A/N: So this story turned out to be much, much longer than I'd originally intended (I guess I'm just a sucker for detail). The story is actually complete; it's six chapters total, and I plan to update it once or twice a week until it's all been posted. Alright: strap in, because you're in for a wild ride, my dear friends.

When Dean sees your name pop up on his caller ID, he's surprised, to say the very least. He answers with only minor hesitation. "Hey stranger – long time no see!"

"Hey Dean," you say, your nerves evident in your tone. "I, uh – I could really use your guys' help with a case I'm working right now."

"No small talk – straight to business. It's cool, I get it. Hang on, let me put you on speaker phone," he says, mouthing your name to his brother as he brings him into the conversation. "Alright, sweetheart, you've got our attention. You never ask us for help – it's usually the other way around. So, I'm wondering, what could you possibly be up against that you can't handle on your own?"

You can hear the smirk in his voice – he should be intimidated by you, but instead, he treats you like a little kid with a foam sword who thinks he's a dragon slayer. But you really are badass, and you both know it, so you let it slide.

"It's not that I can't handle it alone. It's just—" you stop abruptly, not letting him get you flustered. Because he's really good at that. "I just can't reach it by myself."

"Oh-kay… Well, that's a little vague. Care to share the details with the rest of the class?"

"Don't be a dick, Dean," Sam interjects.

"Thanks, Sam, but I've come to expect no less from him," you reply. "It's, um – well, there's this resort – Mount Ellen Couples Resort – in Vermont where, well, couples keep going missing. Happy couples only, really – or so it seems, at least. It's supposed to be one of those places where rich people go for sex and relationship therapy, so it's kept almost entirely off the books – credit card charges, receipts, and anything else that would leave any sort of paper trail can't be traced back to the resort. I guess people go there wanting to keep their relationship problems a secret, though some just go there for the 'romance' or whatever. Anyway, I tried to get in with a housekeeping job, but apparently, they vet all of their employees pretty deeply, and most of the jobs there are kept in the family. So, essentially, I need one of you two to be my—" you hesitate to say the words, "—my significant other."

"So, hang on a second – you need us to do what, now?" Both men are laughing at this point – but at least they can't see you blushing on the other end of the line.

"I just need one of you to come along and play the role as my husband. I can do all of the work myself – hell, you could spend the whole time sipping mojitos and soaking in a hot tub for all I care. I just need another person to get myself in."

"First of all, there's no way you can ask one of us to tag along and not help out with the hunt, and second of all, don't you have a close friend that you hunt with – Jen, was it? Wouldn't she go with you?"

You roll your eyes. "You slept with her, Dean. You know damn well what her name is. And no, the uh – the resort is incredibly homophobic. And you both know that I'm not really the kind of person to have other friends," you say, spitting the last word like venom from your tongue.

"You can say that again," Dean jests.

"So, what do you say? Please don't make me beg," you groan.

"I think we just did," Sam says, proud of his sassy comeback.

"So…?"

You can hear them whispering to each other, before Dean mumbles something about Rock Paper Scissors. Sam sighs in response, saying, "Dude…you know how this always ends. It's not even fair anymore." You're incredibly surprised when you realize that both of them want to go with you.

There's some more whispering before they face off, and as Sam predicted, Dean loses.

"Oh, damn, look at me. Always with the scissors – right, Sammy?"

"Alright," Sam sighs. "Guess you're stuck with me. What do you need me to do?"

"Awh, don't get too excited, now, Sam," you tease. "Well first of all, if we don't want to stick out, we should probably follow the dress code. The clientele there is generally well-dressed, and the resort has a strict formal dress code for the evenings. I've got a friend who's a tailor – he owes me a favor. You can stop by his place on your way – he'll be expecting you. We'll be there for three nights, so pack accordingly, and bring your handgun. I'll have the rest of my gear with me. I'll text you the address – meet me there tomorrow at 4pm. Questions?"

He just huffs that awkward chuckle that is so very characteristic of him – he's never been very comfortable around you, so this weekend should be interesting. "Nope. I, uh – I think we're good."

You met the Winchester boys back when you were a kid. As the children of hunters, you'd crossed paths quite often over the years – at motels, mutual friends' houses, and the like. Your parents would often drop you all off at Bobby's for a night while they went on hunts nearby. By the time that you were 10 years old and Sam was 12, Dean stopped staying with you guys – at that point, John Winchester decided that his eldest son could completely handle himself in a hunt. Sam always argued with his father, saying that he wanted to tag along, so you argued with your mother, too – you didn't actually want to go with her, though. You just wanted the boys to think that you were tough.

