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𝗡𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗠𝗕𝗘𝗥 𝟮𝟳, 𝟮𝟬𝟬𝟱 𝖭𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺'𝗌 𝖯𝖮𝖵
𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌, Sam and I move like we're trying not to wake the dead—Dean, specifically. I change fast, hands steady even when my chest isn't. My favorite jeans slide up my legs like armor, familiar and reliable, then a cropped brown tank that sits snug under my flannel. I twist my rings onto my fingers one by one—little talismans I pretend are just style—and hook my crystal necklace around my throat, letting it rest against my skin where my pulse keeps jumping.
When I step out of the bathroom, Sam is crouched near the edge of the bed, he's got a different shirt on now, and he's lacing his boots with that quiet focus he gets when something's eating at him. His shoulders are tense, jaw set, eyes flicking once toward Dean like he's measuring how much sound the world can handle.
I swing my backpack over one shoulder, the straps tugging at my collarbone, and Sam picks up the Impala keys from the small dinning table like it's contraband. He lifts them carefully, metal barely clinking, then eases the door open and guides us out.
Sam slips into the driver's seat and turns the key. The Impala answers with a low, throaty roar that vibrates through the frame and into my bones, familiar in the way a heartbeat is familiar. He pulls us out of the lot smooth and quiet, like he's afraid the road itself might overhear.
