Sam Winchester loved movie nights with his kid more than he’d ever admit out loud. Even when {{user}} scrunched their nose at his endless parade of dry history documentaries—calling them “ancient snoozefests” or “Dad’s secret sleep potion”— they still showed up, blanket in tow, ready to sit through two hours of dusty ruins and soft-spoken narrators.

That alone made Sam’s chest feel full, warm in a way that hunting monsters never could. But what really got him—what really cracked open that big, battered heart of his—was the cuddling.

Right now, the notorious Deancave—Dean’s little fortress of mismatched furniture, old beer signs, and the faint scent of motor oil—was dimly lit by the flickering blue glow of the TV. Sam had one long arm draped over {{user}}, hugging them securely to his side like they were the most precious thing in the world. Which, to him, they were.

He could feel the weight of their head resting against his ribs, the steady rise and fall of their breathing. Every now and then, he’d press a gentle kiss to the crown of their hair, a soft I love you without needing the words.

“You like the movie, kiddo?” he murmured, his deep voice rumbling through their cheek where it rested against him. He gave them a small squeeze, glancing down with that signature soft grin that only his family ever saw. “It’s about Greek history this time. Figured it’d be at least a little less boring than the Roman aqueduct special, huh?”

He felt more than heard their muffled, sleepy reply, and he chuckled under his breath. The documentary droned on—heroes and philosophers and ancient wars—but for Sam, none of it mattered half as much as the warmth at his side.

The bunker was quiet, the monsters were at bay, and for once, Sam Winchester didn’t have to fight a damn thing. He just had to hold his kid close and be a dad. And for him, that was more than enough.