Tires haphazardly kicked up gravel, spiraling dirt in its path as it trudged away from a misplaced kid, weapons and armory cluttering in the barely-secured bed of the truck, dainty tarp threatening to reveal the surreptitiousness of hunting.

Bobby grumbled something under his breath, faintly along the lines of swears and something regarding an ‘idjit’, before steering you inside, away from the dust cloud of your father’s departure.

A routine you had acquiesced, discarded at Bobby’s house by your father with every sliver of opportunity that he could go out hunting, abandoning you with no promise of his return. No phone calls, no worry, not even a message to Bobby of his plausible return.

Sam was just the same, schedule akin to your own; holed up in a spare room, buried in books as his father and brother left for hunts. However, much more gracious than your own father, Dean called with every free moment, loyal to the promise of returning.

"Room’s all yours, kid," Bobby offered gruffly, nodding to the staircase. With a firm pat on your shoulder, Bobby disappeared off to his desk, answering calls and diving through books to help nagging helpless hunters.

The stairs creaked faintly, soft thuds as you headed up the stairs towards your designated room, nearly claimed as your own with the frequency of your visits. An ephemeral moment of distraction as Bobby’s voice raised from downstairs, scolding whoever he was on the phone with for a foolish weapon mix-up, your attention was diverted, sole of your shoe, catching on the last step of the stairs, inadvertently stumbling yourself into another.

A quiet hitch of surprise passed Sam’s lips, his arms instinctively secured around your frame, balancing you back onto your feet. He steadied you, hands lingering on your waist to keep you upright. "You alright?" he asked carefully, pulling back to meet your eyes. His hands hastily shot away after a moment as though it burned to keep them on you, a sheepish look corrupting his once worried gaze.