“Sam!” You cry into the phone.
“Hey, hey, whoa. Take it easy. What’s going on?” Concern crosses his face, and you hear it, even though you aren’t looking at him.
“He - he’s drinking again. Sam hurry!” Your phone clatters onto the hardwood floor as your shrieks and cries fill Sam’s ear.
Before he can consciously make the effort, his feet carry him swiftly to the car and he’s on his way to you.
“Y/N!” His voice booms through the house. There’s nothing - no sounds, no movement, not even so much as a television haphazardly left on. There’s just… nothing. Sam’s oversized boots thud against the floor while he searches for you, gun in hand and finger ready to squeeze the trigger.
“Y/N…” He whispers into the dimly lit house, illuminated only by the street lamps glowing through the windows.
“Sam.” Your voice is weak, barely even audible to his ears, but he hears it. He swears he hears it. “Sam?” There it is again. You’re cowering in the linen closet, a beige washcloth over your hand.
“What happened?” He kneels beside you, one knee on the floor while the other holds his elbow. “Where is he?” Sam’s head does a quick turn as he glances around the hallway.
“He… Sam, I… he’s dead.” Your teeth chatter from the winter breeze that swept through the open windows, but the cold wasn’t the reason your body was shaking. Sam lifts the blood-stained rag covering your hand to reveal a kitchen knife caked in blackened, dried blood.
“Y/N…” Sam’s fingers delicately pull the knife from your hands and it falls to the floor with the loudest noise you’ve heard since the scream. You jump and end up in Sam’s arms. He wraps his long limbs around you and pulls you against his chest. “I’ve got you.” He murmurs, lips falling against your hair. “He can’t hurt you anymore.” Goosebumps litter Sam’s skin as he thinks about you taking someone’s life - taking your father’s life - in cold blood.
He’s sure you had your reasons, especially as he walks with you into the bathroom to get you cleaned up and sees the bruises along your face and arms. Sam knows you’re not a killer - or… you weren’t. He’s determined - now more than ever - to get you back to the girl he fell in love with back when you were barely teenagers, running around and diving in and out of cars at you Uncle Bobby’s, just long enough to sneak a few kisses, maybe even run a hand through one another’s hair in the back seat before Dean or Bobby, sometimes John came out to catch you.
Sam wanted the old you back, but after that night, he’d never get it.