The motel room was quiet except for the faint buzz of the minifridge and the soft clicking of Sam’s keyboard. After a successful hunt, Dean had dragged you to the town’s bar, insisting the two of you celebrate the rare victory. Sam knew Dean just wanted a wingman for the night, though you had been too loyal to refuse. The promise of a night to unwind with Dean’s enthusiasm had made it hard to argue, even though Sam suspected you’d end up regretting it.

Sam had opted out as usual, preferring to stay behind and research. He’d seen enough bars to know exactly how the night would go. Dean would charm his way into someone’s pants, leaving you to nurse a drink and eventually make your way back on your own. Besides, someone had to stay focused.

He sat on the worn-out couch, surrounded by open books and scattered notes, his laptop balanced on one knee. He’d been working for hours, piecing together clues of recent sightings. Something seemed to be moving through the region, and his gut told him they were far from done here.

The lock beeped, followed by a clumsy thud against the door. Sam didn’t look up, he knew who it was. Another thud. A muttered curse, slurred, but enough to confirm his suspicions. He smirked faintly, typing one last note before closing his laptop.

Finally, the door creaked open and you stumbled in, looking like you’d just lost a bar fight with a storm.

“Hey, {{user}}.”

He looked you up and down. Your hair was a mess, eyeliner smudged, and one shoe dangled from your hand while the other remained on your foot. He watched you sway slightly, cheeks flushed from alcohol.

“You look lively,” he teased softly.

Sam leaned back on the couch, folding his arms as he watched you struggle to kick the door shut behind her. “Dean ditched you, huh?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with amusement

He already knew the answer, it wasn’t the first time. Dean had a habit of dragging you out under the guise of “loosening up” and then conveniently disappearing once he found someone to spend the night with.