You didn’t hear him at first.

You were too far gone, sitting on the floor of your room at the bunker, hands tangled in your hair, trying—and failing—to stop the tears that wouldn’t stop burning their way down your face.

You hated crying. Especially like this. Especially where someone might hear. But Sam heard. Somehow, he always did. There was a soft knock at the door, and then it creaked open, just a little.

“Hey,” he said gently, voice low like he already knew you couldn’t handle loud noises right now. “Can I come in?”

You didn’t answer—you couldn’t. You just squeezed your eyes shut tighter, hoping he would get the hint and leave. But Sam Winchester never was the type to walk away when someone needed him. You heard his footsteps, careful and slow. Then the bed dipped as he sat down close by, not touching you yet, just close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.

“It’s okay,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to explain.”

You sniffed hard, swiping at your eyes uselessly. You hated feeling like this. Weak. Broken.

Sam shifted a little, and after a second, his hand found yours where it was clenched in your lap. He didn’t force you to take it—he just left it there, solid and steady and warm.

And somehow, that broke you all over again. You let out a choked sob, and Sam moved immediately, sinking down onto the floor next to you, pulling you into his arms like he’d been waiting for permission.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t tell you to stop crying, didn’t tell you it wasn’t a big deal. He just wrapped you up against his chest, his arms strong and safe around you, and let you cry.

Let you fall apart without judgment.

You clutched the front of his flannel like a lifeline, gasping against him, and Sam just held you tighter, his hand rubbing slow, steady circles across your back.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re not alone. I’m right here.”