Sam always handled you like you were made of glass.

Which was laughable, really, because you weren’t. You’d taken on wendigos and vampires, stitched up your own wounds with trembling fingers, cursed at monsters and men alike without flinching. But none of that mattered when Sam Winchester looked at you like one wrong touch might shatter you to pieces.

You felt it in his hands. Huge, broad, warm hands—his fingers wrapped nearly all the way around your wrist when he took your hand, like a fairytale giant playing house with a princess. He always held you like that, gently, like he was afraid of the strength he knew he had. The strength he always had.

Even when he was half-asleep, arms loose around your waist in bed, you could feel the restrained power in every muscle—like he was just really holding himself back.

And God, the size of him.

You didn’t notice it when you were angry with him, when you were storming down dark motel hallways bickering over case details. He’d just be Sam then—grumpy, quiet, sometimes frustratingly logical. Never scary, even with his size. But then he’d duck under a doorway, or lean against a wall with his arms crossed, and you’d be reminded that this man—your man—was six-foot-four and built like he could carry you and an entire bookshelf without breaking a sweat.

Sometimes, you’d watch him from the corner of your eye when he stretched, shirt rising to reveal a flash of taut abs, arms flexing like tree trunks, and your heart would stutter.

He always noticed. “What?” he’d say, like he didn’t know, and you’d roll your eyes and play it off.

But now—right now—you weren’t playing anything off.

You were sitting on his lap, your legs straddling his thighs, your palms pressed flat to his chest as you kissed him slow and deep on the couch of some motel. His hands rested low on your hips, not gripping, not moving—just holding. Just being there. Huge and warm and steady.

“I’m not gonna break, you know,” you murmured against his mouth.

Sam pulled back just enough to look at you, and his hand came up—so carefully—to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, slow. “I know,” he said softly, those puppy eyes shining. “But I never want to hurt you.”