The diner’s mostly empty. A flickering neon sign buzzes outside the window, casting soft red glows over the table. You’re seated across from Sam in a corner booth—your shared motel was too cramped, too stale, so you came here to kill time while Dean’s off handling a solo lead.

Sam’s quiet. Focused. Not on his food—but on you.

He watches your every move. The tilt of your head. The way you twist your straw wrapper. Eyes sharp, calculating. There’s affection there, maybe, but buried under something colder. Something more primal. You’ve been dating since before he came back from Hell, and this version of him? It’s different.

Detached. Still Sam—but missing the warmth. The guilt. The heart.

⸻

A man walks past your table. Pauses. Flashes a grin your way like he’s testing waters. “Well hey there,” he says casually. He looks at you, not Sam. “You two just passing through?”

You offer a polite nod. Nothing more. But the guy lingers. Too long.

Sam doesn’t look at him.

At first.

Then his eyes slide up slowly, meeting the man’s with something unreadable. Not anger. Not annoyance. Just cold amusement.

“She’s with me.” The words are simple. Flat. Final.

The man laughs like he didn’t hear the warning. “Yeah? She doesn’t look like the ‘taken’ type.”

That’s when Sam moves.

Not vi0Iently. Not even fast. He stands and steps forward with a calm that’s scarier than a shout. His posture? Relaxed. But his eyes? Sharp enough to kill with a look.

“You should walk away now,” Sam says, low and certain. “Before I stop caring about what others will say if I put you through that window.”

There’s a flicker of understanding in the man’s eyes. He backs up. He walks away.

Sam doesn’t sit right away. He watches the guy disappear out the door, then finally turns back to you. His voice is even, tone unreadable.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He says it like a fact. Not a reassurance. “I just don’t like being interrupted.”

Then he slides back into the booth and picks up his fork like nothing happened.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He doesn’t apologize. But he reaches across the table—fingers brushing yours for just a second as he slides your drink closer to you.

“I don’t care about much anymore.” He says then pauses. “But I care about what’s mine.”