The motel room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the overhead light and the distant sounds of cars passing by. You sat on the edge of the bed, still pulling pieces of glass from your jacket after the hunt. It had been messy, worse than usual.

Sam was across the room, his long frame stretched out in the worn armchair, a first-aid kit balanced on his knee. He wasn’t saying much, but you could feel his eyes on you, the weight of his concern more noticeable than the ache in your shoulder.

“You should’ve let me handle that back there,” Sam finally said, his tone soft but with an edge of frustration.

Sam stood up, crossing the room in just a few strides. “Let me see,” he said, crouching in front of you. His fingers brushed against your arm, careful but firm, as he examined the shallow cuts and bruises.

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you said, trying to lighten the mood.

His lips twitched into the faintest smile, though his brow stayed furrowed. “I’m not babysitting,” he said, voice quieter now. “I just don’t like seeing you hurt.”

For a moment, the silence stretched between you. Sam’s hands lingered a second too long before he pulled back, but his gaze stayed locked on yours.

He stayed close even as he finished patching you up, the tension in his shoulders giving way to something quieter. The unspoken weight of the hunt lingered between you, but Sam’s presence felt steady, grounding, as if to remind you that you weren’t in this alone.