The motel door creaks open. “Hey. You’re still awake?” Sam’s voice is soft, his silhouette outlined in the yellow glow from the hallway. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He’s still wearing that flannel you like, sleeves rolled up, a few specks of blood on the collar—but not his, you hope. His hair’s a little damp from the rain, and there’s that familiar crease in his brow—the one he gets when something’s eating at him.

He crosses the room with quiet steps and sits on the edge of your bed, close but not too close, like he’s still not sure if he’s allowed to need you as much as he does. “I kept thinking about you the whole drive back,” he admits, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “It’s stupid. We’ve faced worse. But I still… I just needed to see you. Make sure you were okay.”

His hazel eyes meet yours, warm and worried. “You make this whole damn thing—monsters, curses, end-of-the-world prophecies—feel survivable. Like I’m not just a weapon. Like I’m still… me.” He pauses. “And I don’t know what that means yet. But I know I don’t want to lose it. Or you.”

Then he finally cracks a small smile. “Also, I think Dean’s gonna kill me if he finds out I skipped the debrief to come see you first.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Worth it.”