CookieChipDough

He’s relieved to see you standing off to the side of the theater’s large double doors, waiting for him, by the look of you. And in that little black dress and heels, perfect for every curve, he more than appreciates the view.

His smile is almost involuntary when you notice him, your eyes brightening.

“Hey,” you say, “I um, wasn’t sure you would come.”

Dean kisses your cheek, lingering there at the scent of your perfume.

“Mmm, you smell nice,” he whispers.

You try to temper your smile, but it’s no use.

“Behave,” you warn. Though you notice the bouquet of red roses he’s holding, and you soften. He plucks one of the stems out of the bunch and presents you with a single rose.

“Gotta save the rest of these for the star of the show, but don’t think I forgot about you, sweetheart,” he says.

That crooked grin of his should come with a warning label.

You take the rose, biting your lower lip. Your mouth opens, even though you don’t know what’s about to come out. But any reply you could’ve made is completely derailed—by the voice of your ex-boyfriend.

He greets you by name, and you turn around on reflex. While you’d been a bit uncertain about Dean, you thought could’ve banked on the fact that Nick wouldn’t be here. He certainly takes note of Dean when he approaches, holding out his hand in greeting.

“Nick Vaught,” he supplies.

Dean glances at you briefly. He knew who this man was before he spoke, just by the more guarded look on your face.

“Dean Winchester,” he offers, along with his hand to shake.

Nick quirks a brow and points at Dean in recognition.

“Winchester. HunterCorp. You took over for your father, right? I remember reading the press release, after Ashland broke into the Fortune 500,” Nick says. His arrogance shines through in his tone and the subtle raise of his chin.

“Yeah, we almost worked with an F500 company, Roman Enterprises,” Dean says, sharing a knowing look with you. “They tried to sell me a gun that would take your hand off on the reload. So as far as I’m concerned, being a top seller doesn’t always mean quality. But congrats. I’m sure you guys earned it.”

One thing Dean also has down is a fake ass grin. You cover a smile with your fingers. His hand slips to the small of your back.

“Should we go in, find our seats?” he asks you. You start to nod, but—

“Wait a minute,” Nick says. He watches the closeness between you and Dean shrewdly, but focuses on you. “I get that you work for HunterCorp, but why does the CEO care about my kid’s play?”

You almost sigh. This was why you almost didn’t tell Nick about tonight, but you knew Emma deserved at least the attempt to have her father see her.

“We’re seeing each other,” you say, matter of fact, and without the embarrassment you thought you might have, despite the judgy raise of his brows. You decide not to tack on the whole executive assistant part.

“Right, right. So you’re fucking,” Nick says flatly.

It earns him a frowning look from another parent walking into the theater.

You gape at him, until a glower overtakes your face. “Jesus Christ, Nick.”

Dean’s expression hardens, but he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, his guiding hand becomes more protective and he presses you toward the door.

“Come on. You don’t owe him an explanation,” he says in your ear.

“I don’t need one. It’s fucking obvious,” Nick says, gesturing at you two. He snorts in amusement. “Though I shouldn’t be too surprised. Guess you just have a type for authoritative men.”

“Watch your mouth,” Dean snaps. His voice is quiet, but deep enough to be a real warning.

Nick’s lips press together in annoyance.

You’re already close to seething, but unlike him, you have some fucking decorum. You look around to make sure no one’s watching you all too closely before you speak.

“There’s actual parents around, and this is your daughter’s school, if you haven’t noticed,” you hiss. “Which to be fair, you probably haven’t, since you’ve never actually been here before. Hope you enjoy the fucking show.”

You pivot on your heel, and Dean follows after you. Though he glances over his shoulder, finding Nick standing there testily with one hand in his pocket and a tonight’s playbill in the other.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as you lead Dean down the row to the seats you reserved. Your dad is already sitting in one of them.

“We were bound to meet sooner or later,” Dean replies wryly. “Grade A asshat.”

“You have no idea,” you say. Though you pause and give your dad a small wave when he sees you. “By the way, you’re meeting my dad too.”

Dean pauses. “Wait, what?”

“Please,” you say. You grab his hand for solidarity, and because you want to, offering him a slightly nervous smile.

Amused, he can’t help but humor you. He steels himself a little as you two shuffle down the second row. He shakes hands with your father and exchanges pleasantries. Though when you stumble slightly on how to introduce Dean, your father is the one who actually helps you fill in the gap.

“Are you the brave soul who’s been dating my daughter?” he asks.

Dean shakes his hand firmly. “That would be me.”

The other man eyes him for a moment, seizing him up. After a moment, he nods.

“Good. You know you’ve got a gem on your hands.”

Dean gives you a sly smile. “Oh, I know very well.”

A blush blooms warmth in your cheeks. You take your seat between them and help Dean situate the bouquet on the floor. The rose he gave you rests in your lap.

It’s just in time for Nick to take his seat at the end of the opposite row. He glances over at you two, but soon ignores you to take a look at the program.

You heave a long breath through your nose. Dean takes possession of your left hand, earning your attention. He presses a kiss to your knuckles. You smile, though doubt begins to creep in regardless. You lean in closer to him.

“You sure about this?” you ask softly. “You know this can’t be the thing where you get bored after a week and send me a Tiffany bracelet as a consolation prize. You can’t do it to Emma—”

“Hey,” Dean says, stopping you quietly, but firm. “I already told you…this is more than that.”

You stare back at him with a measure of surprise. He understands it, considering his track record, but he knows he’ll just have to convince you. When he thinks of you and the kid, he sees the life his father used to trade for long hours at the office and a heart attack at 52. Dean’s come to realize that if he’s not careful, he’ll end up just like his old man.

So he smiles and leans in to steal a kiss. You can’t help but melt into it, and into him.

Your father watches out of the corner of his eye with a smile of his own.

While Emma isn’t Matilda herself, she plays a very adorable Lavender, one of Matilda’s best friends—complete with a purple dress and glasses you found at Target. Through a lot of motherly pride and shedding a few tears, you’re able to get a few discreet pictures of her on your phone.

After the play, you’re half dreading and half looking forward to the moment she runs out from the backstage area with her teacher (who hilariously played Miss Trunchbull) and the rest of her class. Emma’s back in her normal clothes, and most of the makeup was cleaned off with wipes, but she still somehow has glitter in her hair when she attacks you with a hug.

“Baby you did so good!” you say. You’re smiling from ear to ear as you two sway back and forth.

“Good job, kiddo,” your father says, ruffling her hair. Emma gives her grandpa a big hug next.

“I remembered all my lines. And I held the lizard, but he was slimy!” she exclaims.

You laugh, though you still can’t believe they used a real newt to drop into Miss Trunchbull’s drink.

“Well, you’ve got some more people who came to see you—”

“Hey, Em,” Nick says. He makes a subtle point to step into his daughter’s line of vision before Dean, who just waits behind.

He knows what Nick is doing, but it’s also kind of fair that he sees his daughter first. Dean is…what, a family friend? He doubts you’ve told her more than what Emma already knows him to be: Mommy’s work friend.

Emma’s face brightens. “Daddy!”

She hugs his waist. He holds her back, petting her hair.

“You saw me?” she asks hopefully.

“Of course, honey. You did a great job.”

“What was your favorite part?” she asks.

Nick stumbles there slightly. Your lips quirk. Before intermission, you happened to look over and saw him scrolling through his phone. You suppose you can give him partial credit for sitting through the whole thing.

“Uh, well, it’s hard to pick. Everything was so good,” he says. “Hey, would you want to come over to hang out with me tonight?”

“Nick,” you cut in sternly. He gives you some side-eye, but he’s focused on Emma. She looks a little unsure though.

“What? She’s never stayed over with me before. Tonight’s a special night,” he says.

“That’s because,” you say, but you stop yourself short with an annoyed frown. You don’t want to say in front of your daughter that the reason why she’s never slept over at his apartment is because it goes against your full custody agreement, what he wanted to begin with.

“Well, you know very well why,” you say, holding Emma by her shoulders. “I think it’s time for us to say goodnight.”

Nick is about to protest, when his cell rings in his pocket. His jaw clenching, he checks his phone and swears under his breath.

He looks down at his daughter and gives her an apologetic look.

“This is an important work call that I need to take, but I love you, and it was good to see you, honey.”

“You’re leaving?” she asks, her eyes filling with disappointment. Nick hesitates, but glancing up at your unyielding face, then back to hers, he just strokes her on the head.

“I’m sorry, Em. I’ll see you again soon,” he says. He answers the call right before it stops ringing. “Hey, no, cancel that. I want to see the new reports first. Get it to me within the hour.”

His voice drifts down the hall as he walks away. It leaves a crestfallen little girl in his wake.

But she finally notices Dean. He’s been standing off to the side with a dozen roses behind his back. When he smiles at her gently, she’s able to smile again too.

“Hey, sweetheart. Finally get to move up the line to say hi to you. Looks like I’m in the presence of a little celebrity,” he says. He takes a knee so that he can be eye-level with her when he gives her the bouquet.

Her eyes go wide as she accepts them. “Whoa, there’s so many.”

You smile, sharing a look with your dad while you blink past a telltale sting in your eyes.

You squeeze Emma’s shoulders. “What do you say?”

“Thank you,” Emma says, swaying a little with her pretty roses.

Dean laughs and playfully thumbs at her cheek. “You’re welcome.”

She giggles.

Dean glances up at you and your dad as he gets back up to his feet. “So, can I take you guys out to celebrate? I know a nice place not too far.”

“Food sounds good to me,” your father says.  

“How nice are you talking?” you ask. Unlike Dean, you don’t come from money. Your family’s idea of a night out consisted of Red Lobster, Outback, or the Dairy Queen around the corner.

“How about the Ruth’s Chris down the street,” Dean offers. He sees the look of reservation on your face and takes your hand in reassurance. “Come on, it’s on me.”

You bite your lip. “You sure?”

“The man’s sure, sweetheart. Let’s get moving,” your father says, rubbing his hands together before he steers Emma toward the exit. “God knows I haven’t had a good steak in the last decade.”

He helps Emma hold her flowers on the way to the parking lot, allowing Dean to keep his hold on your hand as you followed behind.

“This is dangerous you know,” you say in amusement. “You’re gonna give my dad a taste of the high life. He’ll think it’s free steak and bourbon forever.”

“Hey, if that’s what the guy wants, I’m not above bribery,” Dean remarks.

You laugh and lean into his side, wrapping your arm around his. He presses a kiss to the side of your head, smiling all the while.

Two Years Later

Dean scans the very detailed document on his laptop with a critical eye.

“Okay, Yale graduate. MBA. Internships, the works. Strong start.”

Kevin Tran, the latest candidate, pushes up his glasses.

“I also maintained a 4.56 GPA weighted average, 4.78 cumulative,” he says. “Um, I can tell you more about how my roles in finance have intersected with business and sales, or first I can give you the highlights from my internships. Would you like that in chronological order or in order of relevance?”

Dean clears his throat and takes another sip of iced tea. Kevin watches him do it with some nervous energy as he tries not to fidget in his seat.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” Dean asks.

He glances over at you, where you sit in your own leather chair. This may be Dean’s office, but yours is now down the hall. As Operations Manager, you oversee HunterCorp’s logistics, budgets and resources, quality assurance, and office management. You’re literally the connective piece between Sam and Dean, and every department in the company. But you’ve been spread a little too thin for the past few months, juggling your new responsibilities with the old. Now, Dean needs your replacement.

You peruse Kevin’s resume again and flip the page. Your engagement ring catches the light.

“Let’s start with internships.”

AN: How'd you like Dean stepping up? You think he'd make a good stepdad? 😘

I am working on a longer Dean AU series at the moment. I'll be telling you guys more about it next week, but until then, please let me know what you thought about this little mini series!

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Judging by his progress so far, you honestly give him another ten more minutes before he starts reorganizing those binders alphabetically out of spite (and to scratch that slightly OCD itch in his brain. No judgement here – you certainly feel it too when looking at those eight monstrosities).

It’s been three hours of tranquility so far since Dean’s not back yet from his little trip to hide the cursed sword. 

Admittedly, it’s almost too quiet and peaceful now in this room without his annoying habits around to distract you. It’s weird what you can miss once it’s gone, but you’re sure the green-eyed hunter will return soon enough and make you regret those words again with his charmingly irritating presence.

You, on the other hand, have claimed the bed and excused yourself from tediously sifting through museum catalogues by pulling out your tarot deck and doing your own version of research. 

In this case, your focus doesn’t lie with the sword or even the victims but on the man himself – the mysterious headless horseman. If you can get some hints on his identity and fate, maybe you and Sam can figure out a way to break the curse.

The cards slide easily between your fingers as you shuffle, your brain latching onto the calming rhythm until the noise in your head quiets just enough. And then, you draw your first card.

Ten of Swords.

Well, that card ain’t exactly subtle, is it? It portrays a body lying face down with ten blades driven into his back, like Brutus himself got carried away with stabbing Caesar during the Ides of March. Whoever murdered this poor fella wanted to ensure he stayed down. Decapitating someone would probably do the trick. The card doesn’t mean just death – it stands for betrayal.

The next card that comes up then is Justice. 

And that? Franky, it almost makes you laugh at this point. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s freaking ironic in a way that feels borderline offensive. Justice upright is supposed to mean fairness, balance, and truth being upheld. All great things, right?

Except, historically, it usually just means someone decided they were right. Doesn’t mean they really were, though. It more likely describes a mob of people with their pitchforks raised high, reflecting your own hometown’s dark history. 

The last card is the Five of Swords, which causes you to tilt your head slightly, studying the smug little asshole on it who’s clutching his stolen victory. This dude’s seriously the worst. The card means he only won by being the most ruthless person in the room. There’s no honor or fairness, just cold outcome. 

You lean back against the headboard, eyes fixing on the pattern splayed out in front of you. 

Betrayed by his own. Judged publicly. And whoever did it walked away convinced they were justified.

The door opens before you can ruminate in it any longer.

Dean strolls in like he just ran a routine errand instead of relocating a cursed murder weapon, brushing his hands together as if that somehow closes the chapter. But you notice his shoulders are a little too stiff, his movements a little too controlled, and the petunia-purple rope is still wrapped around his neck, the noose tightening. 

“Alright,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “Sword’s hidden. No more public decapitations for the day.”

Sam slowly looks up from the catalogue. “You feel anything yet? Hear anything?”

Dean casually shrugs out of his leather jacket. “Nope. No whispers, no ghost horses, no sudden urge to, I don’t know, lose my head. Maybe I got lucky.”

Man, you almost admire that confidence.

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re still very much cursed,” you tell him with an amused smile.

He raises a brow and gestures at his neck. “Still got that purple rope thingy, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Great,” he sighs and rolls his eyes. 

Sam exhales a long breath as well, sliding one of the binders toward him. “Then we don’t have time to waste. Start flipping. We need to find out who that sword belonged to. Unless you wanna lose your head in the next few hours.”

Dean shoots him a boyish grin. “Could turn my melon into a pumpkin just in time for your favorite holiday, man.”

“Dean–” Sam doesn’t finish, just cuts the sentence off, and shoves the binder an inch closer. 

Dean gapes at it, clearly seeing it for the plight that it is. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Dean doesn’t respond to that and simply drags himself over to the couch with a resigned sigh, flopping down and opening the binder with all the enthusiasm of someone being punished for a crime they didn’t commit. The pages flip lazily, and it’s honestly more irritating noise than actual progress, while Sam seems as studious and dedicated as ever. 

They couldn’t be more different, could they? 

And you? Well, you still feel the weight of the cards in your hands and decide it’s the perfect opportunity to do a little bonus reading since both brothers are in the room, distracted, and somewhat sitting still. Auras and glimpses of their personalities aside, there’s still a lot you don’t know about them. It’s time to let the cards do their magic. 

You reshuffle and let your attention drift toward Sam. You quietly draw three cards, laying them out where only you can see, hiding them a little behind a bump in the covers – just in case. You’ve already noticed Dean discreetly sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye. 

Sam’s first card? The Magician. 

This little wizard is basically ambition incarnated. It’s raw capability, focus, and willpower. It’s precision and skill. Sam’s always ten steps ahead, already building something in his head while everyone else is still trying to understand the problem. It sounds impressive, but you honestly find it a little more terrifying. Because if intellect is paired with intent, it’s always a slightly concerning combination. 

It means Sam doesn’t just know things – he uses them. Plenty of people are smart, but fewer people are actually strategic about it. And even fewer are willing to push that strategy as far as it’ll go. It’s learned, sharpened, and probably comes at the expense of something softer.

You’re kind of worried now you might be that soft thing. 

You chew on your lip and glance at the next card, tilting your head a little because it’s suspiciously contrasting to the first one. 

The Ace of Cups.

God, that is almost wholesome. It stands for pure emotion. It’s empathy and compassion – the ability to care deeply and fucking mean it. 

You steal a glimpse at him and know it’s there – under the logic, under the research mode, and under the calm voice. You’ve seen it with your own eyes in the way he talks, the way he listens, and the way he looks at people like they’re worth understanding instead of just solving.

But at the last card, you don’t even try to hide your grimace this time. Jesus fucking Antichrist…

The Devil.

Welp, you almost feel reaffirmed in your initial read of him. Balance is restored. You’re back in familiar territory again. 

Because The Devil? Needless to say, this guy doesn’t do subtlety well either. Doesn’t even pretend to. Obsession and addiction spring to mind. It’s essentially being chained to something you know isn’t good for you, but you still can’t let it go. 

Yeah, that tracks…

So what’s got its claws in Sam? Is it purpose? Revenge? Control? Maybe it’s all of the above. 

The Magician builds. The Ace of Cups cares. The Devil clings. And that? That’s a dangerous fucking combination. 

Whatever he’s chasing, he’s not walking away from it. Not halfway. Not even when it starts costing him more than he can goddamn afford. 

Sam’s the kind of guy who would sacrifice himself, who would justify anything if it gets him where he needs to go. Or worse – he decides it’s worth sacrificing someone else. 

God, you hope that someone isn’t you, remembering Dean’s words of warning at the lab. 

Sam’s willing to do whatever it takes to kill that demon.

He’s already too far in it. He doesn’t see the line anymore.

Oh, you definitely can’t trust Sam with your life, can you? He’d sell you to the highest bidder in a heartbeat if it gets him the prize he wants. 

Now, you’re honestly curious about Dean’s cards. If they’re as bad as his little brother’s, you’re surely bolting out of that gothic hellhole and slamming the door firmly shut behind you. 

You shuffle the cards again and pull your next set. And man, Dean’s first card? It actually makes you snort out loud, earning you a curious little glimpse from the hunter himself. 

God, it’s so painfully obvious. Could you be more on the nose?

The Emperor.

Sounds mighty, fearsome, maybe even a little ominous, right? But the translation? This guy’s all about authoritative control. 

Dean takes charge whether anyone asked him to or not. There’s a rigidity to him – a need to keep things contained, predictable, handled. Not because he necessarily enjoys control, but because he doesn’t trust anything else to actually hold. He’s the man who builds himself into a wall and then wonders why everything hurts when it inevitably cracks. 

It means he’s protective as well, but not particularly in a soft and gentle way. More like “stand behind me or get the hell out of the way.”

My way or the highway…

Dean’s solid, grounded in way that feels almost immovable. In other words, he’s the boulder Sisyphus tried to roll up a hill. He doesn’t bend; he holds (and probably breaks before ever admitting he’s wrong).

As you flip the next card, however, you stump a little. It’s a real wildcard. You certainly didn’t expect that one to show up for him.

King of Cups.

You almost snort again, because it essentially stands for emotional stability. And what you’ve seen so far from Dean? Yeah, he definitely ain’t stable. He honestly seems to have the emotional regulation of a lit match in a fireworks factory. 

To be fair, though, it’s a little about control as well, so you could possibly see that for him. It’s usually about people who feel everything but keep it all contained and locked up tight. It’s not about what’s visible on the outside. It’s about what’s underneath the surface. 

Dean may not talk about his feelings, but they still drive everything he does. He keeps it together so others don’t have to.

Basically, it’s the guy who hands you a burger instead of asking if you’re okay.

It means he doesn’t say much when it matters – deflects, jokes, gets sarcastic. But he acts. He protects. He notices things he pretends not to, like whether you’ve eaten, if you’re about to walk into something stupid, if–

…Oh.

Wait… Does he–

Does he actually care about you? Because for a guy who allegedly claims to hate you, he’s been annoyingly attentive today. 

Alright, so he’s not a complete lost cause after all. He’s not emotionally unavailable. He’s just… emotionally constipated. Gotcha.

You honestly still can’t tell if that’s worse or better, though. 

The third card is less funny, however. It’s the Five of Cups. And that one, well… it’s grief. Loss.

If you had to take a wild guess, Dean’s probably fixating on what’s gone instead of what’s still there. The hardest thing about this card?

You can relate to it. 

He’s been carrying all this pain around for so long he actually forgot it wasn’t supposed to be permanent. And it explains a lot about him – the edge, the temper, even the control issues. Dean’s viewpoint of the world is that it already took too much from him, and he’s just waiting to see what it steals next. 

And you can see it, too. There’s something about him that just feels incredibly… heavy. Even his aura sometimes feels suffocating to you. But instead of dealing with his losses, he just keeps moving, keeps going, keeps doing because stopping would mean he actually has to feel it.

That’s why he’s so restless and can’t exist in stillness. If he never has to slow down, he doesn’t have to sit with what’s missing. 

You glance down at the three cards once more, all laid out beside each other, and then spread them out a little more evenly on the mattress as if the spacing will help make them more sense.

The Emperor holds the line. The King of Cups buries the storm. The Five of Cups never forgets what it lost. 

The picture of him becomes sharper, but it doesn’t match the one you had in your head before. He’s more than the asshole you think he is, isn’t he? Still bossy, but also sad. It’s… layered bossy. 

His ribcage isn’t an empty husk full of spiderwebs. There’s feeling there. A lot of it, actually. He just keeps it on a leash so short it’s practically choking him. He turned his loss into rules, into walls, and into don’t touch that, don’t trust that, don’t get close to that.

Because last time? It cost him something he couldn’t get back.

So yeah, he’s controlling, he’s stubborn, and he’s got about five damn emotional defense mechanisms layered on top of each other. But it’s not because he doesn’t feel. It’s because he feels too goddamn much, and if he ever actually lets it slip, there’s a real chance it’ll wreck him.

Yeah, Dean not just simply being an asshole but actually being a super sad asshole honestly takes all the joy out of you. How are you supposed to tease him now, let alone hate him with an unmatched passion?

You scoff under your breath, shaking your head a little as you gather the cards again and put them back into the deck. 

Well, that was an enlightening reading…

Opposite you, Dean shifts on the couch, green eyes flicking to you. “Alright, seriously,” he huffs. “What the hell are you doing over there? You keep making faces.”

“Working,” you reply quickly. 

“Looks like scrapbooking.”

“Looks like you’re avoiding your reading.”

“I’m reading,” he mutters. “I just hate it.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips as you slide the last card neatly back into the deck. But then, another one slips free and flutters down onto the mattress. 

Oh no… Not this again. Guess the universe didn’t get the memo you’re done with your reading and decided to give you an encore. 

You know this card belongs to you and not to the boys. Lucky you. But as you peek at the card, your brow wrinkles deeply. 

The Lovers.

For a full minute, your brain stalls. Your eyes follow the angle of the card, but not to the left, not toward Sam at the table, but to the right, toward the couch, toward–

No… Nuh-uh. Nope. Ew, gross. Absolutely not.

Dean’s eyes flick to you again for half a second before swiftly looking away like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t. You stare at him for a moment, because really?

Really?!

The Lovers doesn’t implicate romance alone. It doesn’t foreshadow steamy one-night stands or casual hook-ups. It’s about choice. Connection. Alignment. It’s about a bond that actually matters – that means something. It’s the “this will ruin your life in a meaningful way” card. Emotional, physical, spiritual – take your pick because this one covers all bases. 

And honestly, all those things would be fine. Who doesn’t want to meet their soulmate? But in this particular case, it feels more like the damn card strolled into the room, pointed at the green-eyed hunter, and went that one. 

This is clearly a mistake. A glitch. It’s just statistically improbable nonsense. Either the cards are broken, or the universe (or whatever cosmic entity is apparently in charge of your tarot deck) has a dark sense of humor. 

Because, seriously, out of everyone in this room, it picked him?! The guy who’s been antagonizing you since day one. The guy who thought you were dangerous enough to kill not that long ago. The guy who still looks at you like you’re one wrong move away from proving him goddamn right about everything. And the deck goes, Yes, that one? 

You barely tolerate each other half the time, and Dean still flinches every time you do anything even remotely magical. 

This is crazy. It’s an anomaly. 

Just as you chalk it off to the universe playing a cruel prank on you and move to put the card quickly back into its deck, yet another one slips and fall right on top of the other, like it’s doubling down on the unfathomable audacity.

Ten of Cups.

Well, now this thing’s just being offensive. You honestly don’t know if you should laugh, scream, or cry. 

Because this card? It stands for happiness, fulfillment, stability, and belonging. It’s basically the happily ever after starter pack. The whole “ride off into the sunset and build a life that doesn’t implode every five minutes” fantasy. It’s not fleeting or surface-level. This one’s lasting. 

It’s the kind of apple-pie life people dream about but rarely ever get. The kind that looks steady, warm, and full. The kind that obviously doesn’t fit anywhere near your current situation.

You stare at both cards for a long time, your jaw feeling a little too loose, your mind chewing on their meaning. 

Connection leading to domestic bliss and long-term happiness. Love leading to a… home.

With him.

Yeah, nope, you’re not doing that. You’re not even entertaining this for a second longer. Dean hates you, and you’re for sure as hell not lining up to prove him wrong on that front either. The tarot is simply wrong. It happens. That’s it. 

You grimace as you quickly snatch the cards and shove them back into your deck before either brother can catch you, even though there’s no way they would even know what you were doing here. This whole thing is completely absurd. 

In your periphery, you catch Dean stealing glimpses again, still tracking your reactions. When you glance up and meet his eyes, he doesn’t look away this time, though. 

“What now?” Dean asks rather gruffly, brow woven into intense knits.

You quickly avert your eyes and shake your head, giving him a subtle shrug. “Nothing.”

“That didn’t look like nothing.”

“It was nothing,” you brush off and scratch your collarbone where the strap of your tank top cuts slightly into the skin. 

God, it’s downright sweltering in here and almost resembling a tropical rainforest. The B&B’s old bones do nothing to keep the summer heat outside. 

But then, you catch another pair of eyes on you this time in your periphery and look over to find the younger Winchester staring at you. But his gaze isn’t fixed on your face.

Wait… Is he staring at your tits?

“Uhm, Sam…” You clear your throat subtly. “Why are you staring at my cleavage?”

Sam’s head snaps up in an instant, hazel eyes wide and full of flustered panic. “I–”

“Dude,” Dean cuts in scoldingly before his little brother even has a chance to find an excuse. You’re surprised at his reaction for all of five seconds before he opens his mouth again. “What are you doing? What’d I tell you when you turned fourteen, huh? Corner of your eye, man. Never directly. And no longer than three seconds max.”

You frown slightly at that response. “Well, that’s just problematic in a different way now.”

Sam’s mouth opens and closes a few times, scrambling for words. “No, I–… I wasn’t–…”

Both you and Dean stare at him now, patiently waiting for an explanation. 

Sam takes a deep breath and starts anew. “I wasn’t looking at… you know,” he elaborates with a swallow. “I was just–… The birthmark on your collarbone. It’s your family rune, isn’t it?”

“Oh.” You flinch unnoticeably, your hand automatically covering the spot, feeling a little exposed, especially since Dean decided to peek as well now. “Yeah, it is. Everyone in my family had it.”

“Like the legend,” Sam mutters, more to himself than you, as if he just realized something. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. You kind of feel like evidence under a microscope with both their eyes fixed on you now. 

Luckily, a sharp look from Dean that unmistakably says drop it keeps his little brother from asking whatever questions wanted to spill out next. You’re sort of grateful for that. 

Sam then decides to let it go and switch lanes. “So, uh, you find anything useful yet?”

God, you latch onto that distraction in a damn heartbeat, shifting gears without a single drop of hesitation. 

“Yeah,” you say, swiftly storing the tarot deck back into your bag. “Our guy was betrayed. Accused, judged. Probably publicly.”

Sam’s interest sharpens slightly, musing. “Scapegoat.”

“Yup, would be my guess.”

“So we’re dealing with a vengeful spirit tied to an object,” he deduces. 

Dean warily watches you for another beat, seemingly trying to catch whatever you just buried. But luckily, he huffs a breath a second later and focuses back on the binder in his lap. 

“Great,” he mutters dryly. “Love a revenge arc.”

You don’t respond, you don’t look at the cards again either, and you definitely pretend they don’t mean anything at all – zero, zip, zilch, nada. 

You wanted to get a new deck soon anyways. This one’s system is clearly breaking down. 

After hours of wading through those binders and staring at that eyesore of chicken-scratch handwriting, trying to decipher just a syllable of it, the three of you finally called it a night after Dean kept complaining about his eyes burning. Sam then figured it was safe enough for now, considering Dean still hadn’t heard any horses yet. 

He used to like horses. Now? Not so much.

His eyes closed easily that night, considering he was cursed and all, but he was beat after trying to hide a damn sword in the woods behind the museum. He even tried to salt and burn the thing, melt it down to a little clump of metal, but it wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t dent, wouldn’t even fucking scratch. 

But Dean already regrets taking those forty peaceful winks when he finds himself back in familiar territory. Or should he say unfamiliar because he certainly knows it never actually happened and he’s never been to that place before?

Yeah, he’s back in unfamiliar territory. However, the milky, coral filter is still the same. 

Coral, he scoffs and rolls his eyes at his own thoughts. Jesus Christ, you’re starting to rub off on him with that stupid color coding system of yours. Before you, the only color he knew was orange and the only thing he associated with something like coral were damn rocks in the ocean. 

Wait… are corals rocks? Sam would probably know that. 

This time, though, Dean’s not down by the pond anymore. Instead, he feels the tall grass brush his legs as he trudges back up the hill. Soon enough, the house comes into view, and for a while, he thinks about going inside and pretending today never happened. Pretending he didn’t say what he said. Pretending you didn’t look at him the way you did. 

That would be so much easier, wouldn’t it?

But there’s a twinge in his ribcage that won’t let go. It’s squeezing something inside of him to a painful degree and keeps him tethered to the spot, forcing his eyes to drift around the endless field of greenery and look. 

Look for you. 

Even with everything that happened, with all the words he said that he shouldn’t have said, deep down, he knows you wouldn’t wander too far. You wouldn’t leave him. At least, not really.

Right?

But maybe he took it too far this time, said something he can’t erase or even fix, and the pang in his chest grows in intensity till he spots a small movement to his right, where the grass grows even taller and wilder, untamed by footsteps and paths. 

And there you are – off to the side, a little ways from the house, under the willow tree. 

The long branches hang lowly, swaying gently in the evening breeze, curtains of deep green that catch the sunlight and turn it molten at the edges. You’re sitting beneath it, half-hidden in the shade, knees drawn in and arms wrapped around them. You’ve folded into yourself like you’re trying to take up less space than you normally do.

The wind puffs, the branches flutter, and the warm and golden sunlight glistens through the leaves, but you don’t. You’re stillness personified. 

Too still. 

Dean doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like knowing, without even seeing your face, that you’re upset. Because of him. 

You’re upset because of him. 

He slows on instinct, almost bracing himself for whatever is waiting for him under that tree, but the annoying thing in his chest pulls tighter with every step he doesn’t take. 

So, the grass parts under his sneakers as he makes his way toward you. He’s careful and slow about it, though, some might almost call it tentative, but he doesn’t want to spook you. He doesn’t want you to run from him again before he has a chance to say something. 

The branches of the willow sway and brush against his shoulders as he ducks under the tree. The air is cooler in the shade, keeping the summer heat successfully locked out. He knows it’s one of your favorite spots around here. The first one, however, is the waterfall in the woods, but it’s past the fence line, and you’re not allowed to wander out there after dark, so you probably figured the willow would make a decent enough place to drown in your sorrow. 

You don’t react when he approaches. There’s not a blink or flinch in sight. You don’t even bother looking up to see who came to disturb your peace as if you already know it’s him and deemed his presence not worthy of your time. 

He purses his lips and stuffs his hands into his pockets, not really knowing what else to do with them. His shoulders are damn tight like he’s got rocks under his skin, and his throat suddenly feels unnaturally dry like he swallowed several cotton balls dunked in desert sand. 

He clears the arid lump, but you still don’t even twitch a single muscle. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, not daring to speak at a louder volume than that, but now he’s almost afraid you didn’t hear it, the tree swallowing the sound before it even reached you. 

You still don’t glance up. You don’t answer either. All you do is stare at that patch of grass in front of you. Your whole posture is closed off. 

Dean’s never seen you like this before. It scares him. What if you can’t forgive him and go back to the way the two of you used to be before all of this? What if he doesn’t get his friend back?

Because, aside from Sammy, you’re the only friend he’s ever had, which makes you also the only one who truly counts. Sam loves him because his little brother really doesn’t have another choice. They’re family. It’s different. 

But you? You don’t love him because you have to. No one’s making you. It’s not some universal rule you have to follow. No, you love him because you choose to. Because you always just did. 

And Dean, well, he… cares about you, too. Although, he wouldn’t admit that to anyone out loud.

He shuffles uncomfortably on his feet, his gaze flicking away for a second before fixing back on you with quite an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

“Hey,” he repeats, swallowing once more because the lump still won’t go anywhere. “I didn’t mean that.”

The words feel clumsy again the second they leave his mouth. He knows they’re not enough.

“You said it,” you say, voice clear but flat. The sweetness that usually laces it is gone. Now it sounds like it’s so tight and thin underneath that it could snap if you’re pushed the wrong way. 

Dean winces, rubbing the back of his neck before his hand drops to his side again. The guilt sinks deeper into his gut and becomes sharper, like tiny little daggers ready to cut him open from the inside out.

“Yeah, well…” he mutters, scuffing the toe of his boot into the dirt as he tentatively steps a little closer. “I was being an idiot, okay?”

He shilly-shallies for a second before sitting down. He’s not entirely sure anymore if he’s still allowed to, but before he can overthink it, he lowers himself on the ground beside you, the grass bending under his weight. He picks a spot not too close, but not too far either. It’s still close enough that his shoulder could almost touch yours. 

“I don’t hate you,” he says quietly but doesn’t look at you. He keeps his eyes trained on the same patch of grass as you. 

You don’t glance at him right away, either. The silence lasts long enough to make him wonder if he should say something else, if he should try harder, if he already screwed this up beyond fixing.

“Then why are you acting like you do?”

The question hits deeply, but it’s not spoken harshly. There’s no accusation detectable in your tone. There’s only confusion, as if you’re trying to make sense of something that doesn’t add up.

Dean lets out a long breath, his gaze dropping to the grass between his hands. His fingers fiddle without thinking, brushing over the blades, bending them, letting them slip back into place.

“I don’t know,” he admits eventually.

It might not be a satisfying answer, but it’s the truth. It’s the best he’s got, but it still doesn’t feel enough. Nothing he does is ever enough.

“It’s just… different now.” He shrugs his shoulders a little, hoping that at least explains something, but he knows it won’t truly fill in the gaps he can’t put into words.

He’s about to give up and leave you alone when you finally turn your head and look straight at him. 

And geez, it’s so much worse than when you were ignoring him. 

The weight of your gaze feels heavy, your eyes guarded and yet searching, careful and still a little hurt. That thing behind his ribs twinges again. He glances at you, then away, then back again because holding your gaze for too long might force him to say something he doesn’t know how to say.

At least not at twelve. 

“You just… freaked me out a little, okay?” he adds, the words certainly awkward but still honest. “I’m–… I’m sorry. But you’re still… you, you know? You’re still my friend.”

And that’s also the part he’s holding onto – the only part that makes any of this worth fixing it. You’re his friend because you’re so uniquely you and no one else.

You study him, even squinting your eyes slightly like the sunshine could warm him. You’re seemingly trying to decide if he truly means it – if it is sincere or just another thing he’ll take back later.

“Okay,” you say suddenly, the word barely reaching his ears because it sounds so small and careful. 

He wouldn’t exactly call it forgiveness, but it’s not downright rejection either, right? He might even call it a win because he’s winning you back – at least back enough to give him another shot towards full redemption. 

And that? Man, that finally eases that uncomfortable throb in his chest, and he can breathe better again. 

Dean nods to himself, remotely acknowledging something he doesn’t fully understand. Relief rushes through his veins, but he doesn’t quite trust the peace yet.

“So…” he starts with another clear of his throat that finally rids it of the nasty lump stuck in it. He shoots you a careful sideways glance. “What can you do now?”

The change in you is almost instant. You’re not quite fully back to your old self yet, but he can feel the familiar excitement vibrating in your blood again. Your shoulders lift, and your posture loosens. It feels like you’re cautiously unfurling again. 

“I can show you,” you say, but there’s still hesitation in your voice. “If you want to…”

He gives you a tiny but encouraging nod and watches the smile rise on your lips again. He missed that smile. He’s glad it’s back. 

You then straighten your spine a little and rest your hands in your lap, your eyes fluttering softly shut.

And Dean? He can’t take his eyes off you.

He takes in the way your lashes brush against your cheeks, the way the caramel-syrupy sunlight weaves through the willow branches and catches in your hair, and the way you go still like you’re listening to something he can’t hear.

For a moment, nothing happens.

All he hears is the wind through the breeze and the crickets in the grass and the sound of your calm breathing.

But then, slowly and bit by bit, something pushes through the weeds near your knee. A tiny blossom, lilac and soft, unfurls in front of his eyes. 

And it doesn’t stop there. 

The lonely blossom is soon joined by others, spreading over the field, a sea of flowers suddenly blooming around him and painting what once was a clover-green canvas with more colors than he’s ever seen before in his entire life. 

There are bright yellows, deep reds, mesmerizing blues, soft pinks, and about eight different shades of violet. There are too many to count them all. The earth came alive right in front of his eyes, and it feels natural and impossible all at once.

Dean leans forward, his eyes spellbound by everything they see, tracking the way the blossoms sway and the wind now carries a sweet floral scent.

“Okay,” he says after a heartbeat, aiming for casual but missing it by a mile. “That’s pretty… cool.”

You open your eyes, and there’s the smile again. Brighter than before, softer too, and it’s more beautiful than the plethora of flowers in front of him. Nothing could beat that smile. 

His gaze drops to the ground, catching on one of the flowers near his hand. It’s a daisy. 

Simple. Pretty. White petals, yellow center. He reaches for it, plucking it carefully, turning it between his fingers for a moment as his mind’s trying to figure something out.

Then he looks back at you, and you’re watching him now, a curious and yet uncertain gleam in your eyes. And then he just goes for it and leans in, tucking the daisy into your hair just above your ear.

You wrinkle your nose like it tickled, giggling a little. “Daisies are the most boring flowers.”

Dean scoffs a soft laugh. “No, they’re not.”

“Yeah, they are.”

He shakes his head, his gaze staying on you.

“No,” he says quietly. “They’re the prettiest…” He pauses and bites the inside of his cheek before the next words slip out. “You know… like you.”

You bite the smile on your lip and shyly avert your eyes, a blush creeping to your cheeks. 

And Dean feels it again – that warmth behind his ribs, spreading outward and turning the brightness up on the rest of the world. It feels steady and easy. 

It feels good.

For a long moment, everything feels like it’s supposed to again. Just you and him, sitting side by side in the honey-warm sunlight. 

But the peace is only ephemeral. There’s suddenly a sound that doesn’t belong to this place – to this dream world.

Hooves.

It sounds distant and hollow and ultimately wrong. 

Dean’s head cocks a little, brow furrowing as he looks out past the slope of the hill, toward the tree line where the light begins to thin.

“You hear that?” he asks without glancing at you, his gaze still trained on the invisible danger past the horizon.

But the second the words exit his mouth, the sound of them leave him bewildered. They come out too deeply and roughly. It’s not a child’s voice anymore.

It’s his – fully grown and perfectly raspy. 

Confused, his gaze drops down to his hands, and they’re larger, broader, and calloused now in ways they weren’t a second ago. His sneakers are replaced by boots, the grass stains on denim gone from his knees. 

Dean straightens abruptly and flexes his fingers a few times, as if that could possibly reset something. But it doesn’t work. The weight of himself feels older and heavier now.

“What the–”

His head then finally snaps to you. And you–

You’re not seven anymore, either.

You’re sitting exactly where you were, in the same patch of grass beneath the willow, but you’ve changed, too. Grown into yourself in an instant. Twenty-two. The softness is still there, but it’s shaped differently now. 

You’re wearing a bright yellow summer dress now instead of your short denim overalls, the fabric thin and airy and sun-washed, catching the breeze as it moves around you. Your hair falls longer now as well, loose and slightly tangled from the wind.

And for a heartbeat, Dean forgets everything else around him, including the strange noises.

His gaze fixes on the way the hem of your dress brushes the weeds, the way the sunlight illuminates your skin, and the way you look… older – not just in years, but in presence.

Shit.

Okay. Yeah, no. That’s new.

His brain scrambles for footing, trying to reorient, to file this under something that makes sense, but it doesn’t quite get there before his thoughts take a sharp, unhelpful left turn.

His eyes flicker to your lips, soft and plush and inviting. There’s suddenly a strange urge there to do something about it – like connecting his own to yours. He wants to know what they taste like, if they’re as sweet and warm as your voice. 

What the hell kind of dream is this…

The thought dies instantly, however, when the sound of hooves reverberates through the air again, coming closer and closer. 

The sunlight then morphs from amber and gold to blue and gray, the wind picks up on speed like a storm brewing, and the air feels a lot colder and more brittle now. 

The warmth is gone.

Dean’s posture changes instantly, every muscle in his body tensing with instinct. His gaze snaps toward the hill again, scanning and calculating, something old and ingrained rising to the surface before he can even think it through.

This isn’t right. This isn’t just a dream, is it?

You shift beside him, your brows meeting in the middle as you glance at him and then out toward the same direction. “Dean? What’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer, though. His jaw locks, pulse thundering in his ears, adrenaline flooding his blood as the realization dawns on him with a terrifying clarity.

The hooves strike once more, and everything drops away around him in the blink of an eye.

Dean jolts awake on the couch, like he’s been yanked back into his body by God himself.

The change in the air feels violent.  

He feels slightly disoriented as he blinks his eyes awake, the golden dreamscape he found himself in a minute ago suddenly replaced by the dusty and gothic interior of a New England bed and breakfast. 

But the sound? Oh, that followed him all the way to reality. 

The hooves and something that sounds suspiciously like clattering metal are still there, and it’s definitely not in his head. It’s goddamn real. 

Dean’s breathing comes out harshly as he pushes himself upright on the couch, eyes darting to the window, already expecting to see a horse with a headless rider out there in the dark. His heart is racing a mile a minute, the adrenaline spiking.

“Sam?” he calls and runs a hand through his messy locks. “Hey–… Sam? Guys? Wake up.”

The sheets on both beds begin to rustle and move. 

Sam’s up first, already halfway out of bed before he’s even fully conscious, hearing the urgency (and slight panic) in his brother’s tone. “Dean? What? What’s wrong?”

You, on the other hand, are slower only by half a second, sitting up with the softest groan Dean’s ever heard someone utter. Your hair is a bit mussed, falling into your face as one of those oversized sleep shirts slips off one shoulder. 

It’s distracting enough to be inconvenient right now.

Because your hair falls over that same shoulder, so he can’t really tell if there’s a bra strap underneath it or not. The not is what concerns him the most, though. You certainly weren’t wearing one under that yellow sundress in his dream.

Man, his brain has excellent timing, doesn’t it?

Get it together.

He drags his focus back where it belongs, and his jaw clenches tightly upon the next wave of sounds. “You guys hear that?”

The room stills, as do you and Sam, trying to listen, eyes narrowing slightly. Dean hears it again, but he already sees how both you and his little brother begin to slowly shake your heads. 

“I don’t hear anything,” you confirm Dean’s worst suspicions that this thing’s only coming for him. 

Sam’s head bobs in recognition. “Guess that means it’s starting.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean scoffs and jumps on his feet, overtaken by a burst of restless energy he’s familiar with during hunts, his body entering into fight or flight mode. “Think he’s close, guys. Any ideas would be greatly appreciated now.”

You push yourself out of bed as well, the last traces of sleep burning off fast as your gaze lands on Dean. He feels like he’s going crazy because he could swear there’s even a trace of concern gleaming in your eyes. 

“Your aura’s tighter. Something’s pulling at it,” you note.

Dean scowls. “Thanks for the visual.”

“We need to find out who that sword belonged to as fast as possible before it takes Dean’s head,” Sam says and already grabs one of the binders again, hands flipping pages at record speed. 

“How?” you ask, your voice slightly rising as the panic rises with it. “Look at those things, Sam! There’s no way we’re gonna find the right page in time.”

“Love the enthusiasm,” Dean mutters, earning him a dry look from you. Then he purses his lips, however, and God, he already hates saying it. “But she’s right, Sammy. We don’t exactly have time for a full-on research montage right now.”

“I know that, Dean,” Sam huffs. “But what do you suggest, huh? The only way to end this is finding out who or what we’re dealing with. You already tried salting and burning the sword, and it didn’t work, right?”

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be something else. Think, man! C’mon, you’re the brains, and I’m the brawn. Just do what you do best!”

“Like, what?”

“I don’t know!”

“Guys!” You suddenly cut into their argument, forcing the brothers to focus on you instead. “I think I’ve got it!”

You don’t elaborate on what exactly you’ve got, though, which slightly tests Dean’s patience. He hates when Sam does that shit, too. Is it too much to ask for people to finish a damn thought around here?

