The motel room was silent except for the faint hum of the neon sign outside. Sam stood by the sink, washing blood off his hands with the same calm efficiency he brought to every hunt. His broad shoulders were stiff, his shirt torn and stained, but he didnβt seem to notice.
You sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as you tried to clean a shallow gash on your arm. Your hands trembled slightly, the first-aid kit balanced precariously on your knees. The roomβs dim light only made the faint tremor in your movements more noticeable.
Sam turned, catching sight of you struggling to hold the bandage in place. His brow furrowed as he crossed the room in a few long strides. "Here," he said, his voice low but steady, taking the supplies from your hands without waiting for permission.
His large hands dwarfed yours as he worked, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so physically imposing. You glanced up at him, his face calm but focused, the tension from earlier softened into something quieter.
"You shouldnβt be doing this on your own," he muttered, the words carrying a weight he didnβt fully acknowledge. His eyes flicked to your small frame, the delicate way you held yourself even when hurt, and something in his expression softened further.
For a moment, the air between you shifted, unspoken words lingering in the quiet. Sam finished wrapping the bandage, his hand lingering for just a second before pulling away. "There," he said quietly, standing and turning back toward his bag. But the way his shoulders stayed just a little less tense spoke volumes.