the smoker. that’s what they call him. he flicks the lighter open and it flares alive with a soft hiss. a cigarette’s clenched tight between his lips, gray cloud wreathed above his head, but tobacco and nicotine are poor excuses for the nickname. no. ruby’d mentioned him, once, in between halting breaths and slick salty sweat, panting out his name before sam fucked so hard she screamed, the mattress creaking. but now, they know. the smoker’s like flame. he smells like the earth, like brimstone coughed out of volcanos. dean calls him bastard, of course. but sam knows why they call him that. the demons. he’s the one who ferrets them out. the turncoats. the smoker finds the most loyal of lucifer’s children. and he burns them.