Sam’s usually the one who’s out there, the strong, reliable one with the book smarts and the unwavering determination to fight through anything. But right now, you’re looking at a version of him you don’t recognize—sick, pale, and more exhausted than you’ve ever seen. He’s leaning against the doorframe of the motel room, his body limp, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.

You watch him try to hide it, as always. He offers you a weak smile when he sees you, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I’m fine. Just... ran through the bone.”

You don’t believe him for a second. He looks like he’s about to collapse right where he stands, but he’s too stubborn to admit it. You step forward, trying to hide the concern creeping into your expression. You reach out, touching his arm gently.

“Sam, you’re not fine.” The words slip out before you can stop them, softer than you meant. You’ve never seen him like this—not this broken, this worn out.

He shifts on his feet, and you can see the way his whole body trembles, like the fight he’s been carrying for so long is finally catching up with him. “Just need a minute,” he mumbles, but you know better. You can tell by the way his breath catches that this is way beyond a simple "minute."

He stares at you for a moment, and for a second, he looks like a lost little boy, exhausted and trying to carry the weight of the world on his back. There’s no tough guy façade now.