It’s late—maybe 2 a.m.—when your phone lights up with a text from Sam. You haven’t heard from him in weeks, maybe longer. The last time you spoke, it ended in a fight—him chasing cases with Dean while you tried to hold your life together.

Now, in the dead of night, your phone buzzes. Sam Winchester’s name flashes on the screen. You almost don’t answer, thinking it’s a mistake or that he’s forgotten the argument. But curiosity wins, and you swipe to answer.

"Hey," his voice greets you, low and rough, and you know immediately—he’s been drinking. "Sorry, I just… needed to hear your voice."

This isn’t the first time. Sam’s late-night calls have become a pattern—always whiskey-soaked, always when he’s chasing something bigger than himself and losing.

"Sam," you sigh, leaning against the counter. "Do you even know what time it is?"

A pause, then a soft chuckle. "Yeah, I know. You’re probably pissed. I just—" He falters, his usual composure slipping. "I’m on a hunt, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you."

It’s always like this: Sam calls when he’s fraying at the edges, when the weight of hunting gets too heavy, and he remembers how you steadied him. In the background, you hear muffled bar noise—voices, a jukebox, laughter.

"You’ve been drinking," you say flatly.

"Yeah," he admits. "But that’s not… I didn’t call to talk about that. I called because…" He trails off, and you can picture him raking a hand through his hair, frustrated.

"Because what, Sam?" you prompt, sharper than you intended.

"Because I miss you," he says, the words hitting like a punch. "I know I screwed up, but—I just needed to hear your voice tonight, okay? Even if you hate me for it."

The line goes quiet, and for a moment, all you can hear is the sound of your own breathing. Sam’s always been like this: running hot and cold, showing up when you least expect it, leaving when you need him most. And yet, even now, some part of you still softens at the sound of his voice.