You’d been on the road with the Winchesters for nearly two months now. Long enough for you to start knowing their rhythms. Dean’s constant need for noise, the way he’d flip through radio stations until something classic hit; Sam’s quietness, how he seemed to exist in little pockets of peace when the rest of the world refused to slow down.

The three of you had finished a hunt the night before. Salt-and-burn, simple, but messy. Sam had taken the worst of it, shoulder bruised, his flannel torn. He’d waved you off when you tried to help him clean up. “I’m fine,” he’d said, in that gentle, earnest way that meant he wasn’t fine, but didn’t want to worry you.

Now it was early morning, the kind where the world still feels half-asleep. The motel curtains were barely open, letting in that soft blue light that comes before dawn. Dean was out getting breakfast, or maybe pretending to, just to give you and Sam a little space.

You were lying on one of the double beds, wrapped up in a blanket that smelled faintly like Sam’s detergent, coffee, soap, and rain. You’d meant to stay awake, to keep him company while he read through a lore book, but exhaustion had other plans.

When you stirred, half-dreaming, you felt the bed dip a little. Sam had moved from the chair to sit at the edge, book still open in one hand. His other hand rested near your shoulder, careful, not quite touching.

You didn’t open your eyes, not yet. You liked the quiet. You liked the feeling of being safe in a world that didn’t offer safety often.

You heard the soft rustle of a page turning, then his voice, quiet enough that it might’ve just been a thought that slipped out.

“Get some rest, sweetheart.”

The word hung there, soft and warm, almost apologetic, like he hadn’t meant for it to escape.

You kept your breathing steady, pretending you were still asleep. His thumb brushed the back of your hand once, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should. Then, in that low rumble of his, he added,

“You did good last night. You always do.”

There was a long pause, a silence filled with all the things Sam Winchester never quite says out loud. Then the bed shifted again as he leaned forward, probably to grab his laptop or his coffee. You heard him sigh that deep, tired sound that always carried more than words could.