Before he can question it, however, he watches you rush to your bag and hurriedly rummage through it till you pull out your little notebook. 

He arches an eyebrow at you, skeptical as ever. “What, you’re gonna write another spell?”

It’s honestly not the worst idea, but he can’t give you the satisfaction of knowing that. God knows one little spell only leads to more. 

“Actually, I don’t have to,” you say, hastily flipping pages back and forth as if you were looking for something specific. The notebook is an explosion of color, inked in different shades as glitter catches the dim light in the room. 

“You wrote something?” Sam asks.

“In college,” you reply with a quick nod, eyes scanning and skimming, fingers flipping even faster. “I used to hate digging through library archives, so I made a spell that pulls the exact information I’m looking for from a text. It’s kind of like a magical Ctrl+F.”

Why is Dean not even a little bit surprised? Of course you would do something like that.

Your fingers then stop their movements abruptly, eyes lighting up. “Found it.”

The ink is a brightly glistening sunny yellow. The color almost feels obnoxiously cheerful for a possible decapitation by a headless dude on a horse at three in the morning.

Dean’s brow raises as he nods to the page. “What’s yellow stand for?”

“Academic magic,” you mutter without glancing up.

Dean doesn’t say anything more to that. He just crosses his arms and leans against the wall, shifting his weight slightly as he watches you spread all eight binders evenly on the small table. That uncomfortable and familiar feeling creeps back into his veins at the thought of your magic, but he knows this might be the only thing keeping his head attached to his body right now. It still doesn’t sit right with him, though. 

You murmur the words under your breath, and the effect is practically immediate this time. The third binder on the left jerks open with a loud thud before pages start flipping on their own with the force of a hurricane blowing through them. Then it abruptly stops on a page, and a section of it begins to glow like yellow sunshine. 

Sam leans in over the open binder, checks the marked section, and a smile begins to rise. “That’s it. Elias Whittaker. Says here he was a Union soldier in the Civil War.”

“Great.” You exhale a relieved breath and smile as well. 

Dean’s jaw, though, tightens the slightest bit before he pushes it down. Why does every win of yours bother him so much? He should be glad they found what they were looking for. He should be glad they can save him now. But instead, what he feels almost comes close to dread. 

Sam rips the page out of the binder and grabs his jacket. “We should take this to the library. Cross-reference, get everything we can on him. Maybe we find his burial site.” 

Dean grimaces at the idea. “Yeah, you have fun with that.” He grabs his keys, heading for the door. “I’m getting the sword back. If that dude’s coming for me, it’s probably best if he isn’t fully armed. Maybe we can stall him that way.”

Sam gives him a quick nod. “Good idea.” Then his gaze shifts to you. “You go with him.”

Both yours and Dean’s heads snap toward his little brother with raised brows and wide eyes. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Dean checks and sees you make a face in his periphery as well. 

You wrinkle your nose as you look at Sam. “Do I have to?”

Dean turns his head sharply at that, his skin prickling. “Wow. Good to know where I rank,” he scoffs.

You shoot him a look. “You’re being hunted by a headless ghost with a sword. Forgive me for not volunteering enthusiastically.”

“Oh, I’m thrilled you’re so concerned about me, Sabrina,” he fires back dryly. “Relax. It’s not a date.”  

“Could’ve fooled me with how happy you sound,” you mutter. 

Dean’s mouth is already opening with a comeback before Sam cuts in, stopping this little argument from spiraling any further. 

Sam looks at you with his best puppy eyes again. “Look, you’re the only one who might be able to slow this thing down if it shows up.” 

“With what?” you shoot back. “Strongly worded encouragement? It’s a ghost. I don’t exactly have a game plan or a spell lying around for that.”

Sam just offers you a shrug. “You’re smart. You’ll figure something out. Improvise.”

“Improvise?!” You gape at his little brother before your eyes snap to Dean. “Is he serious?”

“Yeah, he is. He does that sometimes,” Dean says, scratching the back of his neck.

“Haven’t gotten you killed so far, though,” Sam quips.

“Last time, you almost let me get run over by a ghost truck on a hunch, man.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

You let out a deep groan as you grab your jacket and bag. “I’d just like to officially put it on record that this is a terrible, terrible idea.”

“Yeah, most of ours are, actually. You’ll get used to it.” Dean grins, holding the door open for you. 

“Awesome. Good to know.”

The moon hangs lowly just above the horizon, where the night’s indigo blue is slowly bleeding into a dawning gray. Fog curls over the asphalt and catches in Baby’s headlights like a ghostly sheen as the road weaves through the quiet outskirts of town, bordered by dense foliage and ancient trees on each side. 

Dean’s grip on the wheel is steady, although he feels the tension underneath it in his forearms and shoulders. The familiar hum of the engine grounds him, but it doesn’t drown out the sound of hooves in the back of his skull entirely. 

Oh, this thing’s coming for him, alright. 

He exhales slowly through his nose and rolls one shoulder, even trying to physically shake the sound loose. It doesn’t help, though. 

Next to him, you’re folded slightly into your seat, your notebook open across your lap. The dim glow from the dashboard spills over the page, catching on streaks of glitter ink that shimmer every time your pen moves. You keep tapping it against the margin in an uneven rhythm, faster when you’re thinking harder and slower when you hit a wall. But the sound at least soothes him a little. 

Your hair is still carrying a hint of sleep in it, loose and a little unruly, falling around your face in soft waves. Your brow is furrowed, lips pressed together, gaze seemingly fixed on something only you can see. There’s something about the way you look right now – barefaced, focused, completely absorbed – that feels disarmingly normal.

Dean clears his throat, shooting you a sideways glance. “You planning my funeral over there, or…?”

You snort a quiet laugh but don’t answer him right away, still staring at the page like it might rearrange itself into something useful. “Thinking,” you say after a beat, voice still rough with leftover sleep. “About spells.”

That pulls a small huff out of him, though it lacks its usual edge. “Yeah? That supposed to make me feel better?”

You tilt your head slightly, eyes swerving to him. “Depends,” you say, tapping the pen once more. “How open are you to being a magical test subject? I’m trying to figure out if there’s something I can do to keep it away from you. I just don’t know how ghosts respond to most of what I can do, though.”

Dean lets out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh, shaking his head as he looks back at the road. “Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and veto that,” he says. “No offense, but I’d rather not be your guinea pig for experimental witchcraft at five in the morning.”

He mostly means it as a joke, but there’s still that undercurrent, that instinctive recoil he can’t quite scrub out of himself. Years of training don’t just disappear because you’ve got a cute notebook and a nervous habit of tapping your pen.

“Fair enough,” you say and accept his answer with a nod. “Not sure I’d wanna be, either.”

Your gaze drops back to the page for a moment, your pen stilling. 

“It’s just–… I don’t know what to do against something like that,” you admit, dragging the pen absently along the margin. The frustration is clearer now in your voice. “Plants, sure. Spells, fine. But ghosts?” You shake your head, lips pressing together. “That’s not exactly in my wheelhouse. I don’t know what your brother was thinking.”

Dean glances over again, a little slower this time, really looking at you instead of just checking. He takes note of the tension in your shoulders and how your fingers curl a little tighter around the pen as if you’re trying to grip onto a solution that won’t quite stick. The thing that bugs him the most, however, is not that you don’t know what to do, but that you’re downright bothered by not knowing.

Because of him.

Three weeks ago, he had a gun aimed at your head because everything he’d been raised on told him that was the right call – witch, potential threat, end of story. And now you’re sitting next to him in the middle of the night, visibly frustrated that you can’t figure out how to keep him alive.

It’s almost absurd – your concern for him. You should be celebrating right now and not worrying. Most of all, he hates the feeling it causes in his gut. Guilt – real, actual guilt and not the one he’s usually good at shoving aside. You suck for that – for caring. 

He doesn’t say any of that aloud, obviously.

“Hey,” he says but doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “It’s fine, alright? I got it.”

You turn your head toward him, brows knitting. “You’ve got it?”

He chuckles lightly at your doubt and jerks his chin toward the backseat. “Shotgun.”

That earns him a look that’s equal parts disbelief and mild concern for his sanity. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“Wait…” Your brow creases a little more, probably trying to decide if this is another bit of his or a cry for help. “Do bullets actually hurt ghosts? Kinda defeats the purpose of being dead.”

He snorts and grins a little. “Regular bullets? No. Rock salt? Whole different story.”

You blink. “Rock salt?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at you again. “Load it up, it’ll mess ‘em up. Not a permanent solution, but it buys time.”

You stare at him for a second longer, clearly recalibrating your entire understanding of how the world works. “That is… the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

He scoffs a chuckle. “And yet, it works.”

An actual laugh slips out of you at that, lifting the tension in the car just a smidge. It’s also apparently enough for you to open a conversation instead of drifting back into silence. 

“So, uhm, Sam told me he went to Stanford until a year ago,” you note, your voice more cautious than before, as if you’re not sure small talk was allowed yet. 

“Yeah, he’s a big nerd. The kid practically lives in libraries,” Dean retorts, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“What about you? Did you go to college?”

He snorts, amused, and shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Why?”

Dean shoots you a quick glance, then shrugs. “Never was on my radar. Didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Your dad didn’t want you to go?”

He barks a laugh at that. If you only knew his father as well as he did, you probably wouldn’t have even asked that question. “You kidding? The old man barely wanted Sammy to go.”

And even that is the understatement of the goddamn century. He still remembers that blow-up fight like it was yesterday.

Your head bobs in thought. “So you’ve always just done… this? Hunting?”

“Yup.”

“You never wanted to do anything else?” 

“Nope.” 

Alright, that might’ve been a lie. There are surely a few things Dean dreamt of doing when he was younger – fireman, mechanic, rock star. But real life got in the way and made that decision for him. Not like anyone ever asked him what he wanted, either. This whole thing was just shoved into his lap, but he never mulled too long over it. 

His gaze then absentmindedly drifts to your lap as you shift the notebook and then stops abruptly. He almost hits the brakes on accident as his eyes land on a small flower peeking out between the pages – white petals and a yellow center. 

A daisy.

His brain pretty much trips over itself like it missed a step. He blinks, looks back to the road, then back at the notebook again, and slowly comes to the realization that he hasn’t imagined it. 

It’s definitely still there and very real. 

And suddenly, his thoughts start stacking on top of each other, his stomach dropping slightly as his dream comes crashing back like a flood. 

There’s no need to panic, though, right? So, what? It’s a flower. People have flowers. Kids press flowers into books all the damn time. Doesn’t mean anything. It’s completely normal. Not to mention that daisies are pretty much the most common flowers out there. 

But what if it’s not just any flower. What if it’s the flower? What if it’s the one he picked for y–

No, stop it!

He cuts his thoughts off. There’s no way this is the flower from his dream because those dreams aren’t real. He never actually picked a daisy for you because he hadn’t even known you existed until three weeks ago. It’s not possible. He probably just saw that flower in your notebook once beforehand, at the B&B or wherever, and his brain latched onto it again for some reason he still can’t understand. 

Nevertheless, Dean’s grip tightens on the wheel, the leather creaking under his fingers as his eyes flick up almost involuntarily to your face and then a little higher to your hair.

To that exact spot just above your ear.

It’s empty, but of course it’s empty now. Why wouldn’t it be?

But then his brain, stupid thing that it is, overlays it with something else. There’s summer sunlight instead of the dashboard glow now, warm gold instead of cold blue, your hair reflecting it like it’s lit from the inside. He sees his own hand moving slowly and carefully in a way that doesn’t match him at all and tucking that same stupid flower into your hair again.

And the feeling that comes with it is worse than panic, fear, or confusion – it’s warmth. Feels like something clicking into place that he didn’t even know was missing.

Which is stupid, needless to say. It’s insane. He’s going crazy and not just due to the dumb horse noises in his head. 

Dean inhales sharply through his nose. Nope. He’s still not doing this. 

It’s still only a dream. That’s it. His brain’s just grabbing random crap and stitching it together into something weirdly sentimental. His mind just simply clocked it, stored it, recycled it. That’s all this is.

That has to be all this is, right? Because the alternative? 

Yeah, no. Hard pass.

He clears his throat, forcing his tone back into something casual as he gestures his chin toward your lap, even though he already hates himself for not resisting harder and prodding further. “What’s that?”

You follow his gaze, blinking once before you realize what he means. Your fingers brush lightly over the page, delicately tracing the stem of the dried flower. Your expression softens into something almost private, like you’re getting lost in your thoughts for a second and forgot he was even still there. 

“Oh, that?” you say and give a shrug, a secret smile beginning to bloom on your lips nonetheless. “It’s just some flower. It’s been there forever. I put it in there as a kid.” You pause for a beat, thumb tracing one of the petals now before you shake your head at yourself, a small huff of amusement leaving you. “I honestly don’t know why I kept it. Daisies aren’t even my favorite. But it’s from home, so…”

“Oh.” Dean nods slowly and swallows, throat so much tighter than it should be for such a simple explanation.

His gaze stays on it for another minute, then drifts back up to your face before he can stop it.

“It’s–, uhm, it’s pretty.”

The words slip out, and his eyes snap to the road, pretending to be oh-so causal about a crazy comment like that, even though he’s cursing himself for ever saying it. 

Why the hell did he, though? What on earth is going on here?

He knew daisies weren’t your favorite because the dream told him, but he couldn’t have known that, right? Is this a coincidence? Just a lucky guess his brain made?

Shit.

You wrinkle your nose slightly and arch a brow, surprised. “You think so?”

Dean shrugs quickly and clears his throat offensively loudly. “Sure, yeah.”

And just like that, the air changes in the car, and there’s a different kind of tension now. 

You shift slightly in your seat, and he adjusts his grip on the wheel, both of you suddenly aware of the other in a way that wasn’t there a minute ago.

Dean exhales more sharply this time and swiftly reaches for the radio. A second later, the car fills with the opening riff of Ramble On. It cuts straight through the awkward silence, through the tension, and through the weird, lingering pull in his ribcage that he refuses to examine too closely.

Ah, that’s better.

He nods once to himself, settling the issue, and fixes his eyes firmly on the road ahead as the music takes over.

Dean’s had worse mornings.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he trudges through damp underbrush at an hour no sane person should be conscious.

Why did he pick this job again? Oh, right. Like he told you, it picked him.  

The sky is still caught somewhere between night and dawn, the gray reaching higher and lighter at the horizon. The woods behind the museum stretch out endlessly through shadows and mist, all of it tinted in that deep, cold blue that makes everything look a little more spooky than it would be during daylight. 

Hell, when he was here during the day, these woods could’ve even been considered beautiful. Like that meadow where Bambi lives. Now it’s a horror movie come to life, though. 

The hooting owls and rustling branches don’t help either. 

Behind him, you carefully step over a large branch, your sneakers crunching on the forest floor. While you haven’t said anything since the car, Dean can still hear the reluctance in each of your steps and the occasional hitch of your breath.

You’re definitely jumpy, but he tries not to let his amusement show, even though it’s ridiculously adorable. 

He steals a glimpse over his shoulder and catches the way your eyes briefly swerve toward a darker stretch of trees to the left, surely expecting something to jump out of there. Your hands tug on the sleeves of your jacket repeatedly, probably trying to calm yourself in some way. 

Dean bites back a smirk. “Wow,” he mutters, pushing a low branch out of his way. “Didn’t peg you for the easily spooked type.”

“I’m not,” you shoot back a little too quickly for his taste.

As you gracefully step over a root, your foot snags on another one hidden beneath the leaves. You fall forward with a quiet “whoa–,” and Dean reacts instinctively and spins just in time to catch you by your arms before you can fully eat dirt. The impact brings you closer than either of you probably intended, your weight tipping into him for the tiniest second before you steady yourself and quickly pull back, but it’s not far enough.

You’re close. Real close. 

He can see the small crease between your brows, the way your lashes soak up what little light there is, and the soft flush in your cheeks. Your face looks… annoyingly good.

A clear of his throat breaks the awkward silence. “You were saying?”

You blink, then straighten quickly, brushing past him like nothing happened. And maybe it didn’t. 

“I said I’m not scared,” you repeat. “It’s just–” you gesture at the trees around you, “–this is not exactly my usual environment.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks and continues his march forward. “What is your usual environment? Labs and scented candles?”

You huff a soft laugh behind him. “For your information, the scariest thing I’ve dealt with before this was a ghost tour in Salem.”

Dean snorts loudly and raises a brow at you over his shoulder. “A ghost tour?”

“Yup. It was at night, alright?” you defend. “And the guide had a lantern and everything. There were sound effects.”

“Wow. Terrifying.”

“There was a reenactment of the witch trials. Very much scary for someone like me,” you add as if that helps your case.

It doesn’t. 

Dean gives a shake of his head, but his lips are twitching around a smile. “Yeah, alright. Remind me to never question your bravery again.”

Another owl then calls somewhere deeper in the woods, and you go just a little too still for a second before forcing yourself to keep walking. Dean notices that too, but something else spreads under the amusement. He knows you’re out of your depth here. This isn’t your world – the dark, the hunt, and all the things that move where and when they shouldn’t.

And yet, you still came along for the ride in an attempt to save his life. He’s at least willing to give you credit for that.

“You’re good,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter than before. “Just… watch your step.”

You meet his eyes, slightly surprised, but then nod once. “Yeah, okay.”

The two of you then fall into a rhythm after that, the banter easing into something more comfortable and less forced. The shed behind the museum where he hid the sword then comes into view through the fog a minute later. It’s pretty rundown and honestly only one strong breeze away from collapsing entirely, but he’d figured that was probably an advantage, meaning no one would snoop around here and accidentally find the cursed blade again. 

Dean stops and scans the area automatically. “This is it.”

“Charming,” you murmur.

He circles around the back, boots sinking slightly into the softer and moss-covered ground, until he spots an old wooden trunk, half-hidden behind tall weeds and debris. He figured the sword would probably be safest in there. But as he crouches and flips the lid open, he stills abruptly. 

Empty.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He probably should’ve expected a wooden box like that wouldn’t keep a ghost out, but he figured at least all the salt he poured into the trunk would’ve helped. 

“What?” you check, stepping closer.

“It’s gone.”

The words barely leave his mouth before a very distinct sound hits him – and it’s not the owls this time. 

Hooves.

Dean’s head snaps up, the noise so much closer now than it was back at the room or even the car, his whole body flying into high alert in an instant. The noise of clinking metal, which surely comes from the missing blade, almost rings like a warning bell.

“Did you hear–”

But Dean doesn’t even get to finish that sentence. He sees your eyes widen to the size of little moons, and the next thing he knows, you’re slamming into him at full speed, hard enough to knock the oxygen right out of his lungs as you tackle him to the ground. The impact of the cold forest floor tears through his bones as your weight lands on top of him before something whooshes through the empty air above where his head used to be only a second ago. 

As his eyes snap upwards, a mighty black stallion rears above the two of you and neighs loudly. Its breath steams in the suddenly freezing air, while its rider is clearly headless. 

Dean doesn’t have too much time, though, to take a longer peek before his gaze flicks to the horseman’s hand and the sharp sword in it. 

“Move!” he barks, adrenaline rushing into his blood as the blade comes down again.

He rolls both of you hard to the side, flipping positions so he’s on top just as the sword buries itself into the dirt only a mere inch away from your shoulder, the ground trembling with the sheer force of the assault.

“Up! Go!” he yells, scrambling to his feet and quickly hauling you up with him as the rider yanks the blade free again.

And then? Well, there’s really only running left. His shotgun flew out of reach and landed somewhere in the bushes when you tackled him, so he really doesn’t see any other immediate options for now.

He grabs hold of your wrist and drags you with him through the woods, branches whipping past the two of you as you both navigate a sea of overgrown roots without stumbling. But Dean doesn’t need to look back to know this thing’s still gaining speed and catching up fast.

“Do something!” he shouts over his shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do!”

“Then think of something!”

The horse neighs too closely behind him, and Dean turns around just in time to see the rider swing again. He ducks quickly, the blade slicing through the air above him before slamming into a tree trunk with a loud crack. The noise reverberates through the silence as wood splinters and bark goes flying in all directions.

“Ha! Missed!” Dean smirks tauntingly at the rider. He’s not sure the poor fella can even see him, considering the guy’s missing his whole head. “Ain’t that easy to kill me. Gotta have to try harder.”

“Why are you provoking it?!” you rebuke him. 

Dean opens his mouth to retort but stops when the horseman rips the sword free like the damn tree meant nothing.

“Okay, less talking, more magic!” he shouts, retreating until his back hits another tree, nowhere left to go as the rider closes in again.

The sword lifts.

“Right about now would be awesome!” he snaps.

And then, the ground suddenly answers for you.

It starts as a slight tremor beneath his boots, subtle at first but rising fast as the soil cracks open like a fault line during an earthquake. Thick, gnarled, and ancient roots then tear through the earth, snapping upward with violent force.

They lash around the rider’s arm and curl tightly just as the blade begins its descent, jerking it back mid-swing. More roots shoot out of the ground after and wrap around the horse’s legs, locking it in place as it thrashes and screams wildly against its restraints.

And Dean? He kind of just stares for a second in stunned bewilderment, his brow twitching, chest heaving with leftover adrenaline. “Huh.”

You seem just as startled by your own work next to him, blinking down at your hands. “Huh,” you echo breathlessly. “Never done that before. Guess I can improvise.”

Before Dean can answer, however, the horseman and his loyal stallion roar furiously, the roots already starting to crack around their limbs. 

“Yup, great breakthrough,” he quips, already tugging at your sleeve. “We should probably go before this thing tears itself free again.”

“Good idea. He does seem rather angry, although it’s hard to tell without a face,” you say and tilt your head at the rider like you’re trying to analyze him – or maybe read his aura. 

Dean’s not entirely sure, but he doesn’t wait for you to finish your philosophical pondering and grabs your wrist once more, bolting back to the Impala with you in tow. 

Neither of you looks back as the sound of splintering roots echoes through the forest behind you.

When you push through the library doors, you still feel a little winded from all that running and Dean’s rather erratic driving, your hands still trembling from leftover adrenaline or shock. Maybe both. 

And speaking of the green-eyed hunter, he’s right behind you, feeling his labored breaths and the residual warmth of him at your back, which is a little distracting but less than the drumming against the steering wheel and the loud singing in the car. He’s still restless, his aura green but threaded with streaks of red from his survival instincts, pacing like a caged animal that hasn’t realized it’s safe yet. 

Sam looks up from his pile of books and notes the second you approach, seemingly waiting on a spring, judging by how fast he jumps out of his seat. His eyes quickly assess you and his brother from head to toe as if he’s checking for injuries and counting limbs.

“You guys okay?” he asks.

“Define okay,” you reply with a huff, exhaustively dropping into the chair across from him. “Because if the scale includes ‘not currently being hunted by a headless horseman,’ then yeah, we’re doing great.”

Dean exhales a long breath next to you, dragging a hand down his face before dropping into the chair beside you. “Sword’s gone. And the guy attached to it? Very stabby.”

You nod, rubbing your hands together, still feeling the dirt and adrenaline prickling under your skin. “Yeah, he’s fast. And persistent. And apparently not a fan of improvisation via landscaping.”

Sam’s brows crease. “What?”

You let out a deep sigh. “I’ll explain later.”

There’s a flash in Dean’s aura when you say that, the green fringed with something warmer. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost claim he seems impressed, but it disappears as fast as it came when Sam braces his elbows on the table, already switching fully into research mode.

“Okay,” he says, flipping his laptop around toward you. “I think I found our guy.”

He taps the screen, and you lean in, eyes scanning the old photograph and text.

“Name’s Elias Whitaker,” Sam continues. “He was a Union soldier and stationed just outside what used to be the original town in 1863. From what I can piece together, he was accused of being a Confederate sympathizer – passing information, sabotaging movements, the whole deal.”

You tilt your head skeptically, thinking back to the cards you drew. “Was he?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nope, doesn’t look like it. Records are messy, but there’s a consistent thread. His commanding officer, Captain Harlan Pike, had a pretty good motive. See, Whitaker was engaged, and apparently, Pike had a thing for the fiancée.”

You groan. “‘Course he did.”

“The guy’s name was Harlan? Talk about a villain name,” Dean quips.

“Yup,” Sam agrees. “So get this – he frames Whitaker, stirs up suspicion, and turns the whole town against him. Pike had rank and influence. I mean, back then, that’s basically all it took. No trial, no proof. All he needed was fear and a mob. They dragged Whitaker out to the woods. And according to one account, he swore that he’d come back and kill every man who judged him without cause.”

Dean scoffs under his breath. “Guess he kept his word.”

“They executed him with his own sword and left the blade and the head at the site,” Sam adds. “The body was buried later in the town cemetery because his fiancée insisted on it.”

You lean back in your chair, processing. “So the sword stayed buried with the head?”

“As far as I can tell,” Sam replies. “But a few weeks ago, a local survey crew apparently uncovered the sword in the woods. It got turned over, cleaned up, and was donated to the museum.”

“So that’s when the curse kicked in,” Dean surmises.

Sam nods and then continues, “But there’s something else.”

You look at him. “You found out how the victims are connected?”

“Yup, I think so,” Sam says, his lips twitching slightly, seemingly amused by his findings. “I went back over the victims. Not just cause of death, but who they were. After you guys talked to that witness at the crime scene, I figured it probably had to do with their personalities, tying back to Whitaker somehow.”

Dean’s brow furrows slightly, scratching the nape of his neck. “What d’you find?”

“Well, something they all seemed to have in common was being judgmental,” Sam says and gives his brother a tight smile, clearly waiting for Dean to catch on. “The first victim, a guy named Daniel Hodge, got fired last year for repeatedly harassing a coworker. I’m talking HR complaints, sexist remarks, the works. He claimed he was justified.”

You grimace. “Charming.”

“The second victim then was Reverend Collins,” Sam continues. “He ran a small church outside town and preached a lot about purity, damnation… He had a habit of publicly calling people out for ‘sinning.’”

“Yikes.”

“And the third victim was a local business owner, who refused service to… certain customers.”

You purse your lips. “So he was a racist.”

“Yup.”

You let out a long breath. “So the victims are all people who judged others, like Whitaker was judged.”

“Seems that way, yes,” Sam confirms. 

Your eyes flick to Dean, shooting him a raised look. “Well, guess we know why you got cursed now.”

Dean scoffs immediately. “Oh, come on–”

You turn more fully toward him, brows lifting. “There’s a reason I called you a Puritan, you know. You were one pitchfork away from burning me at the stake.”

Sam’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to grin.

Dean tries to laugh it off, but you can tell by the flares in his aura that he clearly feels uncomfortable in his skin now. “C’mon, I wasn’t actually trying to shoot you.”

“Weren’t you, though?” you fire back, cocking your head. “Because from where I was standing, it felt pretty historically authentic. You pointed a gun to my head.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean it, alright?” 

You shrug your shoulders. “Doesn’t seem to matter to the ghost. Just saying, you might wanna reflect on your choices a little.”

He opens his mouth to argue again but falters halfway. He clicks his tongue and turns to Sam instead. “So, how do we stop this thing from publicly executing me now? Please tell me you found something.”

Sam clears his throat a little, steering things back as he pulls up a site on his laptop. “There’s a ritual. It’s not super common, but it lines up with vengeance hauntings and cursed objects. Since salting and burning didn’t work, maybe laying the spirit to rest will. Basically, we reunite the remains, body and head, and cleanse the weapon that anchored the spirit. That should break the cycle.”

“Sounds simple when you say it like that, but I’m guessing it’s not,” you say, already fearing where this is going.

“Unfortunately, no,” Sam replies. “We need the sword. And we need to find the head.” He taps the map on his screen. “Body’s in the cemetery. That part’s easy. The head, though – records say he was executed in the woods just outside town. Same general area where the sword was found.”

“So probably still out there,” you murmur.

“Probably,” Sam agrees. Then his gaze drifts fully to you, a little more careful now. “And the ritual… it needs someone who can actually perform it. Someone with… your kind of skillset.”

You blink at him. “My ‘kind of skillset’ is mostly keeping houseplants alive and occasionally finding lost earrings.”

“You did more than that out there,” Dean mutters under his breath, surprising you slightly. 

Out of the two of them, you honestly believed he wouldn’t vote for that, considering he’s been doubting every single move you made so far. 

You glance at him, then back at Sam, slightly overwhelmed. “I–I mean, I can try. I’ve never done anything like that before. I don’t even really use structured rituals. I kind of just… make things up and hope they work.”

Sam nods, not discouraged in the slightest. “That’s okay. You understand the mechanics. You can adapt it.”

You let out a nervous breath. “Adapt it. Right, no pressure.”

Dean leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. “So what’s the play here?”

“Split up, I think,” Sam suggests. “You guys go to the site where they found the sword. I figured we could use another spell to find the head faster. Once you got it, you can bring it to the cemetery. I’ll dig up the grave. Since Whitaker is after Dean, we can draw him out that way and get the sword back.”

You furrow your brow wildly. “Wait, hold on… Draw him out? You wanna use Dean as ghost bait?”

“Ain’t the first time. Kinda my thing,” the green-eyed hunter mutters next to you and shoots you a cocky grin.

“That should so not be your thing,” you scoff in disbelief, shaking your head. “You guys are being way too casual about this.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam tries to assure you. “We’ll be ready. As soon as we have the sword, you can start the ritual while we keep the spirit occupied.”

“Occupied?” you parrot, arching an eyebrow at them.

Dean just gives you a casual shrug, offering you a crooked smirk. “We’re pretty good at that.”

After another quick location spell to find a human skull (a first for you), you and Dean meet up with Sam at Sleepy Hollow’s cemetery, which unsurprisingly leans pretty heavily into its haunted aesthetic. It’s frankly even creepier than the rest of this town, and that’s truly saying something.

It’s already dusk when you arrive, the sky fading from clear blue into a bruised violet as the last sunlight clings to the horizon. Most of the headstones are crooked and tilt at odd angles, moss and ivy crawling up their sides. The stubborn fog doesn’t help the overall vibe, either. You honestly half-expect something to crawl out of the ground even without supernatural interference. 

Dean, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed by the graveyard environment, strolling almost cheerfully ahead. He casually carries the skull, sometimes playing with it like a ball and juggling it from one hand into the other, treating it like a damn prop. You already told him to stop doing that, but he obviously ignored you. 

It seems like you have officially upgraded from “girl who writes spells with glitter gel pens” to “girl who retrieves decapitated heads before dinner.”

By the time the two of you reach Whitaker’s grave, Sam is already halfway done digging, standing in a shallow pit with his sleeves rolled up and dirt smudged across his arms and face. Clearly, he’s been at it for a while.

“Hey, Sammy! Heads up!” Dean calls with a bright grin, and before your brain can even process what he’s about to do, he tosses the skull in a short arc toward his little brother.

“Dean!” you snap at the exact same time Sam goes, “Dude, seriously?” and fumbles the catch, barely managing to grab the skull before it hits the ground.

Sam glares, you glare, and Dean lifts both hands in surrender, entirely unrepentant.

“What?” Dean shrugs his shoulders as if his actions are even remotely defensible. “He caught it.”

“You threw a human head,” you scold his cemetery behavior, which he apparently deemed entirely appropriate. 

These boys clearly spend too much time in places like this to be this freaking comfortable around human remains. 

“Former human,” Dean corrects under his breath.

And you? Yeah, you don’t even dignify that with a response and only roll your eyes.

Sam exhales sharply as he climbs out of the grave, setting the skull down with a lot more care than it was afforded by his brother, then gestures at the shovel. “Here. Switch.”

Dean looks down into the hole, then back at Sam. “Oh, now it’s my turn? C’mon, I’m practically on my deathbed, man.”

But Sam only offers him a deadpan look and holds the shovel out to his brother. Dean grabs it with a resigned sigh before you suddenly stop him with a hand on his arm.  

“Wait.”

Both of them look at you expectantly. 

“I think I can make this faster.” 

Dean’s brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t argue for once, probably relieved about skipping all that digging, whereas Sam just watches you full of curiosity.

You hesitate for half a second before stepping closer to the grave. You then close your eyes, tethering yourself to the earth beneath your feet as you always do. Soil should be a lot easier than roots, but you can’t exactly say you’ve done this before either. 

Then again, you never needed to dig up a grave in your life beforehand. 

The dirt loosens and shifts, beginning to part like the Red Sea, trickling away in soft waves till the coffin peeks out through the soil. Clumps slide down the sides of the grave, pebbles clicking against the wood until the whole coffin is fully revealed without another shovel needing to hit the ground.

When you open your eyes again with a satisfied smile, you find both brothers staring at you, mouths agape. 

“Okay…” Dean surprisingly even lets out a low whistle. “That’s admittedly kinda awesome.”

“Thank you.” You bite back a grin, trying not to look too pleased with yourself at his praise, but it honestly feels a little like getting a compliment from your school bully. 

Sam, however, downright looks like he’s regretting ever touching a shovel in his life. 

Dean then hops down into the grave and crouches by the coffin, brushing some remaining dirt off the lid before prying it open with a crowbar. But something in him changes suddenly, head lifting, forest green eyes fixing on something in the distance beyond the trees. His aura sharpens as well, colors morphing into high alert.

You don’t need to see his face to know something’s wrong, and a second later, you can hear it, too.

Hooves. 

“He’s coming back,” Dean says and jumps out of the hole, finding your eyes. “Got everything we need?”

You nod frantically and reach into your jacket pocket for the folded piece of paper with the modified spell on it. 

“Good. Showtime,” he says with a smirk, and you almost think he’s enjoying getting nearly decapitated a little too much. Who on Earth is that insane?

Sam then moves fast, grabbing the skull and placing it into the coffin with the body, adjusting it with surprising care for someone working under a ticking clock.

You’re scrambling as well, pulling four white candles from your bag and placing them at the corners of the coffin. Your fingers are only steady out of sheer necessity before you magically light all wicks at the same time. The flames flicker weakly at first and then stretch taller as the wind begins to pick up.

The Latin script on the paper in your hands stares at you, unfamiliar in shape but not in intention. You don’t usually do spells like this – structured, inherited, borrowed. Luckily, you had enough Latin in school to push through and understand at least half of it. 

God, you hope that counts for something. 

The moment the rider breaks through the trees, Dean doesn’t wait and starts to sprint. He only dodges the first swing by a margin that is entirely uncomfortable to witness. You’re trying not to watch as you pull out a small cast-iron bowl from your bag (you refuse to call it a cauldron) and an assortment of herbs. At least, Dean’s faster than he looks when he seems to be motivated by imminent decapitation, which is somewhat reassuring. 

He ducks again, twists out of the way as the blade cuts through the air where his head was a second ago, boots skidding in the dirt as he regains his footing. The sword then comes into play in a blur of motion – Dean lunges forward, gracefully ducks another swing, grabs the hilt, and yanks it free with a grunt, stumbling back just far enough to avoid immediate retaliation.

And then, that maniac actually throws the sharp blade right at his little brother. You flinch, heart stopping and breath halting, only exhaling when Sam manages to catch it without breaking a sweat. 

Jesus Christ, those boys will be the death of your low heart rate. 

Who the hell just throws a sword at someone?

Sam places it into the coffin and then looks at you. “Go!”

Right. Spell. 

You glance at the ingredients in the bowl, a mix of herbs you remember from your mother’s teachings: crushed sage for cleansing, rosemary for remembrance, lavender for peace, and a pinch of salt to anchor it all. You incinerate it and let the herbs smolder for a second till trails of smoke billow and fuse with the cool evening air. 

As you mutter the words on the page, your voice sounds strange around the Latin, as if your tongue is borrowing someone else’s shape, but it seems to work as the wind begins to pick up, threading through the trees and rustling leaves. The smoke thickens and spills over the bowl, the candle flames dancing harder and faster as if they’re trying to keep up with your voice. 

You grab the bowl and then pour it into the grave, letting the ash and embers fall into the coffin, dusting the sword and bones alike. Just as you place it down on the ground again, something crashes hard into a headstone behind you, but you try not to look back to check which brother got tossed and concentrate on finishing the spell. 

The final lines come quicker than you expect, the wind howling louder before it all breaks.

The wind drops. The candle flames steady. The horse halts. 

You spin just in time to see the horse rear back, hooves striking the air where Dean had been a heartbeat ago. He stumbles back, barely avoiding getting trampled, and then the rider stills as well.

For a moment, everything goes quiet before a head fades into place where none was before. 

The rider then turns toward you and inclines his newly attached head, his eyes gleaming with gratitude as they find yours. Then the edges of him begin to soften, dissolving into a warm, golden light. The horse follows, form fading into the same glow. Together they then seem to turn toward something you can’t quite see and ride off into it.

The light fades a minute later, and they’re gone. Just like that.

You rise to your feet, dusting off your jeans as you stare at spot where the light used to be. “Aw, he looked happy,” you note, the adrenaline in your blood slowly waning. “Is it always this peaceful?”

Dean’s eyes find you, hands on his knees as he’s trying hard to catch his breath. “Nope.”

Sam shakes his head, equally thrown, judging by the same crease in his brow. “Not even a little.”

You nod, lips pursing. “Good to know.”

Dean’s seen a lot of weird endings to hunts, and usually, it’s messier than this. But there’s no blood, no ambulance lights, or even a half-burned corpse today. 

He leans back against the Impala a few feet away, arms crossed as he tells himself he’s just keeping an eye on things without making it too obvious. He watches as you stuff your bag into the back of your beat-up and blue Aveo, calmly packing up like this was simply some strange weekend getaway and not technically a grave robbery, ghost exorcism, and almost getting trampled by a cursed horseman before breakfast combined.

You’ve traded in the grass-stained jeans and t-shirt for something softer, an oversized cardigan slipping off one shoulder, your boots still dusted with graveyard dirt from the woods. Your hair’s a little messy, probably from the wind earlier, a few strands catching in the porch light outside the B&B. 

Sam stands a little closer to you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture more relaxed than before after things finally wound down. “So…” He clears his throat lightly. “First hunt. What’s the verdict?” 

Dean watches your face instead of Sam’s, because your answer matters more than the question. 

You close the trunk with a soft thud, brushing your hands together like you’re still shaking off dirt. “Honestly? It was… interesting,” you admit, tucking your hair behind your ears. “In a ‘wow, I almost died’ kind of way.” A crooked smile rises on your lips. “But not exactly something I’d want to make a habit out of.” 

Dean huffs under his breath at that, gaze dropping to the gravel by his boots. 

Good. Smart answer.

Sam gives you a smile, but it’s got a certain shade to it now, and Dean recognizes it as his little brother’s but what if smile. He knows exactly where this is going before Sam even opens his mouth again.

“You handled yourself really well,” Sam says. “The spell, the ritual… you picked it up fast.”

“Yeah, you weren’t half bad,” Dean adds, but there’s a slight tease to his smile. 

Admittedly, you handled yourself well out there – better than most rookies would. Better than some hunters, if he’s being totally honest. Obviously, he won’t say that out loud in a million years. 

“Seriously, thanks,” Sam says. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Eh.” Dean shrugs one shoulder. “Think we would’ve made due.”

You don’t seem to take offense to that comment, though, lips twitching in amusement. “You’re welcome for saving that coconut of yours.”

“So, uh…” Sam scratches the back of his neck, eyes finding yours. “Your mom’s letter, the ritual… have you thought more about it? Really could use your help, you know.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, watching as your shoulders draw in the tiniest bit, hesitation flashing across your face. You’re clearly unsure how to answer that one without disappointing someone – well, mostly Sam because Dean would be just fine with you saying no and telling his little brother to go screw himself. 

“Sam,” Dean cuts in, choosing not to let this play out. 

Sam meets his stare. “What?”

“She already gave you an answer.” Dean finally pushes off the car. “Take it.”

Sam’s brows draw into a small frown. “I’m just asking–”

“Yeah, and I’m just saying drop it,” Dean barks, his voice a little sharper now. “She heard you the first time. She doesn’t need a sales pitch.”

The tension is almost tangible in the air now, but as his gaze drifts back to you, there’s a newfound softness in your expression. He would almost call it gratitude, but it evokes a weird flutter in his chest, so he rejects that thought on principle and breaks eye contact first. 

You clear your throat softly. “Look, I meant what I said, alright?” you tell Sam gently, but there’s a firmness underneath. “I’ll think about it, but that’s all I can promise right now.”

Sam studies you for a moment, probably weighing whether to push again or not, but Dean really hopes he doesn’t. Otherwise, he’ll have to clock Sam with the back of his gun and drive back to South Dakota with his little brother in Baby’s trunk. 

“Okay, fair enough.” Sam nods after a beat and accepts your answer, although he’s obviously not done with the idea.

Dean is, though.

“Call if you need anything, alright?” Sam adds and steps back.

You nod, even manage a smile, and give a small wave of your hand that’s slightly awkward. 

Dean, on the other hand, doesn’t stick around for a grand goodbye. He gives you a tight nod and then turns on his heel, heading back toward the Impala, the only true safe zone he’s ever known. 

But halfway there, his hand brushes against his jacket pocket, and he feels the folded paper sitting there.

Right. That.

He’d written it earlier at the B&B, while Sam was buried in books and you were flipping through that glitter-covered notebook of yours, muttering about herbs and Latin. Dean had sat at the table, pretending not to listen, and suddenly found himself scribbling down the standard exorcism. He might’ve then thrown in the Devil’s Trap, too. 

He didn’t really plan on giving it to you. It was more supposed to be a just-in-case, emergencies-only thing. But there’s this gnawing, annoying little thought in the back of his skull that refuses to disappear. 

You’re in it now, aren’t you? Whether you like it or not, or even whether he likes it or not. No thanks to his little brother and him, you’ve got a target on your back now. Dean knows better than anyone that this shit lingers, follows, and finds you again when you least expect it. And well, leaving you with nothing to defend yourself feels simply… wrong. 

“Son of a–” Dean mutters under his breath, exhaling sharply. 

And then, he turns around.

You’re halfway to your car, keys in hand, and for a second, he almost lets you go. Walking away would be so much easier and cleaner, wouldn’t it?

But he didn’t let you go in the dream either, did he? And even though, that never happened, there’s a strange pang in his chest that keeps his eyes locked on you and his feet rooted to the ground. 

“Hey, wait–”

You stop, spinning back with a small frown on your face, clearly not expecting that. Dean quickly walks back to you, wanting to get this part over with as soon as possible. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the folded piece of motel stationary, holding it out to you without ceremony.

“Here.”

You blink but take it reluctantly, brows knitting as you unfold it carefully. Your eyes skim over the Latin and the symbol sketched beneath it. “What’s this?”

“Insurance,” he replies, shrugging one shoulder to avoid making a big deal out of this. “Basic exorcism. Latin. That symbol’s a Devil’s Trap,” he explains, clearing his throat subtly. God, what’s with the air in this town? Why is it so damn dry here? “Paint it under that small rug you got by your front door. If something comes in, it’s stuck there. Then you read the words, send it back where it came from.”

Your eyes glance over the page, then back up at him, brow raising slightly like you’re still trying to make sense of his words.

He shifts his weight, swallowing. “Also, uhm, put a salt line along your windowsills. Doors if you wanna be extra. Keeps most crap out. You got that?”

There’s a small pause before you nod slowly, but you’re looking at him in that weird way of yours again – like you’re seeing past his words. Dream-child you did that shit as well. And before he knows it, there’s a tiny smirk hitching on your lips. 

“King of Cups…” you mutter under your breath, barely audible. 

Dean scowls. “What?”

“Nothing.” You shrug casually, but that stupid smile doesn’t disappear. Instead, you tilt your head, studying him like evidence under a microscope. “Wouldn’t simply apologizing be easier?”

“Apologize for what?” Dean scoffs, averting his gaze. It’s the default setting. Armor. 

“Never mind,” you sigh like you expected that response, ready to give up on him. “And to think, I almost started to like you…”

He rolls his eyes, but his jaw tightens visibly. Technically, he knows what he has to do. The dream already told him. But it still seems a lot harder in practice than it does in theory.

“Fine,” he caves at last with a reluctant breath out. “I’m… sorry for, uhm–” he motions roughly at you, already hating it, “–almost… shooting you, alright?” He smacks his lips. “There. Happy now?”

You don’t even try to hide the unimpressed look, but he swears there’s almost some amusement underneath it.

“Wow,” you say wryly. “How sweet of you. That must’ve cost you a lot.”

Dean purses his lips, head bobbing, the irritation hopefully covering anything else. “Alright, we’re done here. Try not to die.”

He spins around before you can answer, heading straight for the Impala without stopping this time. But behind him, he can hear Sam mutter, “Just think about it, okay?” 

Dean yanks open the driver’s door and pauses just long enough to glance back. He sees you nodding, but it’s rather noncommittal and seems frankly very uncomfortable. 

“Sam,” Dean calls gruffly, jerking his head toward the car.

Sam sighs but obeys, jogging back over.

Dean then slides into the driver’s seat, hands settling on the wheel as his gaze lands on the rearview mirror, watching you climb into your car. The interior light switches on, illuminating you in soft gold before the door shuts and the engine turns over. His eyes remain fixed on the mirror till your taillights disappear down the road. 

As Sam gets into the car, he shuts the passenger door harder than necessary. “What did you say to her?”

Dean doesn’t even bother to look at his little brother and plainly turns the key in the ignition. “Nothing.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Sam shoots back, frustrated. “You were being a dick to her on purpose, so she wouldn’t want to stick around. You were trying to scare her off.”

Dean snorts, pulling onto the road. “Yeah, ‘cause telling someone to salt their windows is real intimidating.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Sam says. “You don’t want her involved.”

Dean grips the wheel a little tighter. “No, I don’t.”

“You probably talked her out of the ritual, too,” Sam scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Yeah, that’s me. Big bad dream crusher.”

“Dean–”

“I didn’t say anything she wasn’t already thinking, alright?” he snaps. 

“She said she’d think about it.”

“Yeah,” Dean fires back, “and if you can stop hovering over her like a damn guidance counselor, maybe she actually will.”

