Dean killed the headlights but left the radio murmuring some old Zeppelin track. He leaned across the bench seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel, and shot Sam that particular smirk—the one that said I know exactly how pathetic you look right now, Sammy, and I'm gonna milk it.

"Go get your girl, Romeo," Dean said, voice rough with amusement. "And try not to trip with those flowers like a giant puppy. You got this."

Sam exhaled through his nose. His fingers tightened around the cellophane-wrapped bouquet; pale pink peonies and soft white roses, the kind the florist had called "romantic without being over-the-top." He'd stood in the shop for ten minutes debating, feeling ridiculous in his blood-streaked flannel and too-big coat, like a hunter playing dress-up in someone else's normal life.

"Yeah. Thanks for the ride." He pushed the door open. Cold night air rushed in, carrying the faint metallic bite of coming snow and the distant hum of a city that never quite slept.

Dean leaned out the window as Sam straightened to his full height. "Hey. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Sam rolled his eyes. "That list is pretty short."

"Bitch"

"Jerk"

The Impala rumbled away, taillights bleeding red against wet asphalt, leaving Sam alone on the sidewalk with his heartbeat loud in his ears.

He looked up at your window—third floor, corner unit. The curtain was half-drawn, warm lamplight spilling out in a soft gold rectangle. Three weeks and four days since he'd last kissed you goodbye in this same doorway, promising just a quick salt-and-burn, babe, back before you miss me. Lies he told because the truth would only carve worry lines deeper into your face.

He climbed the stairs slowly, boots heavy on the worn wood. Each step ratcheted the knot in his stomach tighter. What if the absence had cooled something between you? What if you looked at him tonight and saw only the hunter—the blood under his nails no amount of soap could erase, the shadows that lived permanent under his eyes?

At your door he paused. Lifted his fist. Lowered it. Breathed. Then knocked—three soft raps, the same rhythm he always used so you'd know it was him.

The lock clicked almost immediately.

You opened the door and the hallway light caught in your hair, turning the strands molten for a second. You wore that old oversized hoodie of his, sleeves pushed up to your elbows. Bare legs. Fuzzy socks. No makeup. Just you. Real and unguarded and so goddamn beautiful his chest ached.

"Sam," you breathed.

"Hey, sweetheart." His voice came out rougher than he intended, gravel from not enough sleep. He held out the bouquet like evidence. "I... uh. These are for you. Sorry they're a little crushed. Impala's not exactly a flower-delivery vehicle."

Your eyes flicked from the flowers to his face. You stepped forward, took the bouquet with careful fingers, and set it on the narrow entry table without looking away from him.

Then you reached up and cupped his jaw. He covered your hand with his and turned his face into your palm, closing his eyes for a second.

"I'm sorry," he murmured against your wrist. "For disappearing again. For the radio silence. For—"

"Sam." Your other hand slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair; longer now, curling at the ends from neglect. "Shut up and kiss me."

He didn't need to be told twice. His mouth found yours careful at first. But you opened to him immediately, soft and hungry. He groaned low in his throat, and backed you inside, kicking the door shut with his heel.

He pressed you against the wall just inside, hands framing your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. The kiss deepened, tongues sliding in a rhythm that felt both brand-new and muscle-memory perfect.