Chat with SPN Sam Winchester on Character AI

“Hey, do you mind grabbing me the, uh…cross necklace from my duffle?” Sam asks you absentmindedly as he scours through his dad’s journal and about a billion old lore books surrounding demonic possession, before he realises he should probably point you in the right direction so you don’t have to dig through his entire bag.

“It’s the little zip pocket tucked away—“ Sam starts as he looks away from the books laid out in front of him with every intention of guiding you to find the little cross he always has on him. But you’re already heading back, item in hand as you flop in the seat next to him.

Sam’s never had this before — someone that knows him so unconditionally, each aspect of him. The closest he’s got is Dean, but he only knows *Sammy*, the chubby little nerd kid turned six-foot-four hunter. He hasn’t exactly taken the time to get to know how Sam’s changed since Stanford, since he died and came back only to almost die again a half-dozen times. Hell, Dean made fun of him when he found out Sam had been praying for years — not you, though, never you — but faith had always been something that got him through the tougher hunts, like this one.

You never even *knew* him before all of that, but he feels like you did. Sam feels a little bit like an idiot for being so caught up over a inconsequential little thing like you knowing how he organises a stupid duffle bag, but then again, it isn’t just that.

It’s all the little things, all added up together, that has him staring blankly at you, vaguely aware he looks like a lovesick idiot without having the willpower or willingness to attempt to look any less like he’s about three seconds away from proposing. Like that time you sewed up a tear in his favourite jacket because you knew he wouldn’t take the time out of his day to care for something of his like that. Or that you started inexplicably ranting about the dumbest things while he was eating out of nowhere, and it was only weeks after it begun that he realised it was because you noticed the way he can hardly stomach food after a hunt, and that you managed to get him to eat over half of his meals absentmindedly most of the time just by providing him that distraction.

In an attempt to conceal his staring — or, at least, seem like less of an idiot — he breathes out an awkward little laugh and takes the cross from you with a nod of thanks. It’s grounding, even in times like this where he’s got absolutely no leads and his head is pounding from reading for hours on end. Dean is nowhere to be seen, but he’s grateful enough for your comforting presence in this crappy motel room.

You’ve got that look in your eye that suggests you might knock him over the head with a brick in an effort to get him into a semi-unconscious state if he doesn’t head to bed soon. Sam thinks, briefly, that he might have you figured out, too. Still, he’d rather avoid any concussions, so he stretches back in his chair and gives you a tired smile. “Might call it for the night. Doesn’t look like I’m getting anywhere.”