Sam exhales a deep sigh. “She’s strong. You saw what she did tonight. She could help people, Dean.”

Dean almost wants to scoff. He certainly saw what you did tonight – during this entire case, actually. Sammy doesn’t even know about the thing you did with the roots in the woods, and Dean’s not volunteering to tell him either. Sam’s head would probably explode with ideas if he knew how powerful you truly were. 

“Yeah,” Dean huffs instead, shaking his head. “Or get herself killed.”

“She can handle it.”

“Barely.”

“She’ll learn.”

“And what happens when she runs into something she can’t learn her way out of, huh?” Dean counters. “What then?”

“That’s not your call to make,” Sam mutters.  

“No, but it is my problem,” Dean snaps. “Man, you told her about all of this. About demons, hunts, everything… You think that just goes away? You think nothing’s ever gonna come looking? It’s not if something happens to her, Sam. It’s when.”

Sam’s jaw clenches. “So what, you just cut her loose and hope for the best? That’s your solution?”

“No, my solution is not dragging her deeper into this mess. I gave her what she needs to not be completely defenseless,” Dean says. “That’s more than most people get. She’s got a life, Sammy. A normal one.”

“I know that,” Sam says. “But life doesn’t always work that way.”

Dean scoffs a humorless laugh. “So, what? She’s just supposed to give it all up because she’s got powers?”

“I’m saying she has a choice, Dean,” Sam clarifies.

“Yeah, and you’re not exactly making it easy for her to say no,” Dean shoots back. “Guilt-tripping her with her family? Low hanging fruit, Sam.”

“That’s not fair,” Sam defends. “I was just trying to prepare her.”

“No, you know what’s not fair? You thinking this is gonna end well,” Dean snaps. “‘Cause it doesn’t. It never does. You of all people should know that. At least, I’m trying to keep her alive.”

Sam goes suspiciously quiet after that, leaning back as he studies Dean. “You didn’t seem too concerned about that when you invited her along.”

“Oh, don’t even–” Dean’s jaw ticks. “You told her first, man. You put her on the board. Not me. I just made sure she didn’t get blindsided. You wanna chase this demon? Fine. You wanna burn everything down to get it? Fine. But don’t drag her into it like she’s just another tool in the box.”

Sam grits his teeth. “That’s not what this is.”

“Really?” Dean shoots him a scrutinizing look. “’Cause it sounds a lot like you’re willing to risk whatever it takes to win. This is our mess. She’s not part of this, Sammy. Not if I can help it.”

Sam doesn’t answer this time, and that’s honestly answer enough.

He slumps back in his seat, crosses his arms, and scoffs quietly. “This isn’t over.”

Dean nearly snorts a laugh. “Wouldn’t have dreamed of it.”

Before Sam can find his next argument, Dean reaches forward and cranks up the stereo, letting the sound of classic rock flood the Impala and drown out the rest. 

The road stretches ahead, dark and endless, and everything’s supposed to go back to normal again. But his mind keeps drifting back to you – standing under that streetlight in the middle of the night, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, looking at him like you knew exactly what that note meant. 

He hopes you stay out of this. Hopes that piece of paper he gave you can keep the world away from you. Hopes it’s enough. He really does, even though he knows it’s not – but it’s the best he’s got.

However, there’s a stubborn, quiet part of him that already knows he’s going to see you again. And honestly? He’s not sure if that’s something to dread, or something to look forward to.

▶️ Chapter 6: East Atlantic Breeze – July 3

We have our first case under the belt and a reluctant friendship was born 😂🫶

How did you enjoy Dean's latest dream? Is anyone aside from him still convinced those aren't actually real memories resurfacing? (And how long will he keep them to himself? lol) What did you think of reader's tarot reading and do you agree with the boys' cards? And what about the two that slipped out – are they really a glitch in the system? 👀

Another puzzle piece is coming next Sunday, where we might get an unwanted visitor... 😬

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Dean’s on his feet before even being fully awake.

“Sammy.” His deep voice comes out rougher than usual as he grabs Sam’s shoulder hard enough to shake him. “Sam.”

Sam jolts awake with a sharp inhale, one hand flying instantly to his forehead. His breathing comes uneven and shallow, pain still written all over his face.

Dean’s stomach drops, heart pounding. He already knows it’s not a nightmare but another vision.

“You with me?” he checks sternly.

Sam nods quickly between ragged breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly before forcing out a strained, “Yeah.”

“What happened? What’d you see?”

Dean then waits for an answer, stomach twisting tighter with every passing second.

Finally, Sam looks up at him, and Dean can see the fear sitting naked and clear behind his little brother’s hazel eyes, turning his blood ice-cold before your name bleeds from Sam’s lips.

Every muscle in Dean’s body locks up in an instant.

“A demon found her,” Sam says hoarsely, swallowing harshly. “She was at the lab. It had Mia and Paige, too. I saw blood, black eyes–…” He drags a shaky hand down his face. “Dean, she was screaming.”

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The inside doesn’t help its reputation, either. 

There’s floral wallpaper that’s seen better decades and dark wood furniture with too many carvings. And doilies. So many damn doilies… 

A super creepy porcelain doll even sat on a shelf in the hallway, which Dean already snatched and hid under Sam’s covers as a prank.

And Sam, nice and accommodating as he is, still asked the older lady at the reception for another room for you. Fully booked, she told you due to the media spectacle, though, because everyone and their mom decided Sleepy Hollow is the place to be right now. At least that means Dean can still catch some sleep and doesn’t have to worry about your car starting in the middle of the night. 

He then dropped his duffel on the floor, took one look at the setup – two beds, one couch – and made the decision in about half a second.

“You take the bed.”

You cocked a brow at him, immediately suspicious. Smart.

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he shot back, already kicking off his boots. “Couch is closer to the door.”

Which is true.

Also happens to mean he’s got a clear line of sight to the exit, the bathroom door (which leads to the bathroom window), and you. Not that he says that part out loud. Doesn’t need to. But he’ll know when you try to sneak past him. In other words:

If you decide to go tinkle, tinkle, little star, he’s gonna watch you where you are. 

Not in a creepy way, though – he’d like to emphasize that part. He’s going to let you pee in peace, but he will listen to a potential window opening and your feet leaving the tiled floor. 

You rolled your eyes at his response but took the offer anyway, muttering something under your breath about “paranoia,” “control issues,” and “serial killer vibes.”

Dean ignored that. Well, for the most part, he did.

Sam, of course, played peacekeeper like always, offering to grab extra blankets and takeout, making it all sound so goddamn normal as if this isn’t the weirdest setup they’ve had in a while.

And then, somehow, despite everything, you and Sam kept… chatting.

At first, it was only case-related, and Dean was able to live with that. It should’ve stayed that way. But then it drifted to little comments, quiet jokes, and shared looks Dean doesn’t like one bit. The two of you acted like you’ve known each other longer than a couple of awkward run-ins and one coffee.

Dean stayed out of it. On purpose. Sat on the arm of the couch, cleaning his gun and pretending not to listen. Didn’t entirely work, though.

Because, every now and then, you’d laugh.

Annoyingly so, because then that stupid feeling – that quiet, irritating little twist in his chest that makes zero sense and pisses him off more the longer it sticks around – came rushing back. 

But it’s all just noise. Dean knows that. It’s just Sam being Sam, and you being… whatever the hell you are.

Eventually, the room settles, however, and the lights finally go out.

Sam’s out first while you take a little longer. Dean can hear the subtle shifts, the occasional sigh, and the mattress creaking softly as you get comfortable. For a few minutes, he wonders if you’re actually gonna try something – bolt, pull a trick, or disappear into thin air.

You don’t, though.

Somewhere between keeping one eye half-open to watch you, Dean’s thoughts then start to blur. The last thing he registers is your silhouette on the bed, half-lit by moonlight slipping in through the too-narrow windows.

And then, the fuzzy edges and orange filter are back, which means his watchful eyes have finally fallen shut, and he finds himself right back in bizarro-dreamland again.

Great. Is it too much to ask to get some peaceful rest every now and then?

This time, he’s down at the pond, still about twelve years old. It sits at the edge of the trees, the surface still, only breaking in ripples where the breeze skims across it. The sunlight is softer and golden now where it spills through the brush, and the heat of the day has dulled into something easier, a late-summer hush settling over everything as the world is winding down for the day.

Dean isn’t, though. His thoughts are still racing.

Usually, it feels peaceful down here, but now it feels like he swallowed a stone and it got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. He still doesn’t have the words for it at twelve, doesn’t really know how to name that feeling yet, but he knows he doesn’t like it. 

He sits at the edge of the pond in the tall grass, one knee pulled up, the other stretched out, heel digging absentmindedly into the dirt. The blades of weed bend under his fingers where he’s been pulling at them, stripping them down to nothing and letting the pieces fall again. There’s also a small scatter of stones beside him. A few skipped over the water, but most of them sunk. He scuffs the toe of his boot against the dirt again and watches it crumble.

Behind him, the world feels far away, discolored and muted. The house is out of reach. But still, every once in a while, yours and Sam’s voices carry over the distance, your laughter echoing down the hill. 

But Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the water in front of him, jaw tight, trying not to think about it. About you. About the way you said it.

My magic.

It all still sounds damn wrong in his head.

He frowns at himself, picking up a small rock and tossing it into the pond. It skips once, twice, then sinks again. And then–

“There you are!” your voice suddenly cuts through the quiet, bright and breathless.

Dean stiffens in an instant before his eyes wander over his shoulder to steal a glimpse. He sees you come running down the slope toward him, a little unsteady on the hill, cautious enough not to trip, but determined nonetheless. One strap of your short denim overalls is twisted, the other hanging off your shoulder. A few strands of hair stick to your forehead from running. There’s also dirt along your arm and a little on your cheek now from whatever activity you and Sammy have been up to. 

And you’re smiling. 

It’s as if nothing’s wrong and that whole conversation a few hours ago never happened. The smile is wide and easy and a little crooked. It doesn’t look like it takes any effort. It looks like it’s solely meant for him.

“I was looking for you,” you say, slowing as you get closer. “You wanna come play now? Me and Sammy wanna catch fireflies.”

When Dean sneaks another peek at you, you admittedly still seem the same. Same dirt-smudged knees. Same bright eyes. Same hopeful expression that assumes he’ll say yes like he always has before.

And for a heartbeat, something in him wavers. He pictures it without meaning to – tiny lights blinking in the dark, you chasing them across the yard, laughing, dragging Sammy along with you. It should sound fun. It probably would’ve been. 

Before.

Because then, the word comes flying back.

Witch.

It spreads over everything, dimming the edges of your smile and turning something that used to feel easy into something complicated and wrong.

“No, thanks,” he mutters, averting his eyes back to the water, his heel digging more into the dirt. “Told you I don’t wanna play.” He grabs another rock, throws it harder this time. It doesn’t skip, though, just sinks. “Just go with Sam. Leave me alone, okay?”

The words land blunt and cold. He knows it the second they leave his mouth, but he doesn’t take them back.

Then, there’s a long pause behind him. He still doesn’t dare to look back at you.

“Why are you being weird?”

He scoffs to deflect, keeping his gaze fixed on the water. “I’m not.”

“You are,” you insist and step even closer. He can feel you there now, just off to his side, small but impossible to ignore. “You won’t even look at me and your aura is different, too.”

Dean’s frown deepens. “My, what?”

“It’s pine green,” you say like that explains everything. “But usually, it’s apple green. You’re sad.”

Bullseye. 

He straightens a little, shoulders going rigid. His grip tightens around another stone in his palm. “I’m not sad,” he snaps, pushing himself up to his feet in one swift motion. “Stop reading me.”

He finally looks at you then, but it’s quick and guarded. The eye contact is only necessary to get his point across and not something he actually wants. He brushes his hands off on his jeans to break it again, hoping he can wipe that strange feeling away along with the dirt.

“Maybe I just don’t wanna hang out with you anymore,” he adds for emphasis and clarity. 

His only option here is to double down because he doesn’t know how else to handle this – you standing there and looking at him like you can see every damn thing he doesn’t want you to see.

That one finally seems to hit and reaches the desired effect. He sees it this time – the way your face falls and confusion gives way to hurt.

“Why?”

It’s so quiet and careful he barely hears it. You’re asking a question you’re not sure you want the answer to. Your voice doesn’t match the way you looked when you first came down the hill – happy.

The smile is gone.

Instead, your mouth is pressed into a tight line, trying to hold it together. Your eyes are glistening as if the setting sun is catching them at the wrong angle, but Dean knows it’s not actually the light. 

There’s a part of him that knows this is the moment to backtrack. To shrug it off. To say something else. But that knot in his chest pulls tighter instead and twists more and more.

You’re not supposed to be like this. You were normal. 

Before you started talking about magic and auras and things he can’t see but knows are real because his dad told him they are – and that they’re bad. Dangerous. Evil.

Things you don’t trust. Things you don’t get close to.

But he hates that look on your face right now. Hates that he’s the reason for it. It makes him feel… bad. So, if you’re bad and he’s bad, what does that mean?

The feeling doesn’t go away. It just mixes with everything else – the confusion and the frustration and the anger and the sadness. 

You’re the one who changed. This is your fault, not his. He hasn’t changed. He’s still the same. And if you hadn’t done that, if you were still normal, then he wouldn’t have to feel this way. Why is he the bad guy here? 

“Because you’re weird now, okay?” he blurts out, the words coming out rougher than he means them to, pushed by something he doesn’t fully understand. “You’re all… witchy and stuff.”

It sounds stupid even as he says it, but he doesn’t have better words for. Doesn’t have the language for what he’s trying to explain. So it comes out like that instead.

Blunt. Clumsy. Mean.

When your lip trembles, he’s flooded with instant regret, but he has no idea how to take something like that back either.

“Do you hate me?”

The question is so small it almost gets lost in the canyon between the two of you. He doesn’t know why, but it knocks the air out of his lungs. It gets harder and harder to breathe. 

Because the answer? The answer isn’t simple. 

He doesn’t hate you. He knows that much, deep down, even if everything else is in disorder. But you’re asking him like it’s yes or no – and it’s not.

It’s confusing and weird and uncomfortable and he doesn’t understand it, and the more he tries to, the worse it just feels. But there’s something scared and stubborn and taught in him that recoils when he thinks about you now. He doesn’t know how to explain that. Doesn’t know how to say anything that makes sense of the mess inside of him.

And you? You’re standing there, looking at him like you need an answer he doesn’t know how to give.

So, he ends up saying nothing at all. Just stares somewhere past your shoulder, jaw tight, completely silent.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees your face change, though. Sees the moment it sinks in.

Why does that make the feeling in his chest worse instead of better? This was supposed to help and not backfire. 

It hurts. Like, a lot. 

“Fine,” you finally snap, voice wobbling despite the anger that flashes across your face. “Then I don’t like you anymore either.”

Dean winces, barely noticeable from the outside, but he definitely feels it on the inside. 

“You’re mean and stupid,” you add with another huff. 

The words hit, but not in the way insults usually do. Oh no, these ones? They stick and sink somewhere deeper than they should.

Something broke, but you turn on your heel before he can fix it. Before he can react and figure out what to say – or even try to. 

And then, you’re running.

Back up the hill, away from the pond, away from him. You become smaller with every step until the trees start to swallow you up whole.

And Dean? He just stands there at the edge of the water, shoves his hands into his pockets, balls them into fists, and watches you go.

Dean’s barely awake. 

In fact, he’s not anywhere close to even opening his eyes to little slits yet. If there’s a stage between dead asleep and pre-awake, he’s probably in that one. His body surely hasn’t caught up to any signs of alertness at all, the morning thick, his head heavy, thoughts slow. He just lies there on the couch, one arm slung over his tummy, the other hanging off the edge, fingertips brushing the rough fabric.

But his brain’s becoming more and more vigilant, picking up on the background murmur. There’s two voices pulling at him – Sam’s and yours.

“…no connection between any of them?” you’re asking. Your voice is clearer than the rest, sweeter too, like honey in Earl Grey tea. It cuts through the fog easier, almost like sunshine.

Dean breathes out slowly through his nose, still not moving, but his lips twitch a little. Something else wakes up too, stretching under the blanket and under his boxer briefs. 

To be clear, though, that’s got nothing to do with you personally. Happens every morning whether you’re here or not. It’s just a natural occurrence. And yeah, sure, the nice timbre of your voice facilitates that a little, especially when he imagines what it could say instead of case-related words. Like, harder please or fuck, Dean, right there. 

Okay, fine, now he’s really just making it worse on purpose. He tries to refocus and hears papers shuffling. 

“None that I could find so far,” Sam answers with a sigh, frustration lacing his tone. “Different jobs, different neighborhoods. No shared hobbies, no family overlap, nothing obvious.”

“So… random?”

“Maybe not random,” Sam says. “Just… something else.”

Dean’s brow twitches slightly at that. Yeah, no kidding.

“You said ghost yesterday,” you say after a small pause, more thoughtful this time. 

“Could be a poltergeist, too.”

“What’s the difference?”

Dean huffs quietly under his breath, eyes still closed. Cute.

“Ghosts are usually tied to a place or an object,” Sam explains, shifting in his chair slightly, judging by the squeaks. “Poltergeists are more… aggressive. They throw things, move stuff around, escalate faster. They’re more chaotic and less focused.”

“Huh.” 

Dean can hear the pen in your hand tapping lightly against the table. Thinking. Always thinking.

“Decapitation doesn’t exactly scream ‘random chaos,’ though,” you add after a second. “Feels more premeditated than spur-of-the-moment.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth tug slightly upward. Yeah, exactly.

But then, something else sneaks through the cracks in his mind – ripples in the water, sunlight through the trees, a tinier voice. 

Do you hate me?

Dean’s eyes tighten shut for half a beat. Then, he pushes himself up before his brain can wander any further, the couch creaking under his weight as he sits forward and rubs a hand down his tired face. His neck twinges, but he ignores it.

“Depends what you’re dealing with,” he rasps, voice still thick with sleep.

Both you and Sam look over. The two of you are seated at the small dining table like this is some kind of domestic morning routine Dean definitely didn’t sign up for. Papers are spread out between you, a laptop open, coffee cups half-empty, and a plate with what looks like actual breakfast sits in the middle.

Dean stretches his arms over his head with a quiet groan, maybe a yawn, back popping, making no effort to hide the fact that he just woke up on a couch that feels like it was designed by someone who hates spines.

“Morning,” Sam says.

“Debatable,” Dean mutters.

You’re already watching him, that familiar hint of amusement tugging at your lips. “Look who finally joined the land of the living.”

Dean drops his arms and squints at you. “Yeah, yeah. Some of us don’t wake up at the crack of dawn for fun.”

“It’s not dawn,” Sam interjects.

“Feels like it.”

“You sleep like a bear, you know that?” you add casually and rise from your seat, grabbing a third coffee cup from the tray.

Dean frowns. “I do not.”

“Oh, you do,” you insist as you snatch a paper bag as well. It’s perfectly greasy at the bottom, the delicious smell of bacon winding up his nose, and his stomach reacts before his weary brain has even caught up to it. “Didn’t even stir when I left.”

That finally cuts through the last of the grogginess.

Dean straightens, brows lifting. “You left?”

“Mhm.” You hum as you casually stroll his way. “Figured if I’m stuck with you two, I might as well make sure you don’t starve… or actually have food that isn’t gas station jerky.”

“You went out?” he asks, tone sharpening just a notch. “By yourself?”

“Yeah,” you say, a smirk rising on your lips. “Crazy concept, I know.”

Dean exhales through his nose, pushing himself fully to his feet now. “But that’s–”

“What?” You tilt your head, brow arching. “Illegal?”

“No, that’s not–” He shakes his head clear. All the different smells hitting him at once make it hard to concentrate, and he doesn’t even know if it’s the coffee, the food, or you, but you’re definitely getting too close for his liking. “You’re not supposed to just–”

“Exist without supervision?” You’re clearly teasing him now, a playfulness gleaming in your eyes as you hold the coffee cup and brown bag out to him. “Don’t get your panties twisted now. You didn’t even notice I was gone.”

“I noticed,” he mutters as he takes the items, accepting them almost like a peace offering. 

“Sure you did.” The smile on your lips, however, clearly states that you don’t believe him one bit. 

“I said I’d keep an eye on you,” he grumbles before taking a gracious sniff of the food inside the bag.

God, that smells good. His stomach’s growling. 

“And you did,” you reply, shrugging lightly, but the teasing edge in your smile is still there. “You just weren’t very good at it.”

“I was asleep.”

“Exactly.”

He grimaces but stops arguing further. You’re already half a coffee into the morning while he hasn’t even had his first drop yet. He knows when he’s in a losing battle. So, he glances down at the cup in his hands before taking a sip.

Black. No sugar. No cream. Exactly right.

His eyes drift back to you, slightly bewildered. “How’d you know?”

“Oh, your aura told me you take it as black as your soul.”

Dean squints. “Wait… It did?”

Your face stays completely serious for several seconds before the first crack shows in the façade, and a snort escapes your throat. 

“No, I’m just messing with you,” you retort with a bubble of laughter. “Sam told me you like it as black as your soul. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”

Dean turns his head slowly toward his little brother, who conveniently doesn’t look up from the papers in front of him.

Traitor.

He scoffs under his breath, but there’s no real heat behind it as he takes another sip. You hum, satisfied, already turning away and heading back to the table. He watches you sit down, pick up your pen, and slide right back into it with Sam, all easy and natural, like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

It shouldn’t look like that. Shouldn’t feel like that.

And then, for the tiniest second, the image overlaps with a smaller version of you again, younger, looking at him like–

Do you hate me?

His jaw tightens slightly around the rim of the cup.

Mean and stupid.

Dean takes another gulp, harder this time till he almost chokes on it or burns his tongue, which ever comes first, and shoves the weird feelings in his chest down again with the caffeine.

“Crap,” Sam mutters all of a sudden, breaking the moment as he flips his laptop around. “Guys, we’ve got another one.”

Your attention snaps to him immediately. “Another body?”

“Yup, found this morning. We should go to the crime scene right now. Local PD got there less than an hour ago.”

“Awesome.”

Dean’s head snaps toward you, finding a bright grin on your lips. You’re not horrified. You’re not even fazed. If anything, you look… excited. 

He cocks a brow at you. “Awesome? A guy died.”

“Actually, it’s a woman,” Sam chimes in. 

“Same difference.”

“What?” You shrug your shoulders, looking at him. “I’ve never worked a decapitation scene before. What’s the problem?” 

“You’re excited.”

“I’m interested,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

“Someone’s missing their head,” he points out dryly.

“Yes, which is objectively unusual.”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Because, yeah, it admittedly is.

He spent half of yesterday going over the first three victims, trying to find a pattern that made sense. Clean decapitations like that aren’t exactly common in his line of work either when they’re not caused by other hunters. It is interesting. It’s a good case. He just–

“Still weird you’re this into it,” he mutters into his coffee.

Your eyes narrow slightly, arching an eyebrow. “Oh, and you’re not?”

Dean shrugs, taking another sip like it’s no big deal. “Meh. I mean, it’s a–… it’s a… case.”

Sam makes a noise that sounds like he’s trying not to laugh, but Dean ignores him skillfully. 

“Well, whether you’re into it or not, there’s an active crime scene waiting,” you say and push your chair back, grabbing your denim jacket.

Sam nods, already gathering his things as well. “Let’s go before they start clearing it.”

When going to a crime scene, the drives usually feel like routine. Dean keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose near the gearshift as he lets whatever surroundings roll past the windows – white picket fences, corn fields, woods. It doesn’t really matter when he focuses on the road ahead. 

Sam’s also in the passenger seat like always, half-turned with his laptop balanced against his knee, skimming through what little they have on the fourth victim.

But this drive’s still different than all the other ones that came before it, because, this time, Dean’s eyes keep drifting to the backseat and flicking to the rearview mirror every so often. 

When there’s a light rustle of fabric behind him, he sneaks another glance at you in the back and watches you pull on your CSI jacket – navy-blue, official, the three letters stamped across your front and back in yellow.

You smooth it down your arms, adjust the collar, and settle into it without hesitation, like you’ve done this your whole life. By the time Dean turns onto the street, you don’t look like someone tagging along anymore – you look like you belong.

Dean exhales hard through his nose and forces himself to concentrate back on the road again as he finds a space to park, eventually pulling in behind a patrol car.

Sam shuts his laptop with a soft click just as Dean kills the engine. “Fourth victim is like the others.”

“Still no connections?” Dean asks.

“None,” Sam sighs in frustration. “Think our best bet is a cursed object at this point, considering every victim was found at a different location.”

From the backseat, you hum lightly. “So no ghost or poltergeist?”

Sam smiles patiently. “Could still be either. But it’s definitely not tied to a body or burial ground. It’s moving around.”

“But the murders only started two weeks ago, so whatever we’re looking for, it’s gotta be new in town, right? Something must’ve triggered it,” you muse. 

Dean shoots you a look in the mirror. “You always this eager about headless bodies?”

You meet his stare head-on. “You always this grumpy before noon?”

He scoffs, not bothering to answer, and takes an assessing sweep around the street.

The fourth victim’s house sits dead center in the sort of neighborhood that seems to trim its hedges with a damn ruler. Everything is exact and perfect to a tee – lawn cut short and greener than it needs to be and flowerbeds arranged like a diagram. There’s not a single weed out of place, not a leaf where it shouldn’t be. It’s all tree-lined streets and white fences, radiating a curated postcard calm that feels a teeny-tiny bit too pure and sober, considering there’s a body waiting at the end of it.

Control freak, Dean notes internally as he jumps out of Baby and adjusts his suit jacket. Sam mirrors him and straightens his tie, slipping right into federal agent mode. 

“FBI,” Sam greets a patrol officer straightaway, flashing his badge as they approach the yellow tape. “Agents Hetfield and Sambora.”

A subtle snort escapes you as you follow them, ducking under the tape.

Dean stops in his tracks and raises a brow at you. “You got something to add?”

“Yes,” you say with a long sigh. “Those names are ridiculous.”

“They’re fine.”

“They’re obvious, bad, and lazy,” you shoot back. “I clocked them the first time you showed up at my scene. Might as well introduce yourselves as walking classic rock playlists next time.”

Dean frowns. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t have to,” you counter with a challenging smirk. “I just called you Agents Metallica and Bon Jovi in my head the whole time.”

Sam exhales a long-suffering sigh that sounds suspiciously like agreement. “Told you.”

Dean shoots him a look. “Oh, c’mon–”

“They’re not subtle, Dean.”

Dean scoffs, slightly irritated by the sudden team-up. “They work.”

“They scream fake,” you and Sam argue at the same time.

Dean blinks between the two of you, outnumbered but refusing to acknowledge it. He brushes it off with an eye roll. 

“Yeah, and?” He shrugs defiantly. “What’re you going by, Sabrina?”

You hesitate a little before holding up your ID – your real one.

Dean lifts a stern brow. “You’re serious?”

“I don’t exactly carry fake IDs,” you say defensively.

Dean lets out another scoff, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, maybe you should. Using your real name? That’s how bad things find you.”

That one finally lands. Score for him. You don’t have a comeback for it, and Dean knows it. He doesn’t push further, just nods once like the point’s been made, and turns toward the house as the leading detective of this investigation approaches.

“FBI Agents Hetfield and Sambora. Hope you don’t mind,” Dean says smoothly, thumbing back at you over his shoulder, “we brought our own crime tech.”

“Detective Griffith,” he introduces himself and gives you a quick once-over before shrugging. “Be my guest, guys. We could use the help.”

Eagerly, you’re already rushing past the detective once you’ve gotten the green light, nitrile gloves snapping on as you step over the threshold. Dean follows a little slower, eyes adjusting to the interior.

The inside matches the outside, the house being just as controlled as the yard. Everything’s aligned, spotless, and untouched. It’s the kind of clean that feels more like pressure than comfort, though. 

Except for the kitchen – that’s where the illusion finally breaks. There’s tons of blood smeared across marble tiles and a headless body where it shouldn’t be.

“Walk us through it,” Dean tells the detective. 

“The victim is sixty-two year old Martha Crane. No husband, no kids. Lived here alone. Neighbor found her this morning,” Griffith says. “Came by after she didn’t answer her phone.”

“No forced entry?” Sam asks.

“None.”

Dean bobs his head, scanning the room, but his attention keeps swerving back to you.

You’ve already dropped into a crouch near the body, focused, precise, and methodical. Your hands hover before you touch anything, eyes tracking the wound, the angle, and the space around it. You act like you’re reading something written under the surface.

“Angle’s consistent,” you murmur. “Single motion.”

Admittedly, it’s… good. You’re good. Dean notices that but obviously refrains from stating it out loud.

“How far did the head roll?” you ask suddenly then, not taking your eyes off the corpse and the blood spatter by your feet.

The cop blinks. “What?” 

“The head,” you repeat, glancing up briefly. “Where was it found in relation to the body?”

“Uh… about twelve feet,” he replies hesitantly. “Near the doorway.”

You rise to your feet with a nod, filing it away as you assess the space. “Rolled quite a bit,” you mutter. “I’m guessing the perp used a sword or blade of some kind. Probably swung it like a baseball bat to reach that kind of distance.”

Dean’s brow furrows slightly, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “You always start with those questions?”

You don’t look at him, focusing back on the evidence in front of you. “Only when it matters.”

“Right,” he huffs under his breath and keeps watching you work.

“Victim complained about something last night,” Detective Griffith then adds. “Said she heard… hooves.”

Hooves. 

Dean glances at Sam, Sam glances back, and even your attention seems to waver for a second at that, your hand stilling in the middle of depositing a Q-tip from the wound into a plastic bag.

“…Hooves,” Dean repeats.

“Yeah,” the detective says and lets out a snort, clearly not buying it. “She thought someone was riding a horse nearby. Accused the guy next door of hiding one in his backyard.”

You shift your position down to the floor again, scanning the area with more intent. Your fingers then brush lightly along the tile before you stop, pinching something between your gloves.

“Welp, that’s not hers,” you murmur.

Dean pushes off the wall and steps closer. “What isn’t?”

You hold it up for him to see, and it’s a strand of hair – long and black. The victim’s hair, on the other hand, is short and white. 

“Horse hair,” you state. 

Dean narrows his eyes. “You’re guessing.”

“Nope.”

“Alright, I’ll bite,” he says and cocks an eyebrow. “How do you know it’s from a horse, huh?”

You hesitate a moment, chewing on your bottom lip as if you don’t really want to explain your answer. “It has a… horsey aura.”

Dean stares at you, deadpan but completely dumbfounded on the inside.

Even the detective blinks at you. “Did she just say aura?”

See, Dean himself took more issue with the word horsey, but every man for himself, he supposes. 

But you? You don’t even react to either of them, choosing to brush past the raised brows. Back at that crime scene in Salem when Dean first met you, he clocked a few stares from your colleagues as well and didn’t know what that was about. Now he thinks he does. 

“It tastes like hay, okay?” you hiss with a defensive shrug. “You know, stables, carrots, a little sugar…”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean cuts you off, rubbing a hand down his face. “I think we get it, Jennifer Love Hewitt. We’re not doing that.”

He pads a few steps into the less frequented dining area, gesturing for you to follow, which you do with a knitted brow.

“Doing what?”

“That,” he grunts, hands motioning vaguely at you. “The aura, the tasting, the questions – tone it down.”

Your brows crease a little more, confused. “It’s relevant.”

“It’s weird,” Dean counters. “You’ve got a normal job, right? You gotta know you can’t go around talking like that – about auras and magic and God knows what else… ‘Cause, news flash, That’s So Raven, normal people usually find that freaky.”

You hold his gaze for a second before it contemplatively drifts to the side. “Actually, most of my colleagues already think I’m weird,” you reply, lips pursing as you scratch your neck. “This isn’t exactly new.”

Dean lets out a long sigh. “Oh, I can see why.”

Your jaw tightens, but instead of snapping, you just stroll back into the kitchen and pull back the small rug next to the body, pointing down at a pool of half-dried and sticky blood underneath it.

“Also,” you say, “hoof print.”

Dean follows your finger and tilts his head at the partially blood-smeared but very horsey evidence. 

He throws you a look. “Why don’t you start with that next time, huh?”

The detective curiously leans in, squinting at the print. “How the hell did a horse get inside this house?”

Again, Dean glances at Sam, Sam glances at you, but no one chooses to answer that question.

As you straighten again, you pull out another evidence bag from your jacket, holding it up for them. There are reddish-brown flakes inside. 

“I found trace amounts of rust,” you explain. “Whatever blade is being used for these decapitations is old and corroded. That’s where the residue’s coming from.”

Dean arches a brow skeptically, studying you. “You sure about that?”

When you meet his eyes this time, the irritation fully creeps in. “No, I just like collecting random dirt.”

Sam presses his lips together, clearly holding back a comment, but Dean doesn’t let it go. 

“Or you’re jumping ahead.”

“I’m not,” you grit through your teeth. “It’s on the wound.”

But Dean? He hums like he’s not convinced, even though he is, which causes you to take a deep breath. Jesus, you’re sensitive. But pushing you is easier than–

He doesn’t finish that thought.

“Alright,” Sam cuts in, stepping between the two of you just enough to break the line of fire. “I think we’ve got everything here for now.”

Dean nods once, still watching you for a second longer than necessary before turning to the front door, you and Sam following closely behind. As he walks down the pristinely white porch steps, he already notices the crowd of neighbors and reporters that has accumulated behind the yellow tape in small clusters, watching and whispering like vultures. 

He tries to ignore them as best as he can, already halfway to the Impala when something cuts through the noise and catches his ear:

“…not like anyone’s gonna miss her.”

He stops cold and turns on his heel toward the voice, locking in on a young blonde in her mid-twenties, chatting with the rest of her neighbors. She finds his eyes and already looks like she regrets the careless words, gaze dropping and arms around her tightening as soon as she realizes she’s been overheard. 

“Miss,” Dean says, flashing his badge as he steps into her space. “FBI. You wanna repeat that?”

She startles, eyes widening. “I–… no, I didn’t mean–”

“You said no one’s gonna miss her,” Dean presses, deep voice already edging sharp enough to cut. “That’s a pretty bold statement about a murder victim.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “I was just–”

“Just what?” Dean prompts. “Because right now it sounds like you’re withholding information from a federal investigation.”

The woman folds in on herself, shoulders tensing. “I don’t know anything,” she says, backtracking even a physical step. “I’m sorry I said that. I don’t want any trouble. I had nothing to do with it. I swear.”

Dean leans in more, erasing the space she created. “Then don’t make this harder than–”

“Hey,” your voice suddenly chimes behind him. 

Skillfully, you step between them, not forceful or confrontational, but just enough to break the pressure Dean’s been building. Your shoulder brushes his as you pass, however. It’s a subtle nudge, but he knows it was definitely fucking intentional. 

“It’s okay,” you tell the young woman gently in a soothingly sweet and understanding tone. “Ignore him. He does that.”

Dean inhales sharply. “I do not–”

You, however, seem to follow your own lead and ignore him entirely. Instead of batting even a single eyelash at him, you angle toward the woman and focus solely on her.

“You know, gotta be honest with you,” you start, your voice sounding almost conspiratorial. “As soon as we saw that manicured front lawn, we knew Martha Crane was a complete control freak.”

The woman’s shoulders lose a bit of tension, ears perked as she listens to you. After seemingly weighing whether she can trust you or not, she lets out a light scoff. “Understatement of the century.”

“Yeah, trust me. I know people like that. Judgmental assholes, am I right?” You laugh a little, causing the young woman to laugh as well. “Hell, I work with people like that. The FBI’s full of them. Actually met this guy recently – full-on control freak. Got a huge stick up his ass. He’d criticize me at every turn and throw a fit when things didn’t fall into his very narrow-minded worldview.”

Dean’s expression morphs into a full scowl. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who you’re talking about – him. It’s fucking him, right?

Funny. Clever. Mistake.

He’s definitely going to shoot you for it. 

“God, that guy sounds awful,” the woman huffs, wrinkling her nose. 

C’mon now… He ain’t this bad, is he?

“Oh, he is. Total fucking prick,” you say and roll your eyes theatrically. Then you dare to shoot him a quick, mischievous sideways glance before turning back to the young witness. “These people just like control and can’t handle it when things don’t go their way.”

The woman scoffs in agreement once more. “Yeah, that honestly sounds like Martha.”

Dean steps in again but forces himself to dial it back a little this time. “The victim?”

The woman nods. “She complained about everything. Noise, lawns, pets – anything she could report, she did.”

Another neighbor, a family father in his forties, steps forward as well. “Called the cops on my kid’s birthday party once.”

“She tried to get my fence taken down,” a soccer mom adds.

More neighbors then chime in with their own stories. It builds, piece by piece, irritation turning into collective hatred. By the time the chatter dies down again, the first woman just gives a shrug of her shoulders. 

“She was a judgmental bitch. I’m glad she’s dead.”

Welp, and people say living in suburbia is the dream…

Dean then only nods once, lips pursed. “Alright, thank you, miss.”

You give her a reassuring smile as well before heading back to the car. Dean turns with you, but the second the two of you are out of earshot, he lets out a grunt to get your attention and make his irritation known.

“I could’ve handled that.”

At that, you stop, still mid-step, and spin toward him. The motion is so abrupt he almost bumps into you. 

You arch an eyebrow, lips twitching in amusement. “Oh, could you?”

Dean lifts his chin, squaring off in front of you. “Yeah.”

If you were a guy, this would probably turn into a dick measuring contest. Or a pissing contest. Man, guys are gross.

“With what?” you shoot back. “Threatening her into silence?”

“I was applying pressure,” he argues defensively. “It works.”

“It almost didn’t,” you fire back. “She was two seconds away from shutting down completely.”

“I had it under control.”

You snort a disbelieving laugh. “No, you didn’t.”

Dean steps closer, the irritation climbing, nostrils flaring slightly. “I was setting it up.”

“Setting what up?”

“For you to swoop in,” he replies cleverly. “Good cop, bad cop. You ever heard of that?”

“Oh, bullshit,” you scoff and cross your arms. “No, you fucking weren’t.”

“Yeah, I was.”

“You almost tanked the whole thing,” you retort. “There was no setup.”

Dean scoffs, rolling his shoulders. “You got what we needed, didn’t you?”

“Because I fixed it.”

“Yeah, only because I softened her up first.”

“Oh no, you scared her,” you counter. “Which isn’t surprising since that seems to be your go-to method. Ever thought about actually giving people some sympathy, grace, and understanding instead of yelling and threatening everyone around you to do your bidding?”

Dean exhales a harsh breath, dragging a hand over his jaw. “You don’t know how this works. Any of this.”

You step closer, matching him, frustration finally breaking through to its full extent. “No, I just do this for a living. And unlike you, I actually get paid for my job and didn’t get my badge from an arts and crafts store.”

Dean laughs your jab off, although he surely gasped internally. How fucking dare you?!

“Look, I’m just trying to make sure you don’t get yourself in trouble, Sabrina,” he snaps. “Or, you know, killed.”

“I’m not the one causing problems. Not to mention, a few weeks ago, you’re the one who wanted to kill me,” you shoot back. “And now, you’re also the one breathing down my neck, criticizing everything I do like you’re just waiting for me to screw up.”

“Well, maybe I am.”

“Oh my God, pick a damn side!”

Dean frowns in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You heard me,” you snap. “I didn’t even want to be here. You made me stay and guilt-tripped me into it, and now you’re second-guessing my every move. Make up your damn mind, dude! Am I a problem or not? Do you trust me or not? Do you actually hate me or not? ‘Cause all this indecision is driving me nuts. Even your aura is a huge mess, by the way.”

Dean blinks, shaking his head clear as all your words still swirl around his mind and try to find a place. “What, now?”

“This whole time, it’s been flip-flopping,” you huff. “Red, green, red, green – like a fucking stoplight on amphetamines. So, which one is it? Stop or go?”

Red.

Dean stills.

Red?

The memory – no, the dream because it’s definitely not real – crashes into him within seconds and floods his mind. The sunlight through the trees reflects off the water’s surface, almost blinding him, but he can still see your face, how your lip quivered, and how your eyes stung with tears. 

Do you hate me?

You said his aura was green back then, apple green or maybe pine, but green. But it shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t. Because none of it was ever real. He just made it all up… in his head… like a normal person.

Fuck.

“Red?” he asks out loud, his voice several notches quieter than it was before. He already hates himself for asking in the first place. 

It shouldn’t get to him the way it does. You shouldn’t. 

“Yeah, mostly red, actually,” you say, still exasperated from the argument, chest heaving. 

But Dean only studies you for another minute, trying to line it up, trying to make it make goddamn sense. “What does that mean?”

You hesitate for a beat, staring at him tiredly before you exhale a long breath. “It means you’re reactive, impulsive, and you don’t think things through. And right now? You’re kind of being a giant dick.”

Dean purses his lips. Admittedly, both real-you and dream-you are masters of delivering insults that stick. Is dick the grown-up version of mean and stupid? Probably.

Before he can respond, though, his little brother cuts through the tension before it can fully escalate again.

“You guys good?” Sam checks, his hazel eyes flickering warily between you and Dean.

Both of you fix your eyes on Sam, but neither of you responds.

“Okay,” Sam sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “I think we should head to the library next. I mean, the whole hooves thing makes me think we might actually be dealing with the Headless Horseman. Maybe we can find out who it is, because this thing’s definitely mobile.”

Dean nods, still hung up on that whole red-green thing, but you shake your head slightly, brows creasing. Figures.

“Actually, I wanna process the evidence first. Might give us a clue about the weapon and where to find it,” you say. 

Dean then finally dares to look at you again, brow furrowing lightly. “Thought you already did that with that whole horsey aura thing.”

“That’s not–… You know what? Never mind.” You press your lips together, biting back whatever comment you wanted to make, and simply turn to Sam. “Point is, I need a lab. Don’t exactly have one here. The rust, the hair… There’s more there.” Then you smack your lips, musingly looking between the brothers. “You guys do breaking and entering, right?”

Sam and Dean exchange a look.

Of course.

Dean sighs. “Yup, we do.”

“You guys go. I’ll hit the library,” Sam says, not even arguing (or volunteering). 

“Fine. I’ll go with her.” Dean nods and rolls his eyes slightly. 

But you? You immediately grimace and wrinkle your nose. 

“Do you have to?” you question and then tone down the hostility a little by clearing your throat. “I mean, can’t Sam come to the lab with me, and you can go to the library?”

Dean’s lips rise to a smirk at that. “Not a chance in hell, Sabrina.”

Dean Winchester is by far the most irritating person you’ve ever met in your entire life.

The forensics lab at Sleepy Hollow PD has a familiar rhythm you know all too well from home. The machines hum in the background, the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the steel counters reflect a clean surface. It’s a space that makes sense, where things follow rules and where answers exist if you know where to look.

And at first, Dean’s presence is just background noise like the rest of the interior. A shift of boots here, a faint tap of fingers there, and the soft click of his tongue against his teeth, like he’s trying to fill silence that isn’t asking to be filled. He clearly doesn’t know how to exist in stillness, but it’s manageable. 

Annoying, but manageable. 

You try to ignore it. You really do. You’ve worked in worse conditions than a mildly irritating human being before. Your focus simply zones in on the sample in front of you, on the familiar routine of gloving up, setting tools in place, and letting muscle memory take over.

But then he sighs – long, loud, and entirely unnecessary. The kind that almost demands acknowledgment.

You close your eyes for a second before glancing over your shoulder. “Do you mind?”

Dean looks up, a little startled. “What?”

You gesture vaguely in his direction. “All of… that. Can you not?”

He frowns, glancing down at himself, then around the room, genuinely confused. “I’m not doing anything.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, weighing if explaining basic self-awareness is worth your time before coming to the conclusion that explaining it would cost more energy than tolerating it. So, you turn back to your microscope without another word, and for a few minutes, it seems to work.

Then the damn tapping starts again. Different pattern this time. Worse. It’s less rhythmic and more erratic, as if he’s finally gotten bored enough to start experimenting with new ways to be even more annoying. 

You exhale a long breath. “Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

You don’t even turn this time, adjusting the microscope in front of you till the image sharpens under the lens. “If I have to explain it, you’re already too far gone.”

Silence finally follows, but it’s so quiet now that it almost seems suspicious, and you’re already afraid it might not last all that long.

Still, you take advantage of the brief pause from the human distraction behind you. The residue sharpens into focus again, clearly uneven and aged, not indicating any modern weapon. You track the patterns and mentally catalogue the details like you always do.

But then, behind you, something clinks.

You freeze, turn your head, and find Dean holding a pair of tweezers.

“Put that down,” you tell him scoldingly.

Stumped, he looks at them, then at you. “I’m just–”

“Put. It. Down.”

He does, though not before inspecting them like he’s admiring their craftsmanship. You then watch him drift to the next station, fingers already moving again with zero impulse control. He brushes over surfaces, picks up a tray, and tilts it slightly.

“You’re going to contaminate something,” you warn.

“I’m not touching anything important,” he retorts, which is exactly the sort of thing someone says right before they touch something important.

And a second later, you hear a distinct rattle.

You close your eyes. “Dean.”

“I didn’t break it.”

“That’s not the standard I usually aim for.”

He actually huffs a small laugh at that, then leans against the counter for all of three seconds before pushing off again. The pacing comes next – slow loops at first before they get tighter with every pass as if the entire room is shrinking around him.

You don’t need to look to track him. You can feel it – the restless energy, the constant motions, the sheer refusal to simply settle down.

But annoyingly and deeply inconveniently, you’re unfortunately aware of him in other ways as well.

Every time he brushes past you a little too closely, there’s that faint scent of leather, gun oil, and something warm again. Something unmistakably him. It persists just long enough to distract you and pull your focus away from the work in front of you.

You frown slightly but force your attention back at the task at hand, even though the whole thing is quite… unhelpful.

