#Ok whilst I'm here just gonna post this little fic I found in my drafts that I never finished because why not

[peanutbutterandbananasandwichs]

Sam clambers out of the Impala, all long gangly limbs that still don’t quite know what to do with themselves and nearly trips over his own feet in his rush to get to the door of the house, duffle slung over his shoulder and strap grasped tight between his fingers. 

“What are you in such a rush for?” Dean nudges him sharply in the ribs as he hurries to catch up with him.

“Just want to get the best bedroom before you nick it jerk” Sam replies, turning to face Dean, and he can't quite keep the grin off his face. 

“Sorry Sammy, oldest get’s the best bed, just the way the world works”, Sam shakes his head, 

“Ok fine. Whatever.” He continues at the brisk pace through the hallway. 

“Ok...you're still grinning, what gives?” Dean grabs Sam’s elbow, pulling him to a stop. 

“What, so I'm not allowed to smile now?”

“No, you’re allowed, just not when you're supposed to be moping and pitching a bitch fit about moving again right about now.”

The smile slips ever so slightly from Sam’s lips and he clutches hold of his duffel strap even tighter, as if it’s something grounding. “Shut up Dean” he mumbles before pulling his elbow free and pushing open the door to the living room, with rather more force than he'd intended, and dropping himself down on the slightly moth eaten sofa, reaching into his duffle and pulling out a thick leather-bound book.

“Ah there’s the Sam we know and....”

“...Come on boys, no time for fucking about...” John appears at the doorway to the living room, clapping Dean on the shoulder as he speaks, “Dean go get the gun case from the truck.”

“Yes sir!” Dean hurries off back in the direction of the front yard. As Dean leaves, John rounds on Sam. “Not a hotel Sam, research to be done. People are dying whilst you're lazing around.”

Sam blows his bangs out of his face and scowls back at John. He's sure dad's needling him deliberately, they'd been on the edge of a blowout argument for a week now. He wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. Wasn't going to let anything kill the buoyant seed of hope he was nurturing in his chest. He holds up the book, lips tight as he responses tersely “sorry I didn't have it open yet. I'll be quicker next time. Sir.”

John huffs and stomps half out of the room, before calling back “I want something usable in less than an hour, not any of your usual ‘well it might be’ crap. Ok?”

Sam dips his head, he hates how small dad makes him feel sometimes, “I just like to be sure.”

“An hour Sam.”

John leaves the room and Sam waits until he hears the firm slam of a bedroom door, glancing warily around, before fumbling a envelope from where its tucked securely in a split in the book’s back cover.

Sam pulls his knees up, leaning the book between his stomach and his thighs. The corners of the envelope are dog eared from being stuffed into a slightly too small hiding place, Sam gingerly smooths them down, pressing the paper against the book cradled in his lap.

Thumbing over the already loose flap he slips it open and tugs the folded paper out, his fingers trembling as he goes through the same ritual of smoothing out the page. Almost as if he’s avoiding having to actually look at the contents, which is dumb, he’s read it before, last night, back at Pastor Jim’s place. But still, it doesn’t feel quite real yet and maybe he read it all wrong last night, maybe he dreamed it.

There’s a loud crash from the front door and Sam nearly jumps out of his skin, hastily stuffing the letter back inside the envelope and cramming it, in direct opposition to his fastidious care of mere seconds ago, roughly back into the slot between the peeling binding and the cover, flipping to a marked page and making an effort to look sufficiently studious.

“Budge up.” Dean slouches back into the room, dropping the gun case down at the foot of the sofa. Sam curls his feet in further under his body as Dean sprawls himself across well over half the sofa. Sam watches out of the corner of his eye, as he flips the gun case open with a toe and then reaches down to pull out Dad’s pistol, ready for cleaning. “Found anything?” Dean asks, leaning over to squint at the tiny, cramped font of the tome. “Damn, this is why you do the research lore boy.”

“Not yet, working on it” Sam mumbles in response, “or I was until you came crashing in.” He silently wills Dean to get the hint and go finish up in the kitchen or something, that or shift enough to let Sam wiggle out from the tiny corner of the sofa he’s been relegated to. He just wants somewhere to read the letter again in peace.