The Impala was quiet, save for the hum of the engine cooling down and the soft crackle of the radio Dean had left on low before heading into the gas station. You sat in the backseat, legs pulled up, your jacket draped across your knees like some flimsy shield against the winter chill. Sam sat beside you, his long frame taking up more space than necessary, his knee brushing yours every time he shifted.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like static buzzing under your skin, like every inch between you was a choice you weren’t sure you could keep making.

You glanced at him, catching the way the passing neon lights spilled across his face. Soft, fleeting, like everything about this moment. His hair fell into his eyes, and for some reason, you wanted to push it back—just once. Just to see what it felt like.

“You okay?” His voice was low, breaking through the thundering of your pulse. He’d been watching you too, and when your eyes met his, something tightened in your chest.

You should’ve said yes. Should’ve nodded, smiled, looked away. But you didn’t. Instead, the word stuck in your throat, and before you could think better of it, you were leaning forward.

The kiss wasn’t soft at first—it was startled, sharp, the kind that leaves you breathless because you didn’t plan it and now you can’t stop. Sam froze for half a heartbeat, then his hand came up, cupping the back of your neck like he’d been waiting years for this exact moment. He kissed you back, slow now, like memorizing, like trying to make up for all the times he’d held himself back.

It was too much and not enough, and then—

The sound of the gas station door slamming shut. Dean’s boots on the pavement. The rattle of the paper bag in his hand.

You jerked back like you’d been burned. Sam’s chest rose and fell fast, his hair a mess, lips flushed. He swore under his breath and reached out, his fingers brushing yours for a desperate second before he pulled away.

Dean’s voice carried over the lot, casual and unsuspecting. “Hope you two didn’t kill each other back there.”

Sam shot you a look—pleading, raw, a secret packed into a single glance. His voice was barely a whisper, rough and urgent as he leaned close enough that only you could hear:

“Don’t tell him. Please.”