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The sound was faint, but it wasn’t nothing. A creak of the floorboards. The shift of weight. Sam’s eyes snapped open, adrenaline kicking in before his brain could fully catch up. Jess was still asleep beside him, her breathing slow and steady, but Sam’s senses were already tuned to something out of place.
Quietly, he slipped out of bed, his bare feet brushing against the cold floor. The house was still, but that noise… it had come from the living room. He grabbed the fireplace poker from its stand as he passed it, the solid weight familiar in his hand. Four years of trying to forget his training hadn’t dulled his instincts. The memory of everything he’d walked away from was still there, no matter how much he’d tried to bury it.
The living room was dark, moonlight pooling through the half-open blinds. The poker gripped tight, Sam moved silently toward the shadowed figure by the window. Whoever it was, they were big, broad-shouldered, and confident enough to not care how much noise they were making. Sam’s jaw tightened. Whoever they were, they’d picked the wrong house.
With a sharp inhale, Sam struck out, the poker swinging toward the intruder. The figure dodged, quicker than Sam expected, and a rough grunt filled the space as they stumbled backward. Sam didn’t let up. He lunged, using his weight to knock them off balance, the two of them crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
“Jesus Christ!” The man’s voice hissed, strained and familiar… but no. It couldn’t be.
Sam froze, the familiarity of the voice throwing him off just long enough for the man to twist sharply beneath him. In a blur of motion, Sam was flipped onto his back, his wrists pinned above his head. The face that hovered over him came into focus, and Sam’s breath caught.
“Whoa, easy, tiger,” Dean said, his voice tinged with that smugness Sam had spent years trying to forget.
Sam’s mind blanked for a second, his chest heaving from the struggle. Dean. Here. Now. His hair was shorter than Sam remembered, his jaw sharper, his shoulders broader. The years had done him good, but that didn’t make any sense. Why the hell was he here?
“Dean?!” Sam gasped, his voice cracking with disbelief. “You scared the crap out of me!”
Dean’s grin widened, and for a second, Sam hated how easy and familiar it felt to see it. “That’s ‘cause you’re out of practice,” Dean said, the teasing lilt in his voice unchanged.
Before Sam could think better of it, he shoved upward, twisting his hips to reverse their positions. Dean let out a grunt as Sam pinned him to the floor, the poker clattering forgotten to the side. For a moment, Sam felt a sharp satisfaction at having the upper hand.
“Or not,” Dean muttered, smirking up at him. “Get off me.”
Sam hesitated, his hands still gripping Dean’s wrists. He could feel the warmth of Dean’s skin beneath his palms, the rise and fall of his chest as he caught his breath. The moment stretched too long, and Sam’s stomach churned. He pushed himself off, standing quickly and stepping back, trying to shove down the nausea rising in his throat.
Dean got up too, brushing himself off like they hadn’t just been grappling on the floor. He looked the same but different—older, harder, and somehow even more magnetic than Sam remembered. It was unfair how much he’d changed and how much he hadn’t. Sam’s chest felt too tight as he tried to process it.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Sam demanded, his voice sharper than he intended.
Dean shrugged, his smirk lazy. “I was looking for a beer.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “What. The hell. Are you doing here?”
Dean sighed, glancing over his shoulder toward the corner of the room. Sam followed his gaze, and for the first time, he noticed the figure standing there, half-hidden in the shadows. His breath hitched.
Gracie.
She stepped forward slowly, her arms crossed over her chest, and Sam’s heart clenched. She was… different. Her hair was longer, but her frame looked leaner, stronger. There was a sharpness in her posture, in her gaze, that hadn’t been there before. But her eyes… they were the same. They locked on his, cautious and soft and searching.
“Grace,” Sam breathed, the name tumbling out before he could stop it.
Her lips curved into a small smile, and his heart twisted painfully. “Hey, Sammy,” she said softly.
Four years. Four years of trying to forget how her voice sounded, how her eyes lit up when she smiled, how her presence felt like gravity. And now she was standing there, just as magnetic as ever, and Sam’s carefully constructed walls were already crumbling.
The click of a light switch snapped him out of it. The room flooded with light, and Sam turned toward the doorway, where Jess stood blinking sleepily. Her blonde hair was mussed from sleep, her tiny shorts and cropped Smurfs shirt leaving little to the imagination. She looked…
Sam’s stomach dropped. She looked like Grace.
It wasn’t something he’d ever let himself think about too much before. He’d always known there were similarities—the hair, the softness in her features, the way she moved—but seeing them side by side, it was impossible to ignore. He’d spent four years trying to replace Grace with someone who could never be her, and the realisation hit him like a punch to the gut.
“Sam?” Jess said, her voice thick with confusion. “What’s going on?”
Sam shook himself, forcing a tight smile. “Jess, hey,” he said, stepping toward her. “This is my brother, Dean, and my sister, Grace.”
Her gaze flicked between them, lingering on Dean. “Wait, your brother Dean?”
Dean leaned casually against the wall, flashing her a grin that Sam knew all too well. “Oh, I love the Smurfs,” Dean said, his tone low and teasing. “You know, I gotta tell you, you are completely out of my brother’s league.”
Grace scoffed, muttering something under her breath, but Jess just shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Sam’s jaw tightened as he stepped closer to Jess, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. “Uh,” Jess murmured, clearly flustered. “Just let me put something on.”
Dean waved her off with a smirk. “No no, no, I wouldn’t dream of it. Seriously. Anyway, we gotta borrow your boyfriend here, talk about some private family business. But, uh, nice meeting you.”
Sam’s spine straightened, his voice firm. “No. Whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of her.”
Dean’s smirk faltered for a moment, and his gaze darted to Grace, who was watching the exchange with a raised eyebrow. When his eyes met Sam’s again, his expression sobered. “Okay,” Dean said, his voice low. “Dad hasn’t been home in a few days.”
Sam frowned, crossing his arms. “So he’s working overtime on a Miller Time shift. He’ll stumble back in sooner or later.”
Dean’s jaw tightened, and he glanced at Grace one last time before turning back to Sam. His voice dropped, the weight of his words pressing down on the room.
“Dad’s on a hunting trip,” Dean said. “And he hasn’t been home in a few days.”
Sam's stomach twisted and he turned to Jess with a gentle smile, placing a hand on the small of her back. "I need to talk to them, why don't you go back to bed?"
Sam’s knuckles tightened on the edge of the counter as Jess retreated into the bedroom, leaving him alone with the echoes of his own racing thoughts. His heart hadn’t slowed since Dean’s voice cut through the room like a knife—Dad’s on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days.
He turned to where Dean and Grace stood in the middle of his living room, both of them watching him. Dean’s expression was guarded, though a flicker of something unreadable lingered in his green eyes—concern, guilt, maybe even relief. Grace, on the other hand, stood like a statue—her arms crossed, her weight cocked onto one hip, her lips quirked in that smirk Sam remembered too well. She looked… different. Older. Sharper.
Sam swallowed hard, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s take this outside.”
Dean raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue, leading the way to the stairwell. Grace followed close behind, her boots clicking softly against the floor, and Sam couldn’t stop his gaze from lingering. Her hair was a little longer than he remembered, the faint streaks of light catching on the soft strands. Her figure had filled out in ways that made his stomach twist, and she moved with a quiet confidence he hadn’t seen in her before. She’d always been beautiful, but now… now she was stunning. It was infuriating.
The stairwell was dim, the fluorescent light above them buzzing faintly as it cast a pale glow over the space. Sam leaned against the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Okay,” he said, his voice coming out sharper than he intended. “Talk.”
Dean leaned casually against the railing, but Sam could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched. “Dad’s missing,” he said flatly. “He took off a couple weeks ago on a solo hunt. Said something about a poltergeist in Nebraska.”
“And he hasn’t checked in since,” Grace added, her voice low but steady. There was an edge of irritation beneath her calm tone, like she was just as pissed about it as Sam suddenly felt.
Sam blinked, the words settling in like stones in his gut. A couple of weeks? His father might have been a lot of things—controlling, obsessive, impossible to please—but he wasn’t careless. If he wasn’t checking in, something was wrong. Very wrong.
“He’s been letting you hunt alone?” Sam asked, his voice tinged with disbelief as his gaze flicked between them.
Dean’s lips quirked into a faint, humourless smile. “What, you think we’ve just been sitting around knitting sweaters? Yeah, he lets us hunt alone. Told us to ‘keep up the good work’ or whatever while he went off on his little mission.”
Sam’s stomach twisted. The idea of John trusting anyone, especially Grace, to hunt alone felt almost laughable. “But…” He hesitated, glancing at her.
“But I’m ‘delicate’?” She said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. She tilted her head, her eyes locking on his with a challenge he’d never seen before. “Yeah, Dad stopped calling me that a while ago. Guess I finally proved I’m not gonna shatter like glass.”
Sam’s throat tightened at the memory of John’s constant warnings. Protect her. Keep her safe. She’s not like you two. He’d believed it for so long, bought into the idea that Grace was some fragile, untouchable thing. But now? Now she was standing in front of him, sharp and smirking, a force to be reckoned with.
Dean’s expression darkened. “She’s right. Dad’s been… different since you left. Pushing us harder. Especially her.” His jaw tightened as he glanced at Grace. “It’s like he’s trying to make up for lost time or something. But she’s held her own.”
Grace shrugged, her smirk softening into something more wistful. “Don’t look so shocked, Sammy. I’m not a kid anymore.”
Sam’s chest ached as he looked at her. She wasn’t. She was twenty-one now, a grown woman who carried herself with a quiet, dangerous confidence. But she wasn’t just some stranger who happened to look like his sister. She was Grace. And that made it so much worse.
“So what’s the plan?” He asked, his voice quieter now, almost resigned.
Dean straightened, his shoulders squaring. “We’re heading to Jericho. Dad’s journal mentioned something about men going missing there. Figured it’s a good place to start.”
Sam nodded slowly, the name ringing faintly familiar in the back of his mind. Jericho. Missing men. Dad’s journal. It was like being pulled back into a world he’d tried so hard to escape. A world that still felt like it had its claws in him.
And then there was Jess. Sweet, bright Jess, waiting for him back in their apartment, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing outside her door. Sam’s stomach churned at the thought of dragging her into this—of letting her see this side of him.
Grace tilted her head, watching him with that same knowing look she’d always had. “You in, Sammy?”
Sam hesitated, his gaze drifting between the two of them. Dean, standing solid and steady, his green eyes flickering with something unspoken. Grace, smirking softly, her hazel-green eyes sharp and searching, like she could see every thought running through his head.
He swallowed hard, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He’d spent four years trying to forget them. Trying to move on. But seeing them now? There was no pretending anymore.
“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice steady. “I’m in.”
Sam pushed the stairwell door open and gestured for Dean and Grace to follow him back into the apartment. The buzz of the fluorescent light above them faded as they stepped inside, the quiet hum of the fridge and the soft padding of their footsteps filling the space. Jess was waiting for them, now dressed in a simple t-shirt and shorts, her earlier sleepiness replaced by a quiet alertness. A pot of coffee sat steaming on the counter, and she offered them a small smile as they entered.
“I figured you guys could use some coffee,” Jess said, her tone warm but a little hesitant as her eyes flicked between Sam and his siblings.
Grace smiled back, stepping forward to grab a mug. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”
Jess shrugged, pouring a cup for herself and leaning against the counter. “It’s no trouble. Sam’s told me a lot about you two.”
Sam stiffened, his gaze darting to Grace and Dean. Grace was smirking slightly, her eyes sharp and amused as she looked at Jess. “Oh yeah? All good things, I hope?”
Jess’s lips twitched into a grin. “Mostly. He’s got stories, though.”
Grace chuckled, taking a sip of her coffee. “I bet he does.”
Sam’s stomach twisted as he watched them. The way they interacted—the easy banter, the mutual spark of humour—made something inside him ache. It was like seeing two versions of the same person, both sweet but with an edge of fire. And the worst part? He couldn’t help but notice how Grace’s presence seemed to amplify everything. Jess’s laugh was brighter, her movements more animated, like she was instinctively trying to match Grace’s energy. And Grace? Grace was completely at ease, her smirk softening into something almost affectionate as she spoke.
Dean’s voice cut through Sam’s thoughts. “So, what’s the deal, Sammy? You coming with us or what?”
Sam blinked, his attention snapping back to his brother. Dean was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his green eyes fixed on Sam with an intensity that made his stomach flip. There was something different about Dean, too. Something sharper. Older. His shoulders seemed broader, his stance more confident, and the slight scruff on his jaw only added to the rugged edge he’d always carried. It was infuriating how good he looked—how he still managed to pull Sam’s focus without even trying.
“I’ll pack a bag,” Sam said, his voice quieter than he intended. “But I have an interview Monday. I need to be back for that, so I’m not staying once we find Dad.”
Dean’s expression hardened, his jaw clenching as he pushed off the wall. “An interview? Seriously? Dad’s missing, Sam.”
Sam bristled, but before he could respond, Grace stepped forward and placed a hand on Dean’s arm.
Dean’s head snapped toward her, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. They exchanged a look—one of those silent, unspoken conversations they’d always been able to have. Sam’s chest tightened as he watched them, a flicker of jealousy igniting in his gut. The way Dean’s eyes softened when he looked at Grace, the way her hand lingered on his arm longer than necessary… it was too much.
Grace turned back to Sam, her expression calm but firm. “We’ll work around your schedule, Sammy. Let’s just get to Dad first, okay?”
Sam nodded reluctantly, his throat tight as he turned toward the bedroom to pack his bag. The apartment felt smaller now, the air thick with unspoken words and lingering tension. As he grabbed his duffel from the closet, his mind raced. He couldn’t shake the way Dean’s gaze lingered on Grace, or the way she’d calmed him with just a touch. It wasn’t jealousy—not really. But it was something close. Something dangerous.
When he returned to the kitchen, Jess was pouring another round of coffee while Grace and Dean leaned against the counter, their heads close as they spoke in hushed tones. They straightened when they noticed Sam, and he couldn’t help but notice the faint blush on Grace’s cheeks as she turned away.
“Ready?” Dean asked, his voice gruff but steady.
Sam nodded, glancing at Jess. “I’ll call you when I can.”
Jess smiled softly, stepping forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “Be careful, okay?”
