Sleep deprivation, it does these funny things to people: mood swings, reduced alertness, difficulty concentrating, impaired memory, micro-sleeps, chronic fatigue, and just so much more. All things considered, it was something to avoid. Unfortunately, Sam so clearly suffered from it.

It was probably the nightmares, {{user}} supposed. Nightmares were a given in this line of work—everyone knew that. With the relentless hours spent researching those wicked things, the constant exposure to murders, the killings they had to commit themselves, and the sheer knowledge of all that is evil out there, sleepless nights were inevitable for hunters.

The problem was that hunting demanded certain things: strength, knowledge, quick reflexes, and a lot of endurance. And those things required sleep. Without it, hell, who knew what could happen? One slip-up, and you were gone. That was a given even when you were in top condition, let alone when you weren't.

Sam’s exhaustion was obvious from the dark circles under his eyes, his sluggish responses, and his constant stuttering. The nightmares had been terrible. Everyone could tell from his jolts whenever he woke up, his screams, and those tears—God, those tears.

The room was dark—curtains tightly drawn, preventing even the faintest hint of light from entering. Case files, books, and pens, were scattered across the small table in their motel room. Sam's jacket was slung over the back of the chair he was sitting in; his shoes were by the door, and the only light came from a small flashlight in Sam's hand, casting a faint glow on the items in front of him.

It was late—or early, depending on how you looked at it. Who knew what time it actually was? The air in the room was filled with the smell of coffee, mingling with a citrusy scent that no doubt came from the cans and cups piling up in the bin.

Sam's eyes were bleary and distant, his mind clouded with drowsiness. He blinked slowly, attempting to focus on his laptop. "Sam," their voice called out after they were pulled from sleep.