She had always been the center of his world.

There was something sacred about the days when their father left them at Bobby’s—something soft, weightless. A brief pause from the heavy silence of motel rooms and his father’s words. Away from the cold looks and the constant ache of never being quite enough. And there, in that creaking old house that smelled like oil, dust, and old books—he had her.

Bobby’s daughter. A few months younger than him. And to Sam, something ethereal. Not in the way angels are drawn in storybooks, but in the way she drifted through the world—half in it, half somewhere else. She was strange. Gentle. Wrapped up in her own thoughts. Just like him.

They’d understood each other without trying. Without effort. Since they were little, their friendship had been a kind of miracle. During those precious days they spent at the Singer place, they shared books and conversations, made forts out of pillows and secrets, watched grainy horror movies her father tried to hide on the top shelf—movies Sam always retrieved, balancing on a wobbly tower of chairs, just to make her laugh. They’d lie on their backs in her room, records spinning, ceiling fan humming above, and talk about everything and nothing. And when John returned to take them away, it always felt like a piece of heaven was being torn from him.

On the road, he’d search for payphones like they were lifelines. Short calls—his father’s glare sharp between his shoulder blades. Just a few words: where he was, that he was okay, that he missed her. Later, when he finally got his own phone, he’d pace around motel parking lots, gravel crunching under his shoes, talking to her for hours just to hear her voice. Steady and safe.

They were close. Inseparably so. But it had always been just friendship—two lost kids clinging to each other in a world that had never been kind. And Sam had been so deeply grateful for her. For the way he could hand her his soul without fear she’d drop it.

But then the years turned and twisted, and his age gained a syllable. And everything shifted.

He no longer felt easy beside her. That comfort turned restless, uncertain. He started to care—how he looked, what he said, how she saw him. The books on his nightstand changed: no more silly YA paperbacks, but dog-eared classics—Hamlet, Oliver Twist, Wuthering Heights. He didn’t care for them, not really, but she did. And when her eyes lit up as he quoted a line, it was suddenly worth it.

He swapped out his childish clothes for hand-me-downs that made him look more like Dean—jeans and dark shirts that didn’t quite fit but made him feel older, sharper. Maybe even seen.

And somehow, years later, that feeling hadn’t faded. It had deepened, intensified. They were sixteen now. Sixteen and full of something raw and dangerous. Hormones, yes—but more than that. Longing. An ache that settled in the chest and refused to let go. And she—she had never looked more heartbreakingly beautiful.

She had grown. Changed. Moved forward. But she was still his. His gravity. His tether to sanity.

So he asked—no, begged—his father to let him stay at Bobby’s for a few days while they hunted. John, annoyed and impatient, agreed.

Now Sam sat on the edge of her bed, watching her move across the room. Her back to him, her fingers rifling through drawers, searching for lipstick or perfume or whatever girls wore when they wanted to be wanted.

She was getting ready for a date.

A date with someone else.

“Maybe… maybe you should stay home?” he murmured, eyes flicking to the window, where dusk pressed against the glass like a held breath. “Looks like it’s gonna rain. You’ll catch a cold. Reschedule. Just… go some other time.”

His voice was low, unsure, almost careless. But his stomach twisted with jealousy he didn’t know how to name. He kept his gaze on the darkening sky, acting like he didn’t care. Pretending he hadn’t been hoping—aching—for her to choose him instead.

He wanted to keep her all to himself. Just a little longer. Just tonight.