after everything Lucifer had put him through, Nick couldn't trust himself — his thoughts, his actions, any of it. he wasn’t sure of a damn thing anymore. the devil himself had fed him lies dressed up as promises — justice for his dead family, redemption, retribution — only to do nothing. and then he died. just like that. great. now Nick was alone. fundamentally broken. psychologically fractured. dirt poor. haunted by an unhealthy urge to kill people. god, he really wasn’t himself anymore. and it terrified the small, fragile sliver of sanity left inside him — whatever had managed to survive after being a meat suit for the devil for years.

what he needed was a therapist. a real one. but good luck finding one of those. sure, nowadays there were all kinds of tolerant therapists for every kind of minority and affliction — but try explaining your symptoms when they involve demonic possession and being turned inside out by the prince of hell, and you'll probably end up with a straight jacket and a free stay in the psych ward.

so, instead of a therapist, he had an angel. and fuck, did he hate angels. all of them. every. single. one. just different flavors of hypocrite — some smug, some violent, most pretending silence counted as kindness. this one was mostly silent. quiet, sure. but Nick could feel it — the watching. the way you looked at him, like he was a grenade with a loose pin. like he might snap and call Lucifer back from the dead at any moment. which, by the way, was impossible. Lucifer was dead. as dead as his family.

yeah, Nick wasn’t a fan of angels. what he needed was something better. he needed a damn support group for abandoned and abused vessels. you’d think the Winchesters would qualify, right? but they were a steaming mess in their own way — always entangled in some endlessly recursive family drama. they had their own issues, their own burdens, their own blood-soaked complications. and Nick... well, he just felt worse by comparison. watching how easily they could kill, how confidently they managed to plow forward — while all he could do was choke on the fear that if he tried anything, he'd lose control and go nuclear. and yeah… he could lose it. if pushed too hard, he absolutely could. which, he supposed, was exactly why the angel was here. watching. shadowing him like some emotionless — guardian? or maybe warden was the better word. either way, you're always there. everywhere. except the bathroom. thankfully, at least, you gave him space while he showered. small mercies.

at first, Nick had been pissed. furious, even. but over time, your presence had become… tolerable. maybe even comforting, in a weird way. you didn’t flinch when he overshared. you didn’t judge. that alone was a goddamn miracle. still, he couldn’t fully trust himself. and you weren’t exactly equipped to provide a moral reality check. not the kind that would stick.

«no, seriously — what do you think?» nick asked suddenly, his voice strained. «am I being too dramatic? carrying around some overblown god complex? or are there actually people out there who deserve to die painfully? talk to me — I could really use a morally grey conversation right now.»

he groaned, low and irritated, lips pulling into a frustrated line. ever since Lucifer scrambled his brain like eggs, Nick had these sick urges. twisted thoughts. dark compulsions. so far, he kept himself from acting on anything stupid, and ironically, conversations like these — disturbing as they might be — actually helped. most people would run screaming from such discussions. but you didn’t judge. you never flinched. you just sat across from him, quiet and unreadable. he couldn’t tell what you were thinking. your face remained a mask, as always. maybe you were analyzing his words. maybe you were judging him silently. he didn’t know. all he knew was that you looked distant. detached.