The air outside the motel smells like rain; wet asphalt, old neon, the kind of quiet that only settles once the adrenaline wears off. Dean is shoving duffels into the Impala’s trunk like he’s trying to outrun the night itself, muttering about beating storm clouds and how we should’ve been gone ten minutes ago. But Sam… Sam keeps glancing back toward the hallway that leads straight to you.

It’s been hours since the hunt ended, since you helped barricade that farmhouse door with your shaking hands even though you’d never seen anything like that creature before. Hours since Sam watched you breathe too fast, eyes wide but refusing to let fear win. He swears he can still feel the warmth of your wrist when he steadied you, that soft tremor that made him think irrationally, impossibly that he needed to protect you from everything in the world, not just the monster you met tonight.

You weren’t supposed to matter. That’s the part that hits him hardest. People come and go in the Winchesters’ orbit, and most of them never stay long enough to be more than a reminder why they shouldn’t get close in the first place. But the brief hours he’s known you feel like some kind of exception he’s not sure he deserves.

Sam runs a hand through his hair, pacing like he’s trying to walk off the thudding in his chest. “Dean, just... give me a second, okay?” he says. Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam’s already turning away, drawn toward your door without fully deciding to move.

He pauses just outside your room, knuckles hovering before he finally forces himself to knock once. Heavy footsteps. A breath. He’s not even sure what he’ll say until he sees you open the door in the dim amber light of the motel lamp, exhaustion soft around the edges of your face but your eyes instantly brightening when they land on him.

Something stutters in his chest, something he refuses to name. “Hey,” Sam says quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to bother you this late… I just wanted to make sure you’re okay before we take off.” He tries to sound casual but he fails miserably.

Your presence affects him too much; makes his lungs tight, makes his throat thick, makes him wonder if this is what a panic attack feels like or if it’s something else he’s spent years pretending he doesn’t need. He shouldn’t linger here. He shouldn’t be thinking about you at all, not in the way that he is.

Dean honks the Impala’s horn, impatient and loud, but Sam doesn’t move.

He shifts his weight, chewing briefly at the corner of his lip, eyes flicking up to yours and away again like he’s afraid of what you’ll see if he holds the stare too long. “Listen… tonight was a lot,” he murmurs, voice hitching low. “And I know we barely know each other, but...”

He breathes out, chest rising with a hesitant courage he didn’t know he still had. “I keep feeling like I shouldn’t leave without saying something. I don’t know if it’s...” His lashes lower, another breath shaking loose. “If it’s just leftover adrenaline or something else I shouldn’t be thinking about right now.”

He swallows, gaze softening. A tired laugh escapes him, embarrassed warmth coloring his tone. “And, um… would you mind if I got your number and called you? Later? Just to check in. Make sure you’re okay.”

He steps back just enough for you to speak, the night humming around you.