you can practically feel sam’s stress when you walk into your shared room with him. he’s sitting at the desk, head bowed, shoulders sagging, and hand running through his hair. these days he’s so stressed, and underneath that, so sad. rightfully so. he’s lost his best friend castiel and is clinging to the hope that his mother could still be alive in the alternate apocalypse universe. it’s hurting worse for him because dean insists that she’s dead.

with soft footsteps, but enough noise to alert him of your presence, you approach, gently placing your hands on his shoulders. you rub them softly, trying to push out some of the ever-present tension.

“what’re you thinking about?” you ask quietly, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head. he seems to soften a bit under your touch, but he still gives a heavy sigh.

“jack,” he admits. “i’m- i’m worried about him. worried about the way dean’s treating him. i really don’t think he means any harm. but he- he told me that dean, uh, he threatened to- to kill him if he makes a wrong step.”