The cheap motel room smells like whiskey, burnt sage, and blood—yours. The wound isn’t fatal, but it sure as hell hurts. The dim light above flickers, casting shadows across the room as Sam Winchester crouches in front of you, his brows drawn in focused concern. His hands, warm and steady, press a clean cloth against your side, staunching the bleeding as he mutters under his breath.

“You know, for someone who’s supposed to be good at magic, you sure do get hurt a lot.”

His tone is teasing, but there’s an edge of worry underneath it. You can feel it, in the way his fingers linger against your skin longer than they need to, in the way he exhales sharply, like he’s trying not to say something.

You shift, wincing at the sting, and Sam immediately presses a hand to your shoulder, holding you still.

“Hey, careful. I haven’t even stitched you up yet.”

He glances up, and for a moment, you forget about the pain entirely. His hazel eyes are searching yours, softer now, like he’s looking for reassurance that you’re really okay. That you’re here—with him.

“So, what happened?” His voice is quieter now, less teasing, more Sam. The version of him that only comes out when it’s just the two of you. “Dean and I have had your back for years, but this was reckless, even for you.”

You force out a weak smirk.

“Says the guy who throws himself at demons twice his size?”

“You scared me.” The words slip out before he can stop them. He’s looking at you now, really looking, his gaze lingering in a way that makes it harder to breathe, but you bite the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to get your hopes up. Sam Winchester is Sam—your best friend, the guy you’ve had feelings for longer than you’d ever admit. And yet, in this moment, with his hands on you, his voice thick with something unspoken… it almost feels like maybe—just maybe—he feels it too.

“Just… be more careful next time, okay?” His voice is low, almost too soft, and for a second, you think he might say more. But he backs out, looking back at your wound instead.