When yet another metal tray clatters behind you, you resign and reach for your headphones, sliding them on without a word and letting the music flood your ears. Blessed silence wraps around you as you get back to work and let the Beach Boys fill in as white noise instead.

However, that only lasts about halfway through Good Vibrations before the music cuts out all of a sudden.

Jolted out of your peace, you blink and turn to see Dean standing right next to you now, holding the cord of your headphones between his fingers. He looks at you more curious than apologetic, though, which is honestly even more irritating. If you yell at him now, it’d feel more like reprimanding a toddler who doesn’t know any better. 

“You can’t just shut me out like that,” he says almost reproachfully.

“I was working.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he replies like that’s the main issue altogether.

You snatch the headphones back from him, setting them gently down on the counter. “What do you want?”

He shrugs, pursing his lips. “What are you doing?”

You shoot him a deadpan look. “Working.”

“No, I mean, how,” he clarifies. “Walk me through it.”

Your brow scrunches. “What? Why?”

“I wanna know how it works.”

You narrow your eyes at him slightly, trying to figure out if this is yet another setup. Is he trying to undermine you again? Is this a test?

“You want me to explain forensic processing to you,” you repeat slowly. 

“Sure.” He shrugs again. “Why not?”

Your mouth opens and closes before you study him for a beat. He’s still restless. Still too fucking much. But there’s at least something quieter underneath it now. Maybe it’s curiosity – or maybe he just needs something to latch onto to fill the silence with something other than his own thoughts. 

“Fine,” you sigh at last, turning back to your station. 

Dean smacks his lips and leans over your shoulder like a bored kid in a museum. “So, what’s that?”

“Evidence.”

“Yeah, I got that,” he scoffs. “What kind?”

“The kind you don’t contaminate by hovering,” you reply flatly.

But Dean? Yeah, he leans closer anyway while you shut your eyes briefly, inhale deeply, and count to three. 

“Is that the rust stuff?” he asks then.

“Yes.”

“From the wound?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“And you think it’s from a blade?”

“Yes, Dean.”

He nods slowly, processing it. But then, his mouth opens once more. “Could be something else.”

You decide to level with him, meeting his green eyes. “Like what?”

He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

Dear Odin, Freyja, and Thor...

What have you done wrong in your life to be punished like this? 

Patience is a virtue. Patience is a virtue. Patience is a–

“On the slide is trace residue,” you explain. “I’m checking composition, degradation, age – anything that might tell me where it came from. You can look if you want.”

You take a step back from the microscope to let him take a peek. He hesitates for a moment but then leans closer, not crowding, but still near enough that you’re aware of him in a different way now. His aura is steady, warm, green as he glimpses through the eyepiece. 

“See that breakdown pattern?” you ask quietly. “It’s consistent with oxidized iron. Lines up with older weaponry.”

He pulls back from the lens and glances at you. “Like a sword?”

“Maybe.” You shrug, swaying your head from side to side. “If I had to guess, I’d say Civil War era most likely.” 

He hums, considering that, and you notice how he doesn’t argue for once. He just takes it in and lets it sit. Miracle of miracles. 

“Gotta say, kinda cool you can tell all that from a few flakes of rust,” he says, then takes a glance around the lab. “But you know, for a place that deals with dead bodies and blood, this is… weirdly clean.”

“First of all, not that many dead bodies here. You’re confusing it with the morgue. I’m not a medical examiner,” you say with a small chuckle. “And second of all, cleanliness is kind of the point of a lab.”

He purses his lips, shrugs. “Yeah, but still. You’d think there’d be more–, I don’t know… more gore.”

You give him a dry look. “You want more gore?”

“Just saying. Feels misleading.”

“Please stop talking.”

As you focus back on your work and switch slides to examine the horse hair next, you expect him to hit you with another trifling question about evidence. But when he speaks again, he suavely changes subjects, and you realize his questioning before was just supposed to warm you up for the real interrogation.

Was he just buttering you up? Are you really that easy?

Granted, aside from his interaction with a witness earlier, he’s admittedly good with people. You watched how easily he convinced the detective on the scene to trust him and how smoothly he talked his way into this lab by simply tossing the pretty receptionist a cocky smile and a few charming lines. 

That was kind of a bonus point. 

And sure, you technically knew this side of him existed because he showed it to you before – before he knew you who you truly were. It’s still different to observe it from an outside perspective, though. You can see the appeal more clearly if you blend out the fact he held a gun to your head not that long ago. 

“So,” Dean starts and blows a raspberry, mustering surely all the casualty he can possibly find. “What did you and Sam really talk about at that diner yesterday? What’d he tell you?”

You freeze imperceptibly for a second but keep your eyes on the sample. “You know, he’s your brother. You have access to him. Why don’t you just ask Sam?”

“Oh, I will. Don’t worry about that,” Dean says. “But I’m asking you now.”

You snort a little. “Is this you trying to see if our answers will match?”

“Maybe,” he admits. “Just humor me.”

You exhale softly, shutting off the microscope, your eyes finding his. “We talked about the demon. He told me what happened to your family,” you share carefully. You can tell by the flickers in his aura that he’s getting nervous. “He also told me about that hunter that worked with my grandma.”

“Bobby?”

“Yeah.” You confirm with a nod and lick your lips, shifting on your feet a little. “Then I showed him the letter from my mom I found in Mia’s basement. It was written for my twenty-first birthday, but Mia never gave it to me.”

That seems to catch his attention, his eyes lifting to you. “A letter?”

“Yup.” You reach for your bag, pulling it out. You hesitate for a tiny second before holding it out to him. 

Dean looks at it, then back at you, and there’s a gleam of surprise in his gaze as his brows lift. “You’re just gonna… hand that to me?”

“You asked.” You shrug lightly, although your fingers hold onto it a second longer before letting go for good.

He takes it carefully – that’s what you notice first.

Carefully.

Not the way he handles everything else in this room, like a bull in a china shop – absent-minded, restless, careless. His grip is suddenly contrastingly measured and cautious. It almost seems like he’s aware this is something that matters.

He unfolds it, juniper eyes scanning the page, and then he goes shockingly still – not quiet in the way he’s been trying to be. Completely still. You’re not even sure he’s still breathing. 

You watch him and fix on his aura without really meaning to. Outwardly, his jaw tightens slightly, and his gaze lingers longer on certain lines. But his aura? The rich and deep forest green desaturates and cools, becoming a bit more muted as if someone turned the brightness down. But a soft blue starts to bleed through it, merging it to a teal shade – sea pine. It pools mostly around his heart, concentrating there. 

Are your mom’s words actually affecting him? You’re not entirely sure, but you think you can pick up pieces of his own grief and loss. 

When he finally finishes reading, he folds it back up just as carefully as he opened it and hands it back to you wordlessly.

“Thanks,” you say, strangely softer than you intended. 

Dean just nods and doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t say anything at all.

It’s… unexpected to say the least. And somehow, it’s still more telling than anything he could’ve said. If he hadn’t tried to shoot you only a few weeks ago, you probably would’ve even started to like him. At least, you would’ve considered him a decent person and not a scathing, intolerant maniac with a gun. 

You tuck the letter back into your bag and start chewing on your lower lip, scrupling about trusting him enough to goad him into telling you more about the demon. If he thinks he can work an angle with you to get more information, maybe so can you.  

“Sam also told me about the ritual, by the way,” you say after a beat. “The one my mom seems to talk about, too. The one I’m supposed to do to unlock more power or whatever.”

Dean smacks his lips, slightly arching a brow. “He did?”

“Yeah, he thinks I should do it.”

That response forces him to scoff under his breath, shaking his head. “‘Course he does.”

“You don't?” you ask, curiously raising a brow. “Why’s Sam so convinced then?”

Dean lets out a deep breath, running a hand over the back of his neck as if he’s still debating to say what he really thinks or not. After a brief pause, he seems to land on the former. “‘Cause Sam’s willing to do whatever it takes to kill that demon.”

“Whatever it takes?” you repeat, brow furrowing.

Dean’s gaze meets yours briefly before he averts his eyes again. “Yeah.”

“But you’re not,” you deduce from his reluctance.

He shakes his head, jaw locking, but he still doesn’t look at you. “No.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause I already lost enough.”

The words slip out, and as soon as they do, he pushes off the counter, pacing away from you with a shake off his head. He rubs a hand over his mouth as if he wants to push the words back inside. 

He doesn’t elaborate, but you can see it now, clearer than before – there are lines he actually won’t cross. Not again. Not ever. Not for anything. 

Not even for the evil thing that killed his parents.

He licks his lips and dares to glance at you again, straightening slightly. “All I’m saying is… you’ve got a life, alright?” he says, his deep voice steadying with every further spoken syllable. “You know, a real one – job, place, people. You don’t just throw that away chasing something like this,” he adds. “Sam… he’s already too far in it. He doesn’t see the line anymore.”

You stare at him for a moment, letting the message sink in. “So you don’t think I should do the ritual?”

“Correct.” He exhales slowly. “Look, once you’re in, you’re in. There’s no clean way out of it, alright?”

“Sam seems to think there is.”

“He’s wrong.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, your mind racing with every possible option. But no matter how hard you think about it, you find yourself staring down a fork in the road, not knowing which path is the right one. So, you look to Dean for answers. 

“What d’you think I should do?”

He bites his lip, staring out the only window in the room, mulling over your question for a minute or two before he meets your eyes again. “I think, uhm… you don’t make that call just ‘cause someone else is pushing you to,” he says carefully. “You make it when you’ve got no other choice left. And right now, you’ve still got choices.”

You nod slowly, letting his warning seep into the back of your mind, but there’s something else tugging at you. 

“Do I actually still have a choice?” you ask then, scoffing a small, humorless laugh. “I mean, Sam said this thing might still find me. That it might come after my family.” 

Dean’s jaw grinds as if he doesn’t like the fact that his brother put that idea into your head. But what would his solution have been? Not tell you and watch you and everyone you love die? Is that his end goal? You think he’s surely not that cruel before remembering the same guy tried to murder you in cold blood. 

His head bobs for a moment before a click of his tongue follows. “It could.” 

And for a while, neither of you speaks then. But the tension is softer and more velvety than it was at the crime scene. It’s not looking for a fight anymore. 

“Look,” he starts, and you find his eyes again. “Don’t worry about the demon. Me and Sam can handle it, alright? It’s not gonna come after you or anyone close to you.”

Slightly skeptical, you cock a brow and cross your arms. “You sure?”

He hesitates a second before his Adam’s apple bobs around a swallow. Then he meets your eyes. “I promise.”

Your heart skips a few beats. You’re honestly not sure you can trust his words. How could he ever promise something like that? Most of all, though, why would he? You know he hates you and everything you stand for. 

“Alright.” Dean then straightens abruptly and rubs his palms together, nodding toward the exit. “Are you about done here, or is there more horse hair?”

“No, uh, I think I’ve got it all,” you reply and pull off your gloves. “Just have to clean up. Shouldn’t take long.”

Dean nods quickly, suddenly in a slight hurry, almost bumping backwards into a metal cart. “Great, uhm, I’m gonna go ahead and grab a bite. I’ll wait for you by the car.”

“Okay, yeah,” you agree and spin back to your station, gathering your slides and evidence bags.  

He heads for the door and doesn’t touch anything on the way out. You notice that. Maybe there’s hope for him after all. But as his hand reaches for the handle, he stops unexpectedly and turns back to you. 

“You–, uh, you want anything? I can grab you something, too.”

You stump for a second. Because honestly? That’s the last thing you anticipated. 

You shake your head slowly. “Uh… no. I’m good.”

He frowns slightly. “You sure? You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Your brow furrows, head tilting a little as you assess him. You can’t even tell if he’s serious right now or playing another angle again. You wouldn't put it past him to poison your food. He seems strangely sincere, however. His aura does, too. 

Is that considered weird or normal? Or is it only weird because he tried to kill you and now seemingly worries about your food intake, but it’d be completely normal under different circumstances?

“Yeah, uhm, I’m fine… really,” you reply and swallow lightly. “But, uhm, thanks.”

Dean gives you a nod. And then, he’s out the door within seconds, practically fleeing the lab. 

Yeah, it’s weird, isn’t it? Definitely weird. 

When Dean and you finally make it to the library, Sam’s exactly where the two of you left him – buried behind a stack of books that’s grown in both size and instability. He’s halfway through one, another marked with a pen, and a third is open but has been clearly abandoned mid-thought. Dean’s sure if his little brother could read two at once, he would.

Dean remains a step behind you, hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, as you stroll ahead without hesitancy. You seem to feel comfortable here, which makes sense, considering you went to college and probably spent a lot of time in libraries. At least, you don’t strike him as someone who partied their way through it. You’re too smart for that – kind of like Sam.

Two nerdy peas in a dusty pot. 

You lean slightly toward the table behind Sam, eyes already eagerly scanning his little brother’s spread of research. “Find anything?”

Sam finally blinks up at that, slightly delayed as he pulls himself back into the present. “Working on it,” he replies, then glances between you and Dean. “You guys? How was the lab?”

You give a slight nod toward Dean, a small, teasing smile rising on your lips. “Has he ever been tested for ADHD yet?”

Dean’s brow furrows wildly at that. Sure, he was aware you were a little annoyed by his antics, but it wasn’t that bad, was it? It’s not his fault labs and libraries are indefinitely boring. 

Sam lets out a soft chuckle in response, nodding along like he’s agreeing with you. “Not yet, but I wouldn’t rule it out,” he quips like it’s a well-documented phenomenon. “If anyone’s a textbook case…”

The creases in Dean’s brow deepen. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” 

Sam shrugs lightly, already looking back down at the page in front of him. “Just saying, man. You don’t exactly thrive in environments that require… stillness.”

“Well, anyways, human distractions aside,” you start, organizing your thoughts, “I managed to process the residue from the wound. It’s iron-based and heavily oxidized, but the corrosion isn’t uniform and refined in a way modern alloys are. There are inconsistencies in the structure – impurities you don’t really see in anything manufactured post-industrial standardization.”

Sam's shoulders pull back slightly, his attention sharpening. “So older metal,” he deduces. 

Dean, on the other hand, is amazed his little brother even understood an ounce of that. He only caught about half of it and can’t help but notice that you used a lot more technical jargon with Sam than you did with Dean back at the lab. 

Were you dumbing it down for him? 

Dean would be offended if he wasn’t too fascinated by the way you speak – certain, steady, laying out all the answers without second-guessing. 

His mind drifts back to the lab, the words in your mother’s letter still swirling around his head. It’s not the magic part that got stuck, however – not the blood moon, the legacy, or any of that witch-destiny crap he’s been taught to side-eye since he was old enough to hold a gun. It’s the rest of it that haunts him. 

You are loved beyond measure.

His jaw grinds slightly as that line echoes through his skull again. It’s the part that doesn’t let go. It almost leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, hitting somewhere deeper than he’d like – a place he usually keeps locked down tight. It’s memories he doesn’t need right now and things he rarely lets himself think about unless it’s late or quiet or he’s had one too many beers and his guard slips just enough to let it hurt for an hour or two. 

He’s seen grief before – lived in it, breathed it, and carried it around like a second skin. But that letter wasn’t just grief. There was a warmth underneath it, and it rewired something in his brain. 

Suddenly, you’re not just a witchy wildcard anymore he needs to keep at arm’s length. You became the girl again he first saw before he knew you liked to write spells in glitter gel pens – the girl who lost her mom and who got handed something she never asked for and is now stuck dealing with the fallout.

Same as him. Same as Sam. Maybe just a different flavor. 

Dean meant every word he said back at the lab – about you having a life, about staying out of this mess, about not doing some weird ritual. He doesn’t want to watch you get dragged into something that chews people up and spits them out, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the job, the fight, or the next thing trying to kill you. You’re not supposed to end up like this, running around chasing ghosts and curses and things that don’t stay dead. That’s not your lane. It shouldn’t be.

But seeing you like that – like someone who had a life before all this, someone who still has one – makes everything a hell of a lot more complicated. And the more he thinks about it, the less it feels like it’s even his call to make. Not anymore. Maybe it never was. It certainly seems like it doesn’t really matter what either of you wants.

Because if that letter also made one thing painfully clear, it’s that none of this started with you.

Family legacy. Awakening. Power waiting for you. Destiny. 

God,he hates that word because it’s just another way of saying you don’t get a choice, wrapped up in something that sounds nicer than it actually fucking is. 

You didn’t ask for any of this – not the magic, not the demon, and not whatever target just got painted on your back the second you turned twenty-one. Dean already knows how this goes, seen it play out too many times to count – once you’re in, you’re in. It doesn’t matter how normal your life used to be or how much you want to keep it.

For all his talk back at the lab, he’s slowly starting to realize it might be too late to walk it back now. 

Because the truth is, it’s already circling you. Things are already set in motion. Lines are being drawn. And he knows better than anyone that once something like that sets its sights on you, it doesn’t just let you walk away unscathed.

Your voice then snaps him out of his thoughts, forcing him to concentrate back on the case at hand – something he actually can fix.

“Yeah, it’s consistent with hand-forged steel,” you confirm, looking at Sam. “The carbon distribution’s uneven, which points to older smelting methods. It’s not something mass-produced, and it hasn’t been preserved well, either. There’s evidence of long-term exposure to moisture, maybe even soil.”

“Timeline?” Sam asks.

“Pre-modern production. Likely 19th century, give or take,” you reply. “Depends on how it was stored – or not stored. I think Civil War era would be the most consistent fit.”

Sam nods slowly like he understood all of that. He then leans back a little in his chair, thinking it through. “Okay, so we’re looking for a Civil War-era blade, possibly tied to a spirit,” he muses, tapping his pen against the page. “Problem is there are a lot of Civil War soldiers buried around here. Some not even officially recorded. Unmarked graves, battlefield spillover…”

“So too many candidates,” Dean concludes.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “If this is a soldier tied to a weapon, it’s not gonna be easy to get a clean ID.”

You shift your weight slightly, following along, but there’s a small crease between your brows now. “But the Headless Horseman legend – wasn’t that from a different war?”

Sam nods, already reaching for one of the books. “Yup. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow was originally about a Hessian soldier. Revolutionary War. Not Civil War.”

“So it doesn’t match,” you infer.

“Not exactly,” Sam replies. “But that’s not that unusual. Local legends change over time. People see something they don’t understand, and they use whatever story fits best to explain it.”

Dean picks up on that thread. “So if something starts taking heads off, folks are gonna call it the Headless Horseman whether it lines up with Irving or not.”

You nod slowly. “Alright, so the name sticks, even if the details don’t. So, what? This all could just be a coincidence that there’s an actual Headless Horseman in Sleepy Hollow?”

“Seems like it,” Sam says.

There’s a brief pause as you think it over before glancing between them. “Okay, but how do the victims connect to the weapon? If it’s a cursed object… how does that work?”

Dean answers first. “Usually? You touch it.”

“Or you move it, disturb it,” Sam adds. “Anything that establishes contact. Some objects can affect people just by being nearby, but physical contact’s the most common trigger.”

You absorb that, head bobbing in thought. “So all four victims would’ve had to come into contact with the same object.”

“Yeah, most likely,” Sam confirms.

Dean pushes off the table and straightens. “Which means there’s gotta be a place where all of them could’ve run into it without knowing what it was.”

His little brother is nodding as well, probably having circled that same idea. He flips another page, scanning quickly before something seems to click.

“I might have something,” Sam says then, opening up his laptop and turning it toward you and Dean. “There’s a history museum here in town. It’s small, but they’ve got a special exhibit right now. Weapons, uniforms… that kind of thing.”

Dean leans in just enough to glance at the screen. “Open to the public?”

“Yup,” Sam says. “Regular visitors, tours. Judging from the homepage, people can get pretty close to the displays.”

You lean in as well, skimming the details. “That would explain how unrelated victims end up exposed to the same object,” you say. “Different people, same location.”

The pieces line up enough to be worth chasing. 

Dean rolls his shoulders and readily fumbles for his keys in his pocket. “Alright, guess the museum’s our next stop.”

As you enter the museum with Sam and Dean, you instantly lose any sense of a timeline, clocking at least three different centuries fighting for shelf space within the first minute of being here. You’ve honestly never seen anything like it. The entire place looks like someone tried to preserve history but then gave up halfway through organizing it. 

A faded Union uniform slumps beside an old musket leaning against the wall, which almost threatens to fall over if someone breathes too damn hard, while a case of antique and mismatched teaspoons sits next to it, labeled in barely legible handwriting and fading ink. 

Nothing matches, nothing flows, and whatever system might have existed here certainly died a long damn time ago.

You take it in for a moment, head tilting. “If I did this at work, I’d be fired before lunch.”

Dean shuts the creaking door behind you, glancing around with something closer to amusement than concern. “Oh, c’mon, it’s got character.” 

“Character isn’t a filing system,” you mutter, spotting four different labeling styles within the same six feet, which make your stomach churn.

Sam doesn’t engage, already drawn like a moth to a stack of papers. He locks onto the nearest surface that looks remotely administrative and heads straight for the counter. “Excuse me? Is anyone here?” he calls. “Do you have a catalogue? Inventory records? Anything that organizes–”

“‘Course I do,” a gruff voice cuts him off.

The owner emerges as if he’s been summoned by the word catalogue alone, shuffling out from behind the desk. He’s probably closer to ninety than eighty in age, wrinkled and hole-littered cardigan buttoned unevenly, glasses slipping down his nose as he eyes all three of you with suspicion before he strangely seems to fix on Dean the most.

“You look like a toucher,” he says.

Dean stumps, blinking at the old man. “I–… what?”

You can barely stifle your laugh, shoulders shaking from holding back too much. “Oh, he is,” you add with hurting cheeks. “Especially on public transportation.”

Dean’s head snaps to you with a glare, which only makes you bite your lip harder.

“Well, don’t touch anything here, boy,” the man adds with a warning look.

You shoot Dean a sideways glance as the owner turns away again. “Oh, he clocked you instantly.”

He frowns, somewhat defensive. “I do not look like a toucher.”

“You touched everything at the lab, too. You’ve got zero impulse control. You practically radiate ‘I wonder what happens if I poke it.’”

He purses his lips like you caught him there, but before he can argue further, the owner reappears with an armful of binders. No, not even an armful – multiple trips. By the time he’s done, there are eight thick, overstuffed binders stacked on the counter, loose papers sticking out of all sides.

Sam stares at them like he’s been personally insulted.

“I wrote everything down,” the old man says proudly, patting the top binder. “Every item. Buttons, coins, spoons… Got a lot of spoons. People like spoons.”

You glance around the room again. There are, in fact, an alarming number of spoons. And guess what? Dean’s restless fingers are already sifting through some of them. You smile in amusement, shaking your head slightly at him. You really can’t take this guy anywhere. 

Sam then carefully opens the first binder, flips a page, then another, his brow creasing deeper with each passing second. “Is this… organized?”

The man pauses, considering it like it’s a philosophical question. “My wife used to do that.”

Sam waits, but the old man doesn’t elaborate.

“And now?” Sam prompts after a full minute with no answer.

“She died twenty years ago.”

Dean gives a solemn nod. “So we’re freestylin’. Got it.”

Sam exhales a long-suffering breath, staring down at what appears to be fifty years of unsorted acquisition logs written in increasingly inconsistent handwriting. “So, everything’s just… in the order you got it?”

“Yep.”

“For twenty years.”

“Yep.”

You fold your arms over your chest, looking between the binders and the rest of the room. “Alright, so we could spend the next six hours playing archaeological bingo, or we could not.”

Dean perks up at that. “Big fan of not.”

Sam looks at you, a smile forming on his lips, already catching on. “You have something faster?”

You reach into your bag and pull out your notebook, flipping it open on the counter. “I can narrow it down,” you explain. “Find the object directly instead of digging through… whatever this is.”

Dean watches you, one brow lifting judgmentally as you pull out a pen – a purple glitter gel pen.

“Really, Mini Milano?”

“Purple’s for magic targeting magic,” you tell him without looking up. 

He snorts under his breath. “‘Course it is.”

Sam, bless him, doesn’t question it, though. “Go ahead.”

“C’mon, we don’t need magic for this,” Dean grunts. “Can’t we just, I don’t know, use our eyes?”

“Dean, look around you. This whole place is a mess. A spell will save us hours,” Sam counters before Dean can double down. 

The older brother then grumbles something under his breath, but he refrains from saying anything else. You do catch the way he shifts, though. You can read the subtle discomfort in his aura – how he’s a little more on edge now, a little more wound tighter. Magic’s clearly still not his favorite thing in the world. 

Your attention then lands back on the empty page in front of you, the words already forming as you focus on the intent, pen moving with deliberate care. 

Objects bound by curse or spite,Hidden now from mortal sight,Reveal to me what must be known,The thing that claims what’s not its own.

You mutter the lines under your breath before closing the notebook, letting the magic flow through the room. 

And for a full minute, it seems like nothing happens.

Dean clicks his tongue. “See? We could’ve just–”

A purple glow suddenly lights up the entrance, cutting him off mid-sentence as his attention shifts. All three of you turn at once.

There is an old sword mounted just off to the side, glimmering purple from your spell. It’s positioned right where anyone walking in could see it first. It doesn’t look particularly remarkable. The metal is darkened, the hilt is worn, and age sits heavily in every inch of it.

The corners of Sam’s mouth twitch with a satisfied smile. “Guess that’s gotta be it.”

You follow him, studying the blade more closely. The corrosion patterns match your findings in the lab. It lines up too neatly to be anything else.

Behind you and Sam, Dean suddenly clears his throat. “Uhm, guys?”

You and Sam slowly turn and glance at him. Dean rubs the back of his neck, not quite meeting your eyes. There’s a slight flush in his cheeks as well, and it slowly begins to dawn on you. 

“So… funny thing,” he begins.

“No…” You’re already shaking your head, guessing what’s coming next. “You didn’t, did you?”

“There’s a sign, okay?” Dean defends, gesturing toward the display.

You spin and see that there is, in fact, a sign. Interactive Display – Feel Free to Touch. You stare at it for a moment longer before turning back to him.

“I might have… touched it,” he admits in case it still wasn’t clear, although that fact has already been very well established by now.

Sam gapes at him. “You what?!”

Dean throws his hands up. “It’s right by the entrance. It literally tells you to touch it. What was I supposed to do? Ignore the sign?”

“Yes,” both you and Sam reply flatly.

You close your eyes for a moment and press your lips into a tight line, counting to three again. “Let me get this straight – you touched a random sword in a museum where we were looking for a potentially cursed sword?”

Dean purses his lips, then shrugs his shoulders as if that was a reasonable life choice. “In my defense, I didn’t think that’d be the murdery one, alright?”

Sam rubs a hand down his face. “Dean…”

You, on the other hand, just look at Dean and weigh several responses, eventually discarding all of them in favor of a long and slow breath out.

“You realize what this means, right?” you ask.

“Yeah, I’m probably cursed. Got it,” Dean sighs with an annoying lack of panic in his voice.

Sam, meanwhile, is staring at the tempting sign again like it just solved half the case. “That’s how they’re getting cursed.”

You shoot him a curious look. “The victims?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Public display. Encouraged contact. Anyone who walks in and touches it–”

“–walks out marked,” you finish.

Dean cocks his head slightly, brow knitted. “So what? I’m just the latest idiot who touched it?”

You hum, nodding. “Seems that way, yes.”

Dean shoots you a small glare while Sam already turns back toward the counter. 

“Sir? Do you keep a guest book?” he asks the owner. “Visitor log, anything like that?”

“‘Course I do,” the man says, shuffling back and returning with a worn notebook. “Not many people sign it, though. Shame, really.”

Sam flips it open immediately, scanning the entries while you lean in slightly to look. It doesn’t take long for you to find the names of at least two victims. 

“Welp, guess we’re finally getting warmer,” you murmur.

Sam closes the guest book and looks back at the owner. “How long have you had that sword? The one by the entrance?”

The old man squints, thinking. “Oh, not that long. Couple weeks, maybe.”

Sam and you exchange a look. It fits the pattern.

“Have all the people who signed the guest book in the last few weeks touched that sword?” you ask the old man. 

“Oh, more than that,” he replies, making you frown. “Probably hundreds. Got a lot of tourists recently because of those murders. Sword’s popular.”

Great.

“Do you know where it came from?” Sam presses. “Or who it belonged to?”

“My wife used to keep track of that,” he says, voice softening. “Had a system. Labels, dates…”

“Yeah, we’ve established that,” Dean mutters under his breath. 

Sam tries again, a little gentler. “Is it written down in the catalogue?”

The man looks at the binders, then somewhere past them, his gaze drifting out the window. “The spoons are all accounted for,” he murmurs. “Except the silver one. That went missing… ’98. Or Friday.”

Oh no… Is he sundowning?

Sam stills, recognition dawning on his face. “Okay,” he says with a sigh, turning to you and Dean. “I think we won’t get anything useful out of him anymore.”

Dean whistles lowly. “Yeah, he’s gone.”

The owner nods to himself, satisfied with something none of you are a part of anymore, and shuffles back behind the counter where he came from.

“But that’s good news, right?” Dean says then, causing your brow to knit. 

“How’s that good news?”

“Well, if a lot of people touched it and only four got their heads chopped off, means I might not be cursed,” he reasons cleverly. 

Your brows pinch a little more together as you cock your head to the side, taking a closer look at him from head to toe. “No, you’re cursed.” 

“Wow. Encouraging,” he says dryly. “Little Miss Optimistic over here, huh?”

Sam’s brow creases as well, squinting at you. “Wait… Can you actually tell if he is or not?”

“Yup,” you reply, nodding. “I mean, I never spotted a curse before in someone’s aura, but this one seems pretty clear.”

Dean frowns. “How so?”

“For starters, there’s a petunia-purple rope around your neck now that wasn’t there before,” you quip and grin a little. “Kinda looks like someone already marked the spot.”

“Petunia?” He arches an eyebrow, wrinkling his nose. 

That’s what he takes issue with?!

“Yes, petunia.” 

Sam sighs again and stares down at the mountain of binders in front of him. “Alright, let’s take these back to the B&B and go through them one by one,” he suggests.

Dean glances once more at the sword, then at his brother. “So what’s the plan? I just wait around until I hear hooves and something tries to decapitate me?”

You snort under your breath. “That does seem to be the current trajectory.”

“Awesome,” he grumbles. 

Sam gathers the binders with effort, stacking them into something barely manageable. “Look, if we figure out who the sword belonged to, we can figure out how to stop it.”

“And preferably before you make history as victim number five,” you add.

“Good to know where I stand,” Dean scoffs, then motions with his chin to the sword. “What about that thing? Can’t just leave it here and let more people touch it.”

Sam gives him a tired smile. “Well, since you’re already cursed, how about you take care of that? We’ll head back to the B&B and get a head start.”

“Fine,” Dean huffs, rolling his eyes.

You frown slightly, thumbing toward Dean. “Wait, he’s getting out of research that easy?” 

Sam chuckles. “Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”

You side-eye Dean for a second, already seeing those fingers twitching again, and nod in understanding. “Yeah, I think I get it.”

Dean blinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” you and Sam reply simultaneously, causing the older Winchester to glare at both of you. 

You’ve noticed that Dean gets even more irritated when Sam and you seem to be on the same wavelength. It’s kind of entertaining, though, to see that vein in his forehead twitch. You think you might start doing it on purpose soon just for that reason. 

“Guess I’ll take care of that sword,” he mutters grumpily, shaking his head. 

“You do that,” you quip, smirking. A knight and his sword. “You are a toucher, after all.”

Dean gives you the driest look you’ve seen so far. “You’re really not gonna let the touching thing go, are you?”

You shrug lightly. “I’m at least documenting it mentally.”

“For what?”

“A growing body of evidence against you.”

He snorts an amused laugh while Sam’s already heading for the exit, all eight binders in his large arms. You follow, casting one last look at the sword, and pretend not to notice the slight curve of your own lips as you push the door open and step back out into the daylight.

▶️ Chapter 5: Old Habits Die Screaming – June 26

The museum and lab scenes get me every time lmao. Guess we've learned for certain now that Dean's a toucher (and we can cross off him getting cursed from our Supernatural bingo card) 🤣 Which of Dean's psychic/witch-inspired nicknames won in this part, though? How much did that dream hurt? And do you think Sam will murder them both by the end of the next chapter? I think he's about done with their bickering lol. And lastly, what's your opinion on this mysterious ritual (aka which brother do you agree with)? 😜

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You scoff under your breath, shaking your head a little as you gather the cards again and put them back into the deck.

Well, that was an enlightening reading…

Opposite you, Dean shifts on the couch, green eyes flicking to you. “Alright, seriously,” he huffs. “What the hell are you doing over there? You keep making faces.”

“Working,” you reply quickly.

“Looks like scrapbooking.”

“Looks like you’re avoiding your reading.”

“I’m reading,” he mutters. “I just hate it.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips as you slide the last card neatly back into the deck, but then another one slips free and flutters down onto the mattress.

Oh no… Not this again. Guess the universe didn’t get the memo you’re done with your reading and decided to give you an encore.

You know this card belongs to you and not to the boys. Lucky you. But as you peek at the card, your brow wrinkles deeply.

The Lovers.

For a full minute, your brain stalls. Your eyes follow the angle of the card, but not to the left, not toward Sam at the table, but to the right, toward the couch, toward–

No… Nuh-uh. Nope. Ew, gross. Absolutely not.

Dean’s eyes flick to you again for half a second before swiftly looking away like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t. You stare at him for a moment, because really?

Really?!

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Judging by the fuzzy edges in his vision and the milky filter that makes everything glow slightly orange, he seems to be currently stuck in a dream.

Dean’s not exactly sure, though, where in the dream he is. But the air feels cleaner and softer around here. It hasn’t been scraped raw yet by exhaust fumes and motel bleach. It smells like forest and sun-warmed grass and lake water as the Impala drives along a winding dirt road, leading up a small hill. 

He’s not the one driving, though. His father is, while him and Sammy are cramped into the backseat. 

His shoulders dig into the worn leather as he stares out the window. He’s about twelve, maybe a little younger or older as the leg space in the back seems to be a tiny bit tighter than it used to. 

And then, a house comes into view. 

Faded blue in places where the sun’s kissed it too much and lived-in. Old but sturdy. It sits on a gentle rise, a green hill rolling up toward it, tucked between trees that stretch tall into the sky. He almost gasps at its beauty. It’s not polished in the perfect way of magazine homes, but in the way something real is beautiful. 

And it’s big – bigger than anything Dean’s used to calling home. 

It looks like something taken straight out of a storybook. There’s a wide wrap-around porch hugging the entire ground floor, railings painted white, steps worn smooth in the middle from years of use. One side of the house rises into an octagonal tower, tall and narrow, with windows glinting in the bright light. 

His gaze lingers on the attic without knowing why. 

There’s a window set into the peak of the roof, a colorful mosaic of stained glass. A birch tree delicately stretches across it, its branches protectively fanning outward. The glass glows, even from down here. 

Dean feels it then before he understands it. He’s been here before. 

He doesn’t know why, but he knows how the porch creaks under his weight and how the front door sticks just a little in the summer heat. 

A smile rises on his lips before he can stop it. Before he can question it. Before anything in this life can weigh it down again. 

He likes it here. 

The Impala rolls to a stop in front of the house. It doesn’t have a driveway or even a road. There’s just a small dirt path leading up to the porch. Otherwise, there’s only nature surrounding it, grass greener than he’s ever seen anywhere before and stretching out endlessly. No neighbors. Not a single roofline in sight.

The entire place feels like a magical secret in another realm. 

The driver’s door creaks open as his dad steps out, already all business, already moving toward the house like he’s got somewhere to be, already focused on whatever brought them here in the first place. Sammy scrambles after him, no more than eight, tripping over his own eagerness as usual. 

“Watch your brother,” his dad throws over his shoulder.

Dean rolls his eyes automatically and mutters a “yeah, yeah,” pushing the door open and stepping out into the blinding sun. The air is warm against his skin, and everything feels already lighter here. And for a second, just a second, there’s nothing sharp or dangerous about the world for once. No monsters. 

“Dean!”

He turns at the sound of his name and sees her running toward him. 

Small. Fast. All bright energy and wind-tangled hair. The way she’s storming at full speed feels like she’s already been waiting the whole damn day for this exact moment. Maybe even longer. It does something weird in his chest that he can’t name at twelve yet, but he decides he likes that feeling as well. 

There’s dirt on her knees and something wild and alive in the way she moves. It seems like she belongs more out here than inside any house. She doesn’t slow down until she’s right in front of him, practically bouncing where she stands.

And Dean? He grins.

It’s easy. Natural. This is what he’s supposed to do. 

She’s a little breathless and flushed, but her eyes are shining and there’s something bright and untamed in her grin. 

“You’re back!” she blurts, looking up at him like he painted the sky mesmerizingly blue just for her. 

She says it like it matters – like he matters. There’s something warm and familiar about that.

Important. 

“Yeah,” he says and shrugs like it’s no big deal, even though it sort of is. A part of him has been looking forward to this without realizing it.

She steps closer then, lowering her voice like she’s about to share the greatest secret in the world. “I got it,” she whispers.

Dean’s brow furrows the slightest bit. “Got what?”

“My magic.”

The word drops between them and lands wrong, tilting everything on its axis.

It doesn’t fit with the sunlight or the trees or the way this place felt like something safe just a minute ago. It sits heavily in the air, sharp-edged now where everything else used to be so damn soft.

Something in Dean shifts then.

It’s small at first. Just a flicker. A hitch in his chest. A loss of warmth. Barely noticeable. But it spreads quickly, like a crack through glass.

Magic. Witch.

The smile fades before he can stop it because he doesn’t like that. Not one bit. Doesn’t like the way it sounds, the way it feels, the way it suddenly changes everything about her without actually changing the way she looks, or the way it instantly makes everything here… different. Off. 

Before, she was normal. There wasn’t anything weird about her. Nothing to worry about. Nothing that reminded him of the things that go bump in the dark. 

But now, the ground under his feet isn’t as steady as it was a moment ago. Now, she’s something else. Something closer to the things he’s been taught to hate.

He looks at her again and really looks this time. And something clicks into place in a way that doesn’t make sense – not for twelve-year-old Dean standing in the tall grass at least. But it makes sense for the version of him watching through older eyes as something else threads through the dream.

He knows that little girl. Not the way a kid knows another kid, though. It’s something deeper. Something that doesn’t belong to this moment alone.

That little girl is… you. 

The realization hits quiet but certain, settling under his skin like it’s always been there, just waiting to be noticed. And somehow, that only makes it worse. Makes the disappointment sink deeper and take root. 

Because now the word witch doesn’t just sit wrong – it twists.

You’re still talking, still glowing with excitement, completely unaware of the way his expression’s changed.

“I can show you,” you offer keenly, reaching for the sleeve of his jacket like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t anchor him there. “It’s really cool, I promise. I’ve been practicing and–”

Dean pulls back his arm. 

Not hard. Not enough to be obvious. But enough to draw a line. The space between the two of you expands to a canyon in a millisecond.

He shrugs it off, eyes already drifting past you, toward the trees, toward the edge of the hill where the land dips down toward the pond, toward anything that isn’t this.

“Maybe later,” he mutters.

Your face falters, confusion replacing the earlier joy. 

“You don’t wanna see?” you ask with a slight wobbling pout on your lips.

He exhales through his nose, like you’re asking something annoying instead of something that matters.

“I said maybe later,” he snaps and averts his eyes when you flinch. “Go play with Sammy or somethin’.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond this time. Doesn’t look at you again, either. He just turns, shoving his hands into his pockets as he heads down the slope toward the water glinting through the trees. Each step feels easier than the last because distance is the only thing that makes sense right now.

Behind him, your voice echoes for half a heartbeat before it fades into the silence. But Dean keeps walking and doesn’t stop.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Dean’s eyes crack open to the dim, familiar ceiling of Bobby’s guest room, the wood panels stained and slightly warped with age. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just lies there in the narrow twin bed, watching the soft morning light seep through the yellowed curtains. 

The room is quiet in that particular way old houses tend to be – never truly silent but filled with the creaks and cracks of wood that has seen too many years. Bobby’s place has always been like that. Warm. Chaotic. A little rundown. Grounded. Home. 

And yet, Dean feels… off.

A part of him hasn’t quite made it back to reality yet. Part of him is still somewhere else. Still standing in a field that shouldn’t exist. Still watching a blue house glow in the sunlight like something out of a story he doesn’t remember reading. Still hearing your damn voice – bright, excited, and too fucking real.

He exhales slowly and drags a hand down his face, the rough scrape of his palm against his skin anchoring him a little more firmly in the present. But the dream sticks, stubborn in a way most aren’t. It’s too coherent to be dismissed entirely, even as he tries his damn hardest to forget it. 

There’s no immediate adrenaline in his veins, no hand flying under his pillow for a gun, and no sharp inhale of air like he’s startling straight out of another nightmare. It’s not the usual gist when it comes to dreams. Resurfacing feels slower than that. Feels more like he’s wading through something thick, something that clings.

My magic.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut for another second before letting out a quiet, irritated breath. 

Yeah… nope. He’s not dealing with that. He’s already got enough on his plate as is. It’s just a dream. A stupid, stupid, meaningless dream. A weird, persistent, too-detailed dream, but still just that.

That’s the only explanation that makes any kind of sense. Because the alternative – that it’s something else, something real – isn’t even worth entertaining. He’s never been to that place. Never seen that house. Never–

Dean’s frown deepens slightly.

There’s a strange familiarity to it, though. Not the kind that comes from memory exactly, but something adjacent to it, like his mind is filling in details it shouldn’t have, smoothing over gaps that shouldn’t exist in the first place.

He huffs under his breath and shifts on the mattress, which creaks in loud protest. The sheet’s half-twisted around his legs, the pillow shoved somewhere under his shoulder at an awkward angle. His fingers push back through his hair and make it worse, dirty blond tufts sticking up in every direction like he stuck his finger in a damn socket. 

It’s been like this for weeks now.

Ever since Salem.

Ever since you.

Same kind of dream. Same feeling. Same place, more or less. Bits and pieces shifting and morphing but always circling back to that house, that hill, that–

He cuts the thought off again because it just doesn’t make sense. None of it does. Dean Winchester does not have childhood memories of some random blue house in the middle of nowhere New Hampshire. He doesn’t have memories of running around with some girl in a field, playing house like everything’s normal and safe and–

His brain’s just screwing with him, cooking up whatever the hell that was, stitching things together that don’t fucking belong together. That’s all. 

He probably just picked something up in your apartment when they met you – something tiny and unimportant. Something he didn’t even consciously notice. Something small enough that it didn’t register at the time but still got stuck somewhere in the back of his head. Maybe a detail at your place. A book. A picture on the wall.

Yeah, that must be it. That’s what brains do, right? Take pieces, scraps, things picked up without noticing, and turn them into something bigger and personal, filling in non-existent blanks. Didn’t Freud write a whole-ass book about this?

It doesn’t mean those dreams are real in any way, shape, or form. 

Except–

Dean doesn’t remember seeing anything like that in your home. No pictures of a house. No hints. Nothing that should’ve given his brain that kind of material to work with. 

His jaw tightens slightly at that, something restless seeping under his skin. The timing alone is strange enough to irritate him. Apparently, his stupid brain has decided to latch onto you and just run with it in the most inconvenient way possible.

Maybe you’re a metaphor for something or a ghost of his Christmas past. Maybe you cursed him or hexed him or did whatever dumb, evil stuff witches do. Wouldn’t that be something? He gets on your bad side and threatens your life once and suddenly he’s stuck reliving some odd, fake childhood memories on a loop. Petty revenge does kind of fit your usual M.O., considering all the dicks you broke before him. 

Sure, the idea is slightly ridiculous, but it’s easier to digest than admitting to the fact that all this stupid and weird crap is coming directly from him.

Dean exhales another harsh breath through his nose and finally pushes himself upright. The bed creaks once more under his weight, old springs squeaking as he swings his legs over the side. The floorboards are cool under his feet when he rises. As he glances across the room, he finds Sam’s bed empty.

His little brother’s already up. Figures. 

Sam’s side is neat in that half-assed way whenever he’s in a hurry – blanket pushed back, pillow slightly indented, but otherwise abandoned. He’s probably downstairs already. Buried in books. Researching. Again.

Chasing ghosts that don’t wanna be caught. Chasing answers that don’t exist. Chasing that damn demon.

Sam doesn’t let things go. Not anymore, at least. God knows it was real easy for his little brother to let things go when he left everything behind for Stanford, including Dean. But somehow, Sam can’t do him the same courtesy now and let it go again. 

Now, after everything – after Jess, after Dad, after hunters like Gordon being immoral and wicked like monsters, after vampires and witches suddenly not fitting the mold anymore, and after psychic kids like Max and Andy – there’s no stopping Sam anymore. 

Nothing fits anymore. That’s the goddamn problem. The lines aren’t where they’re supposed to be. The rules don’t hold the way they used to. Monsters aren’t always monsters. Psychic kids aren’t always ticking time bombs waiting to go off. 

And maybe the last one isn’t the worst possible outcome. It’s that little shimmer of hope flickering in the distance that Dean’s been focusing on lately. Because maybe it means his father’s insane request doesn’t have to come true. Maybe it means he won’t have to kill the last member of his family with his own hands. 

Dean sighs as he trudges down the old stairs. When did his life get so damn complicated? How the hell did he end up here?

The smell of coffee then hits him halfway down the steps. Strong. Bitter. Bobby’s special brand of hospitality. 

As he rounds the corner to the kitchen, Sam’s already there. Of course he is. 

Sitting at the small table, hunched forward slightly, a mug of coffee in one hand and a book in the other, with about six more spread out around him like he’s building some kind of paper fortress.

Dean pauses in the doorway for a beat, watching him. Andy was just another reminder that Sam’s not normal. That none of this is going away. 

Sam then glances up briefly before focusing back on his book. “Morning.”