As you grew older, you stopped seeing them as often – and when you were 19, your mom died, and you didn't see them at all for many years to come.

It wasn't until somewhat recently that you met up with them again at Ellen's place. That's when Dean fucked your best friend, Jen. She also grew up in the life – she's bitter and shaken and jaded like you, so you get along swimmingly. And you work well together on hunts, too.

You were absolutely shocked when you saw Sam and Dean prance into the roadhouse after so many years of not having seen them. You recognized them immediately – and at your expression, Jen asked, "You okay there, kiddo? What're you staring at?" When she turned around in her seat and saw the men you were gawking at, she said, "You don't usually react like that to sexy men. What gives?"

"That's—those are the Winchester boys."

"Oh my god – no way! John's boys?"

"Yeah. Uh, we were kind of like friends when we were little."

"Christ, look at them. They're like—"

"Don't finish that thought."

And it was in that moment that they caught you staring and approached your table. And not twenty minutes later, Dean was screwing your best friend back at his motel room, leaving you and Sam at the bar alone together.

You'd thought it would be awkward, but it wasn't. You guys swapped stories and caught up until you were too drunk to think straight and Sam walked you back to your own room – which was, evidently, in the same motel as theirs. They'd left before you'd awoken the next day, but not without having slipped their contact info under your door. You've kept in touch ever since.

"Dude, I was trying to help you. Don't give me that bitchface – I know you've had a crush on her since you were, like, twelve."

Sam huffs a frustrated laugh, saying, "Yeah, Dean – I did have a crush. I got over it, okay?"

"Now you're just lying to yourself, man. And I know that she only puts up that tough-girl front of hers because she wants you back, so go for it! It's not often that you get to go to a resort, of all places – and you'll probably even be sharing a bed, for god's sake. What more do you want?"

"Whatever. It's just a hunt, Dean. I'm not gonna overthink it," Sam says as he leaves the room to go pack.

Dean calls out after him, "Don't forget to bring protection!"

You meet up at a vacant parking lot away from the resort so that you can arrive together.

"Hey," you say in greeting as he parks and gets out of the car. You hug kind of awkwardly. "Awh, look at you all dressed up without the flannel!" The sleeves of his fitting button-down shirt are rolled up to the elbow, exposing his strong, capable forearms. God, what is he doing to me?

"Thanks – this is actually just my fed suit, sans the jacket. And I uh, wow – I just never would've thought in a million years that I'd see you in heels."

He's blushing a bit, so you just smile. "Well, get used to it. Did Patrick give you any problems?"

"Nope. He was pretty cool. I've never been measured in my life though, so that was a little weird. I was also confused when he handed me dresses," he says confusedly, getting the garment bags out of the back seat of his car.

"Oh, yeah – I just had him make me a few gowns for the evenings. Thanks for picking them up." You rifle through your purse a bit, pulling out two wedding bands and an engagement ring. "Oh, also, here – you'll need this," you say.

"Shit – these are nice. Where did you get them?"

"A lot of people owe me a lot of favors," you remark, sliding the engagement ring and wedding band onto your finger. "Not my style, personally, but I just kind of took what I could get."

After loading his stuff into your car and getting back on the road you debrief him on the specifics of the case: four couples in the area missing over the past several months, all seemingly happily married, none of them wealthy or high-profile enough to raise suspicion. It took a lot of detective work, but you eventually traced all of the couples to this very place – you have your work cut out for you.

With a bit of hesitation, he asks, "So, what's our story?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, what do we do, how did we meet, how did we get together – you know, the questions people ask."

"Yeah, I tried to think about this before but didn't get much further than the names. Okay. I guess let's just stay as close to the truth as we can." He laughs openly at this, and you giggle in response. "You know what I mean. We'll be Kim and Fred Moore – yeah, that's the name on the card I used. You're a lawyer and I'm a housewife. We met as kids, because our parents used to travel a lot together for work. We can make the rest up as we go along. Sound okay?"

He he just kind of stares blankly at you for a moment. "Yeah, but um – housewife? Really?"

"Yeah. Figured I'd never get another chance to be one in this lifetime, so why not kick back and enjoy it for one weekend? I've always been a decent actress."

"I believe it."

