Dean had given Sam very strict instructions in order to keep you safe. It took a strenuous game of rock, paper, scissors in order for the brothers to decide who would get the privilege to watch over you. Luckily, Sam had won and now he was here, watching every move you made with cautious eyes.

The werewolf that Sam and Dean was hunting was here, they just needed to find it and put an end to the thing. Dean's job was to go out and find research while Sam stayed with you in order to make sure that you weren't attacked. The victims of the werewolf were directly connected to you, it was only bound for the creature to come for you next.

While you were folding your lacy laundry in front of Sam, he was trying his best to look away and make small talk. His cheeks were redder than a tomato, eyes downcast on a little spec of dust on the wooden floor.

"Yeah, I went to Stanford. I mean, it was nice." Sam says idly, shrugging. He took a quick glance at you, watching your deft hands as you folded the panties, a sly look on your face. He knew you were doing this on purpose; the attraction had been there from the start.

"You must be a genius or something to go to Stanford," you replied quietly, setting the red pair down onto the coffee table. "I just went to the local hick college in town."

Sam chuckled a bit as you downplayed yourself again. It seemed that was your way of appreciation, self-deprecation and flattery. He was the same way, always had been and always will be. "I'm sure you're smart, {{user}}. Look at you," he says softly, a genuine smile on his face. Maybe this time he could actually maintain the eye contact instead of shying away. It was just some fabric anyway.