He nodded, his chest tightening as he turned back to Grace and Dean. They were already heading for the door, their movements in sync as they stepped into the hallway. Sam followed, his thoughts a chaotic mess as they descended the stairs. The sight of them together—so familiar, so different—was enough to make his head spin.
As they stepped outside into the cool night air, Sam couldn’t help but glance at Grace one last time. Her profile was sharp in the dim light, her eyes flicking toward him briefly before she turned to Dean with a smirk. And Dean? Dean was already looking at Sam, his expression unreadable but heavy with something Sam couldn’t name.
“Let’s hit the road,” Dean said, his voice cutting through the silence.
Sam nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets as he followed them to the Impala. The night stretched ahead of them, dark and uncertain, and Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing would ever be the same again.
Grace tossed her bag into the trunk of the Impala, turning to Sam with a teasing grin. “Guess I’ll give up shotgun for the giant,” she said, gesturing toward the front passenger seat. “You’re even taller now. What are you, seven feet?”
Sam rolled his eyes, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Six-four, but thanks for the exaggeration.”
Dean chuckled as he slid into the driver’s seat, his eyes briefly flicking to Sam, then to Grace. Sam didn’t miss the way both of them looked him over, their gazes sweeping down and back up like they were sizing him up. Or… something else. His stomach twisted, and he forced himself to look away, shoving the thought down before it could fester.
He was not going to let himself spiral. Not again.
Sam climbed into the passenger seat, stretching his legs out in front of him. The Impala felt smaller than he remembered, more cramped with his long frame tucked inside. Grace hopped into the backseat, leaning forward to rest her arms on the front bench. “So, Sammy,” she said, her tone light and teasing, “what’s it like being back in the family circus?”
He glanced at her through the rearview mirror, her smirk both familiar and infuriating. “It’s not exactly how I pictured my weekend,” he admitted, his voice tinged with dry humour.
“Oh, come on,” Dean interjected, shifting the car into gear and pulling onto the road. “You missed us. Admit it.”
Sam huffed a laugh, but the weight of their words lingered. He hadn’t missed the subtle resentment in Dean’s tone, or the way Grace’s smirk had faltered just slightly. It wasn’t overt, but it was there—a reminder that while he’d been building a life for himself, they’d been stuck carrying the weight of their father’s mission.
“So, uh,” Sam began, desperate to shift the conversation. “How’s the hunting been?”
Dean glanced at him sideways, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Kicking ass and taking names, as usual. Gracie’s become a damn sharpshooter. Took out a ghoul last week with one shot. Right through the eye.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up, and he turned in his seat to look at Grace. She grinned, leaning back with a smug expression. “What can I say? I’ve got good instincts.”
“And a big head,” Dean added, earning a playful swat on the arm from Grace.
Sam laughed, but the sound felt foreign in his throat. The banter, the easy camaraderie between Dean and Grace, was so natural it was almost unsettling. He’d forgotten how seamlessly they worked together, how they seemed to communicate without words. It was a language he used to speak, too, but now? Now he felt like an outsider looking in.
The road stretched ahead of them, illuminated by the Impala’s headlights. The familiar rumble of the engine filled the silence as Sam’s thoughts churned. He couldn’t stop noticing the little things—the way Grace’s fingers drummed against her knee in time with the music, the way Dean’s jaw clenched every time her laughter rang out. And then there were the moments when their gazes met, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. It was subtle, but Sam’s overactive mind latched onto it, dissecting every glance, every shift in body language.
“You okay, Sammy?” Dean’s voice broke through his thoughts, drawing his attention back to the present.
“Yeah,” Sam said quickly, clearing his throat. “Just… getting used to being back, I guess.”
Grace leaned forward again, resting her chin on the back of the seat. “You’ll be fine,” she said, her tone softer now. “It’s like riding a bike. You don’t forget.”
Sam nodded, but the words didn’t comfort him. Because the truth was, he hadn’t forgotten. Not the hunts, not the camaraderie, and certainly not the feelings he’d spent the last four years trying to bury. And now, sitting in the Impala with Dean and Grace, those feelings were clawing their way back to the surface, relentless and unwelcome.
He glanced out the window, his reflection staring back at him in the glass. He’d come so far—built a life, found stability. But now, with Dean and Grace by his side, he couldn’t help but feel like he was right back where he started. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the sense that this was exactly where he was meant to be—even if it scared him to death.
The hum of the engine filled the car, a steady, almost soothing rhythm that seemed to underscore the silence stretching between them. Sam shifted in his seat, his long legs brushing against the dashboard as he tried to ignore the tension bubbling under the surface. He wasn’t sure if it was the weight of old resentments or the unbearable pull he felt toward the two people in the car with him. Maybe it was both.
Grace was in the backseat, stretched out like she didn’t have a care in the world, her golden hair catching the flicker of passing streetlights. Sam couldn’t help but notice the way her soft laugh broke the quiet as she teased Dean about some inside joke Sam had long since missed out on. She was beautiful—more beautiful than she’d been at seventeen, which was saying something.
He hated himself for noticing.
“Jess seems nice,” Grace said suddenly, her voice cutting through the hum of the road. She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on the back of Sam’s seat, her hazel-green eyes glittering with something that Sam couldn’t quite place. Hope? Curiosity? Mischief? He couldn’t tell.
Sam swallowed hard. “She is,” he replied, his voice tight. “She’s great.”
Grace smiled faintly, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before flicking to Dean. “She reminds me of someone, though,” Dean said, his tone casual, but there was an edge to it that Sam couldn’t ignore.
Sam stiffened, his hands clenching slightly on his knees. He didn’t dare look at Dean, didn’t dare meet his brother’s knowing gaze. He could feel it—Dean watching him, waiting for a reaction.
“Who?” Grace asked, tilting her head. She sounded genuinely curious, but there was something else there, something softer that made Sam’s chest tighten.
Dean’s fingers flexed on the wheel, his lips curving into the faintest smirk. “I dunno. Maybe someone blonde, with a quick wit and a habit of driving me nuts.”
Sam’s stomach churned. He knew exactly who Dean meant. Grace let out a soft laugh, the sound far too sweet for the tension thickening the air. “Really?” She asked, her tone light but tinged with something hopeful. “You think she’s like me?”
Dean shrugged, his smirk widening just a fraction. “I don’t know, Gracie. You tell me.”
Sam forced himself to stare out the window, his jaw tight as he tried to block out the loaded exchange happening beside him. He couldn’t do this—couldn’t let his mind spiral the way it always did around them. But then Dean shifted in his seat, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut over his arms as he adjusted his grip on the wheel, and Sam’s gaze betrayed him.
God, Dean looked good. He always had, but now? Now he was older, broader, more sure of himself in a way that made Sam’s stomach twist painfully.
Grace let out another laugh, this one softer, like she was trying to keep it just for herself. Sam caught her reflection in the rearview mirror, her lips curved into a faint smile, her golden hair falling in loose waves around her face. She was leaning back now, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the seat beside her, and Sam could feel the heat rising in his chest.
“Sammy, you okay?” Dean’s voice broke through, and Sam jerked slightly, tearing his gaze away from Grace’s reflection.
“Yeah,” Sam said quickly, his voice a little too sharp. He cleared his throat, forcing a strained smile. “Just thinking.”
Dean hummed, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror for a second, catching Grace’s gaze before returning to the road. “Careful, Sammy. Don’t hurt yourself.”
Grace snorted, her smile growing. “He’s probably thinking about Jess,” she teased, her tone light. “Or maybe about how weird it is that we’re all crammed in here like this after four years.”
Sam shot her a look over his shoulder, his heart pounding. “You think I’m that predictable?”
Grace shrugged, her smirk playful. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just really good at reading you.”
Sam opened his mouth to retort, but the words died on his tongue as Dean chuckled lowly, the sound sending a shiver down Sam’s spine. “She’s got you pegged, Sammy,” Dean said, his voice warm but laced with amusement. “Always has.”
Sam sank back into his seat, the weight of their words settling over him like a suffocating blanket. They didn’t know—couldn’t know. But sometimes, like now, it felt like they did. Like they were both pushing him, testing the limits of how much he could take before he cracked.
The car fell silent again, the only sounds the hum of the engine and the faint rustle of Grace shifting in the backseat. Sam closed his eyes, willing himself to focus on anything but the tension knotting his chest. He couldn’t do this—not now. Not when every stolen glance, every brush of Dean’s fingers on the wheel, every soft laugh from Grace felt like it was pulling him under.
God help him, he was drowning.
As the Impala roared down the near-empty stretch of highway, Sam stared out the passenger window, his elbow propped on the doorframe and his knuckles brushing his lips. The low hum of Metallica on the stereo filled the silence, blending with the occasional rumble of the road beneath them.
In the backseat, Grace stretched her legs across the bench, one foot propped against the door and the other dangling off the edge. She was flipping through Dad’s journal, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her hair caught the dim glow of the dashboard lights, tumbling in loose waves around her face. She absentmindedly chewed on the corner of her bottom lip, and Sam had to look away before his thoughts slipped into dangerous territory again.
It was like no time had passed, and yet everything had changed. She wasn’t the same girl he’d left behind four years ago, tears streaking her cheeks as she begged him to stay. She was sharper now, more self-assured, her softness tempered by years of hunting and being pushed into roles she’d once been shielded from. But underneath it all, she was still Grace. Still the person he’d been desperate to leave behind because being near her—and Dean—felt like slow, exquisite torture.
He shifted in his seat, glancing at Dean, who was entirely focused on the road. Dean’s hand rested on the wheel, his fingers flexing every so often as he shifted gears. Sam couldn’t stop his eyes from tracing the veins running over the backs of his hands, the way his forearms tensed beneath his shirt. Dean had always been striking, but now… now he was something else entirely. He was broader, his jaw sharper, and his confidence had solidified into something tangible, magnetic.
Sam’s stomach churned. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stare straight ahead.
The memory of Grace clinging to him the night he left crept unbidden into his mind. Her fingers tangling in his hair, her voice breaking as she whispered, Don’t go. He’d thought about that moment so many times over the years, dissecting every second, every word, every tear. It had been his breaking point, the thing that cemented his decision to leave. Because staying meant giving in to those feelings, to the way his heart raced when she touched him, to the way Dean’s smirks twisted something deep inside him.
“Sammy,” Grace’s voice broke through his thoughts, soft and lilting. He glanced back at her through the rearview mirror, and she gave him a small, teasing smile. “You’ve gotten taller. I didn’t think that was even possible.”
Dean snorted, his lips twitching into a grin. “He’s a freakin’ beanpole now.”
Sam rolled his eyes, trying to keep the mood light despite the tightness in his chest. “It’s called a growth spurt. Maybe you should try it sometime.”
Dean barked a laugh, shooting him a sideways glance. “You saying I’m short?”
Grace’s soft laughter filled the car, and Sam’s pulse quickened. The sound was like a warm balm to his frayed nerves, and he hated himself for how much he craved it.
“You’re not short,” Grace said, leaning forward to rest her chin on the back of Dean’s seat. Her breath brushed against his ear, and Sam froze. “You’re just compact. Like a—”
“Careful, Gracie,” Dean warned, his voice low and teasing.
“—like a pint-sized action figure,” she finished, her smirk audible in her voice.
Dean swatted at her playfully, his grin widening. Sam watched the exchange with a growing sense of unease. The way Dean’s eyes lingered on Grace, the ease with which they touched, the way Grace’s gaze flicked to Dean’s lips when he laughed—it was too much. Too intimate. Too… something.
And it wasn’t just them. Grace’s teasing smile, the way she bit her lip as she leaned closer, the way her eyes sparkled when she looked at Sam—it all felt loaded, like she was testing boundaries he wasn’t ready to confront.
Dean rolled his eyes, swatting at Grace's shoulder again as she stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re one to talk, half-pint. I’m over six feet. You’re built like a damn little girl. I could carry you around with one arm.”
Grace snorted, her smirk sharpening as she arched an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Don’t make me remind you what happened last week. You throw me over your shoulder again, and you’ll regret it, big guy.”
Dean grinned, leaning against the steering wheel as if she’d just thrown down a challenge he couldn’t resist. “Regret it? You loved it. Don’t make me do it again right now.”
Sam watched the exchange from the corner of his eye, his jaw tightening as Grace tilted her head, her lips curling in a way that was almost too smug. She looked Dean dead in the eye, her voice dropping just enough to make Sam’s stomach twist.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Dean.”
Dean chuckled, the sound low and rough, and Sam’s grip on his knees tightened. The way they were looking at each other, the way Grace’s smirk didn’t waver and Dean’s eyes darkened just slightly… It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t sibling banter. Not the kind Sam remembered. It was sharp and dangerous, an unspoken language he hadn’t been fluent in for four years. And yet… he understood every word.
“You’re all talk,” Dean shot back, his grin widening as he reached back and nudged her knee with his hand.
Grace’s laugh was soft and sweet, like she was letting Dean think he’d won. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Sam felt like he couldn’t breathe. He looked between them, his gaze flickering from the way Grace’s teeth caught her bottom lip as she grinned to the way Dean’s eyes lingered on her for just a second too long before he turned his attention back to the road. This wasn’t how siblings interacted. Not even close.
And the worst part? It wasn’t just them.
Sam’s chest tightened as he shifted in his seat, his stomach churning with the kind of guilt he thought he’d left behind when he’d packed his bags and left for Stanford. But seeing them like this, seeing the way they moved and spoke like two parts of the same whole, it was impossible not to wonder.
Maybe they’re like me, he thought, the words coming unbidden and heavy. Maybe they’re just as fucked up as I am.
The idea twisted something deep inside him, something he’d buried under layers of denial and self-loathing. He’d spent four years convincing himself that he was the outlier, the freak who’d ruined everything because he couldn’t control the way he felt about his own family. But now? Now he wasn’t so sure.
“You good over there, Sammy?” Dean’s voice cut through his spiralling thoughts, snapping him back to the present.
Sam blinked, forcing a strained smile onto his face as he met Dean’s gaze. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he didn’t quite believe him, but he didn’t push. “We’re almost there. Just try not to drool on the seat if you pass out.”
Grace snickered, leaning forward to rest her chin on the back of Sam’s seat. “Don’t listen to him. Drool all you want. He’ll just clean it up later.”
Sam forced a laugh, the sound hollow in his own ears as he shifted away from her slightly. Her proximity, her scent, the way her hair brushed his shoulder… It was too much. Everything about her was too much.
