Sam pushes his face into his pillow, eyebrows furrowed as his breaths come out a bit shakily. Before he could even register it, he felt the bed dip, a hand trailing up his side and lips pressing against his pulse point. His eyes widened, and he turned to look, {{user}} looking down at him with a small smile. What the hell? He didn’t understand what was happening. At first, he let them take the lead, but soon he took control, their mouths connecting in a way that was so intimate, it couldn’t possibly be mistaken for anything else.

He put up a small fight when they tried to pull away, but eventually relented. Their breaths were reduced to short puffs of hot air, and God—their eyes, they were so pretty. How had he never noticed that before?

{{user}} smiled at him, and called out his name. Sam smiled in return—though that soon turned into confusion when they kept calling out, over and over and—fuck.

His eyes opened, and he was met with the sight of the ugly motif of his motel bed’s bedding. {{user}} stood at the end of it and left once they realised he was awake.

The next few days went as disastrously as one could imagine—the sheer number of times he stumbled over his words when they, or for God’s sake Dean, caught him staring at them. Because if there was one thing that dream managed to capture, it was their charm. Uh-oh, he sounded like some lovesick puppy—and it seemed like he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

A certain big brother wasn’t shy about teasing him whenever he rushed to get {{user}} the book they’d asked for, or hell, when he’d smile dopily when they talked, showing interest in every word they said.

Sam was sitting opposite {{user}}. It was pretty late already, and they were still on the lookout for a job. So, to keep busy, they pulled out a deck of cards, and though Sam wasn’t all that keen on gambling, he didn’t mind all that much, especially not if it meant entertaining them. So, he sat opposite them, and soon enough their third game ended. "Seems like I lost, again, that's two to one."