When you pull up to the valet, you laugh to yourself as the bellhop takes your bags – one of which holds nothing but weapons and monster-hunting necessities (the paisley material of the suitcase is very inconspicuous, you reason). You take Sam's proffered arm, avoiding eye contact with him at all costs as you make your way inside; you're comfortable like this, as long as you don't have to look at him. God forbid.

Checking in is simple. The man at the front desk (who introduces himself as Mark) gives you information about how the therapy sessions and the dinners work, making note of the dress code for the latter. He gives you a tour of the cocktail lounge, the gym, the indoor pool, the courtyard, the dining hall, and the area reserved for sessions, and he walks you up to your room personally. It's all very nice and fancy, but you and Sam both spend the entire tour scoping out the joint.

Mark concludes the tour by saying, "This is your room. You'll find that your luggage has already been brought inside, and the schedule for events and your assigned group sessions are posted on the back of the door. If you need anything at all, or if you have any questions, don't hesitate to contact the front desk. And the secretary will call in the next fifteen to twenty minutes to schedule your therapy sessions. We'll be sending your first complimentary meal via room service shortly. Get comfortable, and we'll see you tonight at 7 in the dining hall!"

"This is unreal," you groan with delight as you fall backwards onto the California king-sized bed with its amazingly comfortable duvet and the fluffiest pillows you'd ever lay your head on. Sam is anxiously scoping out the rest of the room with his hands in his pockets, making a funny face at the heart-shaped hot tub. "C'mere, Sam, you gotta try this," you say, patting the space beside you.

With great hesitation, he joins you, sighing at the comfort which he is so unused to as a hunter. "How the hell did you find this case?"

"Another hunter tipped me off. Didn't want to get his hands dirty, I guess," you say. "So, any hunches so far?"

"Not really. The people working here look a bit too happy, though. I don't know. We'll just have to take a closer look around."

There's a knock at the door, and when you answer, you're greeted with a fancy-schmancy food cart, complete with a dome-lidded platter, silver utensils and cloth napkins, and roses in a glass vase. "Oh my god, this looks to die for!" They've brought you a lovely lunch platter, with fresh parmesan and arugula salad and salmon finger sandwiches. Jokingly, you gasp, "Oh god, do you think it's poison?!"

Sam laughs heartily, replying, "Only one way to find out."

The two of you eat your lunch out on the room's balcony, and surprisingly, it's not awkward. The time passes with jovial conversation, and slowly but surely, Sam loosens up.

Just as you finish your meal, the phone rings, and Sam goes inside to answer.

"Alright, well – it looks like our first therapy session is tomorrow at 1:00pm. Ready to cook up some marital issues?"

"I don't think we need to. It looks like all of the couples that went missing were happily married."

You discuss it a bit further before electing to take a nap before tonight's festivities. Sam decides to take an unsupervised look around the resort in the meantime.

He gets back just as you're getting ready in the bathroom. "Get dressed, Mr. Moore. We're leaving in 15 minutes." Shit, these are stunning, you think as you take your first look at the gowns that your tailor prepared for you. Note to self: text Patrick to thank him for being a miracle worker.

You slip your trusty iron ring onto your right hand, as you always do before a covert hunt, but that's about as familiar as it gets for you tonight; the rest of the night's preparations are very foreign to you. You're used to untying knots behind your back under duress, not tying up lace-back dresses. You've strapped on more bulletproof vests in your life than you have garter belts and thigh-highs. The heels – well, the heels aren't really that foreign to you, actually. You do your best to pin your hair back nicely (can't I just do a regular goddamn ponytail and call it a day?), fumbling a bit with your makeup as well. God, I haven't had to do my makeup this nice since… since I went to prom in Idaho just to gank a demon who was possessing high school kids.

When you finally come out of the bathroom, decked out in your fancy eveningwear, Sam is beyond mesmerized. The dress you're wearing is a gorgeous cream lace mermaid gown, fitted perfectly at your midsection with a lovely (and flattering) sweetheart neckline. "I…I told him not to go overboard. I said I'd take whatever he'd had sitting in storage."

Sam still looks shocked. "Well I don't think he listened to you," he laughs, obviously uncomfortable. You mirror his blush, taking in the breathtaking sight of him dressed to the nines. "You look stunning," he says, finally snapping himself out of his daze. "Shall we?"

"Yeah," you swallow. "I can't fit anything bigger than a switchblade, a small EMF reader, and some holy water in my clutch, so—"

"Already ahead of you," he says as he pulls the handgun out from where it's tucked into the back of his pants. "Let's do this."