Dean’s gaze flicked back to them briefly, his lips twitching like he was holding back a smirk. Sam’s stomach churned again, the weight of their unspoken connection pressing down on him like a lead blanket.
I should have stayed at Stanford. The thought was bitter and sharp, cutting through him like glass. But even as it crossed his mind, he knew it wasn’t true.
Because no matter how sick it made him feel, no matter how wrong it was, he couldn’t stay away from them. He never could.
The weekend passed in a haze of adrenaline, tension, and unresolved emotions. They didn’t find John, but they did find his motel room—a chaotic map of his obsession with the Woman in White. Newspaper clippings, hastily scribbled notes, and a tattered map spread across the bed like a crime scene. Sam had stared at it all, his stomach twisting, as Grace and Dean moved through the space with a familiarity that made his chest ache.
“He was here,” Dean had said, his voice tight as he sifted through the papers. “But he’s gone now. Left this for us to clean up.”
Grace had been quieter than usual, her fingers trailing over the edge of the desk as she stared at the mess their father had left behind. Sam couldn’t help but notice the tension in her shoulders, the way she seemed smaller somehow, even though she carried herself with that same sharp confidence she’d had all weekend. She’d been so… different. Older. Harder.
Still stunningly beautiful.
Sam hated himself for noticing, but he couldn’t stop. Grace had always been striking, but now? Now she was something else entirely, all sharp edges and soft curves and that maddening smirk that seemed to know every thought he was trying to suppress.
And then there was Dean. He’d always been larger than life to Sam, but in the years since he’d left, Dean had only become more… commanding. Confident. The kind of man who could walk into a room and own it without trying. Sam’s gaze kept catching on the curve of Dean’s mouth when he smirked, the flex of his forearms when he reached for something, the way his voice dipped when he spoke to Grace in that low, teasing tone.
God, he was a mess.
The hunt itself was brutal. Dean got arrested, leaving Sam and Grace to figure out how to deal with the vengeful spirit of the Woman in White. They’d barely managed to scrape by, Grace’s quick thinking saving Sam’s life when the spirit turned on him. By the time they lured her back to her house and her children’s spirits helped her pass over, Sam was physically and emotionally drained.
When Dean showed up again, freshly bailed out and already smug about it, Sam had felt a surge of something between relief and irritation. Dean’s casual attitude had always grated on him, but now it came with the added weight of everything he was trying not to think about.
The drive back to Stanford was tense. The three of them were quiet at first, the weight of the weekend hanging over them. Sam stared out the window, his mind racing as he tried to sort through everything he’d seen and felt. The way Dean and Grace moved together, their silent communication, their touches that lingered just a second too long. The way Grace had looked at him during the hunt, her eyes sharp and assessing, like she could see right through him.
He kept trying to tell himself that he was imagining it. That he was projecting his own twisted feelings onto them. But then there were moments that felt too deliberate, too charged. Like when Grace had caught him staring at her and smirked, her lips curving in a way that made his stomach flip. Or when Dean’s hand had lingered on Grace’s lower back, his fingers splaying just enough to make it clear that it wasn’t accidental.
And the flirting. God, the flirting.
It wasn’t just between Dean and Grace. They’d dragged him into it, their teasing and banter pulling at him until he couldn’t help but respond. And when he did, it was like they both lit up, their smiles sharper, their gazes heavier. It felt like a game he didn’t know the rules to, and it was driving him insane.
“Sammy,” Grace said, breaking the silence as she turned in her seat to look at him. “You okay back there?”
He glanced at her, his heart pounding at the way her blonde hair caught the light, her hazel eyes bright even in the dim glow of the car’s interior. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m fine.”
She studied him for a moment, her gaze unnervingly perceptive, before she smiled. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t think I can handle you sulking all the way back to Stanford.”
Dean snorted, his fingers flexing on the wheel. “Grace has a point. You’ve been quieter than usual, Sammy. Something on your mind?”
Sam shook his head, forcing a laugh. “Just tired, I guess.”
Dean glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his eyes sharp and knowing. “Long weekend,” he said, his tone light but laced with something heavier. “Guess you’re not used to the family business anymore, huh?”
Sam stiffened, his jaw tightening. “Guess not.”
Grace reached over and lightly smacked Dean’s arm. “Don’t be a dick,” she said, her voice teasing but firm. “Sam’s been a big help this weekend. We couldn’t have done it without him.”
Dean shot her a grin, but there was something in his eyes that made Sam’s chest tighten. “Yeah, well,” Dean said, his voice softer now. “He’s still got it.”
Sam looked away, his stomach twisting. He wanted to believe them, wanted to feel like he belonged with them again. But every time he got close, the weight of his feelings pulled him back. He’d never stopped loving them, but it wasn’t the kind of love he was supposed to feel. And being around them again was only making it worse.
As they drove, the miles slipping away beneath the Impala’s tires, Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that he was spiralling. And he didn’t know if he could pull himself out this time.
The Impala rolled to a slow stop outside Sam’s apartment building, the familiar rumble of the engine fading into the quiet street. Dean shifted into park, his knuckles brushing the wheel as he glanced over at Sam. “So,” he said, his tone deliberately casual, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. “You sure you don’t wanna come with us?”
Sam hesitated, his eyes flickering toward the apartment building. The faint glow of a light in one of the upper windows signalled Jess was waiting for him. A pang of guilt stabbed at his chest. He could feel Dean watching him, hopeful, and when he turned slightly, Grace was staring at him too, her brows drawn together in a way that made his stomach twist.
He wanted to say yes. God, he wanted to stay with them, to climb back into the Impala and leave everything behind. It would be easy—easier than he thought, considering how much he’d built here. But then his gaze returned to the building, to the life he’d fought so hard to create. To Jess.
“I can’t,” he said finally, the words coming out quieter than he intended. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look at Grace, and the expression on her face made his throat tighten. Her lips parted slightly, her eyes widening just a fraction before her expression shifted—hardening into something distant, something careful.
Sam’s chest ached. It was like watching her erect walls brick by brick, shutting him out as if to protect herself from the inevitable sting of his departure. It reminded him of the last time he left, the night she’d begged him to stay, her tears soaking into his shirt as she clung to him like he was her lifeline. The memory hit him like a punch to the gut.
Dean’s jaw tightened, his disappointment barely masked as he gave a small nod. “Right. You’ve got your interview,” he said, his voice steady, but Sam caught the edge to it, the way it clipped at the end.
Grace didn’t say anything. She just stared out the window, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her jacket.
They stepped out of the car to say their goodbyes, the tension hanging thick between them. When Grace stepped forward to hug him, it was brief, her arms wrapping around him tightly before she pulled back just as quickly. Sam hated how distant it felt, how different it was from the way she used to cling to him. He hated himself even more for being the reason.
Dean followed, pulling him into a quick embrace, his hand clapping firmly against Sam’s back. “Take care of yourself, Sammy,” he said, his voice low. Sam could hear the emotion beneath the words, the strain Dean was trying so hard to keep out of his voice.
“You too,” Sam murmured, stepping back as they both climbed into the Impala. He watched as the car pulled away, the tail lights disappearing down the street until he was left standing alone in the cool night air.
When he stepped inside the apartment, the quiet felt deafening. “Jess?” He called out, his voice echoing faintly in the space. He heard the faint sound of water running in the bathroom and assumed she was in the shower. “Jess?” He called again, heading toward the bedroom.
The moment he stepped inside, he let out a tired sigh and collapsed onto the bed, his arms flopping out to the sides. His eyes slipped shut, exhaustion weighing heavily on him.
And then— drip.
Something wet splattered against his cheek, and his eyes shot open. He froze.
Another drip. His gaze slowly trailed upward, and his breath caught in his throat.
Jess was on the ceiling, her eyes wide and unseeing, her mouth frozen in a silent scream. The blood drained from Sam’s face as he scrambled backward, his heart hammering wildly in his chest.
“No,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “Jess!”
Flames erupted around her, consuming her body as smoke began to fill the room. The heat was suffocating, the roar of the fire deafening. Sam stumbled to his feet, panic clawing at his throat as he reached for her, even though he knew it was futile.
“Sam!” Dean’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. Before Sam could react, Dean and Grace were suddenly there, grabbing him, pulling him away from the fire.
“No!” Sam shouted, struggling against them as they dragged him toward the door. “We have to save her! Jess!”
“Sammy, we gotta go!” Dean barked, his grip iron-tight around Sam’s arm as he yanked him into the hallway. Grace was on Sam’s other side, her face pale, her expression frantic as she helped Dean drag him out of the building.
The moment they hit the pavement, Sam collapsed to his knees, his chest heaving as he stared at the flames engulfing his apartment. His mind raced, his heart pounding as Grace knelt beside him, her hand resting gently on his back.
Dean crouched in front of him, his voice steady but urgent. “Sammy. Look at me. You’re okay. We’ll figure this out. We’ll figure it all out.”
But Sam wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay, and as he stared at the inferno before him, all he could feel was the crushing weight of loss—and the burning realisation that his past had just collided with his present in the most devastating way possible.
The days blurred together in a haze of grief and exhaustion. Sam lost track of how many hours they spent on the road, the Impala eating up mile after mile of cracked asphalt while the silence inside the car grew heavier with each passing day.
Jess was gone. The thought echoed endlessly in his mind, a dull, aching drumbeat that refused to fade. Her laughter, her smile, the way she’d kissed his cheek while murmuring “good luck” before every exam—it was all burned into his memory, now tangled with the image of her suspended on the ceiling, flames consuming her. No matter how many times he closed his eyes, he couldn’t unsee it.
Dean and Grace didn’t push him to talk about it, not outright. But their presence was constant, an anchor and a weight all at once. Dean filled the silences with classic rock and too-loud jokes that were more for himself than anyone else, while Grace sat in the backseat, flipping her butterfly knife between her fingers with a precision that shouldn’t have looked so graceful. Every so often, Sam would catch her watching him in the rearview mirror, her hazel-green eyes soft with concern.
He hated it. He hated how much it comforted him.
And then there were the moments that made his chest feel too tight, like he couldn’t breathe.
The way Dean’s arm would stretch across the back of the bench seat, his fingers brushing Grace’s shoulder, casual and intimate in a way that made Sam’s stomach twist. The way Grace leaned into Dean when she laughed, her smirk lighting up the car like a spark ready to catch fire. The way they moved around each other in motel rooms, a practiced dance that spoke of years spent in each other’s orbits, so close they barely needed words.
Sam couldn’t stop noticing. Couldn’t stop wondering if maybe—just maybe—they were like him. If they were just as wrong as he was.
It was a dangerous thought, and it made him feel sick.
But no matter how hard he tried to focus on Jess, on her laugh, on the scent of her shampoo, he kept finding his gaze wandering to the curve of Dean’s mouth when he spoke, to the way Grace’s lips would quirk up into a private little smile when she thought no one was looking. He felt like he was losing his mind.
And then there was Dad.
Sam hadn’t thought much about John Winchester in the years he’d been gone. He’d buried those memories, shoved them into a box and locked it away along with everything else from his old life. But now, with every town they passed through, every lead they followed, Sam felt the weight of his father’s shadow growing heavier.
The last time they’d spoken, John had told him to stay gone. That if he left, he wasn’t welcome back.
And yet, here he was.
Sam wasn’t sure if it was guilt or obligation or something darker that drove him forward. Maybe it was all of it. Maybe it was because part of him needed answers—about Jess, about the fire, about why all of this was happening.
But mostly, he hated the thought of what he might find when they finally tracked John down.
The weeks blurred into one another, the rhythm of the hunt pulling them forward like an unstoppable tide. Town after town, monster after monster, they moved together like a well-oiled machine. Sam tried to focus on the cases—the Wendigo in the Colorado wilderness, the vengeful spirit haunting the lake in Wisconsin, the nightmare of exorcising a demon at thirty-thousand feet. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop noticing the moments in between, the ones that made him question everything.
Dean’s easy charm was on full display when they met Haley Collins. His grins were sharper, his teasing smoother, his confidence almost predatory. Sam couldn’t help but notice the way Grace’s shoulders tensed every time Dean smiled too wide or leaned too close to Haley.
It wasn’t obvious—Grace had always been good at masking her feelings. But Sam had grown up with her. He knew the telltale signs: the way her hands fidgeted with her knife, the way her lips pressed into a thin line, the way her hazel-green eyes flicked toward Dean like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to kill him or herself.
He’d wrapped an arm around her shoulders without thinking, pulling her against his side in what was meant to be a comforting gesture. But when she turned her face into his chest, her small, grateful smile and the way she inhaled deeply against him sent a jolt of something sharp and dangerous through him.
He pushed it down. Hard.
But the feeling lingered, trailing behind him like a shadow as they moved from one hunt to the next.
In Toledo, he watched Dean force Bloody Mary to confront her own reflection, watched the guilt and shame twist across her face before she crumbled into nothingness. And all Sam could think about was his own reflection—how much he hated the person staring back at him every time he caught his image in a motel mirror.
At Lake Manitoc, Grace clung to him after they put the spirit to rest, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like she couldn’t let go. She looked up at him with those wide, tear-filled eyes, and he felt like he was drowning in her gratitude, her relief, her trust.
And at night, in the cramped quarters of whatever dingy motel or cabin they were staying in, the lines between them seemed to blur even more.
Grace would curl up against him on the bed, her head on his shoulder as she half-watched whatever crappy TV show Dean had picked. Dean would lean back against the headboard of his bed, his arm brushing against Sam’s in a way that felt too deliberate to be casual. They were always too close, too familiar, and it was driving Sam insane.
He couldn’t stop noticing the little things. The way Grace’s voice softened when she said his name. The way Dean’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel when he drove, veins standing out on his forearms like a map Sam wanted to trace with his hands. The way Grace and Dean would share a look that spoke volumes, communicating without words in a way that made Sam feel like an outsider and yet completely drawn in at the same time.
In St. Louis, Missouri, he watched Dean tackle the shapeshifter, rage flashing in his green eyes as he fought to protect them both. In Iowa, Grace’s laugh rang out after they finally put the hook-man case to rest, the sound so pure and bright it felt out of place amidst all the darkness.
