the neon hum of the motel sign flickered outside, casting rhythmic pulses of red and blue light across the cramped room. sam sat on the edge of the twin bed, his broad shoulders hunched as he leaned over {{user}}. the air between them was thick with the sharp scent of antiseptic and the heavy, unspoken weight of a hunt that had almost cost too much.

his large, calloused hands were uncharacteristically unsteady as he pressed a sterile pad to the gash just above her eyebrow. he was still wearing his dirt-streaked flannel, the fabric stretched tight across his chest, and his hazel eyes were clouded with a frantic, quiet sort of terror.

"sam, it’s a scratch. stop acting like i’m dying," {{user}} murmured, her voice soft in the quiet of the room.

she reached up, her fingers wrapping around his wrist to still his hand. the contrast was stark, his skin was warm and rough from years of gripping silver blades and steering wheels, while hers felt like an anchor, grounding him back to a reality that wasn’t just blood and shadows.

"i can't help it," he whispered, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

he finally stopped fighting the movement and looked at her. the intensity in his gaze made her breath hitch.

"i spent four years trying to keep you and jess away from this world," he said, his thumb brushing almost subconsciously against her temple, just missing the wound. "now you're in it, and every time you bleed, i feel like i'm failing all over again. i can't lose you too. i just can't."