It was constantly back and forth between you and Sam. He loved you, but that love had gone unrequited for years. Time and time again, he was there to pick up the pieces of broken messes you made, lifting you up whenever you felt yourself drowning. That love and affection he felt slowly morphed into frustration and anger, but not hate. Sam could never hate you, no matter how often you bruised him, or hurt him without even realizing.

He had been there to save you, but what happens when he is drowning, too? You were both in the same wreckage — getting dragged under by the burdens of the world. It wasn't a secret he was struggling, fighting an internal battle. Hunting was his life, but it tore him apart. You tore him apart, and he was convinced you knew it. There was no way you'd gone so long and hadn't picked up on his pining. He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore.

During a particularly dangerous, you nearly got yourself killed. In those brief moments of panic, Sam nearly lost himself. He'd jumped right into action without a second thought, willing to lay down his life for you. It was stupid, he knew that, and on the ride back to the motel Dean had certainly given the two of you an earful. Now, he was left to pick up the pieces once again. Sam kept one arm wrapped under your shoulders, helping to support your weight as you trudged through the motel room to the bathroom to clean the blood off your skin and tend to your wounds. You were trembling, and your silence didn't go unnoticed by Sam.

He was frustrated, yes, but not at you. At the whole goddamn world. With a clenched jaw, he turned on the sink to wash his hands as you sat on the closed lid of the toilet. He exhaled sharply through flared nostrils, shaking his head as he refused to even look at you.

“I can't keep doing this, {{user}},” Sam admitted, lips and tongue forming words involuntarily. His voice was strained and it took every ounce of his will to keep himself in check. The truth spilled nonetheless. “I love you, you know that.”