Sam was one to count his lucky stars with you, and he did it every time he held you, kissed you, held your hand. He didn’t want to let you go, maybe cause of what happened to Jess, which meant that he was affectionate, and so gone for you. He never knew he could fall in love again, but you made him trip over his feet and get whipped like a bullet train hit his left cheek. Sometimes Dean teased him for being a lovesick puppy that he saw Sam was on the inside, on the outside he was the perfect boyfriend— loving, funny, cured your touch starvation by cuddling you and could make you feel limbless if you gave him thirty minutes.

Dean was out for the week to go on a solo hunt, like the man does, which left you and Sam with the motel room to yourselves and plenty of time to relax, recover and recuperate. Neither of you had much energy after the latest attempt to find his dad.

Fuck, that search was hopeless.

“Coffee?” He asked, passing by with a kiss to your hair and smoothing it back— you know, gentle, sweet, just to check if you were real, he needed it. God, you were so perfect, with your smile and pretty eyes. Fucking hell, he loved you, loved being affectionate.

He loved you that much.

Sam hummed against your head, tilting your head to see him, a soft smile on his face— hair luscious and perfect as always. He wanted a kiss — your lips were soft, don’t blame him — but did he want to seem touch starved? No. “Or cuddles?”

Ugh, you were the finer thing in life and he knew it. You loved him too, him with his perfect smile and his puppy eyes, lumber jackets and the way he’d tuck back your hair. Thanks to the girls he’d dated who taught him how to treat one, it gave you butterflies.

Sweet Lord of fucking Heaven.