He learned the rule quickly — men offered him a kind of rough-edged camaraderie. The Winchesters kept him at a distance. They didn’t speak much of feelings, didn’t soften their voices. They called when they needed him. Nothing more, nothing less.

But she was different.

She prayed to him every night. Not out of desperation, nor to beg for miracles — but simply to speak. To share something quiet, something human. As if her words could bring them both a little peace.

She told him everything. About her days, about her family down in New Orleans, about another fight with Dean — his stubbornness like flint against her fire — about the hunts that bled into sleepless nights. Sometimes she whispered through tears, sometimes she laughed softly, just for him. She never knew if he was listening.

But he was.

Always.

She never asked for anything — and yet gave so much... He could have asked her the simplest of questions, and she would have answered with a soft smile and a patience that felt like grace.

He kept watch like a shadow — silent, unseen, yet never far. Like a sentinel dog, eyes ever-vigilant, heart ever-guarding. There was a need in him, fierce and wordless, to stay close. To protect her. To breathe so long as she breathed. He didn’t understand it — and he didn’t need to. As long as she lived, as long as she was safe, the world made sense.

She was his first.

His everything.

The first glance that lingered too long. The first heartbeat that faltered. The first touch that set skin alight. The first kiss stolen in silence. The first fingers woven into his hair like a promise.

And in time — the first woman he ever laid with.

And when they lay tangled in her sheets, her chin resting lightly on his chest, her eyes watching him from beneath a veil of lashes, her breath warm against his skin — for the first time, he knew what it meant to belong.