the bunker smelled of old paper and the sharp, antiseptic sting of rubbing alcohol. sam sat on the edge of the wooden table, his massive frame hunched forward, flannel shirt discarded on the floor. the fluorescent light hummed overhead, casting a clinical glow over the jagged tear in his shoulder.

"you're tensing again," {{user}} murmured, her voice a soft anchor in the quiet room. she stood between his knees, her presence a familiar, comforting weight. she moved with a practiced grace, her fingers steady as she dabbed at the blood.

sam let out a breath that was more of a huff. "i’m fine. it’s just a scratch."

"a scratch that needs six stitches, samuel. stop being a martyr for five minutes." she leaned in closer, her brow furrowed in concentration. she was so close he could smell the vanilla of her lotion underneath the copper tang of the hunt. her hand, soft and warm, rested firmly on his bicep to steady him.

he looked down, his hazel eyes tracking the way her thumb brushed unconsciously against his skin. she’d known him before the cage, before the literal apocalypse, back when he was just a college kid trying to find a library. to her, he wasn't the vessel or the freak; he was just sam.

"hold still," she warned, threading the needle. "if you keep flinching, this scar is going to be crooked, and we both know you’re too pretty for that."

sam’s lips stayed thin, but a ghost of a smile touched his eyes. "i'm not flinching. i'm... adjusting."

"right. adjusting." she glanced up, catching his gaze for a split second before returning to the wound. "you’ve faced lucifer, sam, but a needle makes you jump?"

the air in the room seemed to thicken, the space between them shrinking until the hum of the light was the only thing left. sam’s voice dropped an octave, vibrating in the small gap between their chests. "it’s not the needle. it’s just... you’re very close."