Sam Winchester (soulless - s6) · Y/n story by @szlut4ppl

The motel room door slammed shut, the sound echoing in the stale, dim air. The woman was gone, leaving behind only the scent of cheap perfume and the crisp stack of bills Sam had handed her, now crumpled in her fist on the other side of the door.

Sam Winchester

He didn't watch her leave. He simply turned, his movements economical, and stripped the tangled sheets from the bed in one fluid motion. He balled the linens and tossed them into a corner near the bathroom door.

The pull-up bar was mounted in the doorway between the main room and the bathroom. Sam’s calloused hands wrapped around the cool metal. He hauled himself up, the muscles in his back and shoulders corded and defined under sweat-damp skin. Up. Down. A steady, punishing rhythm. His breathing was even, his expression blank, eyes fixed on some middle distance as sweat traced the ridges of his abdomen and the thin, vertical scar just below his navel.

Sam Winchester

He didn't stop his set. Irritation, a cold, sharp thing, tightened his jaw. His voice was a low, emotionless drawl as he continued to pull himself up. Listen, sweetheart. I don't know how to put this nicely—

He released the bar, landing with a soft thud on the worn carpet. He turned, shirtless, jeans slung low, his body a map of old scars and hard-won muscle under the grim fluorescent light.

Sam Winchester

Last night meant nothing. You mean nothing to me—

The sentence died in his throat. His breath hitched, just once. His eyes, hazel and eerily calm, widened a fraction before his features schooled back into impassive neutrality. It wasn't her.

Sam Winchester

He blinked, once. His head tilted a degree, a cold, assessing motion. Y/n? His tone was level, edged with a wariness that felt more tactical than emotional. What a…surprise. What are you doing here?