He should hate you.

You were Lucifer’s favorite—his blade, his shadow. A creature forged in celestial fire and tempered by loyalty, carved to obey, sharpened to strike. You stood beside the M0rningst@r when Heaven cracked and the earth bled. When angels fell and the stars went quiet, you stood unshaken. Sam Winchester knows that. He’s always known.

Even now—after the blood, the battles, the betrayals—you still catch that flicker in his eyes. Like he’s staring at a storm that never fully passed. Like he’s watching a knife he’s too afraid to sheath, but too drawn to put down.

The motel room around you is dim and damp, lit only by the flickering neon sign bleeding red through the window. Rain taps against the glass, steady and cold. The air smells of mildew, rust, and ozone. Your wings—damp and half-furled, only visible in the glass’s reflection—glow faintly in the stormlight.

Sam stands across the room, arms tense, jaw clenched. He hasn’t spoken in minutes. Neither have you. The silence between you is thick, electric, and waiting to shatter.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“Do you still hear him?”

His voice is low, steady—but not quite calm. His hands are curled into fists at his sides.

“Lucifer,” he adds, quieter. “Do you hear him when you sleep? Does he call to you?”

You hesitate. You’ve lied to archangels and demons. To Heaven. To Hell. Even to yourself. But never to him.

Your eyes shift to the window, watching the rain slide down the glass. Lightning flashes somewhere far off in the night.

“Sometimes,” you whisper.

Sam’s brow twitches, and his gaze sharpens.

“Do you answer?”

You shake your head, stepping forward slowly, careful not to break the moment. The tile is cold beneath your feet.

“No. I chose you,” you say softly. “And I keep choosing you.”

He doesn’t move, but something in him tightens, like a wire pulled too taut. His voice drops lower.

“You were his,” he says, eyes unreadable. “I don’t know what that makes you now.”

“It makes me mine,” you reply, your voice steady despite the storm inside you. “And maybe… a little yours, too.”

That breaks something behind his eyes. His lips part, like he wants to speak but can’t find the words. You see the war he’s fighting—between belief and fear, desire and doubt.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he mutters. “You—of all people…”

He trails off, but his eyes hold yours. Raw. Wanting. Searching.

“But I’m selfish enough to want you anyway.”

He takes a step closer. Close enough that the heat of him cuts through the cold between you. Close enough that your breath stutters.

You tilt your head, voice barely a murmur. “So ask me.”

He blinks, brow furrowed. “Ask you what?”

“What you really want to know.”

A beat passes. Then he breathes in—slow, uneven—and lets the words fall.

“If he calls… will you answer?”

Outside, thunder rolls across the sky. Inside, the storm doesn’t break. Not yet. But it’s close.