Dean pretends to stroll in without hesitation or having wasted a single thought on it, aiming for casualness as he heads straight for the coffee pot and grunts something that passes as a response. 

If he’s going to deal with this, any of this, he needs some caffeine first. And the thing is, he knows he will have to deal with it at some point. He knows there’s no outrunning this, even though most days he’d like to take his chances and still try. 

This particular day, however, doesn’t seem to be one of those. So, he pours himself a cup of the blackest coffee and leans against the counter as the bitter smell curls around him like all the other bitterness.

He winces at his first sip and decides to break the silence. “Bobby still makin’ this stuff strong enough to wake the dead, huh?”

Sam huffs a light chuckle in agreement but doesn’t look up, hazel eyes glued to the pages in front of him.

Dean watches him for another minute over the rim of his mug. God, he wants to ignore it. Wants to just drink his coffee, maybe make some joke, and then avoid the whole fucking thing. Because the last thing he truly wants to do is dive into demon lore first thing in the goddamn morning and psychic kids and destiny and all the bad ways this could end in blood and death and horror. 

But Sam’s already there and neck-deep in it, so alas, what other choice does Dean really have than be in it, too? 

“Found anything?” Dean asks finally, more out of obligation than genuine interest.

“Working on it.” 

He sighs quietly, pushing off the counter, pacing a few steps across the kitchen. “Sam–” he starts but doesn’t finish. Because what is he supposed to say? 

Stop? 

Yeah, right. Like that’s ever worked. The kid’s stubborn like that. 

But Dean doesn’t get really worried till Sam starts grinding his molars and biting the insides of his cheeks, his fingers playing with the edge of a page. That’s never a good sign. When his little brother’s chewing on something, Dean knows he gets the leftovers. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking–”

But Dean already shakes his head in warning. “Don’t even say it.”

Sam still does, though. Your name falls from his lips.

Dean freezes imperceptibly for a heartbeat, because the timing of this feels too deliberate to be a coincidence. Remnants of his latest dream flood back into his mind in the same breath, and he already hates where this conversation’s inevitably headed. 

“Don’t you think we should call her?” Sam finishes his delusion. 

Dean schools his expression quickly, taking another sip of coffee. “No, Sam, I don’t think that,” he replies dryly and keeps the annoyance locked behind his teeth.

Sam’s frown is already forming. “Dean–”

“I said no,” he snaps with more sharpness and watches Sam’s mouth close in frustration. 

He refuses to drag you into this. Because that’s what this is – dragging people into a mess they can’t get out of. He dragged Sam back into it and look what happened. Dean’s not doing that again. 

Sam then leans back in his chair, studying him, far from giving up, judging by the determination gleaming in his eyes. “She might have answers.” 

“Or she might be another problem,” Dean shoots back, although a small and annoying part of him knows Sam’s right. 

You probably would have answers. But Dean’s not sure he necessarily wants to hear them. 

Sam does, however. The obsession and urgency isn’t entirely new, but it’s definitely getting worse. Lately, it feels like Sam isn’t just looking for answers anymore but actually needs them like people need oxygen to live. This whole thing has become more intense and less… optional. 

Before Sam can push further, footsteps sound behind them. Bobby walks in, coffee already in hand, eyes flicking knowingly between them.

“What’re you two idjits arguin’ about this time, huh?” he prompts.

“Nothin’,” Dean mutters into his mug. But when his eyes find Sam in his periphery, he can already see the idea forming on his little brother’s face. He shoots Sam a warning look. 

“Actually, uhm–” Sam starts, gaze flicking briefly to Dean’s glare before he apparently decides to ignore it. “Hey, uh, Bobby, have you ever heard of the Berkano witches?”

Dean closes his eyes briefly to let the anger and frustration pass through his body without tearing the house down. Of course Sam can’t resist. Of course he fucking goes there. Of course he has to drag Bobby into it, too. 

Bobby halts his movements mid-pour on the counter and slowly turns around, raising a high brow. “Now, where the hell did you boys hear that name?”

“Dad’s journal,” Sam replies without missing a beat. 

Bobby lets out a scoff, shaking his head as he sets the mug down. “Yeah, you could say I’ve heard of ‘em,” he replies. “I was actually the one who sent your daddy up to New Hampshire in the first place.”

Dean’s brow knits. “Wait… You did?”

“So Dad really worked with them?” Sam checks curiously, leaning forward on the table. 

“Yup, he sure did,” Bobby confirms with a nod. “Figured they could help him with the demon, y’know? They’re kinda experts on all that stuff. Were at least…”

Sam shoots Dean a small I told you so glare that he fends off with an eye roll. 

Dean then focuses back on Bobby. “You know if he ever took us up there with him?”

The question clearly confuses Sam. Admittedly, it comes a little out of the blue, but Dean figures he can always excuse it with natural curiosity. He was a kid back then, too. What the hell did he truly know? And judging by Sam’s creased brow, his little brother clearly doesn’t have weird dreams about a place he’s never been to. 

A part of Dean is relieved about that because it means those dreams are really just that. Because even when Sam was younger than him, Dean knows his little brother would’ve never forgotten a beautiful place like that because he surely would’ve never forgotten it either if it truly existed, which means all of it is just some strange, surreal fantasy. Sam’s never been there. He’s never been there. It was never real. 

“Don’t know.” Bobby shakes his head slowly. “Your dad didn’t exactly always give me the play-by-play.”

Dean nods once, pretends to be satisfied, and considers the issue settled, even though it’s not. 

“How did you know about them?” Dean asks the older hunter then. 

“Met ‘em in the late ‘80s through another hunter who lived close to ‘em,” Bobby replies without elaborating the why of it all. “Mostly worked with Aine. She was the matriarch. Sometimes worked with her daughter, Freya, too. She had a little girl as well. Sweet kid. Couldn’t’ve been more than three or four when I met her.” He chuckles fondly before his expression turns more somber. “Too bad they’re all gone. Surely coulda helped you boys. ’S sad what happened to ‘em. Demons got ‘em in ’95. They were the last of their line.”  

Dean’s jaw tightens at that, locking eyes with Sam. So Bobby clearly doesn’t know about their father’s plan, either. Doesn’t know you’re still alive. Last one standing. 

For some reason, the thought curdles acid in Dean’s stomach. If he knows demons as well as he thinks he does, they surely wouldn’t like that. Maybe even take it as a challenge. 

Who can make a powerful witch bloodline go extinct first?

And for all Dean knows, he almost had. 

While Bobby doesn’t have a clue about John Winchester’s secrets, the old man’s at least perceptive enough to catch the silent conversation between the brothers. His eyes flick back and forth between them and narrow. 

“Alright, what’s going on here? One of you gonna tell me?” Bobby prompts, stance both challenging and somehow scolding. 

“They’re not all dead,” Dean says then. “The girl…” The word tastes strange on his tongue. The girl from his dreams. “She–, uh, she’s still alive.”

“Yeah, uhm, Dad got her out of that fire and hid her in Salem,” Sam adds. 

“Put her up with a cop,” Dean scoffs. 

Bobby exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, frustration with a hint of anger lacing his tone. Dean doesn’t entirely blame him. His father had a way of bringing that side out in people. “That stubborn bastard. Figures he’d keep somethin’ like that to himself.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean huffs in faint agreement. His father always had to keep his secrets.  

“Wait…” Bobby frowns then, tilting his head. “Was that why you boys went to Salem a couple of weeks ago?”

Both of them nod. 

“Dammit,” the old man grunts. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Bobby doesn’t wait for either of them to answer, though. He just spins on his heel and heads out of the kitchen. Dean can hear the basement door opening a second later and Bobby’s footsteps trudging down the stairs. He shares a quizzical look with Sam before the old man stomps back into the room with a giant, ancient book in his hands. He dusts it off before slapping it down on the small table in front of their noses. 

“Coulda given you boys this before,” is all he says before he opens it and flips through it till he finds the page he’s looking for. He taps his finger on the brittle parchment. “Here.”

Dean and Sam both lean closer, their eyes focusing on the hand-painted letters of the title. It almost looks like a fairytale in a storybook. 

The Legend of Eira

“Long before hunters had names for what they were doing,” Bobby begins, “before there were journals and rules and all that, people didn’t know what the hell they were up against. Humans still lived in tribes when the first demons began to walk the earth. They didn’t have the right names for ‘em yet, but crops started to fail, diseases spread, nights became unsafe…”

Dean’s eyes drop to the page in front of him, reading the first paragraphs. 

Before the old gods had names, before the world was carved into realms, there was a current that moved beneath all living things.

It had no voice, no will, no master.

It simply was.

It lived in the roots of trees and the pull of the tide, in the breath between heartbeats and the quiet spaces where light did not reach. It did not belong to heaven, nor to darkness. It existed beside them, as old as both, untouched by their designs.

For a long time, it remained undisturbed until something else began to walk the earth. 

They came without being born, without growing. They wore the shapes of men but moved like smoke trapped in skin, hollowed and hungry, leaving ruin in their wake. They whispered sickness into the land and twisted animals into frenzy.

“According to legend, Eira was the first witch known to mankind. Real one, at least,” Bobby says. “She was said to have had a special bond with nature. Could feel things others couldn’t. Nowadays, you’d probably call her a psychic.”

Dean feels Sam’s eyes burning a hole into the side of his face, but he keeps his gaze trained on Bobby and the book in front of him. 

The tribes did not understand what they were, only that they did not belong. They feared these creatures of the dark. 

Among them was a young woman named Eira. She was not the strongest, nor the loudest, nor the one others looked to for war. But born during a blood moon on spring equinox, the gods bestowed a special gift upon her, and she was given the ability to listen. 

She listened to the wind through the trees, to the silence beneath the soil, to the stream beneath the world that bound every living thing together.

“When demons came and killed half her tribe in one night, the goddess Freyja appeared to her in a dream,” Bobby continues. “Afterward, Eira wandered three days through the forest alone, claiming Freyja told her about a way to fight back. If you ask me, the girl might’ve just been high outta her mind on too much Henbane.” He chuckles lightly, scratching his beard. “But Freyja told her the power she was lookin’ for was already there. She just had to reach for it.”

“How?” Sam asks, fully swept up by Bobby’s storytelling skills.

Dean, on the other hand, can barely concentrate on the old man’s words. His green eyes are glued to the foxed page in front of him, eight little words sticking out like a sore thumb.

Born during a blood moon on spring equinox.

Can he still mindfully chalk that off as a mere coincidence?

Shit. As soon as Sam reads this, his ass will be on fire. Dean’s, too. 

“She performed a ritual. Tapped into it, took that power into herself, and then bound it,” Bobby replies. “After that, she returned to her tribe. But she didn’t just use that power to fight back. She taught the men in her camp how to kill demons, banish dark spirits.”

“Hunters,” Sam murmurs. Dean shoots him a sideways glance.

“First ones.” Bobby nods. “She passed it down her line. Kept protectin’ people. When they came over here with the first colonies, they did the same. Helped hunters – didn’t matter where they came from. But Christianity was high on the rise at this point as you can imagine. Didn’t take kindly to them. People got scared and started seein’ ‘em as the enemy. Puritans turned on ’em. Started huntin’ ’em instead, so they went into hiding. Built that place up north like a magical fortress.”

Dean huffs under his breath. Figures.

“Demons didn’t just sit back, either,” Bobby continues. “They twisted that magic. Found ways to corrupt it. That’s where the witches you’re used to come from. Deals. Blood magic. All that ugly crap.” 

Sam sits back slightly, head tilted in thought and a glimmer of hope twinkling in his hazel eyes. Meanwhile, Dean feels more off-balance than ever. 

Even Bobby is saying it – not all of them are bad.

“Sam.” Dean draws his little brother’s attention to him, his finger tapping the particular line on the page that caught his eyes earlier. 

Better he tells Sam now before he finds it out for himself later. Doesn’t really make a difference. At least this way, Dean can still pretend he’s helping and not actively obstructing Sam’s way to justice or revenge or whatever. 

Sam reads the words carefully for a moment before the creases in his brow begin to deepen. He then looks at Dean. 

“Dude.”

Dean rolls his eyes once more. “I know, Sam.”

Bobby’s gaze flicks between them, confused and surely partially frustrated. “What now?”

Dean licks his lips as he finds the old man’s eyes. “Looks like, uhm, our little fire survivor shares a birthday with this Eira chick.”

“Including the blood moon,” Sam adds. 

Bobby’s frown deepens. “Balls…”

“‘M guessing you didn’t know about that one, either,” Dean deduces by the older hunter’s darkened expression. 

“Bet Dad did,” Sam mutters under his breath, earning himself a glare from his brother. 

Dean looks up at Bobby. “Probably not a coincidence, right?”

“What d’you think, idjit? Do I really need to spell it out for ya?” Bobby snaps with a deadpan look. 

Dean purses his lips. 

Jesus. He was just asking a simple, clarifying question. Can’t even do that anymore around here without getting attacked. 

“Dean, maybe we should call her now,” Sam says, his earlier stern expression softened to a bleeding heart. 

“Still nope,” Dean shoots him down fast. 

“Dean, the demon could find her. She might not be safe where she is anymore,” Sam argues. 

Shit. Dean hasn’t thought of that. At least, he didn’t want to ruminate in that idea for too long, not liking the slight pang it always caused behind his ribs. But that probably was just heartburn, not care. 

“Tough luck,” Dean scoffs. 

“Dean–”

“Do you even understand the meaning of the word no?” he cuts in sharply. Then his jaw begins to grind with something close to guilt. He forces himself to calm with a slight sigh but doesn’t cave. “We don’t need her, alright?”

“Even Bobby says she can help us,” Sam says, still not budging either. 

“No, he said they could’ve. Not freakin’ Sabrina, the Teenage Witch,” Dean counters cleverly.

They both then look at Bobby for confirmation of either side. 

“No offense, but I’m stayin’ outta this one,” the old man murmurs, raising his hands in surrender. 

Dean sighs and turns back to his little brother. “Sammy, c’mon, the girl we met was a far cry from some powerful, demon-banishing witch, alright? She barely knew anything. You heard her. She never went back there after the fire and didn’t want anything to do with this crap.”

Sam at least considers this for a moment. 

“She done the ritual yet?” Bobby chimes in then. 

The brothers share a perplexed look before their heads swirl back to Bobby, speaking simultaneously, “What ritual?”

Salem, Massachusetts

Mia’s house never changes. 

As you step inside, your keys still warm in your palm from unlocking the door, the same creak of floorboards greets you beneath your feet, the old pipes humming somewhere deep in the walls as they always do. Even the air smells the same – lavender cleaner, old wood, and something sweet and cinnamon that always clings to Mia’s place.

This house used to be your home once, too. From eleven to eighteen, every corner of this place had known you. Every wall has watched you grow into the woman you are today.

“Hey, you’re home early,” Mia calls from the kitchen, her voice warm as she flips a page of the newspaper.

You shrug off your jacket, forcing something that resembles normalcy into your tone. “Slow day at work,” you sigh. “No exciting murders for me to poke at.”

“Give it time. This town never disappoints,” she mutters dryly, not even looking up. “You picked the right job for that.”

You huff a laugh and step closer, your eyes drifting to the paper in her hands more out of habit than interest. The headline catches your attention, though.

Sleepy Hollow Beheadings Continue: Third Victim Found

You furrow your brow, leaning slightly over her shoulder. “Beheadings? Seriously? What is this, 1692 again?”

Mia snorts lightly. “Right? That town’s living up to its brand too, I guess. Three victims in two weeks. All decapitated. No suspects. No weapons found.” She finally glances up at you, brows raised. “Your kind of nightmare.”

“Or dream.” You grin, already scanning the short article. Your brain starts cataloguing details on autopilot. Clean cuts? Jagged edges? Angle of severance? Man, you never get any cool cases like that around here. You’d kill to see a crime scene of someone who was decapitated. 

But then you force yourself to stop. You’re not here for work. Well, not that kind of work at least. 

You straighten and casually purse your lips. “You got any plans today?”

Mia eyes you for a second, suspicious in a way only someone who raised you half your life can be. “Why?”

You shrug again, entirely nonchalant. At least, you hope you pull it off. God knows it’s hard work to trick a cop, especially one as perceptive as your adoptive mother. “Just wondering. Thought I might hang out here for a bit.”

It’s not that uncommon as of late that you’re seeking out her company. Ever since those brothers barged into your life, you’ve been around her more. Somehow, being near someone who knows how to handle a gun brings you comfort, considering you stared down the barrel of one only a few weeks ago.

Mia studies you a moment longer, then sighs, her alarm bells luckily staying silent. “I’ve gotta run some errands. Grocery store, dry cleaning, the usual. You wanna come with me like old times? I’ll let you push the cart again,” she teases. 

“Nah,” you huff perfectly casual. “Kinda beat. Think I’m just gonna curl up on the couch and watch reruns of Buffy.”

“Alright.” She nods but then finds your eyes with a hint of worry in hers. “You’ll be okay here alone?”

She never says it out loud, but she’s been concerned about you for the past weeks. The fact someone threatened your life clearly doesn’t sit right with her either.

“I’ll be fine,” you assure her. “I’ve lived here before, you know.”

She huffs a laugh, rising from her stool by the island, folding the paper. “Alright, kid,” she sighs softly. “There’s still some leftover lasagna in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

You smile teasingly and arch a brow. “Did you put vitamins in it again?”

“That was one time.” Mia frowns. “You were a picky eater. I was worried you weren’t getting enough nutrients.”

“Nothing like vitamin C powder in hot chocolate,” you deadpan.

“Yes, and I apologized for that,” Mia huffs, chuckling. “It’s not always easy being a parent. You’ll see.”

“It tasted like feet.”

“You’re still alive. I call that a win,” Mia says as she puts on her jacket and grabs her purse and keys, heading for the door. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

“No promises.” You smirk.

And then, you wait.

Not just until the door closes, the noise of the lock clicking like a starting gun, but until the sound of her car fades all the way down the street and the house settles back into that serene, watchful stillness. 

Only then do you move.

You hesitate for half a second at the basement door, fingers hovering over the knob. It’s not fear, exactly. More like… awareness. You’re about to cross a line you’ve spent years carefully avoiding.

You never wanted to dig into this. Never needed to. Your life was fine. Good, even. You had a job you liked, friends and family you loved, and a boyfriend calling you whenever he could from whatever classified corner of the world he was stationed in. You had normal – or at least something damn close to it.

Then, the stupid Winchesters showed up on your doorstep and tore a hole straight through it. Now, nothing fits the way it used to anymore.

Upon your next deep breath for some courage, you finally twist the knob.

Now or never, you suppose.

The basement greets you with a soft flicker of light as you flip the switch, the bulb buzzing for a second before it steadies. The air is cooler and heavier down here, carrying a scent of dust motes and time. Cardboard boxes along the walls. Old furniture draped in sheets. Stacked memories. Forgotten pieces of a life packed away and left behind.

Your life. 

If there’s anything left of who you were before, it has to be here.

You wander around carefully at first, afraid something might jump out at you (which, honestly, isn’t even that ridiculous of a notion anymore). It’s not just demons and monsters, but spiders count, too. Then you pull your hair into a bun, slip on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, and get to work. But as minutes tick away on the clock and you keep coming up empty, finding less than nothing, your movements grow quicker and more impatient.

You open box after box, drawer after drawer.

Yearbooks. Report cards. Old school papers. Trophies from high school – track, debate, that one science fair you still think you shouldn’t have won. There are sketchbooks as well, filled with half-finished drawings and doodles you vaguely remember making during boring classes. There’s also a badly painted clay sculpture you made when you were fourteen.

Normal. All of it. Painfully, frustratingly normal.

There’s nothing here. No symbols. No books. No trace of anything even remotely… witchy. It’s just a life carefully curated to look ordinary.

You shove the lid back onto another box a little harder than necessary this time, irritation prickling under your skin. “Seriously?” you mutter under your breath. “That’s it? That’s what you hid from me? My stellar academic career?”

Nothing here answers anything. Nothing explains the things the Winchesters said – the demon, the fire, your family.

Your magic.

Your jaw tightens as you glance around the basement again, slower and more deliberate this time. If Mia hid something down here, it wouldn’t be obvious. She’s by far not that careless. She’d hide it somewhere safe, somewhere out of reach and out of sight.

Fine. You can work with that.

You reach into your bag and pull out your notebook, flipping it open to a blank page. The glitter pen follows in orange because orange is for practical magic – the general ‘make life run more smoothly’ category. It’s the one you seek out when you need to get stuff done. As a teen, you probably used the cleaning spell the most whenever Mia would tell you to get your room in order before going out. And hey, even when you’re breaking into your own past with magic, you’re still committed to the aesthetic.

You tap the pen against the page once, twice, thinking. Then you write.

What is hidden, lost from sight,Buried deep in shadowed night,Show your place and make it known,Call me to what’s mine alone.

Satisfied, you softly mutter the words and then wait. It doesn’t take long before you notice a subtle flicker in your periphery. Your head then turns slowly toward the far corner of the basement, drawn to it by an almost magnetic pull. 

There’s an old safe there. You’ve seen it a hundred times before and never thought twice about it. Now, though, it hums, a soft glow threading through its metal seams, light trying to breathe through steel.

“Well, that’s new,” you murmur, lips twitching slightly.

You push yourself to your feet and cross the room, crouching in front of it. Up close, the glow nearly dramatically screams here. 

Your heart hammers wildly against your ribs as you inspect the lock. Knowing Mia, it’s probably useless trying to guess the code. She’s too smart to use birthdays or any other important numbers. It’s probably some made-up combination she just forced herself to remember by heart. 

“Alright, round two,” you sigh, flipping your notebook open again.

Metal sealed and secrets kept,Guarded where the past has slept,By my will, reveal, undo,What is hidden, I claim true.

Once the words leave your mouth, the safe’s lock clicks just like that. No resistance. No fight. The door simply creaks open without theatrics. 

You stare at the crack for a second before letting out an incredulous breath. “Okay, that was way too easy.”

Man, you’d make an excellent bank robber. The world is truly lucky you’re a good person and not some homicidal maniac, considering the sheer damage you could do. Although, if you probably asked Dean Winchester, he’d still insist you were a homicidal maniac. 

As you then reach inside the safe, the first thing you pull out is a photograph. Your breath catches in the same second your eyes land on it and fully take it in. It’s been forever since you’ve seen it. Too long.

It’s the house you were born and grew up in. Your old family home. A blue, two-story Queen Anne perched on a hill like something out of a dream you never forgot – the white wrap-around porch, the octagonal tower, the stained-glass attic window still glowing even in the picture. 

Your fingers tighten around the edges. You remember this. Not in fragments, not distorted, but clearly. Completely.

The smell of the grass. The sound of your mom laughing somewhere behind you. Your grandma’s protective voice calling from the porch.

God, you’ve missed it. You miss them. It’s one of the reasons, probably even the biggest one, why you never had the urge to set a foot down here before and marinate in a past life you lost and could never get back. 

You swallow as you set the photo aside and reach deeper.

There are more documents like birth records but tons of family pictures as well. You, smaller and grinning with missing teeth. Your mother beside you, soft-eyed and radiant. Your grandmother, stern but warm, a steady presence at your other side.

You carefully look and sort through all of them, more and more memories flooding back into your mind. Every new picture forces a sad smile onto your face. Every good memory hurts like hell. 

You hate this. You don’t want to do this. Not because you don’t want to remember, but because you never forgot any of it in the first place. After all, how could you ever possibly forget a place like that?

Your childhood was magical, filled with days playing in the sun and nights spent chasing fireflies. 

You remember the weekly tea parties your grandma used to throw in the attic when your aunties came to visit. You would dress up in your mom’s old clothes and quietly play on the floor next to them as the sunlight shone through the stained glass, a colorful mosaic of a birch tree stretching along the boards. 

You can also recall all the afternoons you spent with your mom in the garden as she taught you how to take care of plants. You’d learned what each herb can do and knew the name of every flower by the time you were six years old. 

As you grow curiouser and curiouser, you soon find yourself in your own rabbit hole till you stumble upon a sealed envelope with your name on it. Your heart winces when you recognize the handwriting. It’s from your mother.

You’ve never seen this before. Mia never gave this to you. 

Slowly and carefully, you slide your finger under the seal and pry it open. The paper inside is aged but still intact. You unfold it with shaky hands that don’t quite feel like your own and then begin to read.

My dearest daughter,

If you are reading this, then time has carried you to a day I always dreamed of witnessing myself.

Your twenty-first birthday.

I wish I could be there with you. I wish I could see the woman you’ve become, hear your voice again, hold your hands and tell you how proud I am. There are no words for the ache of knowing I won’t be there for this moment, but there is comfort in knowing that you at least made it here.

That you lived.

That you are still standing.

My sweet girl, you were born beneath a blood moon on the spring equinox, a rare and sacred convergence. From the moment you came into this world, your grandmother and I knew you were special – not because of power, but because of the balance you carry within you. Light and shadow. Creation and destruction. You were never meant to be ordinary, my love.

And for that, I am so sorry.

Because today marks more than just your birthday. It is your awakening.

In our family, the twenty-first year is when a witch comes fully into her power. The magic you have touched until now – the small spells, the flickers, the instincts – that is only the beginning. There is more within you. So much more. And it has been waiting, patiently, for you to be ready.

But with power comes danger.

There are forces in this world that will seek you out, that will want to use what you are or destroy it entirely. Be careful. Trust your instincts, even when they lead you down paths you don't understand quite yet – especially then.

You come from a long line of protectors. Witches who stood beside people, who fought to keep balance in a world that constantly tries to tip toward darkness. That legacy lives in you now.

Please remember: you are never alone in this, even if it feels like you are. We’re always here to watch over you. And no matter what happens, no matter what choices you make or where your path leads, you are loved beyond measure.

Always, Mom

The silence in the basement suddenly feels suffocating as you lower the letter. For a long moment, you just sit there, the paper trembling in your hands, your thoughts moving too fast and somehow not at all.

Twenty-one. Awakening. More power.

You let out a slow breath, your grip tightening slightly on the letter.

Well, alright, that’s a lot to dump on someone. This is bigger than you thought. Bigger than a few weird conversations and vague warnings about demons.

This is something else entirely.

What does it all mean? Why is your mother giving you the Spider-Man speech from beyond the grave? And why the hell has Mia never shown this to you?

Deep down, you know she just wants to protect you and keep you safe. Before the night of the fire, she had never faced anything evil like this. Her natural instinct was to stay out of this world. She wanted you to have a normal childhood, a normal job, a normal life. 

But you? You’ve grown up with the knowledge that there is more out there than meets the eye. You have always walked the line between ordinary and weird and tiptoed carefully between both worlds. And you know if something is truly coming for you, you can’t just ignore it. 

You know you can’t simply turn your back and run away from this.

And for the first time since the Winchesters left, the fear you felt back then morphs into focus. Your gaze drifts toward the stairs, toward the world up there that suddenly feels too small for everything you’re holding now.

You need answers. 

Your hands are shaking as you reach for your purse and pull out your phone. You hesitate as your thumb hovers over the contact – a name you never thought you’d call. But then, you dial the number. 

Sam picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

You press your lips together for a second before speaking. “Is this Sam Winchester?” you check. “It’s–, uhm, it’s me. Salem witch you tried to kill?”

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again, his voice more alert than before. “Hey, uh, I’m surprised you called. Honestly didn’t expect it after the way we left.”

“Makes two of us,” you sigh. You still can’t believe you actually called him. It feels like you’re only following the white rabbit even deeper into the hole. 

“Yeah, uhm, I can’t blame you,” he chuckles lightly. “But I’m glad you called. Sorry again how things went down. That wasn’t our intention.”

“Yeah? Does your brother share that sentiment?” you retort. 

Sam’s silent for a moment, which is an answer in itself. 

“Dean’s, uh–… It’s complicated,” is all Sam says. “You–, uh, you okay?” 

“Define okay,” you huff under your breath, staring down at the letter in your lap again. 

“Did something happen?”

You shake your head, swallowing. “No, uh, nothing like that,” you assure him and can hear a small sigh of relief on the other line. Is he actually concerned about you? “I just–, uhm… I looked through some of my old stuff in Mia’s basement and might have found something. I honestly don’t know if it even is anything, I just–… well, you said I should call if I did, so…”

“No, uh, that’s fine. Anything helps. Big or small. We’re kinda desperate here,” Sam says, laughing a little, which makes you huff a laugh as well. 

What a weird fucking day…

“We found some things, too,” he adds. “There’s more going on than we thought.”

Great. Of course there is.

You close your eyes briefly and exhale a deep breath, steeling yourself. “What–, uh, what did you find?”

Sam hesitates for a moment, the line falling silent. “I’m not sure we should do this over the phone. Might not be safe.”

You swallow thickly. You haven’t thought about that. Do demons do wire-taps?

“You–, uhm, you wanna meet somewhere?” you ask reluctantly. You’re not sure you truly ever want to see either of them again in your life. The plan was to tell Sam what you know, so he could handle it and you could go back to your same old boredom. 

“Yeah, uhm, we’re in South Dakota right now, but we can drive to Salem to meet you there,” Sam suggests. 

Somehow, you don’t like that idea. Last time they came to town, you felt paranoid for an entire week, double-checking locks and dark corners, your skin prickling with terror that the brothers might come back to finish the job or maybe even send some other hunter your way. Their visit left you feeling like you had a red-painted target on your back, not to mention that you were sure his brother still didn’t take too kindly to you, judging by Sam’s own hesitation.

“You think you can come alone?” you ask then, chewing on your bottom lip. “I don’t wanna see your brother again. No offense.” 

Sam chuckles a little. “None taken. Trust me, I get it. Dean doesn’t need to know,” he says, which brings you some relief. “I can keep him occupied. Just need to find a case in your area. Would that work for you?”

You pause for a moment, contemplating his suggestion. Unlike his brother, Sam hasn’t tried to kill you. He hasn’t even said a single bad word to you. Hasn’t threatened you or even pulled a gun. But can you really trust him?

“Actually, I think I might have a case for you guys,” you say musingly. “You ever heard about Sleepy Hollow, New York?”

Sam barks an amused laugh at that. “Sleepy Hollow, huh?”

“Yeah, they had three beheadings over the last two weeks. It’s been on the news. I don’t know a lot about hunting, but that sounds like your area of expertise. It’s only a four-hour drive from Salem. I could meet you there,” you suggest.

“That actually sounds perfect,” Sam agrees. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Dean won’t pass that up. It’ll keep him busy.”

You nod slowly, even though he can’t see it. “Alright.”

“We’ll head out right away. Probably will be there by tomorrow,” he continues.

“Works for me,” you say, even though your nerves are exploding. “Guess I’ll see you there then.”

“Yeah, see you,” Sam replies warmly.

You then hang up and stare at your phone for a moment longer before storing it back in your purse. Then your gaze drifts back to the open safe. To the photographs. To the letter still resting in your lap.

Your life was simple once – or at least simpler. But now it feels like the ground has cracked open beneath your feet, revealing a depth you didn’t know was there.

All you can hope for now is that you don’t fall down too far.

Sleepy Hollow, New York

This town almost feels like home to you. Because, much like Salem, Sleepy Hollow leans heavily into its reputation.

The streets are lined with old colonial houses that look like they’ve survived three centuries out of sheer stubbornness, their crooked fences and deep porches casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. There are wrought-iron signs swinging above shop doors, carved pumpkins already appearing in windows despite it being still summer, and in the distance, an old church bell tolls ominously. You’re sure if you looked hard enough, you could even find a murder of ravens lurking around somewhere. 

As soon as you’d passed the town sign, you felt like you stepped into Edgar Allan Poe’s wet dream. 

Sam texted you this morning when they passed Cleveland, stating they’d be here in a couple of hours. And now, you’re standing on the sidewalk across from a small diner, sunglasses perched on your nose, the warmth of the sun settling against your skin, and it should feel pleasant. Casual. Normal.

But instead, your brain is busy running through worst-case scenarios. Because, really, what in the living hell are you doing here?

You’re not just about to have coffee with an old friend and catch up on life. You’re here to meet a hunter. Voluntarily. As in, not under duress, not with a gun pointed at you, not as part of some life-threatening interrogation. No, it’s just a normal Thursday afternoon (and maybe a deeply questionable life choice).

Your gaze drifts to the shop window of a small bookstore to your right and catches your reflection. You look ordinary, like everyone else around you, although your magic hums in your blood and you seriously contemplate walking straight back to your car and pretending this entire situation never escalated past mildly concerning.

You could still leave.

No consequences. No one chasing after you. No one would even know you came. 

You could just turn around, drive back to Salem, and go back to your job, your apartment, your very sane and evidence-based existence where magic is something you use to occasionally clean your kitchen faster – not to unlock family secrets or hunt evil. You could just let the Winchesters keep chasing their demons, literal and otherwise, while you go back to your lab and your carefully constructed version of normal.

Tempting. Very tempting.

But then your mind, traitorous thing that it is, conjures your mom’s letter again. The careful curve of her handwriting. The words that refuse to remain muted in the back of your head.

It is your awakening.

You make a face. Right. No pressure. But what if you don’t even want to awaken anything at all? What if you just want to stay at home, eat ice cream on the couch, and not deal with any of this?

You exhale a deep sigh and finally push off the curb to cross the street before you can overthink this whole meeting into oblivion. It doesn’t hurt to hear him out and find out what’s really going on. Whether you want to or not, a door has opened and you’re forced to step through it. Doesn’t mean you can’t always still bolt back out later on when you don’t like what’s inside, though. 

The bell above the diner door chimes as you stroll inside, a wave of cool air from the AC greeting you along with the rich scent of coffee, sugar, and grease. The place is busy but not too crowded, only a few locals lingering over iced drinks and tourists snapping photos like they’re expecting the Headless Horseman himself to ride past the window at any second. 

Of course tourists and reporters flooded this town as soon as the first victim dropped their head and turned it into a media circus. 

Your eyes then cautiously scan the room for a minute before you spot Sam Winchester. You feel the relief flooding your veins when you find him alone and without the company of his bloodthirsty, bull-headed brother. 

While Sam swore he’d come solo, you didn’t quite trust his word, considering he’s technically supposed to be your arch nemesis. That’s how the story goes, right? The hunter and the fox. 

Sam sits in a corner booth near the back, long legs tucked under a small table. The furniture in here clearly wasn’t designed with a guy over six foot four in mind. Two coffees are placed in front of him, steam still rising from the cups. He looks less intense than the night you met him, but not exactly relaxed either. However, he definitely seems just as out of place here as you feel. You recognize a nervous energy in his aura, the yellow more butterscotch than buttercup this time. 

His gaze lifts at the sound of the bell and then lands on you instantly. Recognition flashes on his face for a second before it softens, clearly relieved you decided to come. 

You still hesitate for half a heartbeat before you can convince your feet to finally move his way. 

“Hey,” he says, straightening slightly as you approach. There’s a tentative smile on his lips as if he’s not entirely sure how this meeting is supposed to go either. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Yeah, I almost didn’t,” you reply too honestly, sliding into the seat across from him.

It earns a small huff of amusement from him, and he nudges one of the drinks toward you. “Got you a coffee. Didn’t know how you like it, but I figured I can’t go wrong with black.”

You glance at it, then back at him. “Well, at least you have more manners than your brother.”

Whoops. That one slipped out before you could stop yourself.

Luckily, Sam only chuckles. “It’s kind of a low bar.”

You take the coffee, more for something to do with your hands than anything else before your gaze drifts toward the windows for a moment with a little hint of wariness in your eyes, maybe even a touch of lingering anger. You half-expect his brother to lurk in the bushes outside somewhere. He seems to be the type to do something like that. 

“So… where is your homicidal brother?” 

Again, Sam doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he looks at you like he expected that question (and that tone).

“Dean’s at the morgue, looking into the case,” he assures you quickly. “Don’t worry. He won’t show up. I made sure of that.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “And he’s just… fine with you meeting me here alone?”

Granted, you’ve only met the guy once, but that scenario seems highly unlikely by the controlling energy he was giving off. 

“Not exactly,” Sam admits and grimaces slightly. He leans back a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “He doesn’t know I’m here. Told him I was going to the library. To be honest with you, he’d probably kill me if he found out.”

You give him a dry look, taking a slow sip of your coffee. “You or me?” You arch an eyebrow. “Good to know your survival instincts are questionable. Happy to be a part of a potentially lethal secret.”

“Yeah, uh, I’m sorry,” he says with a sheepish smile. “I just figured this was worth the risk, you know? And Dean, well… he doesn’t need answers like I do. Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s terrified about finding out more.”

Good, you think. Let that guy be as terrified as you were when he pointed a gun at you. Is it wrong that little bit of information only motivates you more to dig deeper and find answers just to spite that asshole?

Admittedly, this whole situation is ridiculous. It’s strange to sit here like this – like you and Sam are suddenly allies. And yet, somehow, it’s a lot less hostile than the last time you saw him. Only three weeks ago, the two of you were still on opposite sides of a loaded gun.

Sure, it’s till weird. Still dangerous. It’s just less… immediately life-threatening. 

Sam shifts slightly in his seat and leans forward then, his expression turning more serious. “So… what did you find?”

Right. Straight to business. 

Your fingers tighten briefly around the mug before you reach into your bag and pull out the folded letter. The paper feels more fragile now than it did in the basement, as if it could disintegrate under too much scrutiny. 

For a heartbeat, you hesitate.

Because this is personal. Painfully so. And Sam, as nice and kind as he may seem, is still someone you met under less than ideal circumstances. He’s a complete stranger to you.

You study him for a second, weighing it. Trust versus instinct. Curiosity versus caution.

And then, slowly, you slide the letter across the table.

“It’s from my mom,” you share. “She wrote it for my twenty-first birthday. Mia never gave it to me, though. I found it in her safe in the basement. I–, uh, I may have broken into it.”

Sam shoots you a surprised look, a smile rising on his lips. “You know how to pick locks?”

“I know how to write spells,” you counter. 

Sam huffs a small laugh at that. “Got it.” He then focuses back on the letter in front of him but doesn’t touch it immediately. His eyes meet yours instead. “You sure you want me to read this?”

Nope, not at all, you want to respond but find yourself nodding despite of it. 

“Yeah, uhm… I think you should.”

He accepts that, picking it up carefully as if he understands it’s more than just paper. 

You watch him read, tracking every subtle shift on his face – the slight furrow of his brows and the way his focus sharpens when he reaches certain parts as his hazel eyes move steadily over the page. It feels oddly intimate – letting someone else into your life like this. There are only three people in the world you ever entrusted with your secrets: Paige, Cameron, and Mia. 

You even told Paige you were coming here to meet one of the fake FBI guys who tried to murder you not that long ago (and you both agree that sentence sounds insane). But you mostly told her so at least one person knows your whereabouts in case you go missing here (or someone has an itchy trigger finger again).

You obviously haven’t told Mia – not about the meeting or the letter. You’re kind of dreading that conversation, scared of answers. 

And Cameron… well, he doesn’t exactly know yet that someone tried to kill you in the first place, let alone that you’re willingly meeting them again to dig deeper into your witchy family history that possibly involves demons. That’s probably a face-to-face conversation and not something you share over Skype with fifteen other guys sitting around your boyfriend in a tent. 

When Sam then finally looks up, his whiskey-colored eyes are more piercing than before. There’s a razor-sharp glint in them now.

“The blood moon,” he says. “Spring equinox.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah, I have no idea what that means. The letter didn’t exactly explain it. You were the first person that told me about that.”

“Your mom never mentioned it before this?”

“No.” You shake your head sadly, but there’s a thread of anger underneath it. 

Sure, you were a kid and only eleven when they died, but your mom and grandma prepared you and taught you so many other things, and they couldn’t mention that? A little heads-up about being born into a magical nuclear disaster would’ve been appreciated.

Sam exhales, leaning back in the booth. “Well, uhm, according to the lore, it’s supposed to amplify your magic,” he says. “But we actually found another connection from a hunter who knew your family. He’s, uh, a family friend of ours, too.”

You tilt your head. “He knew my mom and grandma?”

“Yeah, uh, he worked with them,” Sam says. “Your grandmother mostly. Sometimes your mom. They helped him on hunts. He’s actually the one who sent our dad to them.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I didn’t know that. I mean, I knew they tried helping your dad, and sometimes other people would come by the house, too. But I didn’t know how far it went…”

As a kid, you caught glimpses here and there, but they mostly sent you away whenever a visitor would come around. You just never realized they’d been running an entire secret operation right under your nose. 

You recall the words in your mom’s letter again, what your grandma always taught you as well, remembering you’re supposed to help people. Hunters. It’s the family legacy. 

But honestly? You have no idea how to do that. Defeating monsters isn’t exactly in your wheelhouse. You’re not equipped for it. There’s nothing you can offer them in terms of demon hunting aside from a few party tricks. 

“He told us this story about the first witch,” Sam continues.

Your head snaps up, realization dawning on you. “The Legend of Eira,” you breathe.

“Yeah.” Sam blinks in surprise, then nods. “You know it?”

A small, nostalgic smile tugs at your lips. “My grandma used to tell it to me before bed almost every night,” you share and then tilt your head slightly. “Though I’m pretty sure I got the Disney version and not the Grimm one.” 

Sam huffs a chuckle. “Yeah, probably.” 

Your fingers tap lightly against the coffee cup as the pieces shift in your mind, rearranging themselves into something new. Something bigger. There’s a lot you don’t know about your own family. Too damn much. But there’s some things you still remember well. 

“At the foot of a birch tree, Frejya gave Eira a symbol, one not yet known to mankind. One of growth, of protection, of life that endures and begins again – Bjarkan. Eira carved it into her skin, just above her heart, and pressed her blood into the bark of the tree, binding flesh to root, life to life. She did not take the power but became a part of it.”

Your grandma’s voice floods your mind like it was yesterday and not more than a decade ago. Your hand automatically wanders to your collarbone on the left side, where a birthmark rests just above your heart, but it’s not just a random shape. It’s a symbol. A rune. 

ᛒ

Sam seems to notice the motion, his eyes flicking briefly to the spot where your fingers touch the fabric of your shirt, the symbol hidden just underneath it, but he refrains from commenting on it. 

“The demon you talked about, the one that killed my family,” you say with a clear of your throat to snap his focus back. “What do you actually know about it? I mean, was your dad hunting it?”

Sam nods slowly, his fingers tightening around the mug in his hands. “Yeah, uhm, he’d been hunting it for a long time,” he shares. “We’ve been tracking a pattern. It visited babies the night they turned six months old. Said it had plans for… special kids. Kids like me. Their mothers would usually die in a fire after.”

You swallow thickly, your stomach tightening. “Because of your abilities?”

Sam gives you another nod. “Yeah, all kids usually started developing abilities after their twenty-second birthday. At least, it did for me and the others we’ve met so far. It’s mostly psychic stuff. Visions, telekinesis, mind control… It’s been different for everyone.”

A quiet breath escapes your lips as you sink back into the booth’s worn leather. “Is that why you guys were asking so many questions about the fire in Sugar Hill? Because you believed I was one of those kids?”

“Yeah,” Sam admits, then chuckles lightly. “Clearly, we were wrong about that one.”

“Because I don’t fit the pattern?” you question. You’ve heard the brothers mention it when they were in your living room that night. It’s only now starting to make sense. 

“Yeah, but to be fair, there doesn’t seem to be a pattern, after all,” Sam says. “We recently discovered there might be kids out there whose mothers didn’t die in a fire. Could just be anyone at this point. We don’t know how many there are, either. You’re probably not one of them, but I still think you’re connected somehow. There’s a reason this thing came after your family. After you.”

You let the words sink in and study him for a second, something clicking into place. “Your mom,” you say carefully. “She died like that too, didn’t she? In a fire?”

Sam nods once, the blue in his aura expanding and overtaking the yellow. “Yeah, she did.”

Your head bobs softly. That explains a lot about both of these boys, actually. “I’m really sorry, Sam.”

Sam licks his lips contemplatively for a moment before leaning forward, the yellow glistening slightly. “Look, our dad thought you might be the key to killing this thing.”

Your brow shoots up, eyes widening. “I’m sorry, what?” A nervous laugh bubbles out of you. “You’re joking, right?”

Sam shakes his head, serious as ever. “We don’t exactly know how yet, but he seemed pretty sure.”

“Well, I’m not,” you protest. Can you close this goddamn door again?

Sam doesn’t even flinch, though, and stays focused. “The hunter who worked with your family – his name is Bobby Singer. He told us about a ritual, too.”

Your brow scrunches. “What kind of ritual?”

Sam chuckles a little. “Honestly? I was hoping you could tell me. We don’t know either. Your family never shared the details with him,” he explains. “But, uhm, your mom mentioned something about getting your full powers after your twenty-first birthday in the letter. You know anything about what she could mean?”

You shake your head slowly. “No clue,” you huff, frustration lacing your tone. Then a frown slowly starts to form. “They did tell me once my twenty-first birthday was special, but I don’t remember anything specifically. At least there was no mention of some big, magical fireworks moment. And I didn’t wake up differently that day either, if that’s what you were gonna ask next. It wasn’t like when I turned seven and first got my magic. It’s been the same ever since.”

“Probably because you haven’t done the ritual yet,” Sam muses, then finds your eyes. “You think there’s still anything at your old house in Sugar Hill?”

“There might be,” you admit, your jaw tightening slightly. “But just to be clear, I’m still not going back there. I don’t even know if I wanna do this. I’m kinda happy with my magic the way it is. I didn’t sign up for any of this, alright? I don’t want more power, I don’t want to kill some scary demon, and I definitely don’t want to perform some weird, ancient ritual that could go horribly wrong for all we know. I have a job. A life, okay? I was honestly doing just fine before you guys showed up.”

Sam doesn’t seem to be utterly fazed by your rant. “Look, I get it,” he levels with you. “Really, I do. Trust me.”

