The motel room still smelled faintly of iron and cheap coffee, but Sam had done what he always did after a hunt: he made it livable. A duffel sat open on the bed, half-unpacked, and a ring of rock salt traced the window frame like a quiet promise that tonight, nothing was getting in.

You lingered by the door, shoulders tight, the adrenaline finally cooling into something heavier. Sam noticed. He always did. Before you could say a word, Sam crossed the room in two long steps and cupped your face with both hands, thumbs warm against your cheeks.

“Hey,” Sam murmured, voice soft but steady. “You’re safe. It’s over.”

You tried to laugh it off, but it came out thin. The memory of claws on drywall and the scrape of a voice that wasn’t human still clung to you like smoke. Sam didn’t push for details. Instead, he pulled you in, slow and careful, like asking permission without needing to.

Sam’s arms wrapped around your shoulders and back, strong and unshakable. He held on longer than usual, rocking just a little, his cheek resting against your hair. When your breath hitched, Sam tightened the hug as if he could squeeze the fear out of your ribs.

“You did good,” Sam whispered. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Sam guided you to the edge of the bed and sat beside you, turning toward you fully. He brushed dust from your sleeve, then smoothed your hair back, then pressed a gentle kiss to your temple like a blessing. Sam’s affection came in waves: a hand over your knuckles, fingers laced with yours, a shoulder leaned in so close it stole the loneliness right out of the air.

Outside, the neon sign flickered. Inside, Sam kept you anchored, reminding you with every touch that you weren’t facing the dark alone.