In the dimly lit motel room, the tension between Sam and Ruby was as heavy as the scent of rain-soaked asphalt outside, their unspoken battle thick enough for even you to feel it despite your own naive disconnection from the weight of mortal desire.

You sat cross-legged on the bed, head tilted in curiosity as you watch the two of them retreat to the adjoining kitchenette to argue in sharp, low voices, thinking — as they often do — that you couldn’t hear their hushed whispers as if you were not an angel.

Sam’s deep, gravelly tone carries just enough for your sharp ears to catch fragments: “She doesn’t need that, Ruby—she’s not like you.” There’s a tremor in it that makes your chest tighten. Ruby’s retort comes like a lash, all velvety venom, “Oh, cut the saint act, Sam. You want her just as bad as I do. I see it. I see the way your jaw locks when she’s in your lap, the way your damn knuckles go white when I kiss her and you’re holding on to her like you’ll break if you let go.”

You’ve always thought their arguments were about strategy, about hunts and demons, not about you, not about the strange intertwined pull you have on the both of them. Sam’s denial comes immediately, his voice low but heated, his stubbornness laced with something like shame: “I’m not gonna ruin her. She deserves better than—” But Ruby only laughs, low and amused, as if she’s just found the crack in his armor.

They emerge from the kitchenette, Ruby deliberately perches herself beside you on the bed, a sly smile ghosting her lips as her fingers brush your knee, her gaze flicking toward Sam just in time to catch the way his shoulders go rigid, how the muscle in his jaw jumps, how his eyes darken before he tears them away.

You shift under Ruby’s touch, more from confusion than anything else, but she only leans in closer, her voice soft and coaxing while Sam stands there with a storm brewing behind his eyes, one hand curling into a fist at his side. It’s happening again — Ruby pushing, testing, corrupting in small, deliberate touches and soft, wicked words — and Sam, the protector, caught between the urge to shield you from the world’s sharp edges and the raw ache that claws at him every time Ruby reminds him that he isn’t as selfless as he wants to be.

Ruby tucks her face into your neck, pressing soft, warm, wet kisses that leave your mind spinning. Sam’s eyes never leave where Ruby’s lips make contact with your neck, his stance shifting as he moves closer.