You hold his gaze patiently, waiting for the argument. Because judging by the determination in both his eyes and aura, you already know there’s one coming. 

“But it doesn’t matter if you want it or not,” he continues contrastingly gently to the meaning of his words. “If the demon’s connected to you… it’s not just gonna leave you alone. And if it comes for you, it won’t just be you at risk. It could go after people around you, too. Your family. Friends.”

You fall silent as his words seep under your skin and avert your eyes to the window, watching people stroll past it, none the wiser of your conversation in here. You see Mia, Paige, and Cameron in their faces. You’d very much like to keep them off a demon’s radar. 

What if it comes for them, and you’re not strong enough to protect them?

“It happened to me,” Sam adds, drawing your attention back to him. “I–, uh, I was at Stanford a year ago.”

You quirk a brow at that. “You went to Stanford?”

Sam smiles, chuckling a little at your bewilderment. “Yeah, pre-law. Had a girlfriend, too.”

You smile a little too before it fades again when you notice his use of the past tense. “What happened?”

Sam pauses for a moment, his eyes focused on the coffee in his hands. “The demon came and killed her,” he says quietly. “That’s when I hit the road and started hunting with Dean again.”

You swallow harshly. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m trying to warn you,” he says and meets your eyes again. “I tried running away from this thing once, too. Hell, I’m still planning on leaving all this behind as soon as that demon is dead. But as long as that thing’s alive, it’s gonna find you whether you wanna face it or not. Trust me.”

“Great,” you mutter under your breath, nodding. “So my options are ‘get involved’ or ‘get everyone I love potentially murdered.’ Love that.”

“Yeah, it sucks,” Sam agrees with a hint of sympathy in his voice.

You scoff a dry laugh, because that might be the understatement of the goddamn century.

The silence lingers for a moment before you finally dare to glance back at him. “So… what now?”

Sam exhales a long breath, leaning back in his seat. “I don’t know yet, but we keep digging. Together,” he replies. “I’ll look into the ritual. See if I can find out more about it. I can update you if I find anything. If that’s what you want…”

Oh, you’re not sure about any of this at all. It feels like Sam has just shown you a steep cliff and then told you to jump in the same breath. 

“I’ll think about it, okay? Not gonna promise anything, though,” you say. “But we can keep in touch.”

Sam’s jaw locks slightly, but he eventually gives you a nod. “Deal.”

Welp, it’s not vampires, Dean thinks as he puts the last victim’s head back into its plastic container. At least, that means crazy-ass Gordon is nowhere around. When Sam first told him about this case, Dean was almost sure they’d run into the nut job again. But as it turns out, it’s just regular people dying an irregular death.

No second set of teeth descending from their gums. No visible bite marks. And no one was drained of their blood either. 

Which, somehow, isn’t as comforting as it should be.

He exhales slowly through his nose, green eyes lingering on the headless body splayed out on the metal table in front of him. There’s a clean line where flesh meets absence – where something precise carved through bone and sinew, but it’s not surgical in the doctor-with-a-scalpel kind of way. It’s an efficient removal, but not jagged, not messy, and not the sort of hack job he expects from something feral or hungry.

Three bodies. Three heads. No real answers.

Dean straightens and pulls off the nitrile gloves with a practiced flick, tossing them into the trash nearby.

Sleepy Hollow of all places. The irony isn’t lost on him.

Town built on a ghost story about a headless horseman, and now the people here are actually losing theirs? Yeah, he’s sure Washington Irving is having a field day in his grave right about now. All that’s missing is a flaming pumpkin and a dramatic thunderstorm. There’s probably even a tour guide out there spinning this into a story already. 

The Horseman rides again, folks – buy your tickets, bring your kids!

Dean utters a light scoff and rubs a hand down his face. He didn’t find traces of sulfur, signs of possession, or any ritual markings either. But the EMF? That spiked. Which tells him at least that he’s either dealing with a ghost or maybe even a cursed object. 

The question of the who, when, where, what, and why remains, though. Awesome. Who doesn’t love a good mystery, right? 

Admittedly, not knowing wouldn’t bother him as much if his little brother hadn’t been acting weird as hell on top of it. That part, annoyingly, sticks with Dean the most. 

Something’s been off since yesterday. It’s subtle. It always is with Sam, but Dean knows his little brother better than anyone. He knows when that kid is being shifty and lying. Sam’s brain is clearly already ten steps ahead and not sharing the map. The question is about what. 

At first, Dean didn’t second-guess Sam’s strange insistence on taking this case. Why would he? Three headless bodies in a town famous for that sort of thing? That’s practically an invitation for hunters. It’s cool. It’s weird. It’s exactly their kind of thing.

Now, though, he smells something fishy. And Dean? Well, he ain’t stupid. It doesn’t take a genius to realize Sleepy Hollow is only a nice, neat four-hour drive away from Salem. But Sam wouldn’t go behind his back and seek you out after Dean explicitly told him not to. 

…Right?

Shit.

Dean should’ve clocked it sooner that something was up when Sam suggested to “divide and conquer” this morning, making Dean check out the morgue while Sam decided to hit the local library. It sounded logical. But that was code for I’m about to do something you won’t like, wasn’t it?

Divide and conquer my ass. 

He scoffs under his breath again, pacing a few steps across the cold tiles before he completely heads out of the morgue.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that a good ten minutes later, Dean’s storming the library on a mission, still willing to give his little brother the benefit of the doubt. His eyes scan the rows of books, the scattered tables, and the couple of locals minding their own business in one quick sweep. 

As expected, there’s no Sam. No flannel. No furrowed brow. No nothing. 

Dean doesn’t even bother asking the older librarian at the front desk if she’s seen a six-foot-four nerd hunched over a stack of lore books, practically absorbing ancient text through osmosis. He knows Sam’s not here and probably has never even set a foot inside this place. 

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, the irritation creeping in. 

Called it. 

Dean turns on his heel and stomps back out into the afternoon sun hitting him in the face to a blinding degree as he makes his way down the busy street, bustling with reporters and tourists already in town for the big show. 

And then, there it is – the sign he’s been looking for. In the corner of his eye, a flicker of Bimini-blue glints in the sunshine. 

He knows that color. And he knows that car. Your Aveo sticks out like a sore thumb, parked neatly by the curb among the others. Needless to say, he doesn’t need more proof than that to confirm his theory. 

Of course Sam wouldn’t let it go. Of course he’d sneak around, go behind Dean’s back, meet up with you like some damn teenager meeting his girlfriend after curfew instead of another potential disaster waiting to happen.

And for what? To chat? To compare fucking notes? To bond over witchy nonsense and goddamn demon bedtime stories?

The anger and frustration simmer under his skin as he heads further down the street in search of his little brother and the surely witchy companion. He follows the line of sight instinctively from your car to whatever place would set a good location for a meeting like that till his gaze lands on a small diner two blocks down. 

And sure enough, he spots Sam and you through the window, sitting and chatting in a booth like old goddamn friends. 

Dean’s going to kill him. It’s done. 

But Sam knows what he’s doing, or he wouldn’t have picked a public place in broad daylight. He knows Dean can’t very well pull out his gun here and start shootin’ even if he does catch them (which point for Dean for proving Sam wrong). 

Sam should also very well know, though, that Dean doesn’t really care about any of that – not the people, not the sunlight – if push comes to shove. And, well, it’s shoving pretty damn hard right now. 

However, Dean decides not to storm the diner right away, guns blazing. Instead, he watches, green eyes fixed on the window, and waits those two out. That’s what good hunters do, after all. 

They set traps for their foxes. 

Sam’s leaning forward on the table, focused and listening. Of course he is. He’s probably trying to score points, give you some sad stories and puppy dog eyes, and then boom – he’s got you hooked on whatever crazy plan he’s trying to talk you into.

Dean knows how that one goes. He’s been on the receiving end of it a few times now. 

You’re talking, hands moving as you explain something, your expression soft and yet animated in a way that’s… different from what he remembers when he last saw you. Not scared. Not defensive. Just… engaged.

Sam says something then, you respond, and then there’s a beat before you laugh – actually laugh, like his little brother suddenly is the funniest person on the planet. For the record, Dean knows for a fact that ain’t true. 

What the hell is this?

Is Sam… flirting with you? Is that what Sam’s flirting looks like? Is this what this whole thing is about? Sam wanting to get laid?

Honestly, Dean can’t tell for sure if that’s what’s happening or not. Because, while he knows his little brother pretty damn well, he doesn’t know that much about Sam’s skills in that department. Dean didn’t really see Sam date a lot in high school and then he went off to Stanford. And now, well, Sam’s not really been an outgoing person so far, so not a lot of references there either. 

Sure, Dean supposes his little brother landed Jess, and she was a damn ten, so Sammy’s gotta have some game, right? On the other hand, there was also Sarah not that long ago, a chick from a case, and that seemed admittedly a little… bumpy (and not in the way you want something like that to be bumpy). 

Jesus, is that what Dean’s witnessing right now? His little brother dipping a toe into the dating pool? And why the hell is he even thinking about Sam’s flirting attempts in the first place? It shouldn’t bother him.

It doesn’t. 

Awesome. Now he feels like a creep who’s watching something not meant for his eyes. It’s like there’s a piece of a puzzle here that’s not supposed to fit, except it does, and that’s the goddamn problem. 

Why does it have to be a witch? Why does it have to be you? 

Why are you laughing?

Why is Sam– 

Dean’s thoughts tangle, frustration spiking as something else sneaks in beneath it. It’s quiet but no less insistent. It’s familiar, almost like déjà-vu, although he’s sure he’s never felt this strange little tingle, this tiny prick in his chest, before in his life. 

And yeah, okay, he’s noticed it before – not the feeling but the cause of it. Hard not to. You’ve got that… thing, whatever the hell it is, that makes people look twice. He looked twice. He can admit as much. He’s gonna be a grown-up about it (not out loud to other people, though. Especially not you. No, no, that’s not–). 

But it’s not just that you’re pretty, not just attractive, though yeah, there’s that too, obviously. Again, he’s not blind, either. But it’s something else – something he can’t quite pin down or even put his little finger on (and the thought of you and his finger definitely shouldn’t give him, well… other thoughts). 

There’s something wrong with him, isn’t there? He just can’t figure out what, though. 

It’s probably just a you thing. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. It’s you. He’s blaming you. 

There’s an edge to you that doesn’t line up with anything he knows how to categorize. And that, God, that fucking bugs him.

Because he likes things that fit. Things that make sense. Things he can label and move on from.

You fucking don’t do any of these things. 

This whole scene in front of him reminds Dean of another one of those weird dreams he’s had a couple of nights ago. There have actually been a few of those with one common theme:

It’s always you and Sammy, both little and close in age, laughing and running around, unburdened and weightless, catching frogs and butterflies, whispering secrets in the tall grass… 

One gets the idea. 

And Dean? He’d be off somewhere, isolated, outcast, excluded and far away, but not out of reach. He’s very much reachable. But no one ever reaches for him. 

Maybe you put something in his drink. Date-raped him with some witchy love potion or sex potion and that’s causing all these bizarre feelings now. Hell, maybe that’s what you did to Sam, too. You probably snuck a few drops of something cursed into his vanilla soy latte or whatever the hell his little brother’s drinking in there. 

Dean shakes his head clear and rolls his shoulders. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t care if you’re getting along with Sam. He doesn’t care that you’re sitting there like you belong at that table, acting like you’re part of something you’re definitely not a part of. He doesn’t care that Sam looks… comfortable. Open. The way he hasn’t in a while.

That’s not the point.

The point is that Sam lied. The point is that you’re a wildcard. The point is that Dean told him not to call you.

And yet, here you fucking are.

A minute later, both you and Sammy then finally rise and head for the door. Still talking vividly. Still laughing like old buddies. Still wrapped up in whatever the fuck this is. 

And Dean? He steps out of the shadows before either of you can register what’s happening, irritation rushing through his blood when he sees the stupid smile on his brother’s face.

“Really, Sam?!”

Both of you freeze in your tracks. It’s like a switch flipped, and your smiles fall abruptly. Sam’s head snaps up, your eyes go wide, and the two of you look like two baby deers in headlights. But Dean doesn’t even give either of you a second to recover. 

“Lying? Meeting up with the enemy?” he snaps, deep voice raspy enough to grate on anyone. “I told you not to call her!”

Sam straightens, already having steeled himself for the inevitable lecture. “And I didn’t,” he argues. “She called me, alright?”

“A loophole, Sam? Really?” Dean raises his brows, then scowls. “That’s what you’re going with?”

You, on the other hand, are hiding halfway behind Sam’s broad back, deciding to use him as your shield. You blink between the brothers, caught in the crossfire. 

“You know what? I’m gonna go,” you mumble with a clear of your throat, already taking a tentative step back. “Let you guys figure this out–”

“Whoa, whoa–” Dean moves in an instant and blocks your path to freedom. “Not so fast, Sabrina.”

Your brow scrunches as you glance up at him. “Sabrina?” A beat passes before realization clicks, your expression darkening a smidge, clearly unimpressed with his nickname game. “Oh… Funny.”

A tiny smirk tugs on Dean’s lips. Antagonizing you is admittedly sort of fun. 

“Puritan,” you scoff under your breath and cross your arms. 

But Dean? Oh, he still heard that. 

“What did you just call me?”

“You heard me,” you grit, the defiance gleaming in your eyes. 

Now, Dean can take an insult. You’re not the first person that threw something at him and hoped it would stick. But puritan? He’s never gotten that one before. Everyone who knows him would probably agree that he’s the least strait-laced prude there is. There’s nothing pure about him. 

And just like that, his smirk morphs to a scowl. 

“Oh, you stay right there, Stevie Nicks Junior,” he warns, pointing a finger at you. “You’re not going anywhere.” 

You, however, aren’t scared of him this time or even backing down. Instead of flinching, you square your shoulders and meet his glare head-on. 

“Or what? You’re gonna shoot me in a busy street during daylight?” You tilt your head cockily, lips twitching. “You know that’s a red flag, right? I mean, Jesus, you’re every dating site’s worst nightmare. It’s like a full catfish situation.”

What the–

What the hell does that mean now?! 

Dean blinks, mouth agape, thrown just enough by the comment to be noticeable. Sam snorts in obvious amusement, earning himself a glare. Then Dean looks back at you, sterner than before as he tries (and fails) to fully track whatever the hell you just said. It sounded like a compliment wrapped in an insult. 

“Well, consider yourself catfished then,” he retorts with a huff and prays it makes sense. Your brow wrinkles, so it probably didn’t, but Dean ignores it skillfully. “You’re in this now.” His gaze then flicks expectantly between you and his little brother. “Well? Somebody gonna fill me in on what’s going on here?”

Sam exhales a long and deep breath. “Dean, look, I was just catching her up on what we know so far about the demon and what Bobby told us about her family.” 

“What?!” Dean snaps, shaking his head furiously. “You told her all of that?! First Ellen, now her? Why don’t you go ahead and put it out in an email newsletter next time, huh? Save us all some time, man.”

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. “Dean–”

“No!” Dean cuts him right off, voice rising. “You can’t trust her, Sam! You know that.” 

“Still standing right here,” you chime in dryly and wave your hand in mock. “You know, where you told me to stand…” 

Dean smacks his lips and shoots you a sharp look, then points a finger at you again. “You’re a bad influence on him.”

“Dude–” Sam starts, but this time you cut in first. 

“You know what? I don’t need this,” you announce with a tight smile. “You guys are on your own with this. I’m going. So if you plan on still shooting me in front of at least twenty witnesses, do it now because I’m walking away.” You turn on your heel, then throw a glimpse back at Sam over your shoulder. “Good luck with the case.”

Dean’s jaw clenches hard as soon as you take that first step.

“So what?” he throws after you. “You’re just gonna ditch while people are dying in this town? Real class act.”

Alright, sure, Dean doesn’t want you on this hunt. Doesn’t want you anywhere near him or Sam. But alas, you’re here already – no thanks to his little brother dragging you into their mess. Sam may as well have painted a blinking red target on your back. And now, well, you’re Dean’s fucking responsibility. 

Luckily, Dean’s good at finding buttons. And certainly, he’s found yours and knows where to push down. 

You stop in your tracks and spin on your heel, the irritation sparking your eyes like a wildfire. “I’m not a hunter. That’s your specialty,” you shoot back. “I’m gonna go home, watch Buffy slay some vampires, and then think of you in spirit, alright?” 

Dean studies you for a second, then sighs, forcing some of the heat out of his voice. “It’s not vampires,” he says, more grounded now, catching Sam’s attention as well. “Checked all three bodies. No second set of teeth, no bites, no feeding, nothing. Clean cuts.”

“So what are you thinking?” Sam asks, focusing immediately on the case. Maybe he’s just happy about the distraction. “Ghost? Cursed object?”

Dean shrugs lightly. “Would be my best guess.”

Sam nods slowly before his eyes drift toward you, the familiar look that Dean knows all too well already forming. He’s going full puppy on you. No one can resist that. It’s like his little brother’s superpower. 

“Which means we might need another perspective,” Sam muses, gaze flicking to you without hiding his intentions. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble, eyes narrowing. “It’s not my job.”

“People are still dying,” Dean repeats because he can read you well enough to know that’s your kryptonite. 

And yeah, he wasn’t a fan at first of the witchy disappearing act you pulled back in Salem, but he can admit that he might have overreacted back then and pulled the trigger a little too soon (metaphorically speaking). You’re doing a good thing there, helping people, even though Dean doesn’t really approve of the methods. He’s not going to admit that to your face, though. Can’t let you have that win. That probably would only go to your head. 

“People are dying everywhere every day,” you point out and throw your arms up. “What do you want me to do next? Perform open-heart surgery without a medical degree?”

Damn, that’s a good point. You’re admittedly quick on the draw and sharp as a tack. But Dean? He’s got some tricks up his sleeve, too. He’s used to that kind of argument from Sam, so he’s got some repartee of his own. Otherwise, God knows he’d never win a single fight. 

“Look, we could use your help,” Sam adds, pulling on the gentle kid gloves before Dean can interject. You hesitate, clearly torn, your gaze wandering back and forth between them. “We’re staying at a bed and breakfast down the road. We can get you a room. You don’t have to drive back tonight. Just sleep on it.”

“Whoa, no, that’s not gonna happen,” Dean cuts in sternly. “Not gonna risk her disappearing on us, man.” His eyes lock onto yours, unyielding. “You’re staying where we can see you in case you pull somethin’.”

“What? No!” you protest firmly. “I’m not playing summer camp with you two. Where would I even go? You know where I live. You know where I work. Hell, Sam has my number.”

“Yeah, and you also got a little disappearing spell in your repertoire. I haven’t forgotten about that one,” Dean counters cleverly. God, he has to bite back the rising smirk because he can see on your face that he’s got you with that one. 

You scowl and cross your arms. “How do I know you’re not gonna shoot me when I sleep?”

“Guess you don’t.”

“Dean,” Sam warns with a hint of frustration in his tone. “He’s not gonna shoot you,” he assures you gently, then glares back at Dean and grits, “Right?”

“Well–”

“Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes back and sighs. “Fine, whatever.” 

You stare at him for another second, then let out a short, incredulous laugh, lifting a brow. “Do you actually hate me that much?” 

Dean opens his mouth, already halfway to some snarky comeback. Something easy. Something cutting. But then he stops.

Because the answer that comes up first isn’t any of that. It’s something messier. More complicated. Something he doesn’t have a name for yet and doesn’t particularly want one.

So, he shoves it down. Deep, deep down. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he shoots back dryly instead. “You’re just easier to deal with when you’re not sneaking around.” 

Your eyes narrow to a glare, and for a minute, it seems like you’re going to walk away anyway, but then you exhale a deep sigh, shoulders dropping just a little bit. 

“Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m not doing this because you told me to.”

Dean scoffs, unimpressed. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Sabrina.” 

And just like that, the three of you stand there – tense, mismatched, and somehow stuck in the same mess whether any of you like it or not.

▶️ Chapter 4: Do You Hate Me? – June 19

Ready to storm the comments? I'm so excited to hear your best guesses and theories as to what the hell is going on here with that crazy, emotional, and possibly fake (?) childhood dream 👀🔮 (And yes, I did hurt my own heart writing this one, and there might be more in the next parts lol). Also don't ask me how long it took to craft those spells, letter, and ancient legend. I went full LOTR (and the rhyming for those spells is haaard) 😂

In other news, how did you like Sabrina and Sam's secret meeting and all the revelations in this part? Of course it's not that easy to trick Dean. Shame on them for trying lmao. How long do you think it will take till their bonding annoys him, though? A minute? 😝

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“Okay,” Sam sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “I think we should head to the library next. I mean, the whole hooves thing makes me think we might actually be dealing with the Headless Horseman. Maybe we can find out who it is, because this thing’s definitely mobile.”

Dean nods, still hung up on that whole red-green thing, but you shake your head slightly, brows creasing. Figures.

“Actually, I wanna process the evidence first. Might give us a clue about the weapon and where to find it,” you say.

Dean then finally dares to look at you again, brow furrowing lightly. “Thought you already did that with that whole horsey aura thing.”

“That’s not–… You know what? Never mind.” You press your lips together, biting back whatever comment you wanted to make, and simply turn to Sam. “Point is, I need a lab. Don’t exactly have one here. The rust, the hair… There’s more there.” Then you smack your lips, musingly looking between the brothers. “You guys do breaking and entering, right?”

Sam and Dean exchange a look.

Of course.

Dean sighs. “Yup, we do.”

“You guys go. I’ll hit the library,” Sam says, not even arguing (or volunteering).

“Fine. I’ll go with her.” Dean nods and rolls his eyes slightly.

But you? You immediately grimace and wrinkle your nose.

“Do you have to?” you question and then tone down the hostility a little by clearing your throat. “I mean, can’t Sam come to the lab with me, and you can go to the library?”

Dean’s lips rise to a smirk at that. “Not a chance in hell, Sabrina.”

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“Holy shit,” she says as she catches up with you. “You demolished that guy.” 

“Please,” you snort, fishing your keys out of your bag. There’s a satisfaction in your eyes you don’t even bother hiding. “He practically did it to himself. He was laying it on a little thick in there.” 

“A little?” Paige laughs, arching an eyebrow. “He was two seconds away from offering to carry you home.”

You unlock your Bimini-blue Aveo and climb into the driver’s seat, Paige dropping into the passenger side at the same time, still buzzing with adrenaline. She always gets a little too excited whenever you involve her in your magical extracurricular activities ever since the day you told her you were a witch. 

You were twelve, and back then, you didn’t do it with the intention of involving her in anything, especially in anything dangerous. You did it like a middle-schooler sharing secrets with her best friend – in a treehouse while playing pretend, completely innocent. You definitely never imagined the two of you would trick a hunter one day and build an entire underground network that helps victims of abuse. 

“He was cute, though,” she adds as an afterthought, slumping back in the seat. 

You start the engine and hum. “Mm.” 

“Don’t ‘mm’ me. He was.” 

You shrug your shoulders, pulling away from the curb. “If you say so.” 

Paige narrows her eyes at you. “That is not an answer.”

“It is an answer.”

“It’s a dodge.” Paige raises a brow. “It’s the least committal answer I’ve ever heard in my life. I saw you flirting back.” 

“I wasn’t flirting,” you say, although the corner of your mouth betrays you. “I was gathering information.” 

Paige lets out a short laugh. “Oh, right. Very professional. Very subtle, too. I especially liked the part where you leaned in to–, what was it… ‘hear him better’?” 

“He was mumbling,” you shoot back, shifting gears smoothly as you merge onto the road, Clancy’s disappearing in your rearview. “Not my fault.”

“Mhm.” She watches you with that look she gets whenever she thinks she’s caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. “And the giggling and pushing your boobs out? Also part of the investigation?”

You shrug again, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift as you hide a smirk. “It worked, didn’t it?”

It did. 

You replay the whole encounter without really meaning to – the ease and rhythm of it. The way he held eye contact just a smidge longer than necessary, measuring, weighing, and deciding where to push next. The way he wielded the deepness and rough edges of his voice as if he knew exactly what it did to people. And the way he’d leaned in, confident in that effortless and charming way of his, like he’d done this a hundred times before and never once been wrong about the outcome. 

Till now, till you, that is.

And you? You let him. 

Let him think he was in control when he really wasn’t. Let him steer the conversation just enough that it felt natural when you nudged it somewhere else. A question here, a detail there. Soft enough to pass as curiosity, but harmless enough to ignore. You carefully crafted the version of yourself he wanted to see and neatly stepped into it.

Your high school drama teacher surely would’ve been proud of you for bringing so much authenticity to the role. 

Paige then nudges your arm lightly, hauling you from your thoughts. “Okay, but seriously. He was cute.”

You roll your eyes and exhale through your nose. “I have a boyfriend. Remember Cam? You like him.”

Paige, however, doesn’t even miss a beat. “You can have a boyfriend and still have eyes, dude.” 

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You shake your head, laughing a little. “Oh, Cam would love this conversation right now.”

“Oh please. It’s just me you’re talking to,” Paige counters, waving it off. “Our sweet Cameron’s halfway across the world right now, not sitting in your passenger seat.”

For a second, your grip tightens just slightly on the wheel, your thoughts wandering to somewhere far beyond Salem – to dry heat and desert dust, to your boyfriend stuck somewhere in the middle of it.

You miss him. God, you do. But the two of you knew what you signed up for with each other when you met three years ago in college. 

“I’m just saying. You didn’t exactly look like someone suffering through that conversation tonight,” Paige teases you. 

You huff another laugh. “Because I wasn’t. I was handling it.”

“Handling it,” she parrots, lips twitching in amusement. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Tall, green eyes, voice like he drinks whiskey for breakfast and smokes a pack a day, but not flirting. Handling.”

You toss her a grin. “Now you’re catching on.”

Paige grins as well, clearly unconvinced, but lets it go. For now, at least. You know her well enough to anticipate her throwing it back like a boomerang at some point in the near future and hitting you in the face with it at probably the most inappropriate moment possible. 

You focus on the road then and on the glow of streetlights stretching ahead. “He tried too hard for my taste.”

Paige shoots you a raised look at that. “Or,” she counters, “you’re just allergic to fun.”

“I’m not allergic to fun,” you defend, chuckling. “I just don’t like being read.”

Paige snorts. “Ironic coming from you.”

“Fine,” you scoff, rolling your eyes back. “Maybe I just don’t like being hunted, then.”

Your mind drifts back to the bar, the slight sting in your gut seeping through the triumph in your veins. You played it perfectly tonight – calm, sweet, a little vulnerable. You gave him just enough truths to make the lies stick. No tells. No slips. Nothing he could latch onto. You watched him carefully the entire time. Every shift, every glance, every subtle change in posture. You waited for the moment something didn’t line up, but the other shoe never dropped.

Still.

“You think he bought it?”

Paige doesn’t hesitate with her answer. “Oh, 100%,” she assures you. “The sad backstory? The whole ‘I’m just a normal girl with a stressful job’ thing? He was eating out of your hand. Complete goner. You could’ve probably told him the moon was made of cheese, and he would’ve believed you.” 

Your mouth curves, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I don’t know,” you muse, biting the inside of your cheek. “At the end there, something felt… off.”

Paige furrows her brow. “Off how?” 

You hesitate a beat, trying to pin it down, but it stays on the tip of your tongue. “I don’t know. His aura just–” You frown slightly. “It didn’t match. Not completely.” 

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he was all smooth and relaxed on the surface, sure,” you say slowly, replaying it in your head, “but underneath there was this… sharpness. A little anger, maybe.” 

Paige considers your hunch for a second before brushing it off. “Yeah, well, he was probably just annoyed you didn’t go home with him. Poor guy put a lot of effort in. I mean, dude spends all night flirting his ass off, thinks he’s closing the sweetest deal of his lifetime, and then you just leave? I’d be a little off, too.”

A soft laugh escapes you at her unhinged theory. “What a devastating loss.”

“Yeah, I’d say,” Paige snorts and shoots you a grin. “Tragic, really. My thoughts and prayers go out to him. Rest in peace, G-Man.” 

You shake your head at her, but the smile lingers as you turn into the small parking lot beside your apartment building, headlights sweeping over the second car parked next to your spot. It’s exactly what you expected. Old, beige, and forgettable. Mia never does anything halfway. 

You pull in beside it and cut the engine, the lightness and banter from the drive slowly fading and being replaced by focus and professionalism. 

Paige leans forward, peering through the windshield. “Wow. Where the hell does Mia always find these cars?”

“No clue. I think she gets them from the junkyard across town,” you reply, reaching for the door. “What matters is that nobody’s gonna miss it.”

The cracked asphalt scuffs softly under your sneakers as you spot Amy already waiting underneath one of the streetlights at the edge of the courtyard, her young son tucked against her side like he might vanish if she lets go of him. She looks like she’s holding their whole world together with sheer willpower. But even in the dim glow of the lamp, the fading purple and blue bruise along her cheekbone is impossible to ignore. It’s the ugly reminder of why she’s here in the first place. 

“Hey,” you greet them with a warm smile as you approach. “You made it.” 

She nods quickly, relief flickering across her face the moment she sees you. “Yeah, uh, I’m sorry for calling you tonight. I just–… We didn’t wanna wait any longer. I couldn’t stay another night. Not after today.”

“It’s okay. I told you to call me whenever you’re ready,” you reassure her gently and gesture toward the beige car. “Everything’s already in there. Papers, IDs, and enough money to get you started somewhere else. Don’t worry. Mia made sure it all checks out.”

“I even packed you guys some snacks for the road,” Paige adds with a smile. 

Amy just stares at you like you’ve handed her something impossible. “I don’t understand how you–”

“You don’t have to,” you cut in, smiling. “That’s kind of the whole point.” 

Her son Ethan, seven, then peeks out at you behind his mother’s legs, clutching the same worn stuffed fox you saw him with at the hospital earlier. You soften instinctively and drop to one knee in front of him.

“Hey, champ,” you say warmly. “Your fox looks ready for an adventure. Got a name?”

“Rusty,” the boy mumbles shyly, the limbs of his stuffy flopping over his fists like he’s trying to hide behind it. 

“Rusty,” you repeat, smiling. “Solid name, buddy. Rusty’s gonna keep you company the whole drive, okay? And when you get to the new place, he gets first pick of the bed.” 

A tiny smile flickers across Ethan’s face at that before you rise to your feet again.

“Thank you,” Amy says, looking at you and Paige. “Both of you.”

“You don’t have to thank us. We’re happy to help. Just take care of yourself, okay?” you tell her. “The next part’s easy. Trust me.”

Amy’s grip tightens slightly on her son. “How does it work exactly?” 

“It’s like a glamour. It means the wrong people will look right at you but not really see you,” you explain, tilting your head as you search for the right words. “Like their brain just… skips over you. You won’t stand out. You won’t stick. Anyone trying to find you will just… slide right past. You understand?”

“I call it ‘weaponized invisibility,’” Paige chimes in with a grin. 

“Basically,” you agree, a small smile tugging at your mouth before you glance back at Amy. “You’re still there. You’re just not interesting enough to anyone that’s actively looking for you to ever remember.” 

Amy exhales a small breath of relief, some of the tension falling from her shoulders, though it doesn’t disappear completely. “And is it… safe?” 

You nod without hesitation. “Yeah, it’s completely safe. I promise. It’ll hold as long as you need it to. The only one who can lift it is me. If, at some point, you decide you don’t need it any longer, you can give me a call, and I can break the spell again. Until then, it keeps you both off the radar.” 

There’s a pause as she takes in all the information you’ve given her today, weighing and measuring it against everything she’s trying to leave behind – a home, a husband, a life. 

And then, Amy gives you one decisive nod. “Do it.”

“Dude, we gotta talk,” Dean says as soon as he barrels into the motel room, shoving the door open so hard it slams into the wall and chips the paint. 

Sam, however, doesn’t look up at first or even seem mildly rattled by the entrance. He’s comfortably spread out on the cheap bed, one knee propped up, a bunch of research papers scattered across the mattress beside him. 

“You strike out already?” he asks, distracted, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “What happened to not coming back tonight?”

“Yeah,” Dean scoffs humorlessly and doesn’t slow down as he crosses the room. There’s a restless type of energy surging through his blood that he’s been holding onto the entire drive back from the bar. “That was before I found out she’s a freaking witch.”

Sam’s attention finally piques, straightening on the bed, brow already knitted when his head snaps up. “What?”

Dean lets out a breath, caught somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, still pacing the stained motel carpet. 

“Yeah, you were right, man,” he admits. “Hot CSI? Definitely not Little Miss Innocent. I can tell you that much.” He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Her bag fell open at the bar, and I got a nice, clear look at the full witch starter pack inside. Tarot cards, herbs, spell book… Even had the rune thing on the cover.”

Sam’s expression morphs from confusion to something more focused and analytical as he rises from the bed. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure, man,” Dean confirms. “The whole thing smelled like a New Age gift shop exploded in there.”

“Huh. Witch,” Sam mumbles to himself, moving over to the small table where more of his research litters the surface. “That actually makes sense.”

“What makes sense?” Dean slows on the carpet, frowning. Why can that kid never finish a damn thought?

Sam drops into the rickety chair, shuffling scattered notes around and flipping pages till he finds what he’s looking for. “I dug more into her background while you were, uh… busy,” he says, clearing his throat subtly of judgment as Dean shoots him a little glare. “She was born on spring equinox 1984, which just so happened to coincide with a full lunar eclipse, also called a blood moon.”

Dean crosses his arms, shooting his little brother a flat look. “…So?”

Sam huffs a chuckle, clearly expecting that reaction. “It’s not just any date, Dean. See, to witches, pagans, and a bunch of old traditions from Europe, the spring equinox is a big deal,” he explains. “It’s basically their New Year. A balance point. Day and night are equal, light and dark are even… That day’s practically all about transitions – winter to spring, death to life, dark to light. It’s a threshold.”

The creases on Dean’s brow deepen slightly. “A threshold for what?”

“It means nothing’s fully one thing or the other,” Sam replies rather unhelpfully, because it certainly doesn’t make things clearer for Dean. “Point is, it’s tied to change. Renewal. Cycles resetting. In a lot of folklore, it’s when the wheel turns – old things end, new things start.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, lips pursed, nodding along. “Still not seeing why I should care.”

“Well,” Sam continues, leaning forward slightly, “add a lunar eclipse on top of that, according to the lore, a blood moon causes boundaries between things to get even thinner. Normal rules don’t apply the same way anymore. Things get unstable. Stuff that’s supposed to stay separate doesn’t – at least not completely.”

Dean’s brow twitches slightly, but he stays silent, listening. He can already guess where Sam is leading with this and doesn’t like it one bit. 

“And get this,” Sam adds, even more eager now. “There’s this idea out there that eclipses don’t just mark change, but they force it. They break patterns. Interrupt cycles that are supposed to keep repeating.”

Dean huffs a breath, unimpressed. “Yeah? And?”

Sam glances back up at him. “Well, if you stack those two things together, you get a rare alignment. I mean, it’s practically impossible. Only occurs maybe every couple millennia. And some folks believe that a child born under these circumstances isn’t tied to the same rules as everyone else.”

Dean’s expression hardens a smidge. “Meaning what?” 

“Meaning they don’t fit cleanly on one side,” Sam explains. “Not fully light, not fully dark. More like… in between. Boundary-walkers. People who can move across lines that most of us can’t.” 

Dean exhales through his nose, still rather skeptical. “So you’re telling me this chick hit the supernatural jackpot.” 

“I’m telling you that in a lot of these same stories, these people are tied to breaking things. Not as in destroying everything, but more like ending something that’s been going on too long. Breaking a cycle that shouldn’t keep going.” 

Dean doesn’t say anything, but his mind automatically fills in the blanks – the things Sam doesn’t state outright. Yellow Eyes. Psychic kids. Their father’s notes. 

Anomaly. Asset. Key.

“So what?” Dean prompts, leaning against the dresser, arms still crossed. “She’s some kind of cosmic loophole? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Sam shakes his head. “No, it’s supposed to explain why it amplifies things. Power, potential… whatever you wanna call it.”

“So you’re saying she’s a powerful witch?” Dean checks, then smirks and shrugs it off before Sam can answer. “I mean, guess that’s helpful when we gank her. Better pack the whole arsenal.”

He pushes off the dresser and moves to the duffel on his bed, beginning to sort through weapons – iron cuffs, guns, knives, maybe even a machete if everything else fails. But Sam grows suspiciously silent behind his back, which can only mean one thing: he doesn’t agree with Dean’s assessment. 

“Dean, I don’t think we should kill her.”

Dean snorts a chuckle, although he doesn’t feel like laughing. “Knew this was coming…”

“Just listen, alright?” Sam pleads. 

Dean spins around to face him and sighs loud enough for his little brother to hear the annoyance in it. Sam exhales a frustrated breath, too. 

“Look, if she’s really a witch, I don’t think she got her magic from some demon or even a grimoire,” Sam muses. “And Dad didn’t think so either. In his notes, he talked about tracing her family’s lineage and mentioned a historical cooperation. I think her mother and grandmother were witches too, which would mean she’s a natural. She might not even know how to use her powers fully yet.”

“Oh, and you want her to?” Dean cocks a brow. “‘Cause from what I’ve seen so far, she knows how to use ‘em enough, Sam. Pretty sure she’s involved in all those missing women cases. She was the CSI on scene for most of them. Pretty easy access.”

“Yeah, but from what you’ve been telling me, she never actually killed someone, right? I mean, it even looks like she’s helping these women,” Sam points out. 

“We don’t know that yet,” Dean huffs. 

“We also don’t know yet if it’s not true, which is why we should talk to her first before you pull out the gun,” Sam states all too cleverly. “You know witches are human, right? And some of them are good and only use white magic, Dean. Not to mention, she’s also the only person we’ve come across in weeks who might have any kind of connection to what we’re actually looking for. You really wanna take her out before finding out why Dad kept her around in the first place?”

Dean rolls his eyes back, letting out another sigh. He absolutely hates when his little brother is being reasonable.

One thing both Sam and their father have in common is judging people by their usefulness. It’s not like Sam actually sees you as some innocent girl or even human. He sees a potential weapon. And Dean’s sure their dad once saw the same damn thing. 

But Dean? He sees a weapon, too – one neither of them knows how to handle. 

“Look, if she’s really hurting innocent people out there, we take care of it. We always do. No questions asked,” Sam adds. “I’m just saying. Maybe hold off till we have some answers.” 

“Fine, alright,” Dean caves at last, practically forcing the words out. The bile already rises in his mouth. “We talk to her first. But if this thing goes sideways, I’m putting a bullet in her.”

“Sure. Understood.” Sam nods a little too keenly. “You know where she went after the bar?”

Dean snorts a chuckle. “Told me there was a lab emergency. But unless someone mislabeled evidence or spilled a vial of blood, I doubt there’s a reason for a CSI to run to work after midnight.”

The corners of Sam’s mouth quirk in amusement. “So you’re saying you did strike out.”

Dean fixes his little brother with a glare, then scoffs, somewhat defensive. “I wasn’t seriously pursuing her, alright? Was just doing my due diligence, man. Working the case. Making sure she’s really clean before we head out, you know? And turns out she wasn’t.”

“Sure, yeah,” Sam says, but his wry tone of voice already suggests he doesn’t mean it one bit. There’s also the annoying smile that gives it away. 

“Shut up,” Dean huffs and shakes it off, but his mind doesn’t stay on Sam for long and drifts back to the bar. 

Back to you. 

You carried yourself like you weren’t hiding anything, although you clearly were. Your smile came so easy, but your eyes never quite followed as if there was always a second layer running underneath the surface. You watched him just as much as he watched you, even when you were pretending not to. The way you held his gaze made it seem like you weren’t afraid of anything.

You didn’t look like a weapon. Didn’t feel like one either. But maybe that just makes you all the more dangerous.

“You got her home address?” he prompts then, looking at Sam. 

“Yup, right here.”

Dean nods, grabs his keys and jacket, and slings the duffel full of weapons over his shoulder. “Alright, let’s roll.”

Dean knows something’s off the second the Impala rolls to a stop and the engine dies a block away from your home. His hunter instincts are already tingling as Sam and him sneak through backyards and side alleys till they land at your apartment building. 

It’s one of those old New England brick jobs – a deep red façade that reaches over four stories, adorned with black-framed windows and a white stone trim, cracked and patched in certain places and slightly weathered over the centuries. The entrance is modest, slightly recessed, with a simple arch and a set of worn steps leading up from the cobblestone sidewalk lined with trees, their branches stretching out and partially obscuring the upper floors, leaves eerily brushing the windows as the wind picks up.

Tucked just behind the building is a small parking lot then, the asphalt cracked from weeds breaking through. It only holds a handful of cars, a narrow and quiet courtyard adjoining it that offers a little pocket of green among bricks. The low iron fence along one side of it is almost hidden by overgrown shrubs. 

The whole scene looks ordinary, but as Dean’s learned a long time ago, ordinary is usually where the worst things hide best. It’s perfect for conversations no one’s supposed to overhear. 

That’s probably what you thought as well because, as the brothers round the corner, Dean spots you under a streetlamp in the courtyard chatting with a woman and small boy, probably no older than ten. To his surprise, your friend Paige is with you too, which wasn’t exactly the plan. 

There were only two options when the brothers left the motel: either you’re home and they would’ve forced themselves inside, or if you weren’t home, they would’ve broken in and ambushed you once you arrived. Finding you outside and in the wide open wasn’t exactly on Dean’s bingo card, but he’s luckily excellent at improvising. 

Your posture is steady and focused, one hand lifted slightly between you and the woman and kid, fingers poised in a way that doesn’t belong to anything normal.

And Dean? He doesn’t wait for it to make a lick of sense.

He charges forth in quick, decisive strides, gun already in his hand before he even registers reaching for it. It’s muscle memory, the same senses kicking in that have kept him alive for at least this long. 

“Don’t move.” His deep voice carries across the courtyard like a blade, the barrel of his gun smoothly trained on your back. 

The familiar click that follows is loud in the quiet night, clean and unmistakable. You spin around so fast it almost makes him flinch, eyes going wide the second you see the weapon in his hands. 

“It’s not what it looks like!” 

Dean huffs out something that might’ve been a laugh in a different situation and steps closer. “Yeah? ‘Cause to me, it looks like you found your next victim.”

“Dean–” Sam already hisses behind him, but Dean skillfully ignores the protest. 

“I got it,” he mutters under his breath and doesn’t lower the gun even for a second, dark green eyes fixed on you. “Step away from them. Now.”

But instead of following his order, you do the opposite and step right in front of them, shielding both mother and son behind your back. The woman lets out a startled sound, pulling her son with her as they tuck tighter behind you. The boy whimpers once, muffled against his mother’s thigh as he clutches a stuffed fox to his body. His eyes are wide and fixed on Dean, but he’s not curious or confused. He’s scared. 

Scared of him.

For a moment, that throws Dean off his game because that’s not usually how it goes. Usually, fear is pointed in the right direction. Usually, it tells him exactly who the monster is. 

Not in this case, though. 

That same fear also gleams in your eyes, but it doesn’t make you fall apart. Instead, you lift your chin bravely despite of what’s flickering underneath the surface, and Dean can tell you’re already trying to think your way out of this situation. 

“They’re not in danger, alright? I’m not hurting them,” you offer quickly, hands slightly raised in defense. “I’m helping them leave. That’s all.”

His eyes briefly drift back to the woman and child behind you, and Dean recognizes her face from a photo in a police report he read earlier. Amy Reznik, the latest victim from the crime scene the brothers just visited this morning. He’s here to save her, to stop whatever dark crap you’re doing to her and the kid, but the fear in her eyes still isn’t aimed at you.

It’s aimed at him. 

His grip tightens on the gun, knuckles whitening, but the barrel instinctively dips half an inch at the realization. 

“Helping,” he repeats, cocking a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m calling it, dickhead,” you snap back and then catch yourself, shoulders pulling in just slightly. 

Dickhead?

Granted, he hasn’t exactly expected that pushback. You seemed so sweet and innocent back at the bar he wasn’t even sure you knew a single curse word. He knows because he kept thinking about how he’d draw them out of you later in the night. But whatever fire is roaring inside of you now, you definitely kept those fierce flames burning low at Clancy’s. 

You really have been playing him the entire time, haven’t you?

“Then explain it to me,” Dean prompts, closing the distance, the gun in his hand not wavering. “‘Cause from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like the same crap you’ve been pulling all over this town for a year now.”

“I promise I’m not hurting them,” you insist once more, eyes locked on him, pleading. 

“Dean, just look at them,” Sam chimes in then. “I think she’s telling the truth. She’s not hurting anyone. They’re scared of us… of you.”

“See? Listen to your partner. He seems to have his head screwed on right,” you say and raise a brow. “Can you lower the gun now? Please? This is a family-friendly neighborhood.”

But Dean only shakes his head, gaze stern. “Not gonna happen, sweetheart. Sorry.” 

Your mouth presses into a thin line at that, irritation threading through the fear. “I told you I don’t hurt people. I swear I would never–” 

“Oh yeah?” Dean cuts in, brows lifting. “Then what about the husbands, huh? If you’re so harmless, how come they all end up in the ER?”

You freeze for a heartbeat, enough for Dean to notice, and shift on your weight. Then you guiltily purse your lips, and Dean knows he’s got you. 

“‘Cause it’s… funny?”

As soon as those words leave your lips, silence drops like an anvil. Dean’s gaze slowly drifts to Sam, head tilting with a silent You hearing this? I told you so when he meets his little brother’s eyes. Sam, on the other hand, is trying very hard not to react and presses his lips together, which somehow makes it all the more worse. To his credit, though, at least he doesn’t outwardly smile. 

Dean then looks back at you, arching a brow. “You think this is funny?” 

You wince slightly and bite your lips, but against all better judgment, you give him a small shrug of your shoulders. “…Kinda?”

Upon Dean’s intensifying glare, however, you immediately backtrack, hands lifting in surrender again. 