The dinner is…interesting. You've been assigned seats at tables with other couples and enjoy talking to them over the luxurious food, wine, and music. The couple to your left – Heather and Nicolas – has taken quite a shining to you. They're sweet and jovial and incredibly friendly. The couple to your right, however – Bee ('short for Beatrice, darling') and Charles – is rather bitter and condescending towards you and Sam. But either way, it seems that everyone has taken notice of you two. To be fair, you seem very young compared to the other couples here, but Sam does a really great job of keeping up the act. He holds your hand, pulls out your chair for you, and looks at you for all the world like you're the loveliest thing he's ever seen.

"Kim, might I say – your engagement ring is gorgeous," Heather remarks, and you thank her with a smile. "Tell me – where did you find such a keeper?" she asks, winking at Sam.

"Oh, well we'd known each other since we were very young – our parents travelled together for work, so we'd been friends since we were kids."

"Oh? So you were childhood sweethearts?" asks Nicolas, as everyone around you begins listening in to the conversation.

"Well, not exactly," Sam replies, squeezing your hand a bit for good measure. "I always had a crush on her—" I know it's just part of the act, but… "—but Kim wasn't very nice to me as a kid – she liked showing me up, proving how tough she was. It was adorable, when I was already at least a foot taller than her," he says, everyone around you laughing along with the story. "But we actually didn't see each other for over a decade, until we ran into each other at this bar in the middle of rural nowhere. She was on a road trip with her friend and their car had broken down in town, and I was there with my brother on business. When I saw her, it was like fate, really."

"Yeah, it was totally 'fate' when my best friend ended up in bed with Fred's brother, like, fifteen minutes after their first hello—" You've got the crowd all worked up and laughing now, everyone listening intently.

"It was definitely fate, because as soon as I laid eyes on Kim, I remembered how much I missed her." There are resounding 'awwwh's' from the people around you. "And because when they left, I got to be alone with her. I saw how beautiful she was, and I knew at that point that I had to have her," he says, looking into your eyes as the people around you clap. You can't help but blush at the story, however fabricated it may be.

"Oh, just kiss her, for god's sake," someone says – and he does.

It's just a sweet, simple press of lips – chaste in its simplicity. But when the people around you start cheering you guys on, you can feel Sam smile against your lips before he takes your head in his hands and deepens the kiss. When the two of you break apart, you look into his eyes, speechless. And it's as if the whole world around you goes dark and nothing else matters. You forget about the hunt for a moment and let yourself enjoy this; after all, it's not like you'll ever get to have the real thing, so you might as well enjoy it while you can. And it kind of just slips out when you say, "I love you."

"I love you too," Sam replies before kissing your forehead and holding you close. You pause for just a moment to breathe in his scent. You don't get to enjoy it for long, though. Next thing you know, Sam is mumbling, "Dance with me," into your hair – almost as if he doesn't actually want you to hear him.

"I'm a terrible dancer," you mutter back. This is a private moment (amidst a grand façade and a stellar performance) which you don't want to share with anyone else.

"Me too," he replies, audibly this time. "You think maybe with both of us being terrible we'll cancel each other out?"

You laugh. "Four left feet still doesn't equal two good pairs," you remark. "But if we suck, we suck together. Maybe we can make it look graceful – start a trend."

"Let's do it – come on, it's a slow song."

"Well, it would be a shame not to show off these outfits…"

"Oh yeah, by the way – Patrick demanded that we send him selfies."

You've shaken hands with everyone you've met while wearing your iron ring, you've put holy water into the glasses of anyone whom you and Sam have deemed suspicious, and you've run your EMF reader around the perimeter of the room – everything has turned up clean tonight without incident, and you can't help but feel uneasy as a result.

On the other hand, Sam (or Mr. Moore, rather) has been the perfect doting husband, keeping an arm around you at all times and making polite conversation with the flock of socialites in the dining hall. He doesn't seem very bothered by the whole hunt situation. You suppose he's just trying to make the most of a weird trip.

The two of you retire to your suite after the night's festivities, having danced and drank aplenty (with emphasis on the drinking part). You feel as bubbly as the champagne served with dessert, and Sam's smile is ingrained in his features. That is, until you make it to the elevator – at which point, the awkwardness from earlier returns tenfold, leaving you in a tense, sobering silence for the entirety of the trip back up to your room.

