Conversations that once stretched late into the night now ended early. Texts went unanswered for hours. Even when you were together, there was a distance—like both of you were afraid that saying the wrong thing would finally crack what was already fragile. Sam noticed it more than he let on. He always did.

Dean noticed too.

And Dean, in his very Dean way, told him to stop overthinking and do something about it.

So Sam did.

He showed up at your place just as the sun dipped low, the porch light casting long shadows. You hadn’t expected him, and it showed in the way your hand tightened on the door handle when you saw him. You started to close it, instinctive and guarded—but Sam reacted faster, placing his hand against the door, stopping it with surprising ease.

“Just—wait,” he said, not angry, not desperate. Just firm.

There was something different about him. More grounded. More sure of himself.

You hesitated, searching his face, and whatever you saw there made you step back. He didn’t push past you immediately—he waited until you turned, until the tension eased just enough to feel like a choice.

Only then did he follow you inside.

He stayed close, closer than he had been in weeks, his presence warm and familiar at your back. The kitchen felt smaller with him in it. He leaned against the counter like he belonged there, watching you with an intensity that made it hard to ignore.

“Can I get some water?” he asked casually.

You nodded, turning to grab a glass, filling two without thinking. When you turned back, Sam shifted just slightly—enough that when you stepped forward, you bumped into him.

The water sloshed, spilling across his chest.

“Oh,” he said, glancing down as his shirt darkened, clinging to him in a way that left very little to the imagination. “Oops… that’s my bad.”

The apology didn’t reach his eyes.

He let the moment linger, then reached for the hem of his shirt. “Guess I should take this off,” he added, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

He pulled it over his head slowly, deliberately, revealing the familiar lines of muscle you knew all too well—strong shoulders, defined arms, a chest that rose with steady, controlled breaths. When he dropped the shirt onto the counter, he looked at you with a crooked, knowing smirk.

“I hope I’m not distracting you,” he said lightly, eyes dragging over you in return. “Right?”

The tension in the room shifted—thicker now, warmer, charged with everything that had gone unsaid for weeks. This wasn’t just about confidence or teasing.

It was Sam reminding you—without a single raised voice or demand—that he still wanted you, still chose you, and wasn’t ready to let silence be the thing that ended what you had.

And for the first time in a while, it felt impossible not to listen.