But it was the nights that got to him the most. The nights when they were too tired to keep up their guards, too exhausted to pretend like they weren’t leaning on each other in ways they shouldn’t. Grace would climb into bed wearing one of Dean’s flannels, the hem barely brushing her thighs, her bare legs tucked beneath her as she leaned into Sam’s side. Dean would watch her with a soft look that made Sam’s stomach twist, and then his gaze would shift to Sam, and the air would feel thick with something unspoken.
Sam tried to tell himself it was all in his head. That he was imagining the way Dean’s gaze lingered on him, the way Grace’s touch seemed to last just a second too long.
But late at night, when he lay awake staring at the cracked ceiling of whatever room they were in, listening to the sound of Grace’s soft breathing and Dean’s occasional grumbles in his sleep, he couldn’t help but wonder.
Were they like him?
Were they just as wrong?
The thought terrified him. It also gave him a twisted sense of comfort, like maybe he wasn’t alone in his sickness. Maybe they were all broken in the same way.
He hated himself for thinking it.
But he couldn’t stop.
The days passed in a fog of hunts, long drives, and motel rooms that blurred together, each one more threadbare than the last. They were always moving, chasing leads, chasing ghosts, chasing something Sam wasn’t sure they’d ever catch.
The hunt in Oasis Plains was one of those hunts that lingered longer than Sam wanted it to. The eerie swarm of insects, the cursed land—it had been bad enough. But the moment that stuck with him wasn’t the buzzing of the locusts or the grotesque image of the skeletons in the ground.
It was Grace.
She’d been sitting on the hood of the Impala after they’d barely made it out alive, her jeans stained with dirt, her hair tangled from the chaos. She’d smiled at him, one of those rare, real smiles that made his chest ache. And when he hugged her, pulling her close to reassure himself she was okay, he held on too long.
Her arms tightened around his waist, her cheek pressed against his chest, and for a moment, Sam let himself sink into it. Let himself feel the warmth of her, the softness of her breath against his neck.
Then he let go like she’d burned him, stepping back with a muttered excuse about needing to check the car. But the ghost of her touch stayed with him, and the guilt dug its claws in deeper.
Going back to Lawrence was even worse.
He’d dreamt of their old house, of Jess, of flames licking at the edges of everything he loved. The nightmares left him gasping for air, his hands shaking as they packed up to head for Kansas.
Grace had sat in the backseat on that drive, her hand resting on Sam’s shoulder as she leaned forward to talk to him. Her touch was light, casual, but it sent a jolt through him that he hated himself for.
When they walked into the old house, Sam felt like a child again. The smell of the place hit him like a punch to the gut, and he could almost hear Dad’s voice, almost see Dean’s protective stance in front of him, Grace toddling behind them with her old stuffed bear in hand.
But it wasn’t the memories that haunted him the most.
It was Grace’s voice, soft and soothing as she comforted the family now living there. It was the way she moved through the house like she belonged there, her fingers brushing the walls like she was trying to anchor herself.
And when they faced the poltergeist, when Dean grabbed Sam’s arm to steady him and Grace pressed against his side to shield him, Sam felt like he was going to shatter.
Her hand lingered on his arm after the danger had passed, her thumb brushing against his sleeve in a way that felt too intimate to be accidental. Dean had been beside them, his green eyes sharp and focused, his hand on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam couldn’t breathe.
They were both too close, and all he wanted was to stay right there between them forever.
The asylum in Illinois pushed him over the edge.
The old building was cold and dark, the kind of place that seemed to breathe with its own malevolence. They’d split up to search for the source of the hauntings, and Sam had stayed with Grace, his chest tight every time she stepped ahead of him.
“Stick close,” he’d murmured, his hand brushing her lower back to guide her.
She’d glanced over her shoulder at him, a teasing smile on her lips. “You worried about me, Sammy?”
His throat tightened. “Always.”
The word slipped out before he could stop it, and the look she gave him made his knees weak. His legs had buckled a little as her eyes softened, her lips parting involuntarily, like she wanted to say something that stayed lodged in her chest.
They’d found Dean in one of the abandoned offices, poring over an old journal. Sam noticed the way Grace gravitated toward Dean, the way her hand rested briefly on his arm as she leaned over his shoulder.
The way Dean’s hand covered hers for just a second too long, his thumb brushing against her knuckles before he handed her the flashlight.
Sam saw it all, and it made his stomach churn.
By the time they confronted the spirit, Sam’s nerves were frayed. He could feel Grace’s presence beside him, could hear Dean’s voice in his ear, steady and commanding.
And when it was over, when the spirit was finally laid to rest, Grace had thrown herself into Sam’s arms.
Her face pressed against his neck, her breath warm and shaky against his skin, and he couldn’t let go. He couldn’t make himself pull away, even though he knew he should.
When she finally stepped back, Dean clapped him on the shoulder, his grin softening as he looked between them. “Good work, Sammy,” he said, his voice filled with pride.
Sam swallowed hard, nodding as he looked anywhere but at them.
The ride back to the motel was quiet, the air heavy with exhaustion and something unspoken. Grace fell asleep in the backseat, her head tilted against the window, and Sam couldn’t stop glancing at her in the rearview mirror.
Dean’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road, and Sam felt like he was being pulled apart by the weight of his own thoughts.
He hated himself for the way he felt, for the way he wanted, for the way he couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to let himself have them.
But most of all, he hated how much he loved them.
The lines had blurred so much since Sam had joined Grace and Dean, that he wasn't sure what was real and what was just in his head anymore. Then came the Rawhead hunt, they'd managed to get the kids out, to safety, before the three of them had made their way back down to the basement.
The Rawhead let out a guttural snarl as it charged, its movements erratic and vicious. Dean was already moving, shotgun raised, barking an order for Sam to stay behind him. Grace, nimble as ever, had darted around the edge of the room, trying to get a clear shot.
"Dean!" Sam yelled, his voice tight with urgency as the creature turned on Grace.
She didn’t have time to fire. The Rawhead’s clawed hand lashed out, catching her square in the chest and sending her flying across the room. Her body collided with the wall, the sickening crack of impact reverberating through the room.
“Gracie!” Sam’s voice broke, and he lunged forward, but Dean grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“I’ll handle it!” Dean barked, his voice a mixture of panic and determination. He surged forward, putting himself between the Rawhead and his unconscious sister. Sam hesitated for half a second before rushing to Grace, sliding onto his knees beside her.
“Grace, come on,” Sam muttered, his hands trembling as he gently cupped her face. Her eyes fluttered, a faint groan escaping her lips, but she didn’t fully come to. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” Sam whispered, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.
The sound of a scuffle snapped Sam’s attention back to Dean just as the Rawhead threw him into the corner of the room. Dean hit the ground hard but didn’t stay down. He gritted his teeth, picking up the shotgun and firing a direct hit into the creature’s chest. The Rawhead let out a high-pitched screech, stumbling back toward the exposed wiring sparking dangerously in the corner.
“Come on, you ugly son of a bitch!” Dean growled, advancing on it.
“Dean, wait—!” Sam started, but it was too late.
The Rawhead lunged, and Dean shoved it back with everything he had. The creature’s body made contact with the wiring, and the room was flooded with the sharp, acrid smell of burning flesh as electricity surged through it. But Dean was too close. The sparks caught him too, and his body convulsed as the electricity tore through him.
“No!” Sam shouted, scrambling to his feet. He abandoned Grace, rushing toward his brother just as Dean crumpled to the ground.
Sam fell to his knees beside Dean, his hands trembling as he pressed two fingers to his brother’s neck. The faintest pulse thumped beneath his fingertips. “Dean, come on,” he muttered, his voice trembling. “Don’t do this.”
Behind him, Grace groaned again, and Sam whipped his head around. She was stirring, her movements sluggish as she pressed a hand to her side. “Sam…” she mumbled, her voice weak.
“Gracie, get up,” Sam said, his voice sharper than he intended. He moved back to her, gently but firmly helping her sit up. “We have to go. Dean’s hurt—he’s really hurt.”
Grace’s eyes widened, her gaze shifting to Dean’s motionless form. “No,” she whispered, her face paling. “No, no, no.”
Sam didn’t have time to reassure her. He hooked an arm under hers, pulling her to her feet. She winced, clutching her side, but didn’t fight him. Together, they managed to drag Dean’s limp body out of the room and into the Impala.
Sam kept one hand tight on the steering wheel, the other clenching and unclenching against his thigh as the Impala sped through the dark stretch of highway toward the hospital. The world outside the windows blurred, but his focus was fixed on the rear-view mirror. Grace sat in the backseat, cradling Dean’s head in her lap, her fingers trembling as they combed through his hair. She kept whispering to him, low and broken, as if her words alone could hold him together.
“Come on, Dean,” Grace murmured, her voice cracking. “You’re not allowed to leave us. Not now, not ever.”
Sam had never felt so useless. His foot pressed harder on the gas, the Impala’s engine roaring in protest as the speedometer climbed. It wasn’t fast enough. Nothing ever was. His mind was racing as fast as the car, replaying every moment in that goddamned house: Grace hitting the wall, Dean taking the hit from the Rawhead, the awful stillness that followed.
“You okay back there?” Sam asked, his voice strained as he glanced at Grace through the mirror.
She didn’t look up, her attention fixed entirely on Dean’s pale face. “No,” she whispered. “Not even close.”
Neither was he. But he couldn’t say it, couldn’t admit that the sight of Dean lying there, so still, made his stomach churn and his chest feel like it was caving in. He’d already lost Jess. He wasn’t about to lose Dean too. And Grace? The idea of watching her crumble again was more than he could bear.
When they finally skidded into the hospital parking lot, Sam barely remembered parking the car. He was out in an instant, yanking open Grace’s door and carefully helping her lift Dean’s dead weight from the seat. Dean’s head lolled against Sam’s shoulder as he hooked an arm under his brother’s, carrying him through the sliding glass doors with Grace limping behind him.
The hospital room felt like a prison. Sam sat in the corner, hunched over his laptop, the glow from the screen casting harsh shadows across his face. Every click of the keys was deliberate, every search more desperate than the last. He couldn’t lose Dean. He wouldn’t.
But the doctors had been clear. Dean’s heart was damaged beyond repair, and all they could do now was "make him comfortable." The words echoed in Sam’s head like a death sentence, one he refused to accept. There had to be something—a specialist, a trial, hell, even something supernatural if it came to it.
Behind him, Grace sat on the edge of Dean’s bed, her fractured rib forgotten as she held his hand in both of hers. She was talking to him softly, her voice carrying the same mix of love and defiance that had always made her impossible to ignore.
“Stop being such a stubborn ass,” she said, her lips trembling even as she tried to smile. “You’re not allowed to check out on us, Dean. You hear me?”
Dean’s laugh was faint, but it was there. “Bossy,” he muttered, his voice barely a rasp.
Sam’s fingers paused on the keyboard, his throat tightening. For a split second, he thought about turning around, about sitting next to them and joining the conversation. But he couldn’t. He had to keep looking. Because if he didn’t, then who would?
“You find anything yet?” Dean asked, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife.
Sam glanced up, meeting his brother’s gaze for the first time in hours. Dean looked like hell—his face pale and drawn, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion—but there was still that glimmer of stubborn determination in them, the same look Dean always got when he was trying to downplay how bad things really were.
“Not yet,” Sam admitted, his voice rough. “But I will.”
Dean’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk. “You’re wasting your time.”
Sam’s jaw clenched, and he slammed the laptop shut. “Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t you dare give up on us.”
The words came out harsher than he intended, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t listen to Dean talk like that, not when the very thought of losing him made Sam’s chest feel like it was collapsing in on itself.
Grace shot him a warning glance, her hand squeezing Dean’s as she leaned closer to him. “He’s not giving up,” she said firmly, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes. “Because we don't give up. Right, Dean?”
Dean didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked between them, something heavy and unspoken passing behind his eyes. Finally, he sighed, his head sinking back against the pillow. “Right,” he said quietly, though the doubt in his voice was impossible to miss.
Sam leaned back against the wall, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His hands trembled as he opened the laptop again, his search narrowing. Specialists weren’t going to cut it. They didn’t have time for that. He needed something bigger. Something better.
Something miraculous.
Sam had been running on fumes by the time he stumbled on the website for the preacher—a man whose congregation whispered about miracles, about healing the unhealable. It felt like a long shot, the kind of thing he would’ve dismissed years ago as just another scam. But this wasn’t years ago. Dean was dying. Grace was barely holding it together. And Sam? Sam couldn’t stomach the idea of a world without his brother in it.
He didn’t tell them much when he finally slammed his laptop shut and said, “I think I found something.” Dean gave him the kind of look that was somewhere between disbelief and resignation, but he didn’t argue. Grace just blinked at him, her eyes bloodshot from too many tears and not enough sleep. She didn’t argue either.
The congregation was packed, the air thick with the kind of hope that felt almost tangible, like it was something you could reach out and grab. Sam couldn’t stop shifting in his seat, his eyes darting between the preacher and Dean, who sat beside him with his arms crossed, looking every bit as sceptical as Sam felt. Grace was on Dean’s other side, her hand gripping his arm like she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go.
When the preacher pointed at Dean, calling him forward, Sam’s breath caught. He half-expected Dean to refuse, to snark his way out of it, but his brother surprised him. He stood, his jaw set, and walked to the front of the room with Grace trailing just behind him, her fingers brushing his elbow. Sam stayed in his seat, his heart pounding as he watched the preacher place a hand on Dean’s head, his voice rising in prayer.
The moment it happened—Dean stumbling back, his chest heaving like he’d just taken his first full breath in years—Sam felt a strange mixture of relief and unease. Relief because it worked. Unease because something about it felt wrong. Too easy. Too clean.
The first cracks in the miracle came quickly. Sam was pouring over hospital records and obituaries when he stumbled on the first death—a teacher, healthy, except for the part where his heart had apparently given out at the exact moment Dean had been healed. And there were others. Deaths that lined up too perfectly with the healings to be a coincidence.
He told Dean and Grace about it in the motel later that night, his voice tight with frustration. “It’s not a miracle,” he said, slamming the newspaper onto the table. “It’s black magic.”
Dean’s face darkened, his lips pressing into a hard line. “So what? You’re saying someone else died so I could live?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Sam shot back, the anger in his voice surprising even himself.
Grace sat on the edge of the bed, her face pale, her hands clasped in her lap. “We have to stop it,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the turmoil Sam could see in her eyes. “If someone’s controlling a Reaper, we have to stop it.”