Sam resolves to wait until the two of you are in your room to talk about the hunt. As soon as you open the door, however, you notice something: a standing ice bucket holding a bottle of wine sits at the end of the bed, with a handwritten note tied around the neck of the bottle, simply saying, 'Enjoy your stay.'

The two of you share a very brief glance before quickly bursting into action, searching the room for hex bags and making sure all of your gear is exactly where you left it.

"I don't think anything has been moved," you say.

"Yeah, and I can't find anything that wasn't already here before," he replies with only mild panic in his tone. You laugh bitterly to yourself, slumping down onto the bed. "What is it?"

"I just – I can't help but think that because we are so deprived and so starved for luxury in our usual accommodations, the very suggestion of room or maid service is absolutely unnerving to us. We've just been scared like feral cats."

He mirrors your laugh and flops back onto the bed beside you, running his hands over his face. "God, I think you're right. But in our line of work, it's not like our fear is completely unfounded. Someone going into our room while we're not there has never been a good sign in the past."

"That's exactly my point. Do normal people react well to this sort of thing, you think?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I just feel like the whole thing is sort of ominous. That note that they left – it's almost like it's a command, not a suggestion."

You can't help but giggle at that. "Okay, now you're reading too far into it." You pause, a feeling of exhaustion quickly overcoming you. All of the dancing, the constant acting (read: lying), the drinking, and trying to investigate on top of all of that hits you all at once, and suddenly, you can't keep your eyes open any longer. "Sam—"

"Huh?" His tone suggests that he's feeling the same way.

"Could you, um – could you help me untie my dress?" You get up, kick off your shoes, and hold your hair up. "I don't think I have it in me to wrestle with the laces behind my back right now."

"Yeah, sure," he replies, noticeably holding his breath as he slowly unties the bow on the back of your dress and loosens the laces with not-so-sober fingers.

"Thanks," you say, and with a boldness that only comes from being exhausted and having drank too much, you simply slip the dress off, drape it over the chair beside the bed, strip off the garter belt and stockings, grab a tee shirt from your bag, and climb right into bed – "Also, our assigned group session is at 11:00 tomorrow morning. Don't let me oversleep, okay?" Needless to say, Sam is left rather stunned at your nonchalant state of undress.

"Yeah – sure. I, uh—I'm just, um—I'm gonna take a shower."

He tries to quickly excuse himself from the room, and with whatever energy you have left, you realize that you probably just made him severely uncomfortable. But he doesn't seem like the kind of guy to blush at a woman undressing in front of him. Just look at him, for fuck's sake. But then again, we've been 'just friends' since we were kids, so I'm probably just like a little sister to him – which would definitely make him uncomfortable. Whoops.

"Oh, and uh, Sam—"

"Yeah?"

Make it less awkward – say something with an implied winky-face emoji at the end. Break the tension. Come on, be cool! "I don't have a spoon preference," you mumble with a smile. "And fair warning: if you snore like you did when we were kids, you'll likely wake up with bruises on your shins."

He huffs a laugh (Success!), saying, "Got it. I'm pretty sure I grew out of the snoring thing, but sure. No hard feelings."

You doze off almost immediately. Sam doesn't come to bed for at least another 15 minutes – must be a real chore shampooing his hair to make it look so nice – but as soon as he exits the bathroom (the steam and the amazing smell of a man's shower wafting out with him), you're suddenly wide awake. You're privy to every single sound in the room – there's the rustle of the towel wrapped around his waist, and the super light sound of his bare feet tiptoeing through the room. He obviously forgot to bring clothes into the bathroom with him in his haste, so you hear him rifle through his bag, then hesitate to disrobe and get dressed in the middle of the room. He checks to make sure you're asleep, and suddenly you're very conscious of your movement and your breathing pattern. He quickly gets dressed – sweatpants and a tee shirt, you assume – and slips into bed gently so as to leave you undisturbed.

The bed is so luxurious that you can hardly feel him move – yeah, it's like one of those mattresses in the commercials where there's a person jumping up and down on one side of the bed without disturbing the glass of red wine on the other – but you can still tell that he's incredibly tense. In a strategic maneuver, you sleepily roll over onto your other side, hoping that the movement is enough to show him that he can breathe without bothering you (but now you're facing him, so that's probably weird?). He's far enough away from you that you can safely assume that he's hanging off of the side of the bed. You want to curl up along his side, but decide not to push your luck. Maybe tomorrow.

You don't realize how badly you want to be touching him until you're sharing a bed with him without sharing a single degree of warmth.