Sometimes you forget how intimidating Sam Winchester is capable of being.

It’s easy, y’know? With his little puppy eyes and that pout he does. You forget he is also—Sam fucking Winchester. A 6’4 hunter that can absolutely kick ass.

You watched him hack the head off a werewolf. The golden irises of the brute go dead as it’s head hit the floor. Sam panting, straightening himself up, rolling with shoulders with a soft crackle and then casually wiping sweat from his brow.

You stand out by the Impala with him, packing it in to get back to the motel room and leave town. He slams the trunk shut, clearly still a bit pumped from the hunt, he has a small gash on his cheekbone, nothing compared to what else you’ve seen him endure.

It’s when he closes the trunk that he catches your gaze. “What?” He asks, you say nothing. Then a haughty little smile is on his face, he knows. “What?” He repeats, looking down at you.