The bunker is quiet, a rare kind of quiet that only happens after a long hunt, when even the pipes seem to sigh in relief. You and Sam have taken over the couch in the library, books spread out between the two of you, the low hum of an old lamp filling the silence.

You’re pretending to read, though your eyes have been stuck on the same line for five minutes.

Sam’s sitting close, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. His hair’s a little messy, like he’s run his hands through it a few too many times, and there’s a soft crease between his brows as he focuses on his book.

And then, without even noticing, he reaches for your hand.

It starts simple, his thumb brushing along your knuckles, his fingers tracing idle shapes against yours as he reads. It’s unconscious, the kind of small, tender habit that feels so Sam. You glance down, watching his large hand gently toy with yours, and your heart does a little somersault.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even seem aware of what he’s doing. He just keeps turning a page with his other hand, still absently rubbing your fingers, occasionally intertwining them before letting go again.

“You know what you’re doing, right?” you ask softly, half teasing, half breathless.

Sam blinks, glances down, and for a moment, that calm, collected Winchester composure slips. His ears go red.

“Oh. Sorry, I-uh I didn’t even realize,” he murmurs, immediately pulling his hand back.

You smile, shaking your head. “You don’t have to stop.”

He hesitates, then smiles, that shy, gentle curve of his lips that makes everything in you go warm. His hand finds yours again, this time deliberate. “Guess it’s a habit now,” he says quietly.