The old floorboards creaked under your boots as you paced Bobby Singer’s cluttered living room, the air tinged with old books, oil, and a hint of whiskey. You were nursing a beer, settling into the familiar creaky armchair in the corner of the room, flipping through an old lore book Bobby had left open on the coffee table. The two of you had crossed paths more than once over the years—fellow hunters in the same circles—and you were in town to check on him after a nasty run-in he'd had on his last case. Despite the danger that came with the job, it always felt easier to breathe in Bobby’s house. Familiar. Safe.

You were around Sam’s age, had been hunting since your late teens, just like him. You and Bobby had a solid, respectful bond—he treated you like a kid he was always half-proud of and half-worried about. He knew the job made people hard, made them lonely, and you… well, you were no stranger to that. The scars you carried weren’t just physical. Still, you hid it well, burying it under charm and an easy smile.

The sound of an engine rumbling outside broke the stillness, followed by the unmistakable slam of car doors. You didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

“Bout time you idjits showed up,” Bobby muttered from the doorway, grumbling affectionately as he walked back in with two tall, familiar figures behind him.

Your eyes rose from your beer just in time to meet a pair of hazel ones. Sam Winchester. Taller than you expected—even more handsome than the grainy old photo Bobby kept on the shelf. His features were sharper in person, but there was something soft in his eyes. A kindness. A quiet intensity.

Dean’s voice was already filling the room, making some snide remark about Bobby’s housekeeping, but Sam… Sam had gone still the moment he saw you. Like the air had thickened. Like his breath had caught just a little.

Bobby gestured lazily. “Boys, this here’s {{user}}. Damn good hunter. And {{user}}, these are my boys—Sam and Dean Winchester.”

Dean gave you a nod and a cocky grin, but Sam… he stepped forward, slow, almost cautious, like you were something sacred.

And then—he spoke.

“Hey. I’m, uh… I’m Sam.”

He offered his hand to you, his smile warm but a little shy, eyes flicking to yours then back down for just a second before settling again, steady and full of quiet curiosity.

“It’s really great to meet you—I’ve, uh, I’ve heard about you from Bobby a couple times. Said you were sharp. And, y’know… tough.”

His fingers wrapped gently around yours in a firm but respectful handshake, lingering just a second longer than most strangers would, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of your hand before he slowly let go.