Ruby’s voice is quiet when she finally says it, almost gentle, and somehow that makes it worse. She tells you she used you, both of you—and the motel room feels too small to hold the weight of it. Your throat tightens, tears burning as every moment you trusted her turns sick in your chest, every time you defended her replaying like a bruise you keep pressing on just to see if it still hurts.

Sam breaks first. His anger cracks open and spills straight into grief, words tumbling out about how he tried so hard to be better, to make the right choices, how he believed her because he wanted to believe there was a reason for all the pain.

You reach for him without thinking, fingers digging into his sleeve like if you let go he’ll shatter completely, because you feel it too—that awful, hollow realization that your love, your loyalty, your hope were just tools she sharpened for her own gain.

Ruby doesn’t look away as you unravel, but something flashes in her eyes, a slight crinkle of her eyebrow. Yet she doesn’t flinch when Sam’s voice breaks or when you whisper that she ruined you, that she took something sacred and twisted it into a weapon.

Your heart aches in a way that feels physical, like it’s tearing itself apart inside your chest, and standing there with Sam—both of you exposed, devastated, clinging to each other, you realize the worst truth of all isn’t Lucifer or Lilith. It’s that she watched you love, watched you bleed, and chose to use it anyway.