Dean looked at her, his expression unreadable, before he nodded once. “Yeah,” he said. “We do.”
The wife was the key. The altar in her study was the source of the control, the thing tethering the Reaper to her will. It all clicked together in Sam’s mind like pieces of a puzzle as they rushed to the house, Grace and Dean close behind him. The plan was simple: destroy the altar, free the Reaper, stop the killings.
But simple plans had a way of going sideways.
Sam felt the air shift when the preacher started to “heal” Layla, a young woman with the tumour, who Dean had seemed to click with immediately. The Reaper appeared almost instantly, its skeletal figure stalking toward Dean. Panic surged through Sam as he glanced at Grace, her eyes wide and frantic. They had to move fast.
The altar wasn’t easy to find, tucked away behind layers of dusty books and family relics, but Sam and Grace worked in tandem, their movements sharp and precise. She handed him the tools, her fingers brushing his in a way that sent a jolt through him even in the middle of the chaos.
When they destroyed the altar, the change was immediate. The Reaper turned on the wife, its presence like a storm as it claimed her life. Sam barely had time to process what had happened before Grace grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the exit.
Dean was talking to Layla when they found him again, his voice low, intimate, his expression softer than Sam had seen in years. It wasn’t a look Dean wore often, and when he did, it had always been reserved for someone close. It made Sam’s chest tighten uncomfortably, a feeling he couldn’t quite place settling like a stone in his stomach.
Grace hovered beside him, just close enough that Sam could feel the warmth of her arm against his. Her hand clutched his sleeve, her fingers curling around the fabric like she needed the anchor. She was quiet, her usual sharp tongue absent as she watched Dean with a look Sam couldn’t decipher.
“She’s beautiful,” Grace murmured, her voice soft but tinged with something that sent a jolt through Sam’s chest. It wasn’t just observation. There was something else there—something laced with jealousy.
Sam felt her words settle deep in his stomach, leaving an odd, bitter taste in their wake. He didn’t answer, couldn’t even muster the will to nod. His throat felt tight as his eyes remained locked on Dean, who stood just a few feet away, his hand brushing Layla’s arm.
Dean didn’t touch people like that often. Not casually, not unless it meant something. And right now, it meant something. Something private, something Sam didn’t belong to, and that knowledge burned like acid in his veins.
His stomach twisted harder when Grace’s grip on his sleeve tightened. She was jealous too. Sam could feel it in the way her fingers twitched against his arm, in the sharp edge to her quiet exhale as she watched Dean with Layla. He liked it. God help him, he liked that she felt it too. That she wasn’t entirely unaffected by the sight of Dean giving his attention to someone else. It made him feel less alone, less monstrous.
No. Stop it, Sam told himself sharply, his nails digging into his palms as he clenched his fists. This wasn’t the same. Grace wasn’t like him. She wasn’t broken. Sure, they were all too close—how could they not be, growing up like they had? But that didn’t mean she was thinking what he was thinking. She couldn’t be. She was better than that. Better than him.
His jaw clenched as his thoughts spiralled, each one darker than the last. He tried to focus on Dean, on Layla, on anything but the way Grace’s hand felt on his arm, her warmth sinking into his skin, her subtle scent wrapping around him like it always did. God, he was pathetic. Disgusting. A freak.
But no matter how hard he tried to shove it down, his mind circled back to the same place: Dean, standing there with Layla, his shoulders relaxed, his smile soft; and Grace, standing here beside him, her lips pressed into a line, her brows furrowed ever so slightly as she watched their brother.
He couldn’t stop thinking about how badly he wanted her to look at him like that. And he couldn’t stop thinking about how much he hated Layla for getting even a sliver of the attention that Sam wanted for himself.
He glanced at Grace out of the corner of his eye, his stomach churning as he caught the faint flush on her cheeks, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips. She was focused on Dean, completely lost in whatever emotions were roiling under her surface, and Sam couldn’t help but wonder—did she feel the same way he did? Did she feel anything like he did?
The thought terrified him almost as much as it thrilled him.
Sam’s gaze flicked back to Dean, who was still standing too close to Layla, still brushing against her like she was the most delicate thing in the world. His chest ached with the weight of it, with the understanding that he wanted everything Layla had right now—Dean’s gentle touch, his soft words, his goddamn attention.
His nails bit deeper into his palms as he forced himself to take a deep breath. This wasn’t normal. None of this was normal. He shouldn’t be standing here, torn between resentment and longing for his siblings while Dean flirted with some girl and Grace clung to his arm like she needed him to stay upright.
And yet, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stop himself from wanting.
Time passed in a blur of hunts and highways, motel rooms and late-night conversations. With Dean healthy again, there was a weight lifted from all their shoulders—or at least, that’s what Sam tried to tell himself. He told himself that everything was fine now, that they were just a trio of siblings on the road doing what they did best. The near-death scare was behind them. Grace was smiling again, more like herself, and Dean’s swagger was back in full force. Things were good. They had to be.
But the moments—they came in waves, small but dangerous, threatening to pull Sam under if he let his guard down for even a second. They were subtle things: the way Grace leaned against him in the backseat sometimes, her head brushing his shoulder as her hair tickled his neck; the way Dean’s hand lingered a moment too long on his arm when he handed him something; the way they both looked at him sometimes, like they were seeing something he wasn’t sure he wanted them to see.
Sam hated how much he noticed it. Hated how much he liked it. Every little thing felt too charged, too intimate, too much like it wasn’t supposed to be happening—and yet it was. It was always happening.
One evening, they sat on the hood of the Impala, parked off the side of some quiet road with a decent view of the stars. Dinner was fast food from a local joint—Dean with his burger, Grace with her taco, Sam with his burrito. Dean was talking about something Sam wasn’t even listening to, his focus instead on the way Grace’s fingers brushed against her lips as she ate, the way her laughter sounded like bells every time Dean made her laugh. She’d always laughed more for Dean. That had never changed.
Sam tried to shake the thought off, focusing instead on his food. His fingers brushed against Dean’s as he reached for a napkin, and his breath caught. He didn’t pull back fast enough, and Dean’s eyes flicked to his for just a second, something unreadable in his gaze before he looked away.
Sam’s heart hammered against his ribs, and he cursed himself silently, his mind spiralling into the usual self-loathing diatribe. Stop. Just stop. It doesn’t mean anything. You’re imagining things. You’re always imagining things.
Grace let out a soft hum, the kind she made when she was content, and leaned back against the windshield. Sam couldn’t stop himself from glancing her way, from noticing the way her neck arched, the soft curve of her collarbone peeking out from beneath her shirt.
He shoved another bite of his burrito into his mouth, trying to suffocate the thoughts before they could spiral any further.
Dean’s phone rang, breaking the tension that Sam was sure only existed in his own head. He pulled it from his jacket pocket, answering with his usual gruff “Yeah?”
Sam watched as Dean’s expression shifted, his mouth pulling into a faint smile, his shoulders relaxing. Whoever was on the other end of the line was important.
Grace noticed it too, her taco pausing halfway to her mouth as her eyes narrowed slightly. She didn’t say anything, but Sam saw the shift in her posture, the way her shoulders stiffened ever so slightly.
Dean ended the call with a short “We’re on our way,” and turned to them, his tone light but purposeful. “Cape Girardeau, Missouri. Couple of racially motivated murders. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a case.”
Grace tilted her head, her brows knitting together. “Racially motivated? That’s… new.”
Dean shrugged, his face neutral as he pocketed his phone. “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”
Sam couldn’t help but ask, “Who was that on the phone?”
Dean’s gaze flicked to him briefly before he turned back to his burger. “Cassie.”
The name hit Sam like a punch to the gut. Cassie. He’d heard about her once, years ago. Dean never talked about the women in his life—not seriously, anyway—but he’d mentioned Cassie once, offhandedly, like she’d been something different. Something that mattered.
Sam felt a knot of jealousy twist in his chest, sharp and bitter. He hated it. Hated the way the name made him feel, like someone was pulling the rug out from under him. And then he glanced at Grace and saw the same tension in her jaw, the same stiffness in her shoulders, and he hated himself even more.
He wanted to think he was imagining it. That he was projecting his own feelings onto her. But the way her fingers tightened around the taco in her hand, the way she glanced away quickly, like she didn’t want anyone to see her reaction—it was too real.
Sam’s mind raced, his thoughts tangling together in a chaotic mess. She feels the same way. She’s jealous too. But why? Why would she be jealous unless…?
He forced the thought away, swallowing hard as he focused on the horizon. This was a bad idea. All of it. Going on the road with them, being so close to them again—it was breaking him apart. He’d tried to move on. Tried to forget. But being with them now, seeing the way they moved around each other, the way they looked at him—it was too much.
Grace’s voice pulled him back. “Cassie, huh?” She said it lightly, casually, but there was a tightness in her tone that Sam didn’t miss.
Dean didn’t seem to notice—or if he did, he didn’t let on. “Yeah. She’s… an old friend.”
Sam barely kept himself from scoffing. An old friend? That wasn’t how Dean had described her back then.
Grace hummed, her gaze fixed on the stars now. “Guess we’d better get moving then.”
Dean nodded, tossing the last bit of his burger into the bag. “Let’s hit the road.”
As they climbed back into the car, Sam couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Grace. She was quiet, her expression carefully neutral, but he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands fidgeted in her lap.
He wanted to reach out, to say something, to reassure her—but what could he say? That he understood? That he felt the same way? That he hated Cassie just as much as she probably did, for entirely different but equally messed-up reasons?
Instead, he stayed silent, staring out the window as the Impala roared to life, carrying them toward whatever fresh hell awaited them in Missouri.
The motel room was suffocating. The faint buzz of the old lamp in the corner, the hum of the air conditioner that didn’t seem to cool anything, the creak of the mattress springs every time Grace shifted—it all grated on Sam’s nerves. Or maybe it was just her. Or Dean. Or Cassie. Or everything.
Dean had left a little while ago, muttering something about needing to talk to Cassie. Sam couldn’t help but notice the way Grace’s shoulders had stiffened when the door clicked shut behind him, the way her fingers had twitched against her thigh like she wanted to grab something—anything—to keep herself grounded.
She’d barely looked at him since. Instead, she’d poured herself another drink, her third—or maybe her fourth—since Dean had left. Her gaze kept darting to the parking lot window, her jaw tight, her lips pressed into a thin line. She was waiting. Watching. For what, Sam didn’t know.
"Grace," he said softly, watching her from his spot on the bed across the room. She didn’t respond, didn’t even glance his way. Her phone was in her hand now, her thumb brushing over the screen as she checked the time again.
“Grace,” he said again, louder this time.
She sighed, finally looking up at him. Her cheeks were flushed, a mixture of the alcohol and the simmering emotions she wasn’t hiding nearly as well as she thought she was. “What?” She asked, her tone sharp, though her eyes softened the second she saw his face.
“You should stop,” he said, nodding toward the drink in her hand. “You’re gonna get drunk.”
She scoffed, tilting the glass back and finishing it in one gulp before setting it down on the bedside table with a loud clink. “Maybe that’s the point.”
Sam frowned, his chest tightening. “What’s going on with you?” He asked, his voice quieter now, more careful. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied her. “You’ve been… off.”
Grace let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head as she stood and crossed the room to the window. She pulled the curtain back slightly, her eyes scanning the parking lot. “I’m fine, Sam. Don’t worry about it.”
“Bullshit,” he said, his voice firmer this time. “You’ve been like this since we got here. Since Dean—” He stopped himself, the words catching in his throat. Since Dean started spending time with Cassie.
Grace’s grip on the curtain tightened, her knuckles turning white. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared out at the empty lot like it held all the answers to her problems. Then she let the curtain fall back into place and turned to face him, her expression guarded.
“Maybe I’m just tired,” she said, shrugging as she walked back to her bed and sat down heavily on the edge.
Sam’s frown deepened as he watched her. “Grace…” he started, but she cut him off with a sigh.
“Fine,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “You want the truth?”
He nodded, his heart pounding as he waited for her to continue.
She looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting together in her lap. “I’m jealous, okay?” She said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I hate that he’s out there with her right now. I hate that he’s… whatever he’s doing, wherever he is. I hate it.”
Sam’s chest tightened, a mix of emotions he didn’t even know how to process crashing over him all at once. Jealous. She was jealous. Just like him. The realisation sent his mind spiralling, every thought a tangled mess of guilt and longing and self-loathing.
He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but before he could, Grace stood and crossed the room to his bed. She climbed onto it without a word, her small frame curling up next to him as she rested her head on his shoulder. Her arm slid around his waist, her fingers clutching at his shirt like she was afraid he’d pull away.
Sam froze, his breath hitching as he felt the warmth of her against him, her scent filling his senses. Sweet and earthy and something uniquely Grace. His heart pounded in his chest, every nerve ending in his body screaming at him to move, to put some distance between them—but he couldn’t. He couldn’t make himself pull away.
“Grace…” he murmured, his voice barely audible.
“Just let me stay like this,” she whispered, her breath brushing against his neck, her lips so close to his skin that it made his head spin. “Just for a little while.”
He swallowed hard, his hands twitching at his sides as he fought the urge to wrap his arms around her, to hold her the way he so desperately wanted to. “This isn’t… We shouldn’t—”
“Please,” she said, her voice breaking slightly as she tilted her head to look up at him. Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly parted. “Sam…”
His name on her lips was almost his undoing. He clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists as he tried to keep himself in check. This was wrong. It was so, so wrong. But God, it felt so right.
Her face was so close to his now, their noses almost brushing as she spoke, her voice low and soft and meant only for him. “You’re the only one who gets it,” she whispered, her eyes searching his. “The only one who understands.”
Sam’s throat tightened, his heart pounding so hard he was sure she could feel it. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that he didn’t understand, that he didn’t feel the same way—but he couldn’t. Because he did. And that truth was more terrifying than anything they’d ever hunted.
The room was still, heavy with the kind of silence that wrapped around you like a cocoon. Grace’s soft, even breaths fanned against Sam’s lips, her face so close to his that he could count the faint freckles scattered across her cheeks, the ones he’d memorised long ago but now seemed impossibly more vivid under the dim motel light.
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. They just lay there, wrapped up in each other like this was the most natural thing in the world, their bodies fitting together perfectly, as if they’d been made for this.
