#soft hands

You don’t notice the footsteps until he’s already in the doorway.

Sam lingers there for a second, eyes scanning you. His face—usually so bright, so open—goes a little tight when he sees the way you’re lying.

“Is it bad today?” he asks gently.

You blink up at him from your nest of blankets, trying not to flinch as you shift.

“Hips,” you say. “And my neck’s got that whole ‘being punished for existing’ thing going on too.”

Sam’s eyes soften, and in two long strides, he’s by your side. “Did you take something?”

You nod. “Didn’t touch it.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, just drops a kiss to your temple before disappearing into the kitchen. You hear cupboards, the kettle, that little ceramic clink that means he’s making your mug. That one with the cracked handle you refuse to throw out.

By the time he comes back, he’s got two heat packs wrapped in a towel, a steaming mug that smells like peppermint and honey, and that sleepy, protective look he only ever gets when you’re hurting.

“Alright,” he murmurs, lowering everything to the coffee table. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

You shake your head stubbornly. “I’m not moving. I finally got a good position.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, then kneels on the floor beside the couch. “Then I’ll come to you.”

Sam moves so carefully, like you’re made of glass. You feel his hands find your calves, gentle and grounding, then slide up to your thighs, your hips. He presses the heat pack right against the worst of it, and your whole body shudders.

“Better?”

You sigh. “You’re magic.”

He chuckles, and you can feel his smile against your skin. “Nah. Just a guy who listens.”

His fingers drift over your pajama pants, barely-there pressure that doesn’t aggravate anything. Then he moves to your neck, long hands sweeping under your hair, thumbs gently tracing the spots you’ve been clenching all damn day.

You groan before you can help it. “Okay. That—that’s illegal. How are you good at this?”

“I’ve had practice,” he says, kissing the hinge of your jaw. “Dean throws his back out at least once a month.”

“Mm. Doesn’t deserve your hands.”

Sam snorts, and you feel the sound more than you hear it. Then he’s massaging a little deeper, slow circles and soothing warmth.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” you murmur, voice thick from the pain, from the comfort. “I’m used to handling it.”

“I know you are,” he says softly. “You’re tough. But you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

God. You could cry at that. The way he says it—no pity, just quiet belief. Like it’s obvious. Like you’re worth all the time and tenderness in the world.

You reach for his flannel, fingers brushing his wrist. “Can you just... stay like this? For a while?”

He smiles against your cheek. “Always.”

So you let yourself melt.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The pain’s still there—duller now, but present—but so is he. Warm, steady, grounding. He reads out loud from whatever book he left on the table earlier, voice low and rumbling, one hand never leaving your body. Even as you drift, half-asleep and hazy, you feel him—his weight, his warmth, his presence. And all pain, forgotten.