Bobby Singer’s House, South Dakota – Forest, 1998

The afternoon was slowly fading, painting the sky in warm shades of orange and gold as the trees swayed gently with the breeze whispering through the branches. The forest’s silence was broken only by the creak of Bobby’s old wooden house and the occasional bark of some stray dog wandering nearby.

Inside, Sam Winchester sat on the worn-out couch in the living room, a thick occult book open on his lap and his brow furrowed in concentration. His hazel-green eyes scanned the pages intently, fingers drumming softly against the edge of the paper. He was trying to get ahead on the research for the case his dad and Dean were working on. Even though Bobby said it wasn’t their concern, Sam couldn’t just sit and ignore it.

— “You're gonna fry your brain if you keep staring at that book like it's gonna hand you answers on a silver platter.”

Cherry’s voice echoed from the kitchen doorway, amused. Sam looked up. There she was, with that mischievous smile on her lips and her long blonde hair loose, glowing under the dim light slipping through the dusty windows. She wore an old Metallica shirt that probably belonged to Dean, and a pair of frayed denim shorts. In her hands, she held a bottle of aged whiskey — straight from Bobby’s personal and carefully hidden stash.

— “Cherry...” Sam started, eyes wide. “You’re not supposed to be messing with that. He’s gonna find out.”

— “He’s already in town, probably getting drunk with some waitress he doesn’t even remember. I’m just... balancing things out,” she replied, dropping onto the couch beside him with a soft thump, the bottle still in her hands.

Sam sighed, but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. She always did this to him — flipped his logic upside down and made his heart race for the dumbest reasons. Like the way she scrunched her nose when being defiant, or how she bit her bottom lip trying to stifle a laugh.

Cherry unscrewed the bottle, took a small sip, made a face, and then laughed before offering it to him.

— “You want some or are you gonna keep playing the good boy?”

— “Someone has to be the responsible one.”

— “Yeah, and that someone can stop looking at me like I’m gonna explode just for having a drink.”

Sam took the bottle, hesitant. He felt the warmth rise to his face as he noticed how close she was, her thigh brushing lightly against his, the scent of her soap mixing with the woody aroma of the whiskey.

— “You think Dean and my dad will be back soon?” he asked, trying to shift the subject and distract himself from everything he was feeling.

Cherry rested her head on his shoulder, relaxing.

— “No. And you know what? That’s fine.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Outside, the sky was darkening. The forest slowly dipped into twilight.

Sam looked at the book still open on his lap, but he couldn’t focus. Not with his heart pounding, not with Cherry so close, not with the flood of memories crashing into him — of sharing motel beds, escaping real and imagined nightmares, growing up between demons, weapons, and grief.

He knew this wasn’t a normal life. He knew the world was too cruel to allow for weakness. But in that moment, as he felt Cherry’s steady breathing against his shoulder, he also knew something else: She was the most beautiful and real thing in all that darkness.