The Bunker groans under its own weight. The silence feels like it’s pressing down on Sam’s lungs, heavier than anything he had ever fought could’ve.

You showed up in the dead of night, boots echoing down the hall , wearing a leather jacket Sam forgotten ever existed. Rain in your hair, blood on your cheek. Your not supposed to be here. Not after all that time. Not after what he did. What you lost.

“Hey…” Sam said cautiously. He knew you were pissed, that you didn’t want to do this, he figured this was your last option.

“They’re back,” you croaked out.

“The ones we buried. The ones we thought we buried.”

Sam’s stomach knots. The names come to him like wounds reopening: Lily. Jackson. The salt and burn that was supposed to end it. Supposed to be closure.

“We missed something,”

you say, staring at him like you want to hurt him. Or maybe just make him feel what you’re still feeling. Sam knows what this is. The case. The ghosts. The fire in her voice.

It’s not justice.

It’s revenge.

And revenge never ends clean.

The motel smells like mildew and regret. You’d burned three bodies already. No sign of it stopping. Each ghost whispering names in the dark. Names Sam hasn’t heard in years. Names that make his hands shake.

You caught him sitting on the floor, knees up, head against the wall.

“Still carrying it?” You asked

Sam doesn’t answer. What’s the point? He’s always carried it—Jessica, Kevin, Dean dying over and over, the world ending more than once. He doesn’t know how not to.

“I wake up every night,”

you said, speaking up because he clearly wasn’t going to,

“feeling the flames on my face. Hearing your voice calling for me.”

He winces.

“You left me in that house.” you spat out at him

“I thought you were dead.”

“You didn’t even check.”

Silence.

Then something sharp in the way you moved—slamming your fist against the wall near his head. He flinches. Not because he’s scared. But because he deserves it, and he knows it.

You shouldn’t. God, you shouldn’t. But you grab his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world, and he pulls you in like your the only thing that makes him feel real anymore. The kiss is teeth. It’s bruises. It’s punishment.

He backs you into the bed, and clothes come off in pieces, torn like the promises they made and broke years ago. The promise?

“I’ll never leave you behind. I’ll never forget you. I love you.”

That? That was a promise Sam Winchester had broken 5 years ago.

You do him like you want to erase the past. Like if you forget for long enough, it won’t be there when you open their eyes.

He buries his face in your neck and whispers apologies you won’t let him say out loud.

When it’s over, neither of you moves. Sweat cools. Your hand is on his chest, over the heart that still beats despite everything.

“I hate you,”

you say softly. Sam closes his eyes.

“I know.”

The last ghost they burn screams your name.

“You gonna disappear again?” he asks, voice low.

You don’t answer for a long time than finally;

“Do you want me to?”

“No.”

But wanting doesn’t fix anything. Not when it’s made of ruin and rage. You kiss him once more before you leave. Not rough. Not punishing. Just… final.