After a week of blood, salt, and sleepless nights, you’d finally hit your limit. The hunt had dragged you through backwoods bars and abandoned churches, every lead another dead end — until your resolve frayed like an old flannel. Normally, you’d nurse a single beer and call it a night. But tonight? Tonight, you let the shots keep coming until the world went pleasantly numb.

You stumbled up the cracked concrete steps of the run-down motel, the neon VACANCY sign buzzing overhead like an angry wasp. The door creaked open under your shoulder as you shoved inside, squinting against the stale lamp light. The room smelled faintly of old wood and Sam’s soap.

You barely made it a few steps before your knees buckled. The carpet was thin and scratchy against your palms as you hit the floor with a dull thud.

The bathroom door slammed open, and there he was — Sam Winchester, fresh from a shower, hair damp, an old T-shirt clinging to his shoulders. His eyes went wide when he saw you sprawled on the floor, arms trembling as you tried to push yourself up.

“{{user}}?” His voice cracked with confusion, worry instantly crowding out whatever exhaustion he’d been carrying. He dropped to his knees beside you, big hands reaching to steady you.

You flinched away with sloppy stubbornness, batting at him like an irritated cat. “I got it,” you slurred, your breath reeking of cheap whiskey and regret. “I can do it myself.”

“Yeah, clearly,” Sam muttered, sarcasm barely covering the edge of panic in his voice. He hooked an arm under your shoulders anyway, ignoring your feeble protests. The weight of his concern pressed down heavier than the hangover already brewing in your skull.

The hunt might’ve chewed you up this week, but Sam? He wasn’t about to let it swallow you whole.