Sam’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts he didn’t dare let himself linger on. He wanted to convince himself that this was innocent, that Grace was just seeking comfort, that her jealousy earlier was nothing more than a sisterly frustration at being left out. But the way her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, the way her lashes fluttered as her gaze dropped to his mouth for the briefest of moments, made it impossible to ignore the pull between them.
Her body was warm against his, her curves pressing into his side in a way that made it nearly impossible to focus on anything else. Her leg was draped over his, her knee brushing against his thigh, and he was acutely aware of every single point of contact between them. It was maddening.
This shouldn’t feel so good. It shouldn’t feel so… right.
But it did.
Sam swallowed hard, his throat tight as he forced himself to look away, his gaze darting to the stained motel ceiling instead of the soft curve of her lips. He couldn’t trust himself to look at her for too long, not when everything inside him was screaming to close the distance between them, to see what it would feel like to press his mouth to hers.
You’re sick, he told himself, his chest tightening with self-loathing. She’s your sister. She’s just drunk. She doesn’t mean any of this the way you do.
And yet, even as he berated himself, he couldn’t make himself let go of her. His arm stayed firmly wrapped around her waist, his hand resting just above the small of her back, his fingers brushing against the hem of her shirt. She was so close, so warm, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Sam didn’t feel like an outsider.
This—this was what he’d missed. This silent understanding, this wordless connection. It was how things used to be before he’d left, before he’d decided that running away was the only way to save himself from the feelings that had threatened to consume him. Back then, the three of them had communicated without words, a bond so strong that it didn’t need to be spoken aloud. And now, lying here with Grace, he felt like he was finally a part of that again.
But then the doubt crept in. What if he was just imagining all of this? What if Grace’s jealousy wasn’t about Dean leaving them for Cassie, but just about Dean leaving them at all? What if she was just drunk and seeking comfort, and he was reading far too much into things because he was a sick, broken person who couldn’t stop wanting what he shouldn’t?
“Sam,” Grace murmured, her voice so soft he almost didn’t hear it.
He turned his head to look at her, his breath hitching at the sight of her so close, her eyes half-lidded and glassy but so full of something that made his chest ache.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her fingers tightening their grip on his shirt. “For being here. For not letting me feel… alone.”
He swallowed hard, his throat thick with emotion as he nodded, unable to find the words to respond. He didn’t trust his voice, didn’t trust himself to say anything that wouldn’t betray just how deeply her words affected him.
They stayed like that for what felt like hours, the only sounds in the room their soft breaths and the distant hum of traffic outside. Sam’s mind was a battlefield, every thought a tug-of-war between wanting to pull her closer and wanting to push her away, between wanting to believe that this moment was as significant to her as it was to him and convincing himself that it wasn’t.
And then the door opened.
Sam’s head snapped up, his heart lurching as Dean stepped into the room. He looked… dishevelled. His hair was mussed, his shirt untucked, and though he’d clearly tried to fix himself up, it wasn’t enough to hide the telltale signs of what he’d been up to.
Grace sat up quickly, her body stiffening as her eyes locked onto Dean. Sam could feel the tension radiating off of her, could see the way her jaw clenched and her hands curled into fists at her sides.
Dean’s gaze flicked between them, his brow furrowing slightly as he took in the scene. “What’s going on in here?” He asked, his tone light but with an undercurrent of suspicion.
“Nothing,” Grace said quickly, her voice tight. She stood and crossed the room to grab her drink, downing the rest of it in one go before slamming the glass down on the table. “Absolutely nothing.”
Dean raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before shifting to Sam. “You good, Sammy?”
Sam nodded, forcing a tight smile onto his face. “Yeah,” he said, though his voice felt strained even to his own ears. “We’re good.”
Dean shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the chair with that casual swagger that Sam knew all too well—except this time, it felt off, like a mask he wasn’t quite pulling off. Grace was standing stiffly by the table, her fingers gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. The tension in the room was a live wire, buzzing with an intensity that made Sam’s skin prickle.
“What’s with the attitude, Gracie?” Dean asked, his tone light, but there was something sharp beneath it, a challenge just waiting to be met.
Grace turned to him slowly, her expression icy, sharp enough to cut. “What attitude?”
Dean smirked, gesturing lazily toward her. “That. The whole ‘ice queen’ thing you’ve got going on. What’s your deal?”
“My deal?” Grace repeated, her voice dangerously calm as she set her drink down a little too hard. “Oh, I don’t know, Dean. Maybe it’s the fact that you stink of sex and bad decisions. Real classy.”
Sam’s stomach twisted as he looked between them. Dean’s smirk faltered for a split second before he leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, exuding a nonchalance that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Jealous much?” Dean fired back, his voice cool, but Sam caught the flicker of something darker in his tone.
Grace scoffed, rolling her eyes with a dramatic flair that only made the tension worse. “Please. You think I’m jealous of Cassie? God, you’re such a neanderthal. Not everything’s about you, Dean.”
“Oh, really?” Dean straightened, his smirk sharpening into something more dangerous. He took a slow step toward her, his eyes narrowing. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re throwing a tantrum because you didn’t get my undivided attention for five goddamn minutes.”
“A tantrum?” Grace’s voice cracked with incredulity, her eyes blazing as she stepped toward him, closing the gap between them. “You’ve got some nerve, Dean. You disappear for hours, come back smelling like someone else, and I’m the one throwing a tantrum?”
“Jesus, Grace,” Dean muttered, his hand raking through his hair in frustration. He let out a short, bitter laugh. “Stop acting like a prissy little bitch. It’s not a good look on you.”
“Right, because smelling like a cheap motel and desperation is a good look on you?” She snapped back, her arms crossing tightly over her chest.
Sam’s breath caught in his throat. He could feel it now, the way their words weren’t just cutting—they were laced with something deeper, something hotter, something he’d been fighting to push down ever since he’d stepped back into their lives. It wasn’t just anger. It was desire. And it was killing him.
“Don’t push me,” Dean warned, his voice low and edged with something Sam couldn’t quite name—but he recognised it. God, he recognised it.
“Or what?” Grace challenged, stepping even closer. “You’ll throw me over your shoulder again like the caveman you are?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Dean shot back, his tone laced with mock sarcasm, but his eyes were locked on hers, dark and hungry in a way that made Sam’s stomach churn.
Sam swallowed hard, his mind racing as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Was he imagining it? Was it just his own twisted perspective, his own fucked-up feelings clouding his judgment? Or was there something real here, something that he wasn’t alone in feeling?
“You’re such a jealous little girl,” Dean muttered, his voice low and dangerous, but there was something else there too—something almost… playful.
Grace’s lips curved into a smirk, though her eyes were still blazing. “And you’re a selfish prick.”
They were so close now that Sam could practically feel the tension crackling between them. His chest tightened as he watched, his mind racing with thoughts he didn’t want to have. They were siblings. They were supposed to be siblings. But the way Dean’s gaze lingered on Grace’s mouth, the way her chest heaved as she squared up to him, the way they seemed to orbit each other like they couldn’t help but get closer—it was all wrong.
And it was the same pull Sam felt every time Grace pressed against him, every time Dean’s hand brushed his. It was the same pull that had driven him to leave, to run as far away as he could, and now it was suffocating him all over again.
“Guys,” Sam forced out, his voice strained and desperate. “Can we not do this right now?”
Dean and Grace both turned to look at him, their faces still flushed with whatever the hell had just passed between them. Sam swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet their gazes even though it felt like his chest was caving in.
“Fine,” Grace muttered, her voice tight as she turned away from Dean. She grabbed her drink off the table and drained it in one go before setting the glass down with a loud clink. “I’m going to bed.”
Sam watched as she brushed past Dean, her shoulder bumping his just enough to make him turn and watch her go. His jaw tightened, his hands flexing at his sides like he was holding himself back from something.
Sam didn’t miss it. He couldn’t miss it. And it made him feel like he was going to be sick.
"Good talk,” Dean muttered under his breath as he flopped onto his bed with a grunt, grabbing the remote and flicking on the TV like nothing had happened. But Sam saw the way his shoulders were tense, the way his fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh. He was wound tight, and Sam could feel it, the same way he could feel his own pulse pounding in his ears.
Sam lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling as his thoughts spiralled. He hated himself for what he was thinking, for the way his chest ached and his stomach twisted every time he thought about Grace and Dean. He hated the way his mind filled in the gaps, imagining things he had no right to imagine.
He wanted to believe it was all in his head, that he was projecting his own fucked-up feelings onto them. But the way Dean had looked at Grace, the way Grace had stepped closer to him, daring him to do something—Sam couldn’t ignore it. And it scared the hell out of him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his fists clenching at his sides as he tried to force the thoughts away. But they lingered, sharp and aching and impossible to shake.
He was fucked. He’d always been fucked.
And he was starting to think he wasn’t the only one.
The drive to the swamp was tense, the air in the Impala thick with the weight of what they’d discovered. Sam sat in the passenger seat, his jaw tight as he flipped through the pages of Dad’s journal, while Grace sat in the back, staring out the window, her arms crossed over her chest. The moonlight caught her hair, turning it to gold, and Sam found himself glancing back at her every so often, his stomach twisting with each look. She hadn’t spoken much since they’d left Cassie’s, and the silence from her corner of the car was almost deafening.
“So, let me get this straight,” Dean said, breaking the silence, his voice low but steady as he gripped the wheel. “We’re dealing with some racist jackass ghost who got dumped for being a psychotic dick and now he’s using his truck to murder people?”
“Pretty much,” Sam muttered, flipping a page in the journal. “It’s not unheard of. Objects can carry energy, especially if something traumatic or evil happened to them. This truck? It’s more than just a vessel. It’s infected.”
Grace let out a quiet snort from the back seat, her eyes still fixed on the passing scenery. “Typical,” she said, her voice flat. “Even in death, men like Cyrus can’t let go of their hate.”
Dean glanced at her in the rearview mirror, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Yeah, well, let’s make sure this bastard doesn’t get a chance to take anyone else out.”
When they reached the swamp, the siblings worked quickly, their movements almost mechanical as they prepped the area around Cyrus’ rusted-out truck. Sam and Grace hauled salt bags while Dean siphoned gas from the Impala, each of them falling into the familiar rhythm of a salt and burn without needing to say much. The tension between them hung heavy in the air, unspoken but palpable.
As the flames roared to life around Cyrus’ remains, Sam felt a flicker of hope that maybe this would be it. Maybe they could put an end to this thing and move on. But the crackling fire was drowned out by the sudden, guttural roar of an engine.
Grace froze, her eyes widening as the ghostly truck appeared out of nowhere, its headlights blazing like twin suns. “Shit,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the deafening sound of the engine.
Dean hesitated for only a second before snapping, “I’ll lead the bastard away. You two stay put.”
“Dean, no—” Grace started, but Dean had already yanked open the Impala's door and slid inside, his jaw clenched so tight Sam thought it might snap. The ghostly truck revved its engine in the distance, its headlights burning like malevolent eyes. Without another word, Dean slammed the door shut and peeled out, the Impala roaring to life as he sped away.
Sam and Grace stood frozen, staring after him as the phantom truck roared to life and tore off in pursuit. The swamp air was heavy, crackling with tension, and every instinct screamed for them to do something—anything.
Sam’s phone buzzed in his hand, and he answered immediately, voice tight. “Dean?”
“I’m here!” Dean barked, the sound of the Impala’s engine roaring in the background. “That thing is on my ass. What’s the plan?”
Sam tightened his grip on the phone, glancing at Grace, who was scanning the horizon like she could will a solution into existence. “It’s not just Cyrus’ spirit—it’s the truck. It’s... it’s alive, Dean. His anger infected it.”
“Well, ain’t that peachy,” Dean growled. “How the hell do I kill a goddamn truck?”
“Hallowed ground,” Grace cut in, her voice steady but urgent. She stepped closer to Sam, her wide eyes reflecting the dim light of his phone. “There’s an old church half a mile north from here. It burned down years ago, but the ground’s still consecrated.”
Dean cursed sharply, the sound barely audible over the roaring engine. “A burned-down church in the middle of a swamp? Perfect. You two sure about this?”
“It’s the best shot we’ve got,” Sam said, his voice firm despite the pounding in his chest.
Dean let out a long breath, his tone grim. “Alright. Tell me how to get there.”
Sam locked eyes with Grace, and she nodded, her hand brushing against his arm as if grounding him. “Head straight past the gravel path,” Sam said, glancing at the faint map on his phone. “There’s a dirt road about a quarter mile ahead—turn right. It’ll look like nothing, but it’ll lead to the old church site.”
Dean’s laugh was sharp, humourless. “Turn onto a dirt road in the middle of a swamp while being chased by a homicidal truck. Got it. Anything else?”
“Just keep it together,” Grace said softly, her voice cutting through the chaos like a balm. “You’ve got this, Dean.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end before Dean exhaled sharply. “I better. Don’t let me down, Sammy.”
“You’re the one driving, Dean,” Sam shot back, forcing a wry smile despite the dread coiling in his gut.
Grace leaned closer to Sam, her breath warm against his cheek as she whispered, “You think he’ll make it?”
Sam swallowed hard, his throat tight. “He has to.”
The connection crackled as Dean’s voice came back, more urgent now. “Alright, I see the dirt road. This better work.”
“It will,” Grace said firmly, gripping Sam’s arm like she needed the contact to steady herself.
The phone line buzzed with static and the sound of the Impala’s roaring engine. Sam and Grace stood frozen, listening, every second stretching into an eternity. Finally, Dean’s voice broke through again, breathless and tight. “I’m here. Truck’s still coming.”
Sam’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the phone. “Keep driving, Dean. Get onto the hallowed ground—it’s gotta stop it.”
“I’m working on it!” Dean snapped, his tone sharp with adrenaline.
The line went silent for a moment, filled only with the roaring engines and the faint crackle of static. Then, a deafening crash echoed through the phone, followed by a sound that sent chills racing down Sam’s spine: the enraged roar of the ghostly truck as it slammed to a halt.
Dean’s voice came back, rasping and triumphant. “It’s gone. The damn thing’s gone.”
Sam sagged with relief, and Grace let out a shaky breath beside him. “Good,” Sam managed, his voice hoarse. “Get back here in one piece, alright?”
Dean’s chuckle was tired but warm. “Piece of cake, Sammy. Tell Gracie not to worry her pretty little head.”
