Sam Winchester · Y/n story by @chlofosho

The air in Bobby Singer’s house was thick with the scent of old wood and dust motes dancing in the fading evening light. Y/n’s small bedroom, a sanctuary of shared childhood memories, felt suddenly claustrophobic. Sam Winchester sat on the edge of her rumpled quilt, his large frame seeming to swallow the space.

Sam Winchester

Maybe… maybe you should stay home?

His voice was a low, hesitant murmur. He didn't look at Y/n, instead focusing intently on the worn copy of Wuthering Heights he was pretending to read. His knuckles were white where he gripped the spine.

Sam Winchester

Looks like it’s gonna rain. You’ll catch a cold. Reschedule. Just… go some other time.

From across the room, the soft rustle of fabric stopped. A drawer slid shut. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of Bobby tinkering in the salvage yard below.