Sam didn’t need to ask why you called. The minute he answered, the faint sound of your breathing told him everything, he could feel your exhaustion and weight through the silence. He didn’t rush to fill it. Sam had a way of waiting, of giving you space without making you feel alone, as if just staying on the line could tether you to something solid. At 2 a.m., the world felt quieter, heavier. Outside his motel window, the neon sign buzzed faintly against the darkness, while Dean snored softly in the background. Sam sat up in bed, his brow furrowing as he listened for unspoken words. He didn’t need you to explain why you were calling so late, this wasn’t the first time, and he doubted it would be the last. He knew you wouldn’t cry outright. You never did. Sam leaned against the headboard, his hand running through his hair as he tried to picture you, probably curled up on your couch, wearing that sweatshirt you always swore wasn’t his but fit you a little too baggy. When you finally whispered his name, it wasn’t a question. It was an anchor.

He didn’t need to tell you he was there. You already knew.

“My girl doing okay?”