sam’s been through hell and back, quite literally. maybe worse than literally. but he’s shaken. lady bevell did a number on him, with the cold water and the blowtorch to his feet and the mind games. the mind games were the worst, he thinks. that, and the whole time, sam was sure that dean had died in the fight against the darkness.

but you showed up. you and dean and his mom. and you got him out of there, out of that godforsaken barn.

sam’s beyond shocked about mary. he’s beyond happy. seeing her face, alive and smiling at him is incomparably better than a dream come true. but he doesn’t want to be with her until he’s cleaned up, until he’s back in his right mind. he doesn’t want her first encounter with him to be this anxious, beaten down version of himself. he needs you right now.

you take him to his room, and nobody protests. everyone silently understands, and for that, both you and sam are infinitely grateful. you lead him to the bed and grab all the medical supplies you need. he sits on the edge of the mattress and you set the med kit on the bedside table. you gently cup his face in your hands.

“why don’t you lay down, honey?” you whisper. “you don’t have to sit.” he heaves a sigh and lets your hands guide him down into the pillows.

you begin tending to his wounds, and he watches you with tired, loving eyes. “thought of you the whole time,” he murmurs.