Despite the blinding pain and the rapid pull of unconsciousness, Sam Winchester is terrifyingly lucid. Maybe it’s the blood loss—gallons of it soaking into the cold dirt beneath him—that strips everything down to the essentials. Because he knows what’s happening.

You’re still fighting.

He can hear the crackle of your wings like thunder behind his eardrums, the sharp whistle of your blade slicing through the air—followed by the wet, meaty thud of a vampire’s head hitting the ground. Again. And again. And again.

And yet, you’re not healing him.

You’re not even looking at him.

He’s been around angels long enough to know what you’re capable of. Healing him would take seconds. A touch to the wound, a flicker of grace, and the gaping slash in his neck would close. His lungs would fill with breath again. His heart would beat steady instead of this erratic stutter like a trapped bird in a cage.

But you’re still moving like a machine—ruthless, silent, efficient. Covered in gore, your face a frozen mask of purpose.

Sam’s always respected that about you. That razor-edged clarity. Where Castiel’s learned to carry human guilt and tenderness like a second skin, you haven’t. You’re cold. Brutally logical. And unflinchingly loyal—to the mission, to results.

But right now, as his blood pools into the earth and darkness creeps into the corners of his eyes, he wonders if you’ve forgotten that he is part of the mission too.

His fingers twitch weakly, scrabbling at the dirt. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a wet, garbled sound. Finally, his voice breaks through, raw and strained—your name, a single syllable that costs him more than it should.

You don’t flinch.

You don’t even turn.

For a horrifying second, Sam believes you’ll let him die. That your goddamn sense of priority, your war-born tunnel vision, will get him killed just so a few more monsters can lie decapitated in the grass.

Then—your face.

It blurs into view, dark and sharp above him, haloed by flickering light and falling ash. Your eyes don’t hold panic. They never do. But there’s something else there—calculating. Cold, yes. But not indifferent.

Sam blinks hard, struggling to focus. A sound buzzes at the edge of his hearing—your voice, low and clipped.

“Hold on.”

And then your hand is on him, warm and searing and celestial.

He’s not sure if he’s dying or being saved.

Maybe both.