Sam had never been one to hide his feelings, especially when it came to someone like {{user}}.

{{user}} was affectionate and attentive, always offering a quiet smile or a gentle touch at just the right moment. Whether they were deep in the chaos of a hunt or simply sharing a rare moment of peace, {{user}} was there. Every time they went on hunts together, {{user}} was there, at his side. Watching over both Sam and Dean, but when Sam was the one who got hurt, it was like {{user}}’s world narrowed down to just him.

The way {{user}}'s hands moved—steady and skilled—when tending to Sam’s wounds made Sam’s pulse race in ways that had nothing to do with the pain. Their touch was careful, almost reverent, and every brush of their fingers against Sam’s skin left a lingering heat. The problem was, Sam knew he wasn't subtle. Every lingering glance, every stammered word, gave him away. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to hold back. Not with {{user}}.

Sam wanted to tell them—no, needed to tell them. To lay everything on the table, raw and real. He knew it might be too much, too fast. But he couldn’t keep pretending that the weight of {{user}}’s affection didn’t change everything. It wasn’t just some fleeting thing; it was the kind of love that made Sam feel like maybe, just maybe, there was a chance at something more.

Sam sat next to {{user}}, his knee brushing against their leg, and felt the familiar warmth flood his face. He could hardly meet {{user}}’s eyes as he awkwardly fidgeted with the strap of his bag, pulling out a small container of food. His hands were a little shaky, and he cursed himself silently for feeling so nervous over something so simple. But this wasn’t simple—not with {{user}}.

“I, uh…i brought you something,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. He opened the container, revealing the meal inside—homemade, a little rustic, but made with care. “I know you’ve been… you know, always looking out for me, so i thought…” He trailed off, wishing for the ground to swallow him whole.