Work Text:
You didn’t need to be on the hunt to know how much it had taken out of him. He stumbled into the motel room like a man carrying an invisible weight on his shoulders. His jacket was torn at the seams with blood – not all of it his, you were sure – staining the fabric dark. The door slammed shut with more force than he likely intended, and you watched from your perch on the edge of the bed as he swayed slightly, catching himself against the door frame.
“Sam.” Your voice came out softer than intended, and you were already moving towards him as he looked up with those hazel eyes that seemed too heavy for his face. He tried to straighten up, to give you that reassuring smile that said he’s fine, but he was too exhausted to maintain the lie.
“I’m okay,” he mumbled, even as you caught his elbow and steadied him. He met your gaze. There was a cut above his left eyebrow, angry and red, and you could see the way his hands trembled as he tried to shrug out of his jacket. Wordlessly, you gently pushed his hands away and took over, carefully peeling the ruined jacket from his shoulders. He didn’t protest. Couldn’t, probably. Exhaustion had stripped away his usual stubborn independence. “I need about a week’s worth of sleep,” he muttered as you bent down and undid the laces of his boots.
“How about we start smaller? Shower, food, then bed,” you gently coaxed him out of one shoe then the other before ushering him towards the bathroom. He made a low noise of defiance. “Okay, at least let me wash your hair.”
The bathroom was too cramped for anything fancy, and it was nowhere near an official salon’s setup. Still, you made do. You set a folded towel on the floor and set up a second one along the rim of the tub that he leaned up against. His long legs were bent awkwardly in the small bathroom, and you tugged off your own jacket and stripped down to your tank top before rolling up your jeans.
“Okay… this is gonna be… improvised,” you warned with a soft smile. Sam sighed and tipped his head back over the side of the tub, exposing the long column of his throat.
“Doesn’t matter to me.”
The water was warm when you finally filled the ice bucket from the other room and poured the first careful stream over his hair. The water trickled down in uneven rivulets, some of them catching and soaking into his collar. He closed his eyes right away, the tension in his jaw dripping out of him with each drop of water that fell from his hair. You worked the cheap motel shampoo through the strands, taking your time to massage his scalp. Your nails scratched lightly, and you watched as Sam’s shoulders visibly sagged. He made a quiet sound you almost didn’t catch over the sound of the water. A half sigh, half hum. His entire body seemed to settle, as though gravity had finally stopped treating him like an affront to its laws.
“This okay?” you asked, fingers working in gentle circles at his temples where you knew tension always gathered after a hunt. For a moment, he looked younger. Less like the battle-worn hunter you’d grown to love and more like the boy you sometimes caught glimpses of in unguarded moments.
“Mmm,” he hummed, the sound vibrating through his chest. “More than okay.”
“Good,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips, “You just relax. I’ve got you.”
“You don’t have to do this.” But he didn’t make any move to stop you.
“No, I don’t,” you agreed quietly. You reached for the ice bucket again, refilling it from the faucet. When you poured it over his hair this time, you cupped your free hand to guide the flow, keeping it from running into his eyes. His breathing had evened out under your touch, each exhale coming out slower than the last. You combed your fingers through his hair, working the conditioner through it. His face had gone slack, the hard lines of his mouth softening as you rinsed his hair a second time. “You’re going to fall asleep on me, aren’t you?” you murmured, unable to keep the fondness out of your voice as you noticed how his lips had parted slightly and his breathing became deeper and more rhythmic.
“Maybe,” he admitted without opening his eyes, and you could hear the smile in his voice even without seeing it. You reached for a clean washcloth, soaking it in warm water before gently dabbing at the cut above his eyebrow. He winced slightly but didn’t pull away. It wasn’t deep enough to need stitches, but it would definitely leave a mark for a while. Another scar to add to his collection. Another scar to trace in the dim bedside lighting.
You brushed your thumb along his cheekbone, wiping away a dirt smudge, and his eyes fluttered open to meet yours. Something flickered in his expression. Gratitude too raw for words. Or maybe a question his own self-doubt was putting into his head. You let your hand rest on his cheek for a moment longer, let him read your answer in the hush of your touch.
You grabbed the towel from where you had hung it and gently wrapped it around his head, rubbing softly to wring out the water. His eyes slid shut again, a bone-deep contentment etching itself across his features like a sheepdog that had been rescued from the rain.
“Come on,” you urged softly. “Bed.”
He let you haul him up, limbs unwieldy and lacking their usual grace. Together, you stumbled out of the cramped bathroom and back into the bland motel room, its tacky wall art a buffer against the outside world. The lamp on the table between the two beds gave off a soft glow, and Dean was already passed out in the bed closest to the door. The neon light from the liquor store across the street bled in through the thin curtains, illuminating part of the room in pink and blue hues. You steered Sam to the bed and made him sit, unwrapping the towel from his head and working your fingers through his hair to brush out the tangles as best as you could.
When his hair was dry enough not to drip, you peeled away the layers of flannel and his undershirt, tossing the soiled clothes into a pile near the foot of the bed until he was left in just his boxers. He shivered slightly in the air-conditioned chill of the room. You dug through your duffel bag, searching for the cleanest shirt you could find and pulled out a Henley that he had outgrown. He originally had put it in a pile to toss out, but you had stolen it at some point for yourself. You pulled the shirt over his head, stretching the neckline to avoid his still-tender brow. He let you do it. Let you maneuver his arms through the three-quarter sleeves all passive and pliant. Sam Winchester, letting someone else take care of him for once.
The shirt stretched across his chest, pulled taut in some areas where he had filled out more over the years. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight, unable to resist smoothing your hands over the fabric and feeling the steady beat of his heart, a reassurance as much for you as it was for him. He closed his eyes again, as if he could will away the rest of the world by refusing to acknowledge it. You hated that he even had to try.
“You want some painkillers?” you offered softly, though you were already going back to your bag and grabbing your battered, well-loved first-aid kit. Sam made a low noise.
“And some water,” he mumbled before quickly adding, “if it isn’t too much trouble.”
You crossed the room and found a water bottle from the last grocery store run before dumping four tablets out of the almost-empty bottle in your first-aid kit and handing both the pills and water to Sam. He reached out and unscrewed the cap before popping the pills in his mouth and draining the entire bottle in one go. You watched the way his throat moved with each swallow, and when he finished, you took the bottle from him and set it on the bedside table.
You leaned into him, catching the scent of the shampoo, before you pressed your forehead against his, your noses bumping. He made that same content hum from earlier and let you have your moment, your comfort and familiarity warming him from the inside out. Then, as if on some invisible cue, you both peeled back the covers of the bed, and you nudged him down until his head hit the pillow, damp strands of hair fanning over the case.
“Can I…” His voice was uncharacteristically small, the rough edges of it worn down and weathered. “Can we just–?” He didn’t finish the sentence, and you didn’t need him to. You knew before he even asked.
You slid into bed next to him, all elbows and knees as you both maneuvered around each other until you were pressed against him, your back to his chest. Sam had always run hot, his body radiating warmth like a human hearth, and it seeped into you as you tucked yourself beneath his arm. He curled around you instinctively, legs tangling with yours and his body curving like he wanted to protect you from the world beyond the blankets. You could feel his heartbeat at your spine, a heavy, steady presence that grounded you.
His hand found your waist, palm flattening at the curve between your ribs and hip and fingers splaying as though he were afraid you might slip away during the night. You listened to his breathing and felt the slow rise and fall of his chest. Every time you shifted, his grip tightened just a little as though letting go would mean he would drift off to some darker place he couldn’t claw his way back from.
You traced lazy circles on the inside of his forearm. There was a new scratch there, fresh and jagged. It caught under your fingers, and you felt him flinch behind you. Not from pain but from the sudden awareness that you were still cataloguing every mark. Every injury. Every hurt he kept trying to convince himself that he didn’t feel. The world narrowed down to this moment. The soft whirr of the wall heater. The distant traffic outside. The steady thump of the heartbeat of the man behind you.
“I’ve got you, Sam,” you murmured, nestling closer to him and closing your eyes, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to you. Sleep lured you in, her hand reaching out to take you, but it wasn’t until you felt the last of Sam’s tension slip from him that you finally let it close around you.