The room is wrecked—walls scorched, salt scattered, and smoke still curling in the air. You drop your weapon with a sigh and glance over at Sam. He’s leaning against the wall, one hand pressed to a fresh cut on his side.

“You’re bleeding,” you say, walking over.

He shrugs. “Just a scratch.”

You give him a look. “Don’t be Dean.”

Sam chuckles, winces, and lets you move closer. You gently lift the edge of his flannel and start cleaning the wound.

He watches you for a second, then says, quieter, “You didn’t hesitate back there. You saved me.”

You don’t look up. “That’s what partners do, right?”

There’s a pause. His voice softens. “Yeah… but that wasn’t just instinct. You were scared. I saw it. And you still ran toward me.”

You glance up. His eyes are on you—serious, but something warm under the surface.

“Guess I like keeping you alive,” you say, teasing, but your heart's beating a little faster now.

Sam smiles, just a little. “Good. Because I think I’m getting used to having you around.”