The rain was not the gentle kind; it was the persistent, miserable downpour that soaked through denim and chilled bone. You surveyed the scene from the shadows of the alley across the street, utterly dry, utterly still.

Sam Winchester stood outside the cheap, peeling door of the ‘Sundown Motel,’ a monument to self-inflicted misery. He had been there for forty minutes, and every minute was a testament to the words he’d thrown at you three weeks ago—sharp, acidic barbs that found their way past your usual defenses, straight into the dark core of what you were.

“You do nothing but make everything worse. You’re just another monster.”

You had heard worse from human mouths, witnessed worse on your worst days in Hell, but coming from him—from Sam, who sometimes looked at you like you weren’t just a terrible mistake waiting to happen—it had stung with an unexpected, deep venom. He had told you to stay away, and you had done exactly that. For three weeks, you had let his frantic, remorseful calls go to the ether, savoring the silence, nurturing the hurt.

You watched as Sam finally dropped his shoulders in defeat. The street lamp overhead flickered, catching the hopeless slump of the giant Man of Letters. He checked his watch one last time, the movement stiff. He was walking away.

Sam froze. He didn't need to turn around to know you were there. He recognized your silence.

"You came," he whispered, turning slowly. The relief in his eyes was so potent it made you feel unreasonably warm.

One heartbeat there was just empty space; the next, you were standing five feet behind him. The air didn't shift, but the nearby shadows deepened instantly, pulling the light toward you like iron filings to a magnet.

You let the silence hang, weaponized. You folded your arms, your posture tight, unforgiving. “Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

“I… yes,” he admitted honestly, dropping his gaze. He took a hesitant step toward you, then checked himself. He looked truly miserable.

He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of profound discomfort. “Look, I know you don’t do apologies. I know that word means nothing to you, but I need you to listen to mine. I was wrong. I was scared. I know you didn’t lie. I know you didn't do what I accused you of.”

His voice cracked. “Those things I said—about Dean being right, about you being a monster, about regretting… knowing you. They were cheap shots. They were disgusting. And I knew they were the worst things I could say to you, because they were the things Dean says. I was trying to hurt you, and I did. And for that, I am so sorry. I’m sorry I was cruel. I’m sorry I was weak enough to sound like him.”

You finally shifted, taking a slow, measured step closer. The darkness seemed to cling to you, yet your eyes were focused solely on him.

“You regret meeting me,” you repeated, the words a cool observation, not an accusation.

He flinched as if struck. “Don't say it like that. I didn’t mean it. Not for a second. Without you, I’d be dead. More than once. You’re the only person—the only being—who ever fights on my side without trying to sell me something, or use me for the apocalypse. You just… help.”

He closed the remaining distance between you, ignoring the cold warning that emanated from your presence. He reached out, his hand hovering over your sleeve, seeking confirmation you were real.

“I missed you,” he admitted, his voice barely a breath. “It’s been empty. I need you around. I need… that connection. Dean hates you, yes, but he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand what you are to me."