“Okay, look, it’s not like they didn’t deserve it, alright? You ever heard of karma?”

“You broke their dicks,” Dean grits bluntly, jaw flexing. 

“Oh my God,” you groan and roll your eyes, exasperation finally snapping fully through your fear. “Get off that high horse, alright? They’re not dead. I didn’t kill anyone. They just had an itchy cast for a few weeks. They’re fine.” 

“Fine?” Dean echoes incredulously. “One guy thinks he’s got permanent damage.” 

“Only because he didn’t go to the ER,” you shoot back, throwing your hands up. “Not my fault men notoriously avoid doctors, apparently even when their dicks turn purple,” you mutter before meeting his stare. “C’mon, man, it’s not like it turned black and fell off now, did it?” 

Sam makes a quiet choking sound behind him, stifling a snort. Dean frowns but otherwise ignores it. 

“Besides,” you add, chin lifting defiantly despite the gun still pointed at you, “you really wanna pick the side of some drunk, abusive loser in a wife-beater? Think about it.” 

Son of a bitch. 

Something inside of Dean drops at that, his guard crumbling the slightest bit. He rolls his shoulders when he feels them slumping, trying not to let it show that you got to him there. 

And no, obviously, he doesn’t want to defend some asshole who takes his anger out on his family. He’s seen enough of that to know exactly what kind of men you’re talking about. Hell, when he spoke to some of them this morning, even he wanted to dent a few teeth in after the bullshit they were spewing. Admittedly, he thought they deserved what happened to them a little. 

A little.

Still, he can’t just let some witch run around town doing vigilante shit. It’s not about right or wrong, fair or unfair, karma or justice. It’s about fucking principle. 

“That’s not the point,” Dean snaps.

“Then what is the point? Enlighten me,” you challenge. Dean’s at a loss for words, not really able to come up with a good enough argument, and when he doesn’t respond, you continue, “Look, I don’t force anyone. I just give the wives the option. They make the decision, not me. It’s hardly my fault their husbands were such big dicks, every single woman I’ve helped so far has made that choice.”

“I did,” Amy suddenly pipes up behind you and positions herself slightly beside you, braver now than before. 

Dean’s bewildered momentarily but reins it in quickly. He doesn’t move, doesn’t lower the gun, and doesn’t give you the satisfaction of shifting his focus. Even Sam shuffles behind him, his presence a reminder of the conversation they had back at the motel. Talk first. But Dean’s not ready to budge quite yet. To be fair, though, he is talking to you and hasn’t pulled the trigger so far.

“Look, I don’t care about your twisted little moral code,” Dean huffs, raising his gun an inch higher again, aiming straight for your heart. “All this crap stops now, or I’m putting a bullet in your head. Understand?”

Honestly, it’s the best he can offer. He’s giving you a clear out, a fair warning shot, and that’s way more than he usually grants people. 

“No, please, you can’t do this,” Amy throws in, her voice breaking as she steps forward, pulling her son with her.

Up close, the bruising on her cheek looks worse than from a distance. It’s too fresh, too angry, and a little too real for Dean’s taste. Her eyes are pleading as she looks at him. 

“You have to let her do the spell,” she continues, desperation bleeding into every syllable. “You don’t know what my husband’s like, okay? We can’t go back there. If we stay, he’s going to–… he’s going to kill me. Or him.” She swallows harshly, her hand tightening around her son’s shoulder. “This is our only chance.” 

The kid glances at Dean again, and the fear’s still palpable in his eyes. Not of you but still of him, though. Nothing lines up the way it’s supposed to. You don’t look like a monster. They don’t look like victims. And he’s standing here with a gun pointed at the only person they trust, which makes this entire situation a little more complicated than he likes. 

Dean finds himself in a moral deadlock, unable to give the woman a satisfying answer, and that’s when Sam steps forward and provides one, hazel eyes locking on you. 

“How exactly does it work?” 

You seem to be grateful for the attempt to understand, exhaling a small breath of relief. “It’s like a glamour,” you reply. “It doesn’t make them invisible or change their appearance. It just makes them harder to notice. Harder to find.”

Dean glances back at Amy and her son, thinks back to the seemingly innocent home he visited this morning and the bad feeling he got when he walked through it that manifested in a prickle down his spine. She looks at him now like he’s the guy that stands between her freedom and her prison. And she looks at you like you’re her savior. 

Whatever happened to things being fucking black and white, huh? Amy and her son certainly aren’t siding with him. Your friend obviously doesn’t either. And even Sam seems to crumble and fall for your little act. Is Dean the only one who still sees things clearly here?

He knows when things are good. Knows when they’re evil. There’s no in-between. But you seem to be one giant ass gray zone. 

Then he remembers what Sam told him back at the motel – boundary-walker. 

Dean thinks that surely fits you. If nothing’s really one thing or the other, then you certainly don’t fall cleanly on either side. Most importantly, you break cycles that shouldn’t keep going. 

So far, the lore seems to check out. But Dean’s getting the feeling you wouldn’t even know what that means yet. 

He tilts his head at you, studies you a little closer. His brow is creased so hard he feels the migraine coming on. The entire time that he’s been pointing a gun at you, you haven’t even tried to defend yourself once with something other than words. No spells. No hex bags thrown his way. No lift of a finger that would fling him into the next car. 

Dean takes that into account. 

“Alright, fine,” he relents and lets out small sigh. “Go ahead. Do it.”

“For real?” Your brow pinches – surprised, confused, maybe even shocked. “You… sure? This isn’t some trick where I turn around and you shoot me in the back, is it?”

Dean stares at you without blinking, sighs once more internally, and then removes the magazine from his gun. He holds it up for proof (or as a sign of good faith or whatever) and then pockets it in his leather jacket. 

“Happy now?”

You hesitate a moment, then toss him a glare of all things before turning to your friend, clearly unconvinced. 

Well, he tried. 

“Paige, watch him.” 

She nods, crosses her arms, and then stares daggers at him, too. Even Amy still looks at him disapprovingly. 

What the hell do these women want from him? He’s given them everything they wanted, and they still ask for fucking more. 

You turn to Amy and her son, shooting him one last little glare over your shoulder before crouching down to the kid’s level. The boy actually smiles at you, which irks Dean slightly. Where was his smile when he came to save everyone?

“You and Rusty ready?” you ask the boy. 

He nods, then bites his lip, looking at you with big eyes. “Does it hurt?”

You shake your head softly. “Not even a little. Pinky swear,” you assure him and offer him your little finger. He takes you up on the offer with a shy smile. 

“Is it like the Cloak of Invisibility?” 

You smile at that. “Already reading Harry Potter, huh?” 

The boy nods eagerly. 

You laugh softly. “Well, it’s kinda like that. But you’re always gonna be visible to your mom, so no playing pranks on her like Fred and George, okay? But bad people won’t be able to see you.”

The boy looks up from his stuffy at that. “Like my dad?”

You exhale a small breath. “Yeah, like your dad.”

“Good.” The boy gives another decisive nod. “He hurts my mommy.”

“I know,” you say quietly as Amy’s grip tightens the tiniest bit on her son’s shoulder. Dean can see it. “But he won’t be able to anymore from now on, okay?” You then hold out both your palms. “Just gotta take my hand. Your mom, too,” you explain and glance up at Amy. 

Both of them then place a hand in yours. Dean watches carefully, ready to reach for any weapon at his disposal if things turn sour. But you only close your eyes, take a deep inhale, and then mumble something incoherent under your breath. 

A few seconds later, you let go of them again and rise to your feet. “Alright, you guys are good to go.”

“That’s it?” Dean cocks an eyebrow. 

You glance back over your shoulder at him, amused. “Did you expect fireworks?”

Honestly, he doesn’t know what he expected. Maybe showmanship. Maybe theatrics. Maybe even a blinding light like an alien abduction. But this felt calmer than any of that. Not like a spell but like a blessing. Protection. Maternal, even. 

That’s what the rune said too, isn’t it?

“You’re like Hermione,” the little boy tells you with a big smile. 

You match his expression. “I guess I am,” you say with enough pride to make your chest swell and then toss Dean a smug grin. “You heard that?”

“I have no idea what the hell that even means,” he retorts, which earns him not only a frown from you but from Sam as well. Dean can see the bitchface in his periphery. 

And just for the record, he knows exactly what that meant. Still doesn’t care all that much, however. 

“No more breaking things of husbands, though. We clear on that?” he adds sternly and feels like a father scolding a child. He sounds a million years old. What the fuck is happening to him?

You roll your eyes back like a teenager and sigh loudly. “Fine.”

Paige then timidly raises her hand.

Dean snaps his attention to her. “Yeah?”

“Can I still slash his tires?”

He scowls, exhaling a deep sigh. “Is there magic involved?”

She shakes her head vividly. 

“Then fine.”

“What?!” you gasp in disbelief. “Oh, so that’s allowed? What if I break a guy’s dick manually? Still gonna shoot me then?”

He scratches the back of his neck, then gives a shrug. “Don’t see a problem with that.”

“Unbelievable,” you scoff. “So this is just about you not liking magic.”

He smirks slightly. “Guilty as charged.”

That earns him another glare from you. 

“Go for the car,” Amy tells you then with a newfound casualness. “God knows he always loved that stupid thing more than us.”

“Ugh,” Paige groans and rolls her eyes. “Guys who are obsessed with their cars are always a red flag.”

You and Amy hum in agreement.

“What? That’s not–” Dean starts to argue, but as the first words tumble out of his mouth, the three women are already staring at him with judgmental looks. 

Sam snorts audibly behind him while Paige and Amy only look slightly amused. You, on the other hand, are enjoying this a little too much, judging by your knowing grin, and Dean tries to think hard how you could even possibly know that about him before he remembers that he told you about Baby back at the bar. 

Dammit. 

You then bid your goodbyes to Amy and her son, watching them drive off into the literal sunset, and Dean’s chest oddly fills with warmth as he watches them take off into a hopefully better life. A mother and her son are finally safe. This is a good thing, right? 

But it’s not over yet. 

While you’re still busy, Dean busies himself as well, mostly with putting the magazine back where it belongs. And as soon as Amy is out of sight and you turn back around, the familiar click of his gun echoes through the nightly silence once more. 

“Seriously?” You gape incredulously as you stare down the barrel again.

“Sorry, but we ain’t done yet,” he tells you without meaning the apology in it. “Let’s take this inside. Have a chat.” He slightly waves the gun in the direction of your apartment building and then looks at Paige still standing there. “You too, sweetheart.”

But as soon as his weapon only remotely aims at your friend, you bristle and charge forward. 

“Do not point that gun at her,” you growl warningly. “If you so much as hurt a single hair on her head, I swear to God I will break your dick next. Permanently.” 

Dean snorts a chuckle, his gun coming up a fraction higher, aim sharpening at you. “Oh, you’re dead before you can even pull out the hex bag, bitch.”

You grimace, face twisting with immediate disgust. “Ew, I don’t do hex bags,” you scoff. “It’s a spell, idiot. And I don’t even have to say it out loud. I can do it in my head.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “You’re bluffing.”

But you don’t budge, crossing your arms. “Try me.”

His eyes narrow at you, weighing the threat. Admittedly, even if you are bluffing, you’ve got a damn good pokerface. 

“Just let her go, please,” you add, more sincere and pleading to the goodness in him this time. “It’s not a coven thing or whatever you’re thinking. She’s not a witch. Your beef’s with me, alright?”

Dean scratches his temple with the handle of his gun, hoping the stupid headache will pass soon, and then shares a look with Sam, who only shrugs his broad shoulders in response.

Awesome. 

He licks his lips, contemplates for another second, and then gives a nod. “Alright, go. Don’t make me regret it,” he caves, jerking his head toward Paige. 

She doesn’t wait for a second invitation. “Okay, yep, great, love that for me–” she babbles, already backing toward your car.

You toss her the keys and give her a nod that signals you’re okay. She returns it, swallows hard, and then starts the car, peeling out of the parking lot. 

Dean then steps forward slowly, closing the distance between you, the gun never wavering. Whatever this is, whatever you are, he’s far from done yet. 

“Alright, fun’s over, sweetheart,” he announces and doesn’t leave room for argument. “Inside. Now. We’re gonna have a nice, long talk.”

The key in your hand jitters as you try to fumble it into the small hole of your front door, the click of the lock ringing too loudly in the silent death of night.

That’s the first thing you’ve learned ever since you’ve been confronted with the wrong end of a gun about an hour ago – everything just feels awfully louder when there’s a bullet carved with your name in it involved.  

You can feel him behind you without turning. He’s close enough that the heat of his presence bleeds through your shirt, close enough that if you moved back even an inch, you’d probably bump right into him. The awareness of it sits under your skin. It’s a constant, buzzing feeling that’s impossible to ignore.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the gun. Don’t think about how fast this could go wrong. 

Don’t think about how you almost died ten minutes ago on your own doorstep like some kind of cosmic joke. 

The weight of the gun feels almost physical even when you’re not looking at it. Your body just knows where it is, where it’s pointed, and what it can do. It presses between your shoulder blades as you push the door open. It’s a phantom touch that makes your breath come just a little too shallow and your pulse just a little too loud in your ears.

Your apartment then greets you in familiar chaos, and for one stupid, disorienting second, it feels like stepping into a different life entirely. All of it – the gun at your back, the two strange men in your home – fades away for a second, and it grounds you enough to catch your breath momentarily. 

For a heartbeat, it’s just warm light and hanging plants swaying gently from the ceiling. The smell of rosemary, sage, and lavender drifts in from the kitchen windowsill where your little herb garden thrives in mismatched pots. The crystals and trinkets scattered across your shelves are decorative clutter and not anything meaningful or even dangerous. 

It’s all carefully curated in a way that makes Paige roll her eyes every time and label it witchcore as if it’s solely an aesthetic and not your entire personality. 

It looks like a twenty-two-year-old girl lives here. It looks like you.

Not a witch. Not a threat. Not a weapon. Not whatever the hell he thinks you are.

“Inside. Move,” Metallica orders behind you, the sharpness of his baritone voice cutting cleanly through the air.

You tentatively step forward because survival instinct overrides pride. After all, you’re pretty sure the alternative would be a bullet. 

You barely make it three steps in before you feel him push past you. He’s all sharp edges and efficiency as he sweeps your place with a precision that makes your stomach twist. His boots are heavy against your wooden floorboards as he checks corners, sightlines, and shadows as if he expects something to jump out at him. It’s clear he’s done this exact same thing probably a million times before in his life. 

Bon Jovi, on the other hand, stays near the door. He’s quieter, watching everything and everyone at once, his presence softer but no less aware. His aura flickers in your periphery when you dare to steal a sideways glimpse at him – blue and yellow and that unmistakable thread of violet woven through it like a secret he doesn’t fully understand himself.

You hover near the entryway for half a second before–

“Sit,” Metallica orders, gesturing his chin toward your old couch without ever taking his eyes off the metaphorical dragon in the room. 

God, you wish there was a spell for turning yourself into an actual dragon. That’d be kind of neat right now. 

His aura is spewing fire as well and feels almost overwhelming, swallowing everything in the room in a ball of flames. It’s coiled tightly like a spring ready to snap, which doesn’t really soothe your worries in the slightest. 

Yeah, he’s definitely the knight with a sword. 

You slowly and carefully lower yourself into the soft cushions, the plush underground only bringing you little comfort for once. Every step and every breath you take feels like you’re walking a tightrope strung between cooperating and getting shot. Every sudden movement might get you killed. 

Which, truthfully, doesn’t feel that far off from reality. It’s a pretty solid assumption at this point.

You keep your hands instinctively visible, gripping the edge of the couch just enough to ground you, but you want to stay as non-threatening and harmless as possible.

Very harmless. So harmless. The most harmless.

Metallica, however, still doesn’t lower the gun. Doesn’t even seem to consider it. Of course he doesn’t.

Stupid knight.

Your bag barely leaves your shoulder before Metallica snatches it from you, fingers brushing yours for half a heartbeat. The touch is so brief and accidental it barely registers or even counts as contact, but it still sends a strange little jolt up your arm, something electric and unwelcome that you shove down immediately.

Focus.

He tosses the bag to Bon Jovi. “Check it. She’s had it at the bar. Got her little spell book in there.”

So that was your downfall, the reason he caught your scent and hunted you down – he peeked inside your bag back at Clancy’s. 

Shit. 

You knew he was off at the end there before you left. You should’ve caught onto it. You should’ve trusted your gut and made a run for it as soon as you were in the clear. You could already be at the damn border to Canada if you’d done that instead of being held at gunpoint in your own home now.  

His partner catches your bag, but there’s more hesitation and less aggression gleaming in his hazel eyes. He drops it on the coffee table instead of dumping it out, fingers lingering on the zipper for a second like he’s aware this is still… you. 

Your stuff. Your home. Your life. 

You can tell he’s trying to preserve some illusion of normalcy for your sake, even though that’s already long gone. But you admittedly like him. He feels like someone who thinks before he acts.

Metallica, on the other hand, feels like someone who acts and deals with the thinking later. 

If at all.

Which, granted, is super unfortunate for you, considering he’s the one holding the gun.

As Bon Jovi then reaches into your bag and pulls out your notebook, your stomach dips the slightest bit. Not because it’s dangerous or cursed or whatever other nonsense they might think. God, no. But because it’s soft-edged and worn and cute. There’s a literal pressed daisy peeking out from the back pages like you’re about to write poetry in it instead of spells that occasionally ruin men’s lives. 

Speaking of, you’re also pretty sure there’s still the I <3 Jared & Heath inscription on the back cover you scribbled in tenth grade. Leto and Ledger, that is. 

But as Metallica steps closer and takes a look at it, it’s the symbol on the cover that catches both their attention.

ᛒ

You catch the look that passes between them – recognition. It’s your family rune, really only meaningful to you, so you wonder what it is to them. How the hell do they know about it? And most importantly, why are they interested in it?

Your heart hammers a little faster when Bon Jovi flips the notebook open. Then he pauses before a full frown forms.

“Uh… Dean?”

Metallica doesn’t even look up at first, eyes sternly locked on you the entire time, except for when they still occasionally scan the room like he expects to find a damn demon hiding behind your Swiss cheese plant. 

“What?” he snaps, agitation rolling off him in feet-high tidal waves.

Bon Jovi tilts the notebook slightly, like maybe the angle will change what he’s seeing. He glances down at the pages again, brows knitting together. “This is written in, uh… glitter gel pens.”

There’s a beat of silence. Metallica’s head lifts.

And then, he turns and marches over, yanking the notebook out of his partner’s hands like he doesn’t quite believe Bon Jovi. He begins to flip through it himself with all the subtlety of a goddamn hurricane. Fast. Rough. The deeper he gets, the more his expression shifts from certainty to… confusion. His brows crease more and more with every page – color-coded sections, little stars and stickers in the margins, and the occasional doodle you did while bored. 

Your heart pounds harder with every second that passes, your mind racing through possibilities, escape routes, spells you could cast if you had to, but you don’t move a single muscle. Because for now, you’re still alive – and you’d like to keep it that way.

“What the hell is this?” Metallica demands to know at last, holding up your spell book like it’s a personal betrayal in his rigid belief system. 

“I like to color-code my spells.” You shrug, because honestly, what else are you supposed to say? 

It doesn’t feel like he’s still judging you based on witchcraft anymore. Now you suddenly have to justify your choices in stationary. Of all the ways you thought this night could go, that certainly wasn’t high on the list.

And who is he to judge your pen choices anyway? You started that book when you were seven. What were you supposed to do? Change to normal pens midway through? Who does that? You’re not a psycho.

Bon Jovi blinks at you, curiosity bleeding through the tension for a second. “You wrote these yourself?”

“My grandma gave me that book. I write all of my spells myself,” you confirm. There’s a flicker of pride there despite the gun pointed at your face. You fucking worked for those. Trial and error – with emphasis on lots of error. 

Metallica narrows his eyes at you – unamused, unimpressed, and completely unfazed. “Oh, so if I have a look around here, I won’t find any ancient spell books, grimoires, maybe a cat skull or two…?” he asks, the rasp in his voice dripping skepticism.

You gesture loosely around the apartment. “Go on and look, but you won’t find anything here,” you tell him. He might find a lot of embarrassing stuff, especially under your bed, but if that means you get to live, you don’t really care. “Look, yes, occasionally I use my magic to teach someone a lesson. I once made my high school bully puke for twenty-four hours straight,” you admit, because honesty seems like the safer route when there’s a gun involved. “But I mostly just try to help people, okay? I never seriously harmed someone. I wouldn’t do that.”

“It’s okay,” Bon Jovi says gently. “We believe you.”

“No, we don’t!” Metallica snaps immediately, the betrayal in his green eyes landing on his partner now.

“Yes, we do,” Bon Jovi counters, firmer this time, and then turns back to you with a newfound softness in his eyes. “We just need some answers, alright?”

But Metallica cuts in again with the bluntness of a hammer before you can respond. “You get your powers from demons?”

“What? No!” Your brow furrows wildly, affronted. “I don’t use dark magic or hoodoo or voodoo or any other crap you come across. Hell, I’m not even Wiccan. My grandma always said these bitches stole from us.”

Bon Jovi huffs a chuckle under his breath. He’s clearly trying to redirect before his hothead partner escalates again. “You’re a natural witch, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve had my powers since I was seven. That’s usually when they unlock in my family.”

Metallica’s gaze only sharpens. “So your mom and grandma were witches, too?”

“Every woman in my family was as far as I know. Probably going back centuries,” you reply. “But my grandma always taught me to help people. Hunters specifically.”

That causes Metallica to pause his nervous pacing for a moment. 

His head tilts slightly. “What d’you mean?”

You huff softly, running a hand through your hair. “Honestly? I don’t really know myself.” Your shoulders lift in a small shrug. “Look, I can tell you what you want to know, but I didn’t lie back at the lab. I was eleven when they died. I really don’t remember all that much. I remember the house and the fire, and I remember some of the stuff they taught me, bedtime stories… But that’s it. I’ve never gone back there since then.”

Metallica studies you intensely. “So you do remember the fire? Wasn’t really faulty wiring, was it?”

“No,” you say quietly. “It was a demon.”

“A demon?” he repeats, putting emphasis on the singularity.

“What color were his eyes?” his partner asks immediately.

“Black?” Metallica throws in.

“No.” You shake your head and look at them. “Yellow.”

The word drops like you just threw a grenade into the room and then ran away.

You don’t need to read auras to feel the shift in them. Bon Jovi’s yellow is flaring, the blue tightening, and the mulberry purple pulses harder. In contrast, Metallica’s red spikes, the hunter green goes razor-sharp, and the gray thickens like storm clouds rolling in.

Yeah, that most definitely meant something to them.

“And you said you had your powers since you were seven?” Bon Jovi continues carefully. “It didn’t start in the last year or so?”

“No, I’m pretty sure,” you huff a small laugh, not following his line of questioning. “Magic’s always been a part of me.”

There’s another look between them.

“Means she’s not one of them,” Bon Jovi murmurs under his breath, leaning closer to his partner.

“Doesn’t fit the pattern,” the other mutters back.

You frown, leaning forward, eyes flicking between them. “What pattern?”

The tall one hesitates. You can even see it in his aura as it pulls in two directions – logic versus instinct.

“Look, uhm–”

“Sam, don’t tell her anything,” Metallica warns.

“Dean, she might be able to help.”

“You heard her. She doesn’t know anything.”

“She might know enough.”

“Help with what?” you press. At this point, you are deeply fucking invested in not being the only confused person in this room. You’re either getting answers, or you’ll die trying.

Bon Jovi exhales a long breath and then seems to come to a decision. He drops into the armchair opposite you. “I–, uh, I have–”

“Sam!”

“–I have abilities, too,” he finishes, undeterred by his partner’s protests. 

“What kinda abilities?” you ask, genuinely curious now.

“I get these, uh… premonitions,” he explains. “I can see how people die. At least most times.”

You grimace slightly. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” he huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, it does.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Explains the purple.”

“Purple?” Metallica’s head snaps up, unfortunately giving you his undivided attention again.

“His aura,” you explain. “Yellow, blue, and purple. Violet shades usually point to psychic abilities – or at least strong intuition. Mine’s purple, too. Lupine, actually.”

But your little grin is only met with more of Metallica’s stoicism. 

“What?”

“You know, like the flower?” you clarify, but he just keeps staring at you till you sigh in defeat. “Never mind.”

“You can read auras?” Bon Jovi asks then.

You nod softly.

Metallica crosses his arms at that, observing you like you’re a puzzle he can’t solve and it’s starting to annoy him. “What else can you do?”

You decide not to answer with words. Seeing is believing after all, right? 

So, you don’t move. You don’t speak. You just let them see.

The candles on your shelves then ignite one by one, filling the room with soft flames and a warm glow. The fireplace then follows and catches next, a low and soothing crackle filling the space. And then, every one of your plants begin to bloom and blossom all around them.

“My abilities are mostly tied to the natural elements – fire, water, earth…” you say. “I read tarot and auras. My grandma taught me when I was a kid. Otherwise, I guess I’m just… winging it.” You shrug lightly. “After they died, I never had anyone to teach me any of this stuff. And Mia didn’t want me to use my abilities for a long time.”

Bon Jovi turns to his partner. “Dean, we should just tell her. Maybe she knows what Dad did there that night.”

“No, we’re not gonna share all our secrets with some witch, Sam,” Metallica shoots back. “We can’t trust her, man. You know that.”

Bon Jovi lets out a frustrated sigh, his gaze flicking between you and his partner. He stares at you for a second longer and then decides to take a chance and go for it, ignoring Metallica’s warnings. “Look, our names are Sam and Dean Winchester, alright?”

“Dude.” Metallica throws his arms up and starts to pace again.

But you can’t really focus on him. Your attention stays with Bon Jovi – Sam.

Brothers. Sons.

“Winchester?” you repeat slowly. “As in… John Winchester?”

Dean spins around at that, brow raised. “Oh, so you do know him. Guess that was another lie, huh?”

“He’s our dad… was our dad,” Sam adds.

“He was your dad?” You swallow lightly. “And he died?”

“Demon killed him,” Dean says without an ounce of emotion in his voice. He presents it as a simple fact, but his aura is on the fritz, so you know he’s got tons of ugly stuff buried deep down there. 

“The same one?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah, couple weeks ago. That’s why we’re here,” Sam explains. “He had some notes on your family. On you, specifically. We’re just trying to find answers so we can finally kill this thing.”

You swallow, gaze drifting back and forth between them. “What kinda answers?”

Dean takes a step closer, shoulders squared. The weapon is lowered in his hand, but it’s by far forgotten. “What was he doing there that night?”

“He was there for a visit,” you reply. “I think the demon surprised them.”

“Visit?” The word seems to rub him the wrong way.

“This wasn’t the first time he was there?” Sam asks then.

“No.” You shake your head. “He’s been to Sugar Hill a few times. Earliest I remember was before I even had my powers.”

They share another look.

“What was he doing there?” Dean asks.

“Seeing my mom and grandma.”

“For what?”

“He wanted their help with the demon.”

“Do you know what they maybe talked about?” Sam asks this time.

“I really don’t know.” You shrug helplessly. “I was just a kid. They would send me to my room or outside to play. I only ever overheard bits and pieces.”

“Anything specific you can remember?”

“No, sorry. All I remember is that he said he needed help with a demon, and then they would whisper a lot and go up to the attic.”

“The attic?” Dean echoes, cocking a brow.

“That’s where my grandma kept all her spell books and would perform rituals,” you share. You can still remember that place, how the sunlight slanted through the stained-glass windows across the creaking floorboards. 

Dean glances at his brother. “Maybe we’ll find something there?” Then his pine green eyes swerve back to you. “What else is up there?”

“Like I said, I don’t know,” you reiterate, gritting your teeth slightly. “I’ve never been back there since, and I don’t plan on going back ever again,” you state firmly. “Look, I like my life and I’ve been trying to stay away from all this crap for as long as possible. No demons, no ghosts, no monsters. All it’s ever done is kill everyone in my family. I’m not gonna be next on that list.”

“Don’t you wanna find out what happened to them?” Sam asks softly.

“Not really, no,” you reply bluntly. “I’ve made peace with what I know. I don’t need the nitty-gritty details.”

“Hate to break it to you, but this thing might still be after you,” Dean throws in.

“There’s a reason our dad hid you and faked your death. That was him, right?” Sam adds.

You give them a nod. “He told Mia to get me out and make sure I stay hidden. Never saw him again after that. But I remember he was nice.”

“Nice?” Dean scoffs. “We talking about the same guy?”

“I remember once sitting in the backseat of that car you drive,” you state and smile weakly, which seems to catch him by surprise. You finally realized where you’d seen it before. You should’ve recognized it sooner, but you’d shoved all those memories down deep a long time ago. “It was on the night of the fire, actually. But that’s it. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“Did you know you were born during a blood moon?” Sam asks then, stumping you this time for a second.

“Uhm… no?” You blink a few times, tilting your head. “Didn’t exactly check the sky when I was born. But I do find it creepy you know that.”

Dean snorts. “She’s got you there, man.”

Sam looks up at his brother. “She still might be a target if they find out she’s alive.”

“So? How’s that our problem?” Dean shoots back.

You quirk a brow at that. “You wanna share that with the class maybe?”

Somehow, you’re getting the feeling your life might be in danger, and it’s not just because of the maniac with a loaded gun in your living room. 

“Look,” Dean snaps, weapon aiming for you again, “maybe my brother here buys your little act of innocence, but I don’t, alright? There’s no way our dad would’ve worked with freaking witches. You’re clearly lying to save your ass, and I’ve had enough of it.”

The click of the gun is deafening.

But his aura? The brick-red is becoming unstable and exploding, ready to burn down everything in its way. You’ve never witnessed someone going nuclear before, but your body reacts instantly. You push off the couch, backing up step by step until your spine hits the cold wall behind you. There’s nowhere else to go. Nowhere to run.

“I’m not lying,” you say, forcing the words out past the fear clawing up your throat.

“Dean–”

“No, I’m done, alright?” he cuts Sam off, but his eyes stay fixed on you. “She doesn’t know anything, and even if she does, we can’t trust her, man. Safer to kill her now than wait for her to strike a deal with a demon and sell us out down the road.”

“You wanna kill me so badly? Fine. Go ahead, big guy,” you grit and straighten your shoulders. Your voice feels unsteady, but it doesn’t waver, which surprises even you, considering how hard your heart is pounding, feeling each beat in your ears. “But it won’t change anything. And it for sure as hell won’t make you feel better about yourself.”

You push off the wall and take a step forward. Then another. He doesn’t back up, but he doesn’t lower the weapon either.

“You really think I’m the monster here?” you scoff and lock eyes with him. “Because I’m not the one pointing a gun at someone. You are.”

The barrel presses to your forehead, cold, unforgiving, and final. But you don’t even see the gun anymore. All you see is him, and all he sees is you.

That’s the breaking point.

His fingers tighten imperceptibly around the weapon. His breath hitches. There’s a tick in his tense jaw that feels like a countdown. Every emotion he keeps chained up inside of him collides right then and there. 

You can see the cracks clearly now in his armor. All you have to do right now is get in there and rip them wide open till the wounds are bleeding. 

“The sad part is you’re so broken you can’t even see it,” you say. “But I can. You barge in here all righteous and wave a gun around, but you never look in the mirror, do you? So, go on. Do it. Kill me if you think it makes you feel any better. Prove you’re just like the things you claim to hunt. But I promise you it won’t work. You’re just gonna feel like a bigger monster after.”

For a moment, everything stills. But his aura is flickering, the red dimming just enough for something human to break through the cracks.

He exhales sharply, breaths ragged and uneven. The hand with the gun drops to his side, shaking slightly. And then, he just storms off.

The door slams behind him with a force that causes the walls to thunder.

In his wake, there’s only silence. You don’t move. You don’t even breathe. Every nerve in your body is trembling. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam’s voice rips you out of your daze.

You flinch, having forgotten for a second that he was still there. As you dare to glance at him, he looks at you with apology written all over his face.

“He’s–, uhm… he’s going through some stuff,” he offers as an excuse – or maybe it’s just an explanation.

Either way, you don’t really give a shit.

“Get out,” you snap, the terror in your veins finally spilling over into anger.

“I just–…” His mouth opens and closes a few times, hesitating. “Look, if you ever remember anything, or change your mind–” He scribbles something down on a note and places it carefully on the coffee table in front of you, mindful of keeping his distance. “Call me, alright?”

“Out.”

“Yeah, okay, alright.” He nods quickly, palms raised in surrender as he backs away. “I’m really sorry. Again.”

And then he’s finally gone, too.

The door clicks shut softly this time, but the silence that follows is anything but. 

Then, your legs give out.

You slide down the wall, hands shaking, breath coming in sharp, labored bursts as the adrenaline finally crashes fully and rushes out of your blood.

You’re alive. Somehow. Barely.

And as you sit there on your floor, staring at nothing, all the things they said and unloaded on you tonight still swirling through your mind, you only hold onto one thing:

If you never have to see those two again in your life, you surely know it will be a good one.

Dean doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t want to. Because if he does, he might see your face again. Might hear your voice again. Might start thinking.

And that’s the last thing he fucking needs right now.

The cold night air burns his lungs on the way in and does nothing to cool the heat simmering under his skin. His boots carry him forward on instinct alone, gravel crunching too loudly beneath each step, and it feels like the world’s turned the volume up solely to piss him off.

By the time he reaches Baby, his pulse is still hammering, breath coming fast and uneven as if he just ran a mile instead of a couple dozen yards. His hands feel unsteady as he yanks the door open, the metal groaning in protest. He drops into the driver’s seat and slams the door shut behind him with more force than necessary, the sound reverberating down the quiet street.

For a long moment, he just sits there. Hands on the wheel. Jaw clenched. Chest rising and falling too damn fast.

The familiar smell of leather and gun oil wraps around him and grounds him a little in a way nothing else ever can. 

This – this he understands. This makes sense. The car, the hunt, the rules. Monsters are bad. He kills them. End of story.

Simple.

Except nothing’s fucking simple anymore, is it?

Dean exhales sharply through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face as he leans back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut for half a second.

Prove you’re just like the things you claim to hunt.

His jaw tightens. He shakes his head as if he can physically dislodge the echo of your voice.

But this ain’t how it works – not how any of it fucking works. You don’t get to flip it on him just like that. You don’t get to stand there with your soft voice and your shaking hands and look like you belong anywhere but in the middle of this goddamn mess, acting like he’s the fucking problem all of a sudden.

You’re a witch. That should be enough. It’s always been enough.

Except–

Dean’s grip tightens on the wheel, knuckles whitening as he tries to push the thought down. But the memory replays whether he wants it to or not.

You, standing in front of that woman and her kid like a damn shield. The boy looking at him like he’s the thing to be afraid of.

But it doesn’t mean anything, right? Doesn’t prove jack. Because he’s seen monsters play nice before. Seen them smile, talk, pretend. That’s how they fucking get you.

That’s how they win.

And you? You’re just better at it than most. He gives you that. But that’s all there is to it.

Dean exhales again, slower this time, forcing the oxygen out of his lungs like he’s trying to push every doubt out with it. His head’s pounding at this point. It started back at the apartment. It’s a dull but persistent ache, sitting right behind his eyes and building with every thought he doesn’t want to think.

Witches.

His dad worked with freaking witches. The idea alone sits wrong in his gut and tastes sour on his tongue. John Winchester surely didn’t work with things like that. Didn’t make deals, didn’t play nice, didn’t fucking trust anything that wasn’t human. And even then, that was pushing it most times.

Except, apparently, that’s not the whole damn story now, is it? It never seems to be these days. Because, apparently, there’s a whole list of things John Winchester did that Dean never fucking knew about.

His grip tightens again.

First, it was the hospital, the last conversation they shared seared into his goddamn brain like his father personally carved it there with his hunting knife.

Then came Ellen – a whole damn network of hunters. Family once, according to her. And somehow, the brothers still never heard a damn word about any of them growing up.

And now this – you. Another secret. 

New Hampshire. Witches. Visits Dean doesn’t remember. Conversations he was never part of.

Secrets on top of secrets on top of more fucking secrets, stacking higher the longer he goddamn sits here. They’re threatening to bury him under the weight of all the things his father never said. 

When the hell does it ever goddamn end?

He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, staring down at the floorboard like it might have answers written into the worn metal.

He tries to think back, really think, and dig deep.

Motels. Highways. Cheap diners and long drives and nights spent waiting for his dad to come back from a hunt.

New Hampshire – it still doesn’t ring a single bell.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. There were a ton of places and a lot of nights where their dad would drop them somewhere “safe” and disappear for days at a time, coming back with blood on his knuckles and a stupid story that never quite added up.

Dean always figured that was just the job. But now? He’s not so damn sure anymore.

A sharp sting then suddenly cuts through the dull ache in his head, quick and sudden enough to make him hiss under his breath. His hand comes up instinctively, pressing against his temple as the pain spikes before it subsides again.

Dean blinks, frowning slightly as he straightens in his seat. He leans back, brow creased, and that’s when he remembers it.

The symbol. Your family rune.

He suddenly knows where he’s seen it before. He shifts in his seat and pulls out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. There’s a faint indentation in the worn leather. His thumb brushes over it till he feels the shape beneath it – small, round, and familiar in a way he can’t quite place. 

Dean frowns deeper and flips it open, fingers sliding into the slot and pulling out a small bronze charm about the size of a coin. It catches the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through the windshield, the dulled metal still glinting as he turns it between his fingers. And then, he sees the symbol etched into it.

ᛒ

For a second, everything just… clicks. He’s seen this before. Not just tonight, not just on that torn page from his dad’s journal, and not just on the cover of your little glitter-pen notebook.

Before that – way before that.

A vague memory resurfaces, hazy and blurry around the edges. He can barely hang onto it and shape it into focus. He might have been nine, maybe ten, and he was sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala. His dad then handed him something small and cold, telling him to keep it close.

“For protection,” his father had said.

And Dean? He never questioned it. He just shoved it into his wallet and moved on – like he always did. And then, he just… forgot about it. For more than a decade, that thing sat in his back pocket like it didn’t mean a damn thing.

But now it does, doesn’t it?

Dean turns the charm over in his fingers again, staring at the rune like it might explain itself if he looks hard enough.

What if you were telling the truth? What if his dad really did work with your family? What if this, this little piece of harmless metal sitting in his palm, came from them?

Dean lets out a frustrated breath, shaking his head as if that alone can knock the stupid idea loose.

God, he fucking hates that it makes sense. 

The sound of the passenger door creaking open then snaps him out of his convoluted thoughts.

Dean’s head jerks up, and in one smooth motion, the charm disappears into his jacket pocket, fingers curling around it for half a second before he lets it go again.

Sam slides into the seat beside him, the door shutting with a quieter, more controlled thud than Dean’s earlier, but the peace doesn’t last for too long. 

“Dean, what the hell was that?”

Dean doesn’t look at his little brother. He just stares straight ahead out the windshield, expression hardening back into solid walls of steel.

“What did it look like, Sam? I handled it,” he scoffs flatly.

Sam lets out a disbelieving huff at that. “Handled it? You call that handling it?” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration lacing his voice. “Dean, you almost shot her.”

“Yeah, well, she gave me a reason.”

“No, she didn’t!” Sam shoots back, turning toward him fully now. “She was helping those people. You saw that.”

Dean’s jaw locks. “I saw a witch messing with people’s lives, Sammy.”

“She was saving them.”

“She was lying to us the whole time, man. Open your eyes,” Dean insists, sharper this time. If he says it enough, it’ll stick, right?

Sam stares at him for another second, trying to figure out if Dean actually believes that or if he’s just being stubborn for the hell of it.

“She could’ve helped us,” Sam says finally, quieter but no less firm. “You heard her. She knew Dad. Her family knew Dad. That’s not nothing.”

Dean’s grip on the wheel tightens again. “We don’t need her help.”

“Dean–”

“I said we don’t need it,” he snaps, cutting him off. His voice is low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it that makes it clear this conversation’s already halfway to being over.

Sam exhales an irritated breath, leaning back in his seat, shaking his head. “You’re being an idiot.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I’m serious,” Sam says, glancing out the windshield before looking back at him. “She’s not what you think she is.”

Dean scoffs a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah? So what? You got that from the whole five minutes you spent playing nice upstairs?”

“I got that from actually paying attention,” Sam fires back. “From watching her. From listening. She’s not hurting anyone, Dean. She might be the key Dad talked about.”

“She can light candles and let flowers bloom,” Dean counters. “Wouldn’t exactly classify those as demon-slaying powers, Sam.”

“Yeah, but you heard her. She might not even know what she’s capable of. No one ever taught her,” Sam argues. 

“I don’t care,” Dean barks, fixing Sam with a deadly look. “We’re done with her.”

“Dean–”

“I mean it, Sam,” he warns. “We don’t call her. We don’t come back here. Am I making myself clear?”

Before Sam can argue again – because Dean can already see that his little brother wants to – he reaches over and cranks up the music, the sound blasting through the car, filling every inch of space until there’s no room left for words. He turns the key, and the engine roars to life, familiar and steady and thankfully loud enough to fucking drown out everything else.

Sam slumps back in his seat with a frustrated sigh, but he doesn’t try again. He knows better than that, just as Dean knows he bought himself a few hours of silence now. 

He keeps his eyes on the road as he pulls away from the curb, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near his jacket pocket where the small metal charm sits hidden.

He doesn’t take it out again. Doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t even think about what it might mean. Nevertheless, he feels its presence there with a heaviness he can’t quite shake.

Sam believes Dean wants nothing to do with you because you singlehandedly stand for everything he’s ever hated in his life. Because he can’t understand you. Because he can’t trust you.

But that’s not entirely true. 

Sure, there’s all of that crap, but Dean’s also heard you loud and crystal fucking clear upstairs: 

You don’t want to be a part of this. 

And Dean? He actually gets that. Hell, he’s not sure he’d give up a sweet life like that either. 

It’s not that you’re too witchy. You’re too goddamn normal. That’s the real problem.

You don’t belong in this world full of monsters, demons, and blood. You’re not like the rest of it. Your place smelled like warmth and home instead of death and rot. 

You looked at him like he was the bad guy. And hell, for a second there, he didn’t even have a good argument against it.

You have a life here. A stupidly normal one – as normal as it damn well gets for a witch, anyways. And this thing with demons and death and his dad’s secrets?

It always ruins everything it fucking touches.

▶️ Chapter 3: All of Those Best Laid Plans

Phew, looks like we survived our first not-so-friendly meeting with the Winchesters, especially Dean 😮‍💨😅 Something tells me she won't get over Dean pulling a gun on her anytime soon lol. Where will all three of them go from here, and will reader dig deeper into her own family before Sam does? 👀

I'm so curious to read all your guesses, especially concerning Dean's little memory blurbs and strange feelings. There might be a little more to it than meets the eye 😉

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You need answers. 

Your hands are shaking as you reach for your purse and pull out your phone. You hesitate as your thumb hovers over the contact – a name you never thought you’d call. But then, you dial the number. 

Sam picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

You press your lips together for a second before speaking. “Is this Sam Winchester?” you check. “It’s–, uhm, it’s me. Salem witch you tried to kill?”

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again, his voice more alert than before. “Hey, uh, I’m surprised you called. Honestly didn’t expect it after the way we left.”

“Makes two of us,” you sigh. You still can’t believe you actually called him. It feels like you’re only following the white rabbit even deeper into the hole. 

“Yeah, uhm, I can’t blame you,” he chuckles lightly. “But I’m glad you called. Sorry again how things went down. That wasn’t our intention.”

“Yeah? Does your brother share that sentiment?” you retort. 

Sam’s silent for a moment, which is an answer in itself. 

“Dean’s, uh–… It’s complicated,” is all Sam says. “You–, uh, you okay?” 

“Define okay,” you huff under your breath, staring down at the letter in your lap again. 

“Did something happen?”

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Dean wipes his dirtied face with a grease-caked palm, sweat trickling from his forehead down to his neck as he wields a wrench under the Impala, fleeing into the cooler shadows, although the black metal seems to attract the blistering sun even more. His jeans, shirt, and skin are stained with grime. His back is already sore from working for hours – days even – on Baby. But he wears his aches like a badge of honor. All that matters to him these days is restoring her to her former glory. 

And maybe fixing her fixes him, too. At least, that is the hope. 

Sam has left him alone for the most part after their last case a week ago, hauling himself up in the coolness of Bobby’s house with boxes of their dad’s stuff – John’s research, old burner phones, and even family photos. The only sore reminder of the brothers’ heated discussion last week is the smashed trunk of the Impala.

Dean winces when he thinks about it again. He’s been cursing himself for the past three days for taking out his frustrations with a crowbar. Baby deserves better. 

“Dammit!” Dean huffs as the wrench slips from his hand and clatters to the gravel. “Son of a bitch…”

The heat of the pavement burns through his shirt, but he doesn’t care. All his mind is willing to focus on is the car. Whenever he stops, his thoughts wander, and he can’t let that happen, so he never stops. 

It’s simple. 

He doesn’t want to think about his father’s death, the weirdness of it all, the strange and hollow feeling in his gut like a black pit, Sam’s sudden drive for revenge, the mystery box full of family secrets, or the burden John’s laid on his shoulders with his dying breath. 

Dean’s been doing the same dance for close to three weeks now, but it’s been working so far – although Sam would probably disagree with that assessment. Who’s asking him, though? God knows the kid’s head hasn’t been screwed on right either since their dad’s passing. 

Granted, they both have said some regretful things over the last few weeks. But why does Sam have to be so goddamn pushy all the time? 

Avoiding Sam is the best option for now. Luckily, his little brother has received the message, too. 

However, Dean’s stomach is growling as he slowly pushes out from under the car. His green eyes narrow when the blinding sun hits them, already feeling more drops of sweat bead along his hairline as he wipes the oil on his hands into his worn jeans. His gaze then flickers to the empty cooler. He’s out of beer, too. His stomach roars once more. 

