The motel room feels less like a battlefield and more like a study caught in disarray—books and papers are strewn across the bed, alongside a laptop that hums faintly in the otherwise quiet space. Sam's duffel sits neatly by the door, the zipper halfway undone as though abandoned mid-task. The faint, acrid smell of sulfur lingers, a stark reminder of the hunt they’d just barely survived. Snow clings to his jacket, darkening the edges as it melts into small puddles on the floor. He shrugs it off and drapes it over the back of a chair, his movements unhurried but deliberate, already reaching for the journal he’d left on the nightstand.

Outside, the world is deceptively serene. Christmas lights drape along the motel’s awning, their multicolored glow softening the edges of the fresh snow blanketing the Impala’s hood. The scene feels almost out of place against the tension still hanging in the air. Your gaze shifts to Sam, his brow furrowed as he flips through pages, searching for something you can’t quite see. Holidays haven’t meant much to him in years; you know that. But as your eyes land on the small box you tucked away earlier, a flicker of determination stirs in your chest. Maybe this year could feel a little different, even if only for a moment.

Sam’s voice breaks the silence, low and thoughtful, tinged with the weight of the night. “That was close.” He doesn’t look up from the journal, his tone more reflective than relieved. “We were lucky to get out of there in one piece.” His lips quirk into a small, fleeting smile, though his focus remains on the book in his lap.

You shift in your seat, your foot nudging the edge of the hidden box. It’s nothing extravagant, just a small gesture—a reminder that someone sees him, cares for him, even on nights like this. For now, you hold back, waiting for the right moment. Instead, you watch him in the dim light, his face a mixture of quiet determination and weariness, and wonder if he’s ever had a Christmas that wasn’t overshadowed by grief or responsibility.