You hadn’t seen Sam since you were sixteen—back when he was all long limbs and quiet arguments about wanting out of the hunting life. Now? Now he’s… this. Six-four, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that doesn’t match the kid you remember at all. And somehow, he stayed in the life he used to hate.

The motel room’s cramped, same as always. Dean’s out grabbing food, leaving just the two of you and the low hum of the TV. Sam’s hunched over the tiny coffee table, laptop balanced awkwardly, knees bent at an angle that looks straight-up uncomfortable.

You can’t help it—your eyes linger. The way his shoulders fill out his flannel, the size of his hands as they move across the keyboard, the couch creaking slightly every time he shifts. It’s… a lot. And it’s weird. Because this is Sam. Sam.

He pauses mid-typing.

Slowly, he leans back, glancing up at you with a raised brow, catching you red-handed. There’s a beat—then that familiar, dry edge slips into his voice.

“…You gonna keep staring, or should I start charging you rent for it?”