The motel room smells like cheap soap, wet boots, and grief.

Dean’s out—chasing down some lead on their dad’s last credit card trail. You’re alone with Sam now. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight like if he lets go of something, he’ll fall apart completely.

You lean against the dresser across the room, arms crossed. Watching him. Waiting. Not sure what you’re waiting for—but it’s there. Heavy in the air. Like unfinished business clawing its way to the surface.

He hasn’t said much since Jess. Since the fire. Since the scream that pulled him back into the life he tried so hard to leave behind.

“You don’t have to stare,” he mutters, voice low, cracked around the edges. Not angry. Not sharp. Just tired.

You don’t look away.

“You weren’t supposed to come back like this.”

He lifts his head slowly, meeting your eyes for the first time since Dean left. His expression is unreadable—grief and guilt fighting behind his eyes, buried under years of silence.

“I didn’t plan on coming back at all.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You made that pretty clear when you left.”

He flinches, just slightly. But he doesn’t argue. That’s what stings the most. He knows he left you. He knows he didn’t say goodbye.

“It wasn’t about you,” he says after a pause. Quiet. Careful.

You blink. “Then why does it still feel like it was?”

The air between you is sharp—tension stretched so tight, it could snap with a single word. But neither of you says it. Not yet. There’s too much else in the way: Jess’s blood, their missing father, years of silence where something softer used to live.

Finally, Sam stands. He walks toward you—not too close—but close enough for the weight of him to settle into your bones again. The smell of his jacket. The pain in his eyes.

“I never forgot you.”

That’s all he says.

Then he looks away like it hurt to say it out loud.