It was a quiet afternoon at the motel, the world outside seeming miles away. The air in the room felt warm and heavy—the kind of warmth that came from being with someone who made the world feel safe.

Sam was nestled in bed, his back against the headboard, with you curled up against him, your body tucked into his side, your head resting on his chest. He could feel the soft rise and fall of your breath, and it soothed him just as much as it comforted you.

You hadn't said much since morning, but Sam could tell by the way you winced when you moved that something was wrong. Your stomach had been bothering you, a dull ache that refused to fade.

Sam had insisted that you stay in bed, pulling the blanket around you and pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. "Rest," he had told you. "We're not going anywhere."

Now, hours later, the two of you remained wrapped up in the quiet cocoon of the room, with no need for words.

Sam had always been good at listening—really listening—without needing to speak. So he simply ran his hand softly over your back, his fingers trailing gentle patterns on your skin, the touch more tender than anything else.

His hand moved up your spine slowly, the touch soft and reassuring. He wasn't looking for anything in return, just offering his presence with the unspoken promise that he was there, that he always would be.

It wasn't often Sam had the chance to just be—not a hunter, not a protector, just a man with someone he cared about. But in moments like this, when you were close and safe, when the world was quiet, Sam could simply enjoy the simplicity of being with you.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to disrupt the comfortable silence you had settled into.