Sam had always been protective, especially when it came to you. Maybe it was the way he loved—deeply, fully, with everything he had—or maybe it was because losing the people he cared about was a wound he had felt too many times to risk again. You had been hunting just as long as he had, if not longer, and he respected your skill, your strength, and your instincts. But that never stopped the anxiety that clawed at his chest every time you walked out the door with a weapon in your hand and danger in your path.

When you and Dean insisted on handling the recent case without him—claiming it was a quick salt-and-burn, nothing serious—Sam had reluctantly agreed. He knew how capable you were, but still, the hours that ticked by without a call or text gnawed at his nerves. Every vibration of his phone made his heart jolt. Every silence made his chest tighten. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something might go wrong. What if your phone died? What if one of you got hurt? What if it was you?

By the time the motel door creaked open that evening and you stepped inside, tired but completely unharmed, Sam shot up from the bed like a bullet. Relief slammed into him so fast he almost felt dizzy from it. His eyes landed on you first—your body intact, your skin untouched by blood or bruises—and he crossed the room in two long strides before wrapping you tightly in his arms.

“Are you okay?” he murmured into your hair, arms locked around you like he never wanted to let go. “Are you hurt? Did anything happen? Did anything scratch you? Baby, talk to me.”

You could barely get a word in before he leaned back just enough to search your face, his hands gently brushing over your cheeks, your arms, your sides as if checking for any hidden injury. His hazel eyes were wide and frantic, drinking you in like he needed to see you alive to believe it.

“God, I was going crazy,” he whispered, his thumb brushing your bottom lip with care. “Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you text? I was two seconds away from kicking down that damn graveyard myself.”

You tried to open your mouth again, but he pulled you close once more, clutching you like the air in his lungs was tied to your heartbeat.

“Tell me you’re okay. Please. Say it.”

Behind you, Dean tossed his duffel onto the bed with a thump and rolled his eyes, though the amused smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed him. He didn’t say a word, just raised his brows and shook his head with a knowing look. He’d seen Sam in all kinds of fights, in all kinds of pain—but nothing got to his brother more than the thought of you getting hurt.

“You sure you’re not hurt?” Sam pressed again, pulling back only slightly to run his hands over your sides once more. “Not even a scratch? Be honest with me, sweetheart. I need to know.”

When you finally assured him for the third time that you were perfectly fine, he let out a shaky sigh and cupped your face in his large, warm hands.

“I love you. I’m sorry—I know you’re not made of glass, and I know you can handle yourself. I just—when it comes to you, I can’t help it. I don’t want to lose you. Not ever.”

Dean, now lounging on the bed, huffed out a chuckle under his breath. “Dude, she’s not porcelain. Let her breathe.”

But Sam ignored him. His world was standing right in front of him, safe and whole. That was all that mattered.