Great. 

Dean sighs. He supposes he has to face the music now, doesn’t he? 

But approaching the house causes his stomach to twist with more than hunger. What surprise would await him in there on this beautiful, sunny day? Has Sam found even more fun souvenirs in their father’s pandora box?

As Dean finally drags his feet into the house, Sam is sitting by Bobby’s small dining table, still deeply lost in the contents of one of said boxes. Dean almost sighs out loud when he steals a glance at his little brother, strolling straight to the fridge to retrieve a beer and some ingredients for a sandwich. 

Dean still doesn’t know how to ever repay Bobby for his kindness and hospitality over the last few weeks – feeding the boys, lending them working cars, and ensuring Dean’s alcohol level never drops entirely to zero. As soon as the Impala is fixed, Dean plans to finally get out of the old man’s hair. They’ve been staying long enough – some might even say overstaying their welcome – but Bobby never says a thing to them about it. 

He doesn’t dare to glimpse at Sam while he’s fixing his meal on the counter, but he certainly can feel his little brother’s hazel eyes burning a hole into the back of his head. 

“What?” Dean sighs exhaustively and finally spins around to face Sam, stuffing the first bite of his sandwich into his mouth. He has to occupy it with something before losing his temper again. He masks his discomfort with a sarcastic smile. “Found more burner phones?”

One would think Sam stopped his quest after the last one led the brothers to a killer clown – a rakshasa. But Dean doesn’t seem to be so lucky, judging by the twinkling determination in his little brother’s eyes. 

“Uh, no.” Sam shakes his head, a gleam of confusion in his gaze. But it’s not geared toward Dean, a stack of papers in front of his scrunched nose. “Just going through some more of Dad’s research.”

The way Sam says it, Dean knows his little brother surely found something worth discussing. Dean also knows he can’t avoid it forever. Sam will push eventually, so he prefers to get ahead of the problem. 

“Anything interesting?” Dean asks, washing the sour nature of the question down with a gulp of beer. 

“Maybe,” Sam replies, but Dean knows there’s more. There always is. Sam’s just ramping up for the big guns. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last week – how we can’t kill the demon without the Colt, even if we do find it.”

“So?” Dean gives a shrug of his shoulders and keeps nursing his beer. He’s going to need a second one soon if this conversation goes on any longer.

Sam exhales a small sigh of frustration. Dean’s careless attitude has been annoying him as much as Dean’s annoyed by Sam’s relentless agenda to find the demon who killed their entire family and one college girlfriend. What’s so hard to understand about that?

“So,” Sam parrots with strained patience and continues, “I’ve been looking through Dad’s stuff to see if there’s something else. He wouldn’t have given up the Colt if he didn’t have a plan B, right?”

“We don’t know if he gave up the Colt,” Dean mutters, even though he knows it’s all bullshit. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how the gun suddenly went missing after his miraculous recovery in the hospital. Not to mention, their father died practically five minutes later.  

Sam quirks a brow. “Don’t we, though?”

Dean only shakes his head and takes a seat next to Sam. He doesn’t want to have this conversation all over again, so he relents. “Alright, what did you find, huh?” he entertains his little brother’s idea, hoping it’s enough to pacify any revenge plans for the moment.

It’s not like Dean doesn’t want the demon dead. It killed his mother. It killed Jess. And it killed his father and a bunch of other innocent people too. But what if it kills Sam next? What’s he supposed to do then? His dad and brother were the most important people in his life, the only family he had left, and now there’s only Sammy. 

Dean’s not scared of a lot of things, but he’s scared of being alone in this world. 

Lately, it feels like no matter what he does, the demon’s winning. If they go after it and it kills Sam, the thing wins. And if Dean does nothing and lets the bastard keep breathing, it’s still winning. Either way, Dean’s losing, and he doesn’t like those odds. 

Sam doesn’t answer right away. It’s not the thoughtful kind of silence, however. It’s the kind that means Sam is deciding how much truth to unload at once. He gathers a few loose papers and straightens the stack like he needs the extra second to decide how hard he wants to push. That alone puts Dean on edge. He already regrets sitting down. 

“Dad kept circling back to the same handful of things,” Sam says finally. “Symbols. Locations. Names.” 

Dean takes another sip, eyes skimming briefly over the papers before looking away again. “Hunters write stuff down. Shocking.” 

“I’m serious, Dean.” Sam slides one of the notebooks closer, flipping it open. Their dad’s handwriting fills the pages. Dean can recognize it in his sleep at this point – tight, angular, relentless. It still stings a little to see it, another reminder that he’s gone and not coming back this time. “There are patterns here. He wasn’t just cataloging. He was narrowing something down.”

Dean leans back in his chair, stretching his sore shoulders. “And this is where you tell me you’ve cracked the code and we ride off into the sunset together like Thelma and Louise?”

Sam ignores that skillfully. “Dad kept his research on the demon all together in the same box. He even demon-proofed the thing. It’s all in there. Weather patterns, crop failures…”

“Yeah, we already handed all that stuff over to Ash,” Dean points out. 

“I know,” Sam grits, patience wearing thinner, and slides over a ripped and crumpled piece of yellowing paper. “But I found something else in there, too.”

“Looks like he ripped a page out of the journal.” Dean frowns as he takes the piece of flimsy paper into his hands and stares at the few words on the page. 

Sugar Hill, NH

Traced lineage briefly. Potential anomaly. Historically cooperative. Protective alignment. Asset.

Left key in Salem – MO. Not time. Contingency only.

“That’s it?” Dean looks up from the page and stares at Sam, brow raised. “This is what got you all worked up?” 

There aren’t many notes, and that’s what bothers him. John Winchester never shut up on paper. When he wrote less, it meant their dad was being careful.

“You see that symbol in the margin?” Sam asks, moving his finger on the page to a small, angular letter in the right corner. 

ᛒ

Dean squints his eyes at it. The symbol looks familiar, even though he has no idea what it means. It almost feels like he’s seen it before, a vague memory coming to mind of his father explaining it to him when he was just a kid. But Dean can’t remember for sure, which is odd. He usually never forgets the things his dad taught him, so maybe it’s just one of those false memories – his own personal Mandela effect. Most times, all those weird symbols he comes across this job blur together eventually and tend to look pretty much the same. 

“It’s a rune,” Sam adds. “From the Elder Futhark.”

“Fu–what?”

“The Elder Futhark,” Sam repeats with a sigh. “It’s an old-school writing system.”

“What’s it mean?”

“I think it literally translates to ‘birch,’” Sam replies, crinkling his nose slightly. 

Dean cocks a brow. “Like the tree?”

“Yeah, like the tree.” Sam nods, flipping through loose pages. “In older traditions, it’s tied to growth, birth, uh… lineage. Maternal stuff.”

Dean grimaces. “Maternal?”

Sam chuckles a little. “Yeah, but not soft, exactly. See, birch was seen as kind of protective. It’s the first tree to grow back after a fire,” he explains. “It’s about renewal, shelter, quiet protection.”

“Huh. Fire,” Dean breathes and then looks at Sam. “You think it’s got something to do with us?”

Sam considers this for a moment before answering. “Maybe. I think Dad thought so, or he wouldn’t have written it down and put it into that box.”

Dean peeks at his father’s notes again, a few words standing out that definitely (and unfortunately) sound like a plan B according to John Winchester. 

Protective alignment. Asset. Not time. Contingency only.

“What does MO mean?” Dean asks then. “Missouri again? Should we call her?”

But Sam shakes his head, frowning at the page. “I don’t think so. Maybe he meant ‘modus operandi.’ There’s also a Salem in Missouri.”

“You think he put the key thingy there?” Dean looks at his brother and hates that he feels himself getting invested in this nonsense. Leave it to Sam to drag him into even more shit. “What d’you think it is? A weapon like the Colt?”

Sam stares blankly at the pages in front of him, clearly trying to make sense of his father’s research. “I don’t know.”

At that, Dean smiles a little to himself and rises from his seat, patting Sam on the back. “Well, you go have fun figuring it out. I’m going back to work on the car.”

Sam exhales a frustrated sigh but doesn’t bother arguing, returning to the stack of paperwork in front of him. 

Crisis averted, Dean thinks, satisfied. 

For now, at least. 

It takes Sam less than two days to figure out part of the mystery before he plants himself in front of Dean and announces they’re going to Salem, Massachusetts, adding the usual “I’ll fill you in on the way,” which is Sam-code for you’re not backing out of this, so buckle up. 

Luckily, that was just enough time for Dean to get the Impala running right again. God knows he wasn’t borrowing another soccer-mom minivan from Bobby. He still has nightmares about the damn cup holders.

And for a while then, the two of them just drive, and Dean’s happy about the silence, the only sounds coming from classic rock tunes through the stereo and Baby’s steady hum under his boots. Sam keeps his nose buried in a stack of papers while Dean keeps his eyes on the road. It gives him something to focus on – lines, distance, direction. But as they pass Chicago, Dean feels himself getting antsy, his fingers tapping the steering wheel in a rhythm that doesn’t match the music anymore. 

“Alright,” he caves finally, shooting a glance at Sam in the passenger seat. “What did you find? Enlighten me.”

Sam draws an amused smile and arches a brow, but he keeps his eyes focused on the papers in front of him. “Oh, so now you’re suddenly interested.”

“Just spit it out, alright? Least you can do after dragging me all the way out here,” Dean grumbles, although driving is still better than sitting still at Bobby’s, twiddling his thumbs.

“Alright,” Sam chuckles, but Dean doesn’t miss that little hint of triumph in his brother’s voice. “I started with Sugar Hill, New Hampshire. Small town. Nothing out of the ordinary. But there was a house fire in 1995.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow. “A fire?” 

“It was ruled accidental, but there were three fatalities,” Sam says. “A grandmother, a mother, and an eleven-year-old girl.”

Dean scrunches his brow slightly. “Not exactly the usual play…” 

The one and only case so far that they’ve tracked connected to the yellow-eyed demon started the same way their nightmare did – a baby in a crib, six months old, and a mother burning on the ceiling. All of it happened in 1983. That’s the pattern. 

“I know,” Sam replies. “That’s actually what caught my attention.”

Dean throws him a sideways look. “You sure this isn’t just some random fire?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admits and flips a page. “But I’m pretty sure Dad was there because the responding officer on scene was a deputy called Mia Owens.”

“MO,” Dean repeats quietly. 

“Yeah, and get this,” Sam continues, “Mia Owens moved to Salem a few days after the accident and adopted an eleven-year-old girl.”

Dean blinks at that. Alright, that certainly doesn’t sound like a coincidence anymore. He can admit as much. 

“You think it’s the same girl that supposedly died in the fire?” 

“Yeah.” Sam nods. “I don’t think she died, Dean. I think Dad was there, faked her death, and gave her to Mia Owens to hide. There’s a birth certificate for the girl she adopted, but it’s under a different name. But I couldn’t find any school transcripts, medical records, or anything before the age of eleven. Nothing.”

Dean thinks it through carefully. A house fire in 1995. An eleven-year-old girl that may or may not have survived. Shady adoption records and name changes. His father’s notes. 

Asset.  

Dean hates to admit that it does fit his father’s style. John wouldn’t go through the trouble of hiding a girl if he didn’t think she was important. 

“You think Dad meant a little girl with the key?” Dean asks, raising a brow. “A key to what?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I wanna find out,” Sam says pensively, his hazel eyes drifting out the window. “Maybe she’s like me.”

“You think so?” Dean questions skeptically, although he might be biased here. He just really doesn’t want to deal with more freak kids and Sam’s ESP. “I mean, if she was eleven in ’95, she’d be even a year younger than you. Did you have one of your premonition things about her?”

“No.” Sam shakes his head, and Dean feels the relief flooding his body almost immediately. “But maybe she wasn’t part of the original group.”

“You think there were more kids?”

Sam gives a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe Dad did.”

“That’s a lot of maybes, Sam,” Dean mutters. “Please tell me we’re not about to harass that poor girl. We don’t even know if she’s the real deal. Maybe that deputy adopting and moving away after the fire was just a coincidence. I mean, seeing a dead kid probably does something to normal people.”

Sam shoots him a raised look at that. “Dean, there are no coincidences in our line of work. And if there were, this would be a pretty big one.”

“Alright, fine. We’ll talk to her,” Dean caves with a sigh. “But if this girl turns out to be completely normal, promise me you’re gonna leave her alone and not drag her into our mess.”

Sam purses his lips and shrugs. “Sure, promise.”

Dean hears the words, but he’s not entirely convinced Sam actually means them. 

“I couldn’t find anything on the girl or where she is now, but Mia Owens works at Salem PD,” Sam says. “I figure we start there.”

Dean only gives him a nod at that and focuses his eyes back on the gray stretch of highway ahead. 

Salem, Massachusetts

This town might be Dean’s worst nightmare. It’s when his everyday life of horror suddenly turns to an amusing tourist attraction. Witch-themed shop windows, plastic broomsticks, and neon pentagrams litter the cobblestone streets. There’s even someone selling “authentic cursed candles” next to a goddamn coffee shop. 

It’s history turned into fucking merch. The town’s darkness is apparently just part of the decor.

“Oh, look, they’re offering ghost tours. Maybe we should take one,” Dean says with a wry grin and kills the engine a block away from the police station. 

“Yeah, maybe another time.” Sam chuckles, shaking his head, and smooths out the wrinkles in his suit before grabbing his FBI badge from the glove compartment. Then he glances at Dean. “You coming?”

“Nah, you go ahead. I’ll wait here. Maybe take a nap,” Dean says casually, already leaning back in his seat. After all, he did just drive for close to twenty-four hours straight with barely a break between. He deserves some shuteye, considering Sam dragged him out of bed before sunrise. 

Sam gives him a look but heads inside without arguing. Dean’s sleeping plans, however, don’t last for too long before his eyes catch on a flyer stuck to a lamppost, gently fluttering in the ocean breeze. It’s a missing person poster of a young woman, late twenties, last seen three months ago. 

As Dean’s gaze then drifts further down the sidewalk, he spots another one on a bulletin board outside a convenience store. Different face but similar age. And then his eyes land on a third one, partially covered by an ad for a harbor cruise. This one’s also female, early thirties, and was last seen a year ago. 

Three missing women are cause enough to step out of the car and take a closer look. The air smells like salt and rusted metal as tourists and shoppers pass him on the sidewalk. Dean then studies the nearest flyer – no signs of struggle, no suspects, and no vehicles found. As he looks at the other two then as well, he notices the same pattern there. All disappeared without a trace within one year. If he didn’t know any better, he would think all these women vanished into thin air. 

But Dean does know better. His gut is already screaming that there’s more than just answers about lost family secrets in this town. 

There’s a case here. 

When Sam finally strolls out of the police station, Dean’s leaning against the Impala with his arms crossed. His little brother looks thoughtful, which Dean learned a long time ago means complicated. 

“Well?” Dean asks as Sam reaches the car. 

“Mia Owens checks out. Moved here eleven years ago with her daughter,” Sam informs him and then flashes a smile. “And get this – the daughter also works for Salem PD. Apparently, she’s a CSI.”

“CSI, huh?” Dean’s brows shoot up with interest. “She working today?”

“Yeah, but the detective inside said they’re at a crime scene right now.”

“You know where?”

“Yup.”

“Alright, let’s go,” Dean says and already opens the driver’s door before stopping. “Hey, uh, you noticed these?” He gestures with his chin toward the missing person posters. 

Sam follows his gaze to the closest flyer. “Missing persons?”

“Yeah, plural,” Dean notes. “At least three within a year. All women. Similar age range.”

Sam frowns slightly. “It’s a tourist town, Dean. People pass through. Stuff happens.”

“Not like this.”

“I think you’re getting influenced by the merch here,” Sam retorts, laughing it off. “We’re not here for a case. We’re here to get answers.”

“Oh, and since when are we in the business of ignoring cases, huh? You just wanna let more women die?” Dean argues. 

“You don’t know they’re dead,” Sam points out. “You barely even have a case here.”

“We barely ever do, man.”

“Alright,” Sam plays along, leveling with him, which honestly feels really patronizing. Dean knows he’s right about this. His gut is never wrong. It’s the one instinct he can always rely on. “And what do you think killed them, huh?”

Dean gives a defiant shrug. “I don’t know yet. But I’m gonna find out.”

The house sits too far back from the road to feel even remotely welcoming. The white siding looks harmless enough from a distance, neat windows and trimmed hedges included. It’s one of those places that probably has matching towels in the bathroom as well. However, there’s a stillness to it that feels strange and anything but peaceful. 

Dean slows the Impala as the gravel path turns to mud beneath the tires, the big oaks crowding in on either side like they’re trying to pass judgment. As he cuts the engine, all he hears is the ticking of metal cooling under Baby’s hood and the faint buzz of insects in the woods. For a moment, he just studies the place through the windshield and can’t help the odd feeling in the pit of his stomach of being watched. 

“Found her,” Sam says from the passenger seat, snapping him from his stupor, and turns the laptop toward him. “She’s been with Salem PD for about a year now. She graduated early from Boston University with a master’s in biomedical forensic sciences.”

“So she’s smart?” 

Dean doesn’t know why he asked that. Of course the girl must be smart if she graduated college early. He couldn’t even swing high school, so he imagines someone who can use the word “biomedical” correctly in a sentence must be genius-level smart. At least, they’d be definitely smarter than him, but even Sam seems to be impressed, and he’s smart, too. 

Sam huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I’d say.”

Dean sort of admires that. Maybe it’s even jealousy. Because if it’s the girl they’re looking for and not some random coincidence, then it means this girl lost everything, survived unimaginable and unbearable trauma, and still made something of herself. What happened to her didn’t define her, so that’s pretty admirable in Dean’s book. 

“That her?” Dean squints at the personnel photo on the screen. 

He halfway expects the usual washed-out ID photo – bad lighting, stiff posture, grainy DMV quality, maybe even mid-blink. But instead, the picture makes him pause, not just his breath but his heart, too. 

Because even flattened by fluorescent lighting and a bland gray background, the girl on the photo shines and illuminates the whole scene without the need for good angles or straining effort. There’s a natural curve to her mouth that makes even the most neutral facial expression seem like a secret smile. It causes him to wonder what it looks like when she actually smiles. 

Her eyes are somehow soft and sharp at the same time, a steadiness gleaming in them that challenges to hold contact for longer than necessary just to see who breaks it first. He gets the sense that, despite the way she looks – innocent, warm, pretty – this girl doesn’t spook easily. 

“Huh.” Dean shuts the laptop slower than usual and licks his lips. He tells himself it’s just that she’s hot. That’s all. He’s allowed to notice when someone’s hot. But something about the photo persists in his head a heartbeat longer than it should, and he can’t help that now he kind of wants to see her in person – or the smile. 

He wants to see the smile. 

“What?” Sam’s already scowling like he knows what’s coming. He probably does.

“Well,” Dean says and pushes the car door open, stepping out onto the gravel as a smirk begins to form on his lips, “here’s hoping your theory’s wrong.”

Sam halts mid-exit before he slams the passenger door shut. “Excuse me?” 

Dean closes his door and adjusts the lapel of his suit jacket. “‘Cause if this is just a paperwork mix-up and not demon-adjacent, I might actually get a decent night out of it.”

He smirks broad and full then, even though he can tell Sam wants to either smack or throttle him right now. 

Sam stops in his tracks halfway of rounding the hood. “Dude. Are you serious right now?”

He shrugs his shoulders, grin widening. “What? Just saying. She’s cute.” 

“Dean, she might be connected to a house fire tied to the same thing that killed Mom,” Sam points out all righteously. 

Dean’s smirk softens, but it doesn’t disappear. “Yeah,” he says. “And if she’s not, I’d hate to waste a perfectly good opportunity.”

“Unbelievable.” Sam exhales sharply through his nose, already turning toward the house with a shake of his head. 

Dean chuckles and follows, hands slipping into his pockets. The two of them then stroll past uniforms and patrol cars, ducking under yellow tape, badges already out as Dean approaches an officer stationed by the door.

“Hey, uh, where can I find Mia Owens?”

The cop, however, doesn’t even get a chance to answer before an older woman steps up. She’s somewhere in her forties, maybe a little past it, and definitely looks like she doesn’t startle easily. There are crinkles around her eyes that aren’t from laughing but probably from squinting at bad situations way too often. Years of experience have settled into her posture, knowing exactly how much force to use without wasting it. She also probably knows when to talk and when to let silence do the work. 

She gives seasoned cop energy, and Dean sighs internally. This won’t be easy as pie. 

“Right here. Sergeant Owens.” She doesn’t extend a hand but already squares her shoulders instead. 

“FBI, ma’am.” Dean swallows subtly and quickly flashes his badge before she can notice they’re super fucking fake. “Special Agents Hetfield and Sambora.”

Sergeant Owens cocks an eyebrow and places her hands challengingly on her hips. “And what exactly does the FBI want with me?”

God, Dean feels a slight buckle in his knees at the firm tone of her voice. It feels like she’s scolding him for something he hasn’t even thought about doing yet. 

“We’re following up on a case that intersects with your jurisdiction,” Sam jumps in, more fearless than Dean, but that’s probably because Sam’s still driven by his need for answers. Dean doesn’t really want answers. He just wants peace and maybe a burger. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions about someone under your care.” 

“Yeah, eleven years ago, you took in a kid, right?” Dean gets straight to the point, not wasting another minute tiptoeing around the subject. He knows jumping into it will probably shake something loose, even if it’s just a defense mechanism. That would already tell him a lot, and that’s all he really needs. 

“My adoptive daughter, yes,” the sergeant confirms and crosses her arms. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t discuss my family with two men who show up unannounced to an active crime scene. So why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”

Apparently, Sergeant Owens likes getting straight to the point as well. Dean interprets this as a good sign because he’s certainly intimidated by her glare. 

“We–, uh, we’d just like to ask you some questions about a fire that occurred in 1995 in Sugar Hill, New Hampshire,” Sam says carefully. “You were the first responder on scene?”

“I was,” Owens confirms, but her eyes never loose their sternness. “It was ruled an accident.” 

“Three dead. Grandmother. Mother. Eleven-year-old daughter,” Dean adds. 

She nods once. “That’s right.”

Dean tilts his head slightly at that. “Except here’s the thing,” he continues calmly, wetting his lips. “Adoption records show you took in an eleven-year-old girl a few days later. Same age. That’s quite a coincidence.”

Her gaze expectedly darkens. “What are you implying, agent?”

“I think you know,” is all Dean says, not backing down till Sam cuts in to dissolve the tension. 

“We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re just trying to understand what really happened that night.”

But the sergeant steps forward, bristling. “Listen, FBI or not, I don’t appreciate two men waltzing into my crime scene and asking about my kid–”

“Mia, it’s okay,” a soft and sweet voice pipes up suddenly, and there’s movement behind Owens.

Dean notices because the air changes in an instant, like someone opened a window and let a gentle breeze in. And before he can blink, you step up beside the sergeant. 

You’re different from the photo. Somehow, in a worse way, which really means better, and that automatically means worse for him. Because in person, there’s even more warmth. It’s almost heat, like the hottest day in July, causing him to sweat in his suit by just looking at you. There’s a barely detectable trace of something electric crackling underneath the surface, under your skin, that the dull picture didn’t capture. A stream of light seeps through the windows and catches in your eyes as if even the sun herself is seeking you out. 

For a heartbeat, Dean forgets what he wanted to say till Sam elbows him in the ribs. 

Right. Words. FBI. Fire. Focus. 

“You don’t have to–” Sergeant Owens turns toward you instantly, protective instinct written all over her face, and Dean recognizes that one from his own father. Maybe even from himself when he looks in the mirror whenever Sam’s concerned. But if the story is true, Dean thinks he understands why their dad picked Mia Owens to keep a secret. 

“It’s fine,” you assure her with a small nod, completely calm in a way that makes Dean nervous. 

His eyes move before his brain catches up, tracing the line of your shoulders beneath the CSI jacket, the shape of your waist, and the quiet confidence in the way you stand. He can tell you’re not reckless or naïve. You know exactly what’s happening here. You’re not scared or confused. You’re measuring, careful, calculated. 

His stomach tightens imperceptibly. 

“You wanted to speak to me?” Your gaze drifts back and forth between him and Sam, assessing. A swallow gets stuck in Dean’s throat, lump thickening. 

“Yeah, uh–… Yeah.” Dean clears his throat. Smooth, Winchester. Smooth. He then nods and pulls out his badge with a smidge more confidence. “Special Agent Hetfield. This is Special Agent Sambora.”

You step closer to look – really look – and Dean feels the sweat begin to gather in the back of his neck again, probably soon flushing like a waterfall down his spine. You examine his credentials with far more attention than most people ever do. There’s no rush as your eyes scan over the name, the seal, and even the goddamn laminate. 

Please don’t be a Metallica fan. Please don’t be a Metallica fan…

In his periphery, he can see even Sam shift his weight, sees the tension creeping into his shoulders. Dean resists the urge to yank the ID back like a guilty teenager in a liquor store. He wonders if you’ve already figured it out. You’re smart, he reminds himself and watches your expression for recognition. For amusement. For the moment you call him out.

But instead, you smile. And shit, it’s so much more striking than the photo hinted at. It’s even warmer and brighter, like staring directly into the goddamn sun. 

“Sure,” you say smoothly. “What can I do for you, agents?”

Dean licks his lips, studying you for a moment longer, his eyes never leaving yours. It’s long enough that it causes you to straighten your posture just the slightest bit, bracing for whatever comes next. He can already tell you’re not expecting it to be good news. 

“Are you the girl from the fire?” Dean asks you bluntly, but you don’t stump or jolt back like he expected you would. Like most people would.

Instead, your eyes flicker from him to Sam and then back to him again, seemingly weighing both danger and options. “Am I in trouble?”

It’s not a clear yes, but it’s definitely not a no either. An innocent person would never ask that question. A guilty one would. You are the eleven-year-old girl who survived a fire. Who lost her entire family and is now being forced to talk to two strangers about it. Dean suddenly feels incredibly repentant about that, enough to seek out a church. He won’t, but the urge is there. God, he should’ve never let Sam convince him to come here, poke around, and disrupt a life that’s not theirs to disturb. 

“No,” Sam assures you quickly, shaking his head and giving you that soft smile he always reserves for calming victims. “You’re not in any trouble, I promise. We just want to ask you a few questions about that fire. What you remember…”

You grind your jaw, glancing at Dean again as if you know he’s the weak link here, suspicion clear as day in your eyes. “Why does the FBI care? It was ruled an accident.”

Dean lifts a brow at that, smiling cleverly. Gotcha. “Then why were you declared dead and adopted under a different name?”

You narrow your eyes to a little glare at him, which he finds more adorable than threatening. Then you exhale a sigh of defeat, and Dean almost wants to grin at that but bites it back. 

“Fine,” you huff, your eyes darting around the house that’s currently bustling with cops before you lower your voice. “But not here,” you say. “Besides, I don’t have time right now. I’m still on the clock, and I have a ton of evidence to process. You can come by my lab later. My shift ends at six.”

You pull out a business card and hold it out to him. As Dean takes it, his fingers briefly brush yours, and he swears a jolt of electricity travels straight up his arm and slithers down his spine to places it shouldn’t go. 

“We’ll be there,” Dean promises and can’t really control the slight upward twitch of his lips. 

Without another word, you then turn back toward the rest of the crime scene, already slipping your gloves on, the conversation dismissed without being rude. Dean watches you walk away, gaze unapologetically following the curve of your hips down to your ass before dragging back up again.

When he whistles lowly, Sam kicks his leg pretty damn hard, forcing Dean’s eyes away from you. 

“Dean.” Sam glowers and scolds him like a dog who peed on the new carpet. Sometimes, Dean wonders if his little brother ever wishes to bring a spray bottle of water to these things. “Can you not?”

Sure, Dean could try. But the unnameable restlessness that buzzes in his blood when he thinks about you probably won’t let him. There’s something about you that can’t be stuffed neatly into any labeled box he has, but for the sake of finding something to put you in, he chalks it off to simple attraction. Lust. Chemistry. 

Yeah, that’s probably it. Nothing more to it.

As Dean swings the motel room door open, the smell of old carpet and bleach hits him instantly. The TV is on mute, some local news anchor gesturing dramatically about weekend tourism, but Sam’s attention is nowhere near it. 

His little brother is hunched over the small table by the window, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tie abandoned, the yellow legal pad beside him filled edge to edge with tight handwriting. There’s also a stack of photocopies scattered in front of him, ranging from birth certificates and property records to archived newspaper clippings and police reports.

“You’re back early.” Sam doesn’t even look up when Dean enters, shutting the door behind him.

“Dude, I’ve been gone six hours. It’s almost five,” he notes. Good thing his own investigation didn’t get him kidnapped or shot this time. Otherwise, he’d probably be dead till Sam noticed he was even gone that long.

Sam lifts his head, brows pinched, and checks his watch like he just surfaced from underwater. “Huh.”

“So, you find anything?” Dean asks and tosses the keys onto the dresser. 

Sam exhaustively leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand down his face. “Define anything.”

“Anything weird. Anything cult-y. Any reason a dead kid suddenly isn’t dead anymore.”

“Nope.” Sam exhales hard. “The adoption paperwork is messy but not illegal. Name change’s clean, too. I found the death certificates for her mother and grandmother but not for her.”

Dean’s brow furrows slightly. “So she’s… not officially dead.”

Sam shakes his head slowly with a frustrated look gleaming in his brown eyes. “No, uh, it’s not even in the official police report. I mean, hell, there’s not even a mention of her. Like she never existed. The only thing that mentions three deaths during the fire is a local newspaper, but that’s it.”

“That’s it?” Dean’s brow lifts. 

“That’s it.”

“That’s… weird,” Dean says for lack of better words. 

“Tell me about it,” Sam huffs.

“And Dad?”

“Well, if we assume Dad was involved that night, I think he probably is the ‘civilian’ who ‘assisted in the rescue.’ He disappeared before he could give a full account,” Sam states with a tight smile, reading off the report. “If there’s something supernatural in her background, it’s definitely not on paper.”

That’s not necessarily unusual, especially if their father was part of the coverup. The brothers learned early how to erase their tracks properly.   

“I did look into the property records of the house, though,” Sam adds. “It’s got a lot of history. Been in her family for practically centuries. It’s still in her name – her real name. It’s never been sold to anyone else.”

Dean bobs his head, then smacks his lips. “Alright, so let’s say your theory is right and the fire wasn’t an accident and Dad was really there that night, the worst case scenario is that he saved a little girl and then hid her from the evil thing that was probably still after her to finish the job. Is that what you’re saying?”

Sam sighs. “Yes.” 

“Huh.” Dean purses his lips, nodding. “So basically, you’ve got nothing.”

Sam lets out a breath through his nose, drawing his lips into a tight line. “Yup,” he admits somewhat bitterly. “But she’s still gotta be connected to the demon somehow. Why else would Dad have gone through all that trouble to hide a small piece of paper in a demon-proof lockbox?”

“Look, I hear ya, alright? But not everything the old man did always made a whole lotta sense,” Dean reasons. 

Sam’s brow scrunches significantly at that. “Since when are you saying that? You worshipped the man.”

“Since now,” Dean replies without missing a beat, although he really wants to say since Dad idiotically sacrificed his soul for poor little me. “Maybe a demon was involved. Maybe there wasn’t. Hell, doesn’t even mean the fire ties back to the yellow-eyed demon. There’s other demons around, you know? You forgot Meg? Maybe Dad just tracked it out of habit, and it’s your fault for reading too much into three lines on an old note.”

Sam stares at him for a long moment then, hazel eyes completely stern, and Dean knows his little brother pretty much wants to strangle him right now – because he’s right. For once, Dean’s right and Sam’s wrong. Dean can almost feel the universe losing its balance over it. 

He smirks annoyingly wide at that. “Guess that means the CSI hottie is fair game.”

“I think she already has enough trauma in her life without needing your help, Dean,” Sam mutters, amused. 

“No better cure than Vitamin D for that.”

“Dude!”

Yeah, Dean almost wants to slap himself, but he’s too busy grinning shamelessly. 

“Maybe wait till we’ve talked to her and make sure she’s not connected somehow before you hit on her again,” Sam scolds and then checks his watch once more. “Speaking of, we need to leave soon or we’re gonna be late.”

“Yeah, hang on. Got something, too,” Dean says, victory already curving his lips. “Drove around town and looked into the missing women cases. Dug a little deeper.”

A corner of Sam’s mouth lifts wryly. “Oh, good. This should be interesting.” 

Dean shoots him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Sam shrugs lightly, then leans forward on the table. “Just curious what kind of deep investigative journalism you conducted today. Talk to any conspiracy bloggers? Interrogate a barista?”

Dean rolls his eyes and grabs the room’s only other chair, dragging it across the carpet so it faces Sam directly. “You’re hilarious. Really. You should take that on the road.”

“Dean–”

“Eight,” Dean cuts in.

His little brother’s brow furrows. “Eight what?”

“Eight missing women. Not three,” Dean states and watches Sam at least straighten at that. “Five more in the last twelve months. All married. All reported missing by their husbands. And all had domestic disturbance calls logged at some point before they disappeared. You know, neighbors calling in yelling, one shattered window, one ‘accidental fall’ down the porch steps that didn’t quite line up with the bruises. And then all of them just vanished without a trace.”

Sam frowns then, shoulders slumping. “Dean, they probably just left their husbands. Doesn’t mean there’s anything weird going on.”

“Sure.” Dean nods, feeling quite clever. “See, that’s what I thought too at first. But then I talked to a few of the husbands.”

Sam arches a brow. “And?”

“And,” Dean continues, “all of them had accidents after their wives’ disappearances.”

“What kinda accidents?”

Dean exhales slowly through his nose. Boy, that one’s a loaded question. He’s heard some weird shit over the years in this job. Seen worse. But this one surely took the cake. He’s never sat across a red-faced contractor in a living room before, who muttered something about a “freak bedroom thing.” The guy turned purple by the time Dean finally got him to say the words “fracture” and “penis” together in the same sentence. 

That was new territory.

Salem – witch capital of America. He almost laughs at that. If there were ever a town for something old and vindictive to take root, it’d be this one. God, he hates witches. Of course some bitch hauled up here of all places and sprinkles hex bags around like it’s fucking confetti.

“You know, shower slips, stair falls, gym injuries,” Dean replies, coughing up the lump in his throat. 

“That’s vague. Could still be unrelated.”

“Could be.” Dean bobs his head, lips pursed, then looks dryly at his brother. “They all broke their dick, Sam.”

“What?” Sam’s brows pinch together. Hard. 

“Yeah, that got your attention, huh?” Dean slumps back in his chair and lets out a sigh. 

Sam’s mouth opens and closes a few times before finding the right words. “Did any of them die?”

“No, Sam, they all just had an itchy cast for a few weeks,” Dean deadpans. “I mean, one guy thinks he might have permanent damage, but that’s only ‘cause he was too freaked out and embarrassed to go to the ER.”

Dean doesn’t mention that the last victim’s husband was still wearing a cast, which he kept repeatedly scratching right in front of him. For an entirety of thirty minutes, Dean didn’t know where to look and kept staring at the ceiling fan. 

Sam muses, head nodding. “So let me get this straight – the women are all probably alive and just left, and the husbands are alive too and got away with minor injuries.”

“Minor?”

“You know what I mean. We’ve seen a lot worse,” Sam clarifies, which Dean can hardly deny. This is basically bush league – no pun intended. “What are you thinking? Witch?”

Dean shrugs. “Probably. Fits the M.O.”  

“Look, it still might be a coincidence,” Sam argues, which frustrates Dean greatly. 

He knew Sam was going to call it a stretch, even with all the evidence laid out in front of him. He knew Sam would say correlation isn’t causation. And he knew Sam would point out that injured men don’t automatically equal hex bags and covens.

And Dean knows that, too. But he also knows eight women just don’t evaporate into thin air and husbands don’t shatter things like that by accident. At least not eight fucking times. 

“Dude, c’mon,” Dean counters. “Eight guys having those kinds of injuries is not nothing. I mean, they’re dicks to their wives and then they get injured in the most ironic way possible? When’s the last time you’ve ever heard of something like that, especially in a town this size?”

Sam doesn’t respond, which Dean takes as admission.

“Exactly.”

Sam studies him for a long moment. “Alright, let’s say you’re right–”

“I am.” 

“Even if it’s witchcraft,” Sam continues, “it sounds like a vigilante and not something purely evil.”

“So? What, you wanna give that bitch a free pass just ‘cause she’s got some weird moral compass?” Dean questions.

“So do we,” Sam points out. 

“It’s different.” 

“How so?”

“‘Cause it just is. ‘Cause I said so, alright?” Dean snaps. “Witches are evil. We kill evil things. End of story. I mean, hell, you love all those serial killer docs. You’ve never heard of escalation before? Whoever’s doing this maybe isn’t killing people right now, which is why we have to stop them before they do.”

Sam exhales a long breath at that, caving slightly. “You find any weird symbols? Hex bags?”

“Nope, not yet. But I’ll find something,” Dean assures his little brother. “I’m telling you, man. There’s something weird going on in this town.”

Your lab is a sanctuary of steel counters and fluorescent lights, humming with the quiet efficiency you’ve come to rely on. The evidence board glows behind you in blue, crime scene photos pinned in neat rows, your notes scrawled in the margin. The faint tang of chemicals keeps everything clinical and contained, and the chaos of magic stays locked away here – no tarot deck in sight, no spell books on the shelves, no runes scratched under the desk. It’s just science doing the heavy lifting while you sort fibers and catalog blood spatter.

A knock on the doorframe a few minutes past six then snaps you out of your peaceful routine, announcing Metallica and Bon Jovi right on schedule. 

Metallica leans one broad shoulder against the frame with a smirk in place, suit jacket already unbuttoned, golden freckles and evergreen eyes sparkling under the bright lights. Bon Jovi stands a half-step behind, posture more careful but no less intense. 

Their auras roll into the room ahead of their bodies, brushing against your senses like a breeze through leaves. 

A while ago, you made your own science out of describing auras. Bland names like yellow usually don’t say a whole lot about a person, do they now? Has anyone ever looked at a color wheel properly? There’s more options than just six. Is it a warm yellow? Or does it have more of a blue-ish tint to it? Brighter? Darker? That already says a lot about someone. So, you grabbed a Pantone color catalog from the hardware store not too long ago and got more creative. 

After all, who doesn’t like a little more sparkle and fun in their life?

Well, judging by Metallica’s aura, he might not. His aura is dense and close to his skin like armor. There’s a deep brick red at the core, steady and restrained. It’s the color of adrenaline held on a leash. Of survival mode that never quite switches off. But hunter green (ironic, yes) glimmers through the red. Big caretaker energy a guy like him probably even denies having. There’s also gunmetal gray that spiderwebs around the red and green, locking them up like chainmail. It speaks of grief he clearly hasn’t let himself feel yet. Maybe even survivor’s guilt chewing at the corners.

That one’s definitely your knight, but not in the sense that you’re the princess he needs to rescue. You’re the dragon he’s convinced himself to slay. He just doesn’t know it yet.

Bon Jovi’s aura, on the other hand, is larger, more diffuse, and a lot harder to pin down. His primary color is a bright buttercup yellow, which pulses unevenly. He’s intelligent, anxious, and probably has a mind that overthinks practically everything. A deep Moroccan blue pools heavily around his center, however, telling of grief, emotional depth, and moral restraint. But the most interesting part about this guy? It’s the flickers of mulberry purple striking through the others like lightning. Uninvited and unpredictable. It feels like something is watching back. Psychic potential, maybe? Or maybe it’s just good intuition.

Their colors aren’t what give you pause, though. It’s how their auras interact with each other, which is certainly a rarity. They’re symbiotic. Not many people have that.

Metallica’s red steadies Bon Jovi’s erratic yellow when their gazes meet. In turn, Bon Jovi’s blue cools the heat in Metallica’s red just enough to keep it from boiling over. Metallica’s gray also thins in the other’s presence, like shadows retreating from light, while the purple in Bon Jovi calms as if Metallica’s grounding him.  

Which tells you one thing: they’re more than just hunting partners. Brothers is your best guess. Either that, or they’re super gay for each other with a soulmate-deep bond. You probably shouldn’t ask them to clarify. That never works out well for you. 

What’s important for you, though, is that they’re clearly stronger together. Dangerous even. But they’re also more vulnerable when separated. 

You strip off your gloves and rise from your swivel chair with a deceptively bright smile. “Agents, right on time. I was just finishing up. Come on in.”

They do. The door clicks shut behind them, which feels threatening enough, considering you’re pretty sure they want to kill you or do God knows what else with you. Did they already bring the matches and lighter fluid? 

But even with the pressure on your shoulders, you gesture to the chairs across your workstation. “Have a seat. Thirsty? I’ve got some water I can offer you.”

You spin to the mini-fridge and pull out two chilled bottles of water – holy water, to be exact. Quietly blessed last week by the local Catholic priest. If they’re demons, it’ll sizzle on contact. If not, well, hydration is key.

“Thanks,” Bon Jovi says, accepting one bottle with a polite nod. He twists the cap, takes a sip. 

Nothing. 

Metallica does the same, gulping half of it down without so much as a blink. Still nothing.

Clean. Human. Hunters. Still dangerous. Still lethal. Especially to someone like you. But they’re not the obvious kind of monster that hides under beds and in closets.

Slightly more relieved, you settle back in your chair, folding your hands on the desk. Warm enough to disarm but cool enough to maintain distance. The goal is to seem professional, helpful, harmless, which is easy because you are. 

“So, the fire. What do you want to know, agents?”

Bon Jovi leans forward first, the buttercup yellow flaring with that anxious intelligence. “We’re looking into some old cases that might connect to similar incidents. The Sugar Hill fire – was there anything unusual about it? Anything you remember that maybe didn’t make the official report?”

You let your expression soften just enough, playing the role of the cooperative survivor. You’ve rehearsed this story a thousand times by now – ever since Mia took you in. You’ve kept it simple, tragic, human. 

“I was only eleven. I don’t remember a whole lot,” you start, swallowing, a hint of old pain creeping into your voice. It’s not an act for their benefit, though. The loss of that night still aches like a root pulled from soil. “I woke up to smoke and flames. My mom and grandma… They didn’t make it out.”  

“How did you survive?” Metallica asks, but it doesn’t sound accusing. It sounds like he’s angling for something specific. 

Are they curious about the demon? Is that why they’re here and sought you out?

“A man pulled me out of the house, carried me to safety, and handed me over to Mia. She adopted me a few days later,” you explain.  

“Did–, uh, did this stranger say what his name was?” Bon Jovi asks. 

You give them a shrug of your shoulders, then shake your head slightly, brow creased. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. Maybe Jim? Jonathan? It was a long time ago. I’m sorry,” you say – or lie. “The cops ruled it an accident back then. Blamed it on faulty wiring.”

Metallica’s brick red holds steady as he watches you the whole time, juniper eyes calm but attentive. “This guy, uhm… did he say why he was there? Anything about your family? Why he was in the right place at the right time?”

You shake your head, offering a sad smile. “Not that I remember. He just… helped. Kind stranger, you know? I mean, I was a traumatized kid. Mia handled the paperwork. I had nothing to do with that. She just changed my name and moved with me here to give me a fresh start. Sugar Hill is a small community. She didn’t want me to live with this my whole life. That’s really all there is to it.”

Bon Jovi’s blue deepens significantly, disappointment glimmering through his yellow. He was hoping for more – something about patterns, maybe, or why your family might have been targeted. But you can’t give him anything to grab onto. Even if they’re here for the demon, trust is earned and not simply given. The cards warned you for a reason.

Metallica, on the other hand, visibly relaxes. His shoulders drop, and the red aura settles as if he internally exhaled. Then a sly, almost triumphant glint crosses his face. He’s clearly decided you’re normal, which brings you relief for the moment. The knight’s armor has been dismantled. Tragic backstory, smart girl who turned pain into a forensics career, no red flags, case closed, you can practically hear him think.

Your own expression stays neutral, but on the inside, you’re smirking wide. Gotcha. Now, you just have to get rid of them and hope they leave town soon without poking around too much. But another knock on the door foils your plans. 

Shit, Paige, you realize as you look up, past the two fake FBI agents in your lab, and see your best friend strolling through the door with her usual cheerful smile. 

As Paige pokes her head in, her curls bounce and her grin widens. “Yo, evidence queen, you better not still be buried in blood. Drinks wait for no woman. I will personally drag you out of here if I have to–”

She stops dead in her tracks when she spots the two men in suits in front of you, her brow knitting more and more with each second that passes by. She’s never been good at hiding her emotions. 

“Shit.” Her eyes widen and her teeth clench before she grimaces fully. “Am I interrupting something?”

Before you can reply, Metallica already twists around with a smirk in place. The guy really goes for anything with boobs and two legs, huh? Makes a girl feel real special. Not that you blame him. Paige has always been pretty and bubbly enough to wrap guys around her little finger. But she’s also been your biggest confidante – the Willow to your Buffy, so to speak. 

“No, not all,” Metallica says with a charm that could be easily mistaken for gentleness if you didn’t see the gun poking out under his suit jacket. “Me and my partner were just finishing up here.”

Paige frowns a little more at that and tilts her head. You already know what she’s thinking. “Partner? As in…”

Do not say gay, you warn her with a sharp look because you can already see Metallica latching onto the implication, shoulders tensing and drawing back, eyes crinkling in bewilderment, like his ego is a physical thing that just got wounded. He’s gotten that accusation before. You can tell and try your hardest not to laugh out loud. 

“FBI,” you provide quickly, shooting her another look. You hope it’s enough to alleviate the sting in Metallica’s ego and keep him from proving his virility by overcompensating in the stupidest way possible as boