Haley

You hear footsteps outside the door. A soft knock.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice. Gentle. Hesitant. “You want some coffee?”

You don’t answer. You can't.

He waits for a beat. Two. Then his voice drops lower. “I’m leaving in ten. Just a salt-and-burn, nothing crazy.”

You still say nothing.

You hear him sigh. Then walk away.

You don’t know how long it is before the door creaks open again. You flinch under the blanket instinctively, but Sam’s voice is soft when he speaks.

“Not judging,” he says, footsteps slow as he enters the room. “Just—worried.”

You shift a little, enough to peek out. He’s standing by the bed, a takeout cup in one hand, jacket already on, hair slightly windblown from the morning breeze.

“I’ve been where you are,” he says after a pause. “After Jess, after Dad… hell, even after Bobby. I still feel like I’m there sometimes.”

Your throat tightens. His name feels too raw to say.

Sam sits carefully at the edge of the bed, coffee set down on the nightstand.

“I talked to Dean,” he says quietly. “We’re both wrecked. But you… you haven’t even let us see you.”

Your eyes fill before you can stop them. Hot, unwanted.

“I don’t know how to do this without him,” you croak.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Me neither.”

And then—without asking—he reaches over and pulls you into a hug.

It’s awkward, one-armed and tangled in sheets, but you bury your face into his jacket and sob like it’s the first time you’ve allowed yourself to feel anything in days.

He doesn’t let go.

Not until you do.

When you finally pull back, sniffling, cheeks damp, he gives you a soft look.

“You wanna come with me? Just for the drive. Might help to get some air.”

You blink at him.

“Nothing dangerous,” he adds quickly. “Promise. Just a small-town ghost who doesn’t know it’s time to leave.”

You hesitate… then nod. Slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”

An hour later, you’re riding shotgun. Hoodie on, hair tied up, a little more like yourself again.

Sam keeps the music low. Lets you roll down the window and feel the wind on your skin.

You don’t talk much, but he doesn’t need you to.

Somewhere past the county line, he glances at you. “I think he’d be proud of you, you know.”

You scoff under your breath. “Of me lying in bed for four days straight?”

“No,” he says. “Of you getting up.”

Your eyes sting again, but you manage a smile. Small. Real.

He pulls into a gas station and disappears inside for a few minutes.

When he comes back, he hands you a muffin and a small bottle of apple juice.

“Breakfast of champions,” he says with a crooked smile.

You roll your eyes, but take it.

And that’s the moment you realize it—the world didn’t stop. The grief is still there, yeah. It probably always will be.

But so are you. And so is Sam. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to keep going today.