The silence was loud. Bobby stood there in the door opening to {{user}}'s room, clearly confused in his drunken haze. Sam knew that the moment he processed what he'd just seen he'd be livid.

To go back and explain—Sam might have fucked up. See, {{user}}'s basically Bobby's kid. Lived with him and all, helped out. Stuff like that. They're the same age as Sam, so they'd kind of grown up together, he stayed with Bobby often enough when his dad went hunting so it's not shocking that he formed a connection with the only other person that was a constant in his life outside of his brother, Bobby, and his dad.

That connection soon got altered by the fact that they both became hormonal teenagers who felt the need to express themselves. That expression came in the form of make-out sessions every now and then.

You'd think they'd stop after Sam had gone to college and they hadn't seen each other in ages—only, those feelings hadn't. They'd lingered, unspoken and unresolved, surfacing every time their eyes met across a dusty motel room or a cluttered salvage yard. Always teetering on the edge of something more, but never crossing that line. Until tonight.

Bobby had gone on a liquor run, muttering something about old bones and the need to forget. Sam had stuck around the house, nursing a half-bottle of whiskey with {{user}}, the two of them trading stories and teasing like it hadn't been years since they'd been this close. Laughter turned into glances, glances into touches. And now—

Now Sam was halfway on top of {{user}}, hands buried in their hair, their breath mingling as if trying to drink each other in. He’d barely registered the creak of the floorboards outside before Bobby's gruff voice mumbled, “You still awake, kid?”

Then came the door. And now here they were. Frozen. Busted.

Sam blinked, pulling back slightly from {{user}}, heart pounding. He didn’t dare look Bobby in the eyes just yet.

“Son of a bitch,” Bobby muttered, a slow burn of realization catching up to him like molasses in winter. “Tell me I ain't seein' what I think I’m seein’.”

“Bobby—” Sam started, but his voice cracked, giving away too much guilt too fast. He knew the old man wasn’t going to hear him out. Not yet. Not while his face was turning that specific shade of ‘you done screwed up’ red.

“Am I seein’ this right?” he slurred, voice low and dangerous despite the haze. “You…” Bobby looked between them, a storm brewing behind his bleary gaze. “You know damn well I told you not to mess around with them.”

God, Sam had never wanted to vanish more in his life. “Bobby, listen—” He sat up straighter, trying to shield {{user}} slightly with his body, like that would somehow make it better. “It wasn’t planned,” he said, quietly but firmly. “It just... happened.”

Wrong words. The wrongest words.

“No, you listen,” Bobby growled, suddenly sounding a hell of a lot more sober. “I told you boys one damn thing—one. You don’t touch my kid.”

“Bobby, it’s not like that,” Sam tried. “It’s not some fling. It’s—”

“Save it.” Bobby glared, then turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.

Sam stared after him, throat dry, heart hammering. “…I think I just got disowned,” he muttered, and then laughed nervously. “Worth it?”