Sam glanced at Grace, who was staring at the phone with an unreadable expression. “You heard him,” Sam said softly, but his gaze lingered on her face, on the way her lips tightened and her eyes flickered with something too heavy to name.
Dean’s voice returned, softer now, but laced with exhaustion. “I’ll be back soon. You two stay put, got it?”
“Got it,” Sam said, his voice steady, though his grip on the phone remained tight. Grace leaned in closer, her body brushing against his as she tilted her head toward the receiver.
“Dean,” she said, her tone quieter now, almost pleading. “Be careful.”
There was a pause on the line, a beat that stretched too long, before Dean’s voice came back, low and tinged with a warmth Sam rarely heard. “Always, Gracie.”
The call ended, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Sam lowered the phone, his chest tight as he glanced down at Grace. She was still staring at the screen, her brows drawn together, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
“You okay?” Sam asked, his voice softer now, careful.
Grace nodded once, but her posture betrayed her. She was coiled tight, every muscle strung like a bowstring ready to snap. “Yeah,” she said, though it sounded like a lie.
Sam wanted to say something, to reach out and offer her the same reassurance she always seemed to offer him. But the words stuck in his throat, caught somewhere between his own guilt and the ever-present knot of his feelings for both of them.
Instead, he let the silence linger, standing shoulder to shoulder with her in the darkness as they waited for Dean to come back. Together, but apart, each of them carrying the weight of something they couldn’t quite name.
As the Impala pulled up, its sleek black frame streaked with mud and grime, Sam felt his chest ease just slightly. Dean climbed out, his posture still cocky but his grin faltering as soon as he saw Grace rushing toward him. She didn’t even hesitate—just launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face into his shoulder like she needed to convince herself he was real.
Dean caught her easily, his hands finding their place at her waist, holding her steady. “I’m fine, Gracie,” he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion. “Told you I’d be back.”
Sam stood frozen a few feet away, his chest tightening as he watched the way Dean’s fingers dug into Grace’s sides like he was just as afraid to let go. Dean’s chin dipped briefly, his mouth brushing the crown of her head, and Sam swallowed thickly, his stomach twisting into a knot he was all too familiar with.
As Dean looked up, his eyes caught Sam’s, something unspoken passing between them. Sam took a slow step forward, hesitating for just a second before he raised his hand to clap Dean on the back. But before he could even make contact, Dean smirked and stretched out an arm toward him.
“Get in here, Sammy,” he said, his voice low but insistent.
Sam blinked, startled, but before he could think too hard about it, Dean’s arm hooked around his neck, pulling him into the embrace. Grace was still pressed against Dean, her arms wrapped tight around his ribs, and now Sam found himself flush against her too, their bodies all tangled together in a way that felt far too intimate for something so innocent.
Grace let out a tiny, breathless sigh, almost imperceptible, but Sam caught it. He felt her take a deep breath, her face turning slightly so that her cheek brushed against his shoulder. The warmth of her, the way she fit so perfectly into both of them—it was almost too much. His throat felt dry, and he had to focus every ounce of willpower on keeping his hands from curling into her waist like he wanted to.
When Dean finally loosened his grip, the three of them stepped back, though Sam felt the phantom press of their bodies lingering against his skin. Grace’s fingers lingered on Dean’s jacket for a moment longer before she let her hands drop, stepping back to adjust her hair like she needed something to do.
“You sure you’re okay?” Sam asked, his voice raspier than he’d intended as he shoved his hands into his pockets.
Dean gave him a lopsided grin, but there was something softer beneath it, something raw that Sam couldn’t quite place. “Never better,” he said, though his gaze flicked briefly back to Grace before settling on Sam again. “Come on, we’ve got one last thing to wrap up.”
They piled back into the Impala, and the drive to Cassie’s place was quiet save for the low hum of the engine. Grace stared out the window, her reflection flickering in the glass, while Sam kept sneaking glances at her, trying to decipher what she was thinking. She’d been quiet ever since they pulled Dean out of that swamp, and it was unsettling in a way he couldn’t quite articulate.
When they pulled up to the building where Cassie worked, Dean hesitated for a second, his hands gripping the steering wheel like he didn’t want to let go. Finally, he took a deep breath and stepped out, leaving Sam and Grace in the car.
From where they sat, they could see Dean and Cassie standing just outside the building. Cassie smiled at something Dean said, and though Sam couldn’t hear the words, he could read the tension in their body language. Grace shifted beside him, her arms crossing tightly over her chest, and Sam’s attention flicked to her immediately.
Her jaw was tight, her lips pressed into a thin line as her gaze fixed on Dean and Cassie. For a moment, Sam wondered if he should say something, but before he could, Cassie’s voice carried faintly through the air.
“It’s a shame things can’t work out,” she said, her tone soft but resigned.
Dean’s response wasn’t audible, but Sam didn’t need to hear it to feel the weight of it. He watched as Dean’s gaze shifted briefly, almost instinctively, toward the Impala—toward them. His lips curved into a small, wistful smile, his eyes softening for just a moment before he turned back to Cassie and said something that made her nod.
Whatever it was, it made Grace’s posture stiffen even more. Her nails tapped lightly against her arm, a soft, rhythmic pattern that seemed almost unconscious. Sam couldn’t take his eyes off her, his stomach twisting as he wondered if maybe—just maybe—Grace was feeling the same things he was.
Dean came back to the car a minute later, sliding into the driver’s seat with an exaggerated sigh. “All right, kiddos, let’s hit the road.”
Grace didn’t say anything, just kept her gaze fixed out the window as Dean pulled away from the curb. Sam glanced at her one last time, his heart heavy with questions he wasn’t ready to ask.
The Impala’s engine hummed low beneath the sound of classic rock on the radio, its vibration a soothing, constant rhythm as they rolled along the empty stretch of road toward the motel. Sam leaned his head against the passenger window, watching the passing shadows of trees flicker in the pale glow of the headlights. Every now and then, his gaze drifted to the rearview mirror, where Grace was curled up in the backseat, her breathing soft and steady in sleep.
She’d dozed off about twenty minutes into the drive, her small frame tucked into itself as she rested her head against the window. The corner of her flannel shirt had slipped down her shoulder, exposing a patch of pale skin that Sam had to force himself not to look at. Dean had glanced back at her once, his eyes softening in a way that made something twist in Sam’s chest.
“She’s out cold,” Dean said quietly, his voice low enough not to disturb Grace. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his gaze flicking to Sam. “You remember when she was a kid? Used to sleep like that all the time, all curled up like a cat.”
Sam swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice tight. “She always said it made her feel safer, being small like that.”
Dean smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess some things never change.”
The quiet stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Sam turned his head to look out the window again, but Dean’s next words pulled him back.
“It feels right, you know?” Dean said, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. “Having you back with us.”
Sam glanced at him, caught off guard by the tone in his voice. “Yeah?” He asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
Dean nodded, his eyes fixed on the road. “It’s like… things are how they’re supposed to be again. Just the three of us. Always figured that’s how it was meant to be.”
Sam’s heart clenched, a pang of something sharp and aching cutting through him. He didn’t know what Dean meant by that—if it was just nostalgia or something deeper—but his mind immediately latched onto the latter, his thoughts spiralling into dangerous territory.
“You know,” Dean continued, his voice quieter now, almost like he was talking to himself, “about six months after you left, Grace asked me if I wanted to just… run away. Do our own thing. Said we didn’t need Dad, didn’t need anyone else. Just us.”
Sam’s stomach twisted. He could picture it perfectly—Grace and Dean, standing in some rundown motel room, planning an escape. He wondered if Dean had wanted to take her up on it, if he’d thought about leaving everything behind.
“She’s said it a couple of times over the years,” Dean went on, his tone thoughtful. “That it should just be the three of us. That we’d be unstoppable.” He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Always thought she was onto something. You, me, and her… three parts of the same soul or something stupid like that.”
Sam’s chest tightened, his breath catching in his throat. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t trust himself to speak. The way Dean said it—like it was the most natural thing in the world, like they were meant to be together—it made Sam feel both elated and sick to his stomach.
Before he could muster a response, Dean reached over and gave his hand a brief squeeze, his calloused fingers warm against Sam’s skin. The gesture was quick, fleeting, but it sent a jolt through Sam’s entire body, his pulse thundering in his ears.
Dean pulled his hand back, his attention returning to the road. “Come on,” he said, his voice lighter now, as if the moment hadn’t just shifted the entire axis of Sam’s world. “Let’s get that one inside so she can sleep in an actual bed.”
Sam nodded wordlessly, still reeling, as Dean pulled into the motel parking lot. He got out of the car and walked around to the back, opening the door and scooping Grace into his arms with a practiced ease. She stirred slightly, murmuring something unintelligible before resting her head against Dean’s shoulder.
Sam followed them into the room, his thoughts a tangled mess of confusion, longing, and self-loathing. He couldn’t stop replaying Dean’s words in his head, couldn’t stop feeling the ghost of his hand on his own. As Dean gently laid Grace down on one of the beds, tucking the blanket around her with surprising tenderness, Sam stood frozen in the doorway, his heart hammering in his chest.
Dean turned to him, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Get some rest, Sammy,” he said, his voice soft. “We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
Sam nodded, swallowing hard as he climbed into his own bed. But as he lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady sound of Dean’s breathing and the occasional soft sigh from Grace, he knew sleep wouldn’t come easily. Not when his thoughts were spinning out of control, dragging him deeper into the truth he’d been running from for years.
Sam lay still, staring up at the dark ceiling, the faint hum of the motel’s ancient AC unit filling the silence. The bed was lumpy, the pillows thin, but none of that mattered. His thoughts wouldn’t let him rest, tangling and knotting like fishing lines cast into the deep.
Grace was curled up in the bed closest to the door, her soft breathing a steady rhythm that made Sam’s chest ache. Dean was sprawled out in the bed next to hers, one arm thrown over his head, his boots kicked off but his jeans still on—always half-prepared, even in sleep. The room was dim, lit only by the neon motel sign bleeding faint red through the curtains. It painted everything in muted shadows and soft lines, making Sam’s mind wander places it had no business going.
He turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting to Grace. Her blonde hair was splayed across the pillow, catching the faint light like a halo. She’d kicked the blanket off in her sleep, one leg curled up and the other stretched out. The curve of her bare thigh where her shorts had ridden up made Sam’s pulse quicken, a heat rising in his face that he hated himself for.
God, she was beautiful. She always had been, but now? Now she was something else entirely. Hardened, sharper around the edges, but still with that softness underneath that made her who she was. He thought about the way she’d clung to Dean earlier, the way her face had buried in the crook of his neck like she belonged there. The way Dean had held her back just as fiercely, like he was afraid she’d slip through his fingers if he didn’t keep her close.
Sam wasn’t even jealous of the moment—no, not entirely. He liked watching them, liked the way they moved around each other like magnets with opposite and equal charges. Their banter, their lingering touches, their shared looks—it all felt so charged, so alive. And maybe that was part of what was so intoxicating about it, why it made him feel… things. Things he shouldn’t.
He let out a slow breath, turning his gaze to Dean. His brother’s chest rose and fell steadily, his shirt stretched tight over his torso, riding up just enough to expose a strip of skin above his waistband. Sam’s eyes lingered there longer than they should have. He loved how Dean was with Grace—how he balanced her fire with his own—but Sam loved how Dean was with him too. The way he could switch between being soft and being commanding in a way that made Sam feel both safe and off-kilter.
And the commanding side? God, he hated how much he liked it. How much he wanted it. Dean was barely 6’1—tall, sure, but not next to Sam—and yet he carried himself like he was ten feet tall. That confidence, that authority… it was impossible not to feel drawn to it, impossible not to crave more of it, especially when Dean directed it at him.
And then there was Grace. Barely 5’6 and built like a wisp of a thing, but she held her own against both of them like she didn’t even see the difference. She squared up to them like she could take either of them down, and hell, sometimes it felt like she could. The fire in her, the bite in her words when she got snippy, the way her eyes flashed when she was pissed or determined—it was captivating. It was everything.
He swallowed hard, his thoughts spiralling faster than he could control. He’d thought he was past this. Four years at Stanford, a girlfriend, a normal life—he thought he’d left these feelings behind, buried them in the past where they belonged. But being back with them, being so close, watching the way they were with each other, with him? It was like no time had passed at all.
And worse, it was stronger now. More intense. It felt like it was dragging him under, like he couldn’t breathe.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away from them, to stare back up at the ceiling and focus on the cracks in the plaster instead.
“Goddamn it, Sam,” he muttered under his breath, so low that neither of them would hear. “You’re a freak.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will the thoughts away, to shove them back into the box he’d built for them years ago. But the box was frayed now, its edges worn thin from years of suppression, and the feelings were spilling out faster than he could stop them.
Grace stirred in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Sam’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as he listened to the sound, his body tense with something he didn’t want to name.
And then there was Dean, shifting slightly in his sleep, his hand resting just inches from Grace’s. It was too much. All of it was too much.
Sam let out a shaky breath, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t keep thinking like this, couldn’t keep feeling like this. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop.
Sam lay on his back, staring at the ceiling again, his body restless and his mind louder than it had been in weeks. Sleep was impossible—every time he closed his eyes, he felt like he was sinking into a spiral of thoughts that only dragged him deeper into the feelings he didn’t want to face.
The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the neon motel sign still seeping through the thin curtains. Dean was still sprawled on his bed, dead to the world, his soft snores filling the silence. Grace was in her bed, her blonde hair a halo around her head as she lay curled up on her side.
Sam sighed quietly, pressing the heel of his hand against his chest as if that would stop his heart from racing. It didn’t. His mind wouldn’t stop replaying the look in Grace’s eyes when she’d clung to him last night, the sound of her voice when she’d said she was jealous, the way she’d pressed herself against him, her warmth and softness so close, too close. And Dean? Dean’s hand squeezing his, Dean’s words about how right it felt to have him back, the way he’d smiled like it was more than just brotherly affection.
Sam let out another sigh, shaking his head at himself. He was losing it. He was so far gone it wasn’t even funny anymore.
A sudden movement snapped him out of his thoughts. Grace bolted upright in her bed, her breaths shallow and quick. She looked around the room, her eyes bleary with sleep, before they landed on Dean’s bed. She rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands, stretching slightly as she sat there, and Sam couldn’t help but notice the way her tank top clung to her, the faint outline of her ribs and the curve of her shoulders illuminated in the dim light.
