Sam.

The tire was finally changed. Tools packed. Bobby long gone inside, probably to nurse his scowl with whiskey and bad TV. Dean and Rae had disappeared somewhere too, low voices trailing into nothing.

Now it was just me and Anne.

We were spread across the hood of Bobby's truck, two beers in from the mini fridge in the garage, and not quite ready to go inside. The metal creaking every now and then like it was settling under the weight of the day.

Overhead, the stars stretched out—endless and still and so damn far from the crap we were wading through.

Anne had one boot propped up, the other leg stretched out. She tapped her bottle against mine without looking.

"To flat tires and stolen beer," she murmured.

I smirked. "The finer things in life."

"Exactly."

For a while, neither of us said anything. Just the hum of crickets, the occasional breeze rustling through Bobby's salvage pile. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once—like it was just making sure the world still heard it.

Anne let out a soft breath. "You ever just... wish it could stay like this?"

"Quiet?" I asked.

She nodded.

"All the time."

I turned my head just enough to glance at her—at the way the starlight touched her face, catching in the pale edges of her hair, softening her in a way I hadn't seen before.

"I forgot what it felt like," she said after a moment. "This kind of stillness. Like the universe isn't breathing down your neck."

I clinked my bottle lightly against hers again. "You and me both."

We fell quiet again. But it wasn't uncomfortable. Just... full. Like we were both thinking a little too hard, but not ready to admit it yet.

And maybe that's what made it easier to finally talk about the stuff that usually stayed buried.

Because out here, under a mess of stars and after too many near-death experiences to count—truth felt less like a risk.

And more like something earned.

Anne took a sip, then lowered the bottle to rest on her stomach. "You ever think about her?" she asked, eyes still fixed on the sky.

I didn't have to ask who she meant.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "All the time."

Jess. Blonde hair, easy smile, eyes that made promises even when she didn't mean to. She still lived somewhere in the back of my head—frozen in time, barefoot in that white Stanford apartment.

"Hard not to," I added. "She was the first person I really... pictured a normal life with."

Anne was quiet for a second. "The white picket fence kind of thing?"

"Yeah. Law school. Sunday morning pancakes. Dog named Moose, probably."

That got a laugh out of her. "Moose?"

"I was twenty. Don't judge me."

"No judgment," she said, still smiling. "Just amused."

I glanced over at her, caught the curve of her lips. "What about you?"

"Brian," she said after a beat. "We were together for almost three years. Lived in this shoebox apartment in Barberville, Florida. He thought he was gonna be the next Anthony Bourdain or Gordan Ramsay."

"Was he?"

"More like the next guy to burn boxed mac and cheese."

I chuckled. "Ouch."

She looked over at me then, eyes a little hazy from the beer, but sharp where it counted. "He was good to me though. Mostly. Before things got... weird."

"Weird how?"

"Florida weird," she said simply. "Honestly, it was more of a possessive thing—not the hot kind either. Just thought he could control every aspect...then I joined the Army."

I didn't push.

She didn't look like she wanted to go further. Not yet.

So I let the silence stretch a little longer. Comfortable again. Familiar.

And then she murmured, "It's strange, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"The way we build these whole lives with people—then something cracks, and you can't unsee it. You're just... different."

"Yeah." I nodded. "But sometimes being different means you finally see yourself clearly, too."

She turned her head again, eyes catching mine.

And just like that—we weren't talking about Jess or Brian anymore.

Anne broke the eye contact first, shifting to prop herself up on one elbow. "You ever wonder if we're still that person we were with them? Or if they'd even recognize us now?"

I let the question hang there.

Then I said, "I don't think Jess would."

Anne's brow arched slightly. "That different, huh?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I used to try to be the guy who thought evil came with a warning label. That everything had clean edges. That if I studied hard enough, followed all the right rules... I could outrun whatever darkness came with the Winchester name."

She didn't say anything, just listened.

So I kept going.

"But that's not the world we live in. And I think—" I hesitated, swallowing the rest of the beer in my hand. "I think the more I tried to hold onto that version of myself, the easier it was to break."

Anne's gaze softened. "And Ruby?"

I exhaled. "Ruby saw what I could be. Not just what I wanted to be."

Anne leaned forward, arms wrapped loosely around her knees now. "She's a demon, Sam."

"Your best friend is half demon..." I shot back—sharper than I meant. "And you'd die for her."

Anne's jaw tightened. Her gaze didn't leave the stars, but I saw something shift behind her eyes. "That's different."

"How?" I pressed, sitting up straighter. "Because you know Rae? Because she fights beside you? Because she hasn't lied to you yet?"

"Yet?" Anne's voice rose, sharp and disbelieving. She sat up fully, the tension in her spine clear. "Seriously? She's not the one dragging you into something that's going to break you from the inside out."

That hit harder than I wanted it to.

Because she wasn't wrong.

And that scared me more than Ruby ever had

I let out a breath. "You don't know her like I do."

"Oh, it's like that, huh." Anne scoffed, sliding off the hood. I sat up the rest of the way. "Right. Obviously. But I don't need to know her," she went on, shaking her head. "I can see what she's doing to you. You're jumpier. Angrier. You disappear without a word and come back like you've been flayed alive."

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to breathe through the heat rising in my chest. "You think I'm weak."

"I think you're scared," she said, blunt and clear. "And I think Ruby is feeding that fear—twisting it into something that feels like control."

I stared at her. "You think I want any of this?"

"No," she said instantly. "I think you're desperate. And she's using that. Because that's what demons do, Sam. That's who they are."

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.

"She helped me when no one else could," I said finally, quieter now. "When Dean and Bobby were too scared of what I might become—she wasn't. She never looked at me like a monster."

Anne's expression softened—just for a second. Then it hardened again, more steel than warmth. "And now she's got her claws in you so deep, you don't even know if she's saving you or sharpening the knife."

"Jesus, Anne—"

"I'm not trying to be cruel," she cut in, voice trembling but controlled. "But I care about you. And watching you disappear into whatever this is with her—I don't know where it ends. And I don't know if there's anything left of you at the end of it."

I blinked. "So what? You think I'm just... poisoned?"

"I think you're split in half," she said. "And I'm scared you're gonna choose the side that burns."

Silence dropped between us. Long. Heavy. Like something we couldn't take back had been said—and maybe needed to be.

And for the first time, I didn't feel angry.

I just felt seen.

Exposed.

"Anne..." I started, reaching out without thinking.

But she stood before I could finish.

"I need space. I need... to not be around you right now," she said, voice lower, strained. Even though we were already outside.

She didn't storm off.

She just walked.

The gravel cracked under each step, steady and final, like a door closing behind her.