Her soft, cold fingers on his lips stopped him as her smile slipped off of her face. "Where is this coming from?" she asked, her blue eyes searching his.

"I… I guess I just realized what it must have done to you." He pulled her into him again, holding her as close as possible. "I couldn't have done it," he whispered raggedly into her hair. "I couldn't have let you go, let you die. You're incredible."

Her arms were around him, and she was holding him just as fiercely as he was her. She pressed her face into his neck again. "I was so scared, back in that motel room," she whispered. "I thought I lost you again, I thought he won again, I-"

"Never," he promised, "Never again."


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