She turned her head toward his bed, her tired eyes meeting his. “Sammy?” She murmured, her voice soft and scratchy with sleep. “You’re awake?”
He swallowed, pushing down the ache in his chest at the sound of his name on her lips. “Yeah,” he said, keeping his voice quiet so he didn’t wake Dean. “You okay? You, uh… you sat up like something was wrong.”
She blinked slowly, rubbing at her eyes again. “Bad dream,” she admitted, her voice quiet. “Just… one of those. You know.”
Sam nodded, his stomach twisting at the thought of her having nightmares. “You wanna talk about it?”
She shook her head, her hair falling in messy waves around her face. “No,” she whispered. “It’s gone now.” She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the bedspread, her fingers toying with a loose thread. “Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I… can I sleep with you?”
Sam froze. His brain short-circuited for a second, every nerve in his body suddenly on edge. Don’t think about it. Don’t make it weird. She doesn’t mean it like that.
“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice tight. “Of course.”
Grace smiled softly at him, her tired eyes warming for a moment before she slipped out of her bed and padded over to his. She climbed in without hesitation, pulling the blanket up around her as she pressed herself against his side.
Sam’s body went rigid for a second, every inch of him hyperaware of her warmth, the weight of her against him. Her arm draped over his stomach, her head resting on his shoulder, her breath soft and warm against his neck. He swallowed hard, his pulse thundering in his ears.
“Thank you, Sammy,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She nuzzled closer, her body relaxing completely against his as she let out a soft, contented sigh. “My Sammy.”
Sam’s breath caught in his throat. His heart felt like it was going to explode, a mix of emotions crashing over him all at once. He wanted to scream, to cry, to pull her closer, to push her away. He wanted to kiss her, to bury his face in her hair, to feel her like this forever. And he hated himself for it.
Stop it. Stop it, Sam. She’s your sister. She doesn’t mean it like that. She’s just Grace. She’s just… perfect.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down, to focus on the steady rhythm of her breathing and not the way her body fit against his like it was meant to be there. He tried to ignore the warmth spreading through his chest, the way his skin tingled where she touched him, the way his heart ached with a longing he couldn’t explain, couldn’t justify, couldn’t ever act on.
But even as he told himself to stop, he couldn’t help the thought that crept into his mind, unbidden and unrelenting.
My Sammy, she’d said.
And God help him, he wanted to be.
Grace was draped across him, her small frame nestled so perfectly against his chest that it felt like she belonged there. One of her legs was thrown over his hip, her arm curled around his waist, and her soft breaths brushed against his collarbone. She’d drifted off so quickly, her body warm and pliant in his arms, and now she was sleeping soundly, her face pressed against him, her lips slightly parted.
Sam swallowed hard, staring up at the cracked ceiling as if it held the answers to his spiralling thoughts. His body was stiff, every muscle tensed as he tried to focus on anything other than the way Grace felt against him—the weight of her, the warmth of her, the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.
But it was impossible. Every shift of her body against his sent a jolt through him, her soft curves pressing into places that made him feel like the world’s biggest pervert. She sighed in her sleep, her breath warm against his skin, and it took everything in him not to groan aloud.
God, Sam. Get it together.
His hands hovered awkwardly at her back, unsure of where to settle. He didn’t want to hold her too tightly, didn’t want to let his fingers linger on the dip of her waist or the curve of her hip. But the more he tried to keep himself in check, the worse it got.
She shifted again, her leg sliding slightly, and his breath hitched as her knee brushed against his thigh. Her lips moved against his chest, murmuring something incoherent in her sleep, and he felt his entire body go rigid.
And then, as if the universe itself was testing him, she drooled.
A tiny line of warm wetness trailed from her mouth onto his chest, and Sam’s face burned, his heart thundering in his ears. It shouldn’t have affected him—it was drool, for Christ’s sake—but it did. It did.
He bit down hard on his bottom lip, his fists clenching at his sides as he tried to force his body to calm down. But Grace shifted again, curling closer, and he swore he felt the faintest graze of her lips against his skin as she moved.
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible as he stared up at the ceiling.
He hated himself for every thought that ran through his mind, every flicker of desire that made his pulse race and his skin feel too hot. She was his sister. His sister.
But God, she was beautiful.
Her wild blonde hair was fanned out against his chest, the soft curls brushing against his skin. Her long lashes cast delicate shadows on her cheeks, and her lips—pink, full, and slightly parted—looked so soft, so inviting. He imagined what it would feel like to press his mouth to hers, to tangle his fingers in her hair and taste the sweetness of her kiss.
Stop it, Sam. Stop it. You’re sick.
But his body didn’t listen. His heart didn’t listen. And neither did his mind.
He thought about the way she’d clung to him earlier, the way her voice had trembled when she’d said, “My Sammy.” The way she’d pressed herself against him, warm and soft and trusting, as if she knew he’d protect her from anything.
And then there was Dean.
Sam’s jaw tightened as his thoughts shifted, unbidden, to his brother. Dean, with his stupid smirk and his stupid green eyes and the way he always seemed so damn confident. Sam thought about the way Dean had looked earlier, his shirt clinging to his broad shoulders, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin after that chase with the truck.
He thought about Dean’s voice, low and rough, the way it could go from teasing to commanding in an instant. He thought about Dean’s hands, strong and sure, the way they gripped the wheel of the Impala or the curve of a shotgun.
And then he thought about Dean’s hands on him, the way they’d felt earlier when Dean had pulled him into that three-way hug with Grace. He thought about how Dean’s touch lingered, firm and grounding, and how it had sent a shiver down Sam’s spine.
God, you’re disgusting, he thought bitterly, squeezing his eyes shut as if it would block out the images flooding his mind.
But then Grace shifted again, her breath warm against his neck as she nuzzled closer, and Sam’s resolve crumbled just a little bit more.
He wanted to move, to put some space between them, but he couldn’t bring himself to let her go. She felt too perfect in his arms, too right, and the thought of waking her, of seeing the confusion—or worse, the rejection—in her eyes, was too much to bear.
So he stayed there, trapped between his guilt and his desire, holding her close even as his thoughts threatened to consume him.
And as Grace let out a soft, contented sigh in her sleep, Sam swore he felt his heart crack wide open.
Sam stiffened the moment Grace grumbled something unintelligible against his chest. Her breath was warm, soft, and she nuzzled her face further into the crook of his neck like she was trying to crawl inside him. She shifted again, her thigh pressing firmly against the top of his, and before he could even begin to process the new wave of tension pooling low in his stomach, she moved entirely.
It was like slow motion. Grace’s body shifted, her knee brushing dangerously close to his groin before she straddled him completely, her full weight pressing him into the motel bed. Her head lolled to the side, her cheek resting against his shoulder, her soft, even breaths ghosting over his neck. Her arms slid up to wrap loosely around him, and then… oh, and then she mumbled sleepily, her voice a breathy whisper against his skin.
"Need you closer."
Sam’s body went rigid. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, his heart stopped entirely. Or maybe it didn’t—maybe it just started beating so fast that it felt like it had exploded in his chest. He couldn’t be sure. All he could focus on was Grace—her weight pressing down on him, the feel of her soft curves fitting against his chest, and the maddeningly delicate brush of her lips against his neck as she shifted again to get comfortable.
She sighed, content, and the sound hit Sam like a freight train. His hands, which had been frozen in the air, hovered awkwardly above her back, trembling. He told himself not to touch her. Not to make this worse. But then she shifted again, pressing herself impossibly closer, and he broke.
His hands found her. One slid up into her hair, fingers tangling in the wild, unruly strands he’d always thought suited her so perfectly. The other settled just above the curve of her ass, resting on the small of her back. He was holding her, grounding her, and… God help him, grounding himself too.
She let out another soft sigh, her body relaxing further against his, and Sam swallowed hard. This was torture. The sweetest, most agonising torture he’d ever known.
“Jesus, Grace,” he whispered under his breath, his voice cracking. His throat felt dry, like he’d swallowed sand, and his entire body was tense as a bowstring. He could feel every inch of her against him, her warmth seeping into him like she was setting him on fire.
And then she mumbled again, this time a little clearer, though still slurred with sleep. “Sammy…” She paused, smacking her lips in that cute little way she always did when she was deeply asleep. “Warm. Safe.”
Sam let out a low, bitter laugh, the sound barely audible over the pounding of his own heart.
Warm. Safe.
That was what he was supposed to be to her, wasn’t it? Her big brother. Her protector. Her safe place. Not… this. Not the man lying beneath her with filthy thoughts racing through his head, his body betraying him in ways that made him want to crawl out of his own skin.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stop. To think about something else. Anything else. But it was impossible. Not with her lips brushing his neck every time she exhaled. Not with her chest pressed against his, soft and warm and rising and falling with each steady breath she took. Not with her hair tickling his cheek, or the way her scent—something so inherently Grace—wrapped around him like a goddamn drug.
She shifted again, this time pressing her nose against his neck, and let out a soft, almost pained whimper in her sleep. His grip on her tightened instinctively, his fingers flexing against the small of her back as if he could somehow soothe her without waking her.
“Grace,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing to me?”
She didn’t answer, of course. She just let out another soft sigh, her breath warm against his neck, and he swore under his breath. He felt sick. God, he felt so fucking sick. And yet… he couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t let her go. His hands stayed where they were, holding her close, anchoring her to him like she might drift away if he didn’t.
Her lips brushed his neck again—a soft, accidental caress that sent a shiver racing down his spine—and he bit back a groan.
“You’re killing me,” he whispered.
And then, like the universe was mocking him, she mumbled something else in her sleep. It was too quiet for him to catch the whole thing, but he caught the tail end of it. Something about loving him.
His chest constricted, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. She didn’t mean it the way he wanted her to. She couldn’t. Grace had always been affectionate, always quick to say she loved him or Dean. It didn’t mean anything. Not the way he wanted it to.
“Stop it,” he hissed at himself, his voice barely audible. “Stop it. She doesn’t feel that way. She’s not like you.”
But his body wasn’t listening. His cock wasn't listening, throbbing painfully against the inside of his jeans. His heart wasn’t listening. And when she sighed again, her fingers twitching against his chest like she was trying to hold onto him even in her sleep, he couldn’t help but press his lips to the top of her head.
Just once. Just for a moment. Just to remind himself of how wrong he was.
“Goddamn it, Sam,” he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. “You’re a fucking mess.”
As Sam lay there, trying desperately not to focus on the soft weight of Grace draped over him, she stirred again, her thighs sliding wider as she relaxed, her barely covered cunt pressing against his hip in a way that had him biting the inside of his cheek to stop a groan from escaping. Her lips brushed his neck as she smacked them softly, a quiet, sleepy hum spilling from her throat.
Then, in her sleep, she mumbled, “So good…”
Sam’s breath caught in his throat, his hand twitching where it rested on the small of her back. She shifted again, her body pressing more firmly against his, hips rolling so softly it would've been nothing if it wasn't everything, and Sam swore under his breath.
This wasn’t fair. She wasn’t fair. Grace had always talked in her sleep, always mumbled nonsense about random hunts or childhood memories, but this? This felt like some cosmic joke, like she was unknowingly testing every ounce of control he had left. And the way she was writhing against him? So slow and imperceptible? Cruel, blissful torture.
“Sam…” she murmured softly, her voice barely audible but enough to send a shiver down his spine. Her fingers curled against his chest, clutching at his t-shirt like she was afraid he’d disappear if she didn’t hold on tight enough.
And God, how badly he wanted to hold on to her, too.
He let out a shaky breath, his hand in her hair tightening just slightly, his other hand hovering above her back as if he was afraid to let it settle too low. She shifted again, the heat between her thighs brushing against his painfully hard dick in a way that made something sick and twisted pool low in his stomach.
He hated himself for how much he loved it.
Grace let out another quiet hum, her breath warm against his neck, and Sam felt his chest tighten painfully. “Need you,” she mumbled sleepily, her voice muffled against his skin.
Sam froze, his entire body going rigid as her words sank in. She was asleep. She didn’t know what she was saying. She couldn’t possibly mean it the way his mind was taking it—twisting it into something wrong, something forbidden, something he’d been trying to bury for years.
But the way she pressed herself closer to him, her body soft and warm and pliant against his, made it impossible to ignore the ache in his chest—and lower.
“You’re killing me, Gracie,” he whispered, his voice so low he wasn’t sure if he’d said it aloud or just thought it.
She shifted again, her lips brushing against the curve of his neck, and Sam’s restraint frayed even further. His hand on her back moved slightly, his fingers trailing over the curve of her spine as he fought the urge to slide them lower, to help her roll her hips against him, to pull her even closer. If you're gentle enough, maybe you can get her shorts off and slip inside of—
“Stop it,” he muttered under his breath, though he wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself. Probably both.
Grace let out another quiet sigh, her breath ghosting over his skin, and Sam felt like he was on the verge of losing his mind. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t keep doing this—pretending that the way he felt about her was anything less than utterly, catastrophically wrong.
But God, it didn’t feel wrong when she was curled up against him like this, her body fitting against his like she was made for him, her hips rolling over his lazily, her soft little whines and whimpers against the pulse point in his throat. It felt like everything he’d ever wanted but could never have.
He let out a self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head as his fingers curled into her hair. She was still fast asleep, oblivious to the war raging inside him.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Grace murmured something unintelligible in her sleep, her lips moving against his neck as she moaned again, her hips pressing just a touch harder, and Sam let out a quiet groan, his head falling back against the pillow.
This was torture. Beautiful, exquisite torture. And he was a goddamn masochist for not pushing her away.
But then she let out a soft sigh, her body relaxing completely against his, and Sam felt his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. She trusted him. Even in her sleep, she trusted him completely, curling up against him like he was her safe place.
And maybe that’s what broke him the most—the knowledge that she felt safe with him, that she didn’t see him as the monster he saw in himself.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m so sorry.”
He wasn’t sure what he was apologising for. For how he felt about her? For what he wanted? For the fact that he couldn’t stop himself from loving her, even though he knew he shouldn’t? Probably all of it.
Sam tightened his arms around her, holding her just a little closer as she finally stilled and slept soundly against him. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve her.
But for just a little while longer, he let himself pretend.