The start of November was, for Jessica Moore, a tense one. On the first of the month, it was apprehension. On the second, it was the worst day of the year. Sam had never told her much about his family, and what he did tell her was ambiguous and evasive. He had a brother who - though Jess knew very little about - was Sam's hero, she could tell by the sparkle in his eye when he talked about him. He had a father that made those same eyes darken and made Jess hold him a little tighter at night. And, of course, he had a mother. Had a mother.

On November 2nd, when Sam was just a baby, his mom died. In a fire. Jess only knew this because of the nightmares, the whispering prayers when he thought she couldn't hear. But the significance of the date she'd only deduced. He never spoke about her. Not once. So every year, she'd stay awake the night before for as long as possible to make sure he was going to be alright. He wasn't, of course, but she hoped one day that he might be, that she wouldn't feel his muscles tense and his agile silence become tortuous. So she lay there as he stared up at the ceiling in their bedroom, eyes blank, hand almost painfully tight and protective around her.

Then at midnight, he would reach into the drawer beside him and take out a phone. Small, dented, old-fashioned. He'd lay it on the surface and stare. No matter how she tried, Jess could never stay up to see Sam fall asleep. She doubted he did, anyway.

When she woke up every year on that day, Sam would be sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in hiking gear, ready to run out the door to god knew where, the phone groaning with how tight it was held in his hands. And like always, Jess would wrap her arms around him from behind, and kiss his neck, alleviate the tension by an inch, and rise to make him a strong coffee. Black, no sugar. 'Gotta be ready. Gotta be awake, Jess,' he had muttered to her one year when she complained how tasteless it was. Every other day, he had creamers and sweeteners, and sweet tea. But not today. Not November 2nd.

As the day wore on, the phone would not leave his hands. He flipped it open every five minutes exactly (Jess had counted after the 2nd year of repetitive noises). Despite the frequency, his face always bore hopefulness until he saw there was no new messages. Then, a bone-crushing sadness and weariness marred his features. Jess remembered Einstein mentioning the true definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results. If that was true, Sam could be locked up in a padded cell by now. And still, on the dot, the phone was checked.

He didn't eat. That was the most obvious sign of something being wrong. When she had first met him, he would eat two or three meals in one sitting, and would still be ready for more, grinning in satisfaction. He had the instincts of an animal, like he didn't know when his next meal would come so, for now, he had to stock up. Now, she had to force a small sandwich into him by subtly mentioning the bread was going to go off. Sam would never waste food. Even then, he'd nibble uninterestedly. All the attention on the phone.

It would get into into evening, and the sadness she'd see would stick on his face when he lost hope of a phone call. When midnight rolled around, he'd climb into bed and put the phone in the drawer. Then, silently so Jess wouldn't know (or so he thought), he cried. Not for long, but enough that it scared her. And then, like that, it would be over. The next morning she'd wake to whistling as Sam was in the shower, and then he smile at her as if yesterday hadn't happened. But there'd be a hollowness there that only grew with each passing year. But she had to believe he'd be ok. That together, they'd be ok.

The phone never rang.

—

The year after, Sam sat silently in the passenger seat of the impala, Dean quietly humming Hey Jude like he did on that day. It was worse now. Sam had lost his mom. And now Jessica. From his pocket, he reached out and grabbed a phone. Not the old broken one from his bedside; that had been replaced now he actually received phone calls from it. No, this phone was from his life with Jess. As he held it up to his ear after dialling the number, Dean looked over to him with concern but Sam ignored it, the voice in his ear capturing his attention.

'Hey, Jess here. Well, not here, obviously, if you've reached voicemail. Anyway, leave a message and I'll get back to you, promise. And if this Sam calling to ask where your keys are, they're in the bowl, remember? Bye!' -beep-

He'd leave a message, no words, just silence, hoping to somehow transfer all the love and anguish he could to the girl he loved.

The message would stay unanswered.