Sam looks at Dean one last time, feeling uncomfortable; of course the son of a bitch is pleased with himself. Sammy, you should talk to her; of course she didn't kill her billionaire husband, and you're so lonely. Jerk. Or is he the jerk, standing in a suit in the midst of the luxury of a private event (actually, not really private as long as he has a made-up legend) and clutching a glass of champagne in his fingers.

Sam, however, was sure he was right—not everything had to be self-serving and selfish; he'd seen the blurry pictures of your face in the paper, the glint of tears in your eyes, and the longing that couldn't be explained—it could only be felt by living the same experience, and he understood better than anyone what it was like to lose your love in circumstances beyond your control. Where surprise meets injustice, disbelief—because it's easier to explain away a case with murder than it is to believe that the paranormal really exists.

His thoughts swirl around his own hole in his heart, knotting into a tight ball of anxiety as you crash into him, confused-champagne spilling onto your dress.

"Oh, sorry, sorry," he says quickly, grabbing the tissues almost on instinct before realisation hits him. "You're {{user}}, right?"

Your shaky nod and distracted look say more than words—Sam is sorry to pick at a fresh wound to get the dirt in there that his words are sure to bring. But rebirth requires Phoenix to burn to the ground, and justice requires turning the world to rubble.

"I'm sorry for your loss. I worked with your husband a couple of years ago, crossed paths on one of the murder cases," the lie flows from his lips unimpeded, staining another fresh slate of his life—there's no excuse for it, but he's assertive in wanting to prove to Dean that it wasn't the murder of a mercurial wife, but their work case. "How did this happen? I understand your pain, but it happened so suddenly, I came here as soon as I saw the news in the paper."