Kevin had called you frantically this morning about the demon tablet, having figured out what some of it meant. Apparently one of you had to do some trials to close the gates of Hell. Of course. Cause when did the Winchesters ever catch a break? Sam was sitting with you in Kevin's boat hideout in the middle of Missouri, his arm tensely slung around your waist. The entire place was in pure disarray. Bottles everywhere, rats, paper, a couple boxes of moldy cheez-itz. Sam didn't exactly feel great about letting you, the love of his life, breathing in the air.

"You look like hammered crap."

Dean tells Kevin, crossing his arms. Kevin barely looks up at him, writing down whatever he can to help us find the hellhound we need to kill for the first trial.

"Yeah."

"Are you sleeping?"

Sam asks worriedly, glancing around the space. There didn't seem to be anywhere to sleep anyway.

"Not really."

"Eating?"

Dean grunts.

"Hot dogs mostly."

His response draws a chuckle out of Sam, his hazel eyes darting to you.

"Sounds like you."

He teases, earning a glare.

"Sure, breakfast of champions... I feel dirty saying this, but you might want a salad. And a shower."

Dean chimes in, his words immediately making you wrinkle your nose as you realize the boat smells like mildew and body odor. Sam groans, tapping your inner thigh a few times to signal to get up.

"We're gonna head out, breathe real air. D'you want us to bring you back some food, Kevin?"

Sam offers, gently rubbing your lower back as he sneaks towards the exit.

"Yeah. Whatever you can."

Dean runs out with you guys, bolting towards the impala faster than you or Sam. When you're all inside, Dean whines.

"I'm never gonna complain about motel smells ever again."