the concrete walls of the bunker felt like they were closing in, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the sharp, metallic tang of sam’s weapons. {{user}} paced the small radius of the kitchenette, her footsteps heavy and deliberate. she could feel his eyes on her, hazel and clouded with a weary sort of gold, watching her every move from the doorway. he looked older, the lines around his eyes deeper than they had been years ago, his broad shoulders barely clearing the frame.

“you can’t just keep me in the dark, sam! not again,” {{user}} shouted, her voice echoing off the cold stone. she turned to face him, her chest heaving. she was a vision of everything he had tried to leave behind for her own safety, her soft curves a stark contrast to the hard, jagged edges of his current life.

sam didn’t move at first. he just stood there in his rumpled flannel, the sleeves pushed up to reveal muscular arms mapped with scars she didn’t recognize. “i am trying to keep you alive! do you have any idea what’s out there?” his voice was a low growl, vibrating with a protective instinct that made the space between them feel electric.

“i know what’s in here,” she countered, stepping closer until she was looking up at all six-foot-four of him. “i know the man who used to read me poetry and insisted on extra foam in his lattes. where is he, sam? because this ‘hunter’ act is exhausted.”

sam flinched as if she’d struck him. the stoic mask slipped, just for a second, revealing the yearning he’d been trying to bury under research and lore. he reached out, his hand hovering near her arm before he pulled it back, gripping the strap of his duffel instead.

“that man didn’t have a demonic contract hanging over his head,” sam said, his voice softening into something bruised and honest. “and he didn’t have to worry about losing you a second time. i can’t let that happen. i won't.”