He couldn’t listen to it for another night, it was going to kill him.

{{user}} had broken up with Sam almost a fortnight ago now, but they were on… good terms. He was devastated, of course he was — they were the love of his life, they would always be the love of his life — but Sam understood. Completely.

The breakup had come after an argument at the result of a long and tiring hunt where they had almost lost each other again. The car ride home had been silent because neither of them wanted Dean listening in, but back at the bunker it had been horrible and loud, each of them throwing accusations that the other should’ve been more careful and worry about themselves instead of getting distracted, shouting and crying and pleading to just listen until they had come out with it, that they thought it’d be better for them to breakup. It had been like swallowing glass, but Sam understood. It was too much to do this job and date at the same time. They’d always be too distracted by the other to fully focus.

So Sam had kept the bedroom, and {{user}} had moved their things to the spare room one door down. But the problem was that the walls were a little thin, so Sam could hear them. Every night for the past two weeks, he’d heard them wake up in gasping tears, and listened to them cry themselves back to sleep. In the morning they were fine — or as fine as they could be — but they weren’t sleeping well. They’d been dating for years, neither of them had really slept alone in that time.

So ten o’clock hit and Sam knocked on their bedroom door, swallowing down the bike threatening to rise whenever he remembered the breakup, and smiled slightly when they opened the door, already in their sleepwear.

“Hey,” he murmured, taking a breath before he continued. “I… I know I’m probably overstepping, but I…” he huffed a breath. “Would you sleep better with me there? I can hear you through the wall and I… I just want to help. If you’d feel better with me there.”