The bunker is quiet in that artificial way, the kind that only exists underground. Lamps glow low and amber, like they’re trying to remember the sun.

Sam sits at the table with a book open in front of him, but he hasn’t turned the page in a long time.

Because {{user}} is there.

Not doing anything dramatic. That’s the dangerous part. Just leaning against the doorway, arms folded, watching him with that unreadable softness that always gets him. The world has ended—what—too many times to count, and still, somehow, this moment feels like the most fragile thing he’s ever held.

Sam looks up, and for a second he forgets how to breathe.

He smiles, slow and crooked, like he’s afraid the feeling might spook if he moves too fast.

“You know,” he says quietly, voice worn thin by honesty, “I’ve crossed hell dimensions, bled out on motel floors, made deals I’ll never finish paying for.” He closes the book, fingers resting on the cover like a confession. “And none of it scared me the way this does.”

He stands, steps closer. Not rushing. Sam never rushes this.

The light catches in his eyes—too earnest, too open, like he’s always been one step away from ruin simply because he feels things too much. His voice drops, reverent, almost broken.

“I keep thinking the universe is going to notice,” he admits. “That it’ll realize I don’t deserve something this good… and take you away.”

A beat. His jaw tightens. Resolve, forged the hard way.

“But I’d still choose it,” he says. “I’d choose you every time. Even knowing how it ends.”

He reaches out, hesitates—then lets his hand rest against yours, warm and grounding and real.

“For you,” Sam murmurs, like a vow he’s already died for once and would do again without complaint. “I’d burn the whole damn story down and start over.”

The bunker hums softly around you, ancient and unknowing, while Sam Winchester looks at {{user}} like the world finally makes sense—and like it’s already slipping through his fingers.

And still… he holds on.