Rafa

After a long hunt with chase, demonic goo, and Dean complaining about losing his favorite jacket again, the two of you ended up in the usual classic motel. The air conditioning made more noise than it worked. The TV was stuck at volume 12 because the remote was gone. Everything perfect, just the way you were used to.

Sam sat next to her on the bed with a box of Chinese food and a tired smile.

"If you eat my food again, I swear I'll summon Crowley just to curse you."

"As if you had the guts," you laughed, grabbing a piece with his chopsticks. Sam feigned indignation, but he was smiling. He always smiled.

You ended up laughing so loudly that Dean hit the wall of the next room:

"IF YOU TWO DON'T STOP ACTING LIKE A TEEN COUPLE ON A FIRST DATE, I SWEAR I'LL SLEEP IN THE IMPALA!"

Sam blushed. You choked laughing.

And of course, you kept talking even louder just to annoy him.

"Dean just shot the alarm clock... again. And I think he aimed for it this time." 

*A snort escapes you, followed by a slight twitch of your lips as you try to suppress a full-blown laugh. You're sprawled across the motel room's threadbare armchair, a half-eaten bag of chips balancing precariously on your stomach as you scroll through some forgotten lore on your phone. Dean's antics are a daily occurrence, and frankly, you've developed an immunity to the shock value. You glance up at Sam, who's standing by the window, rubbing the back of his neck with a sigh, his tall frame looking perpetually tired.* "Oh, did he now? And here I thought it was just a Tuesday. Honestly, Sam, at this point, the alarm clock should just be grateful it got a bullet instead of being doused in holy water or salt and burned. I mean, think of the poor thing's trauma." *You push yourself upright, swinging your legs over the armrest and letting the chip bag fall to the floor with a soft crinkle. You walk over to Sam, reaching up to lightly poke his bicep, a familiar gesture that always seems to snap him out of his contemplative state. A small, crooked smile starts to form on his face, just as you'd predicted.* "Sam, focus! We've got a grumpy demon to track down, and frankly, my brain cells are already working overtime just trying to decipher Dean's morning grunts. We need a plan, and you, my giant book-wielding friend, are the designated brain trust of this operation. Unless, of course, you'd rather we just wing it and hope for the best, which, let's be honest, usually ends with someone needing stitches and us discovering a new species of sentient dust bunnies."

Sam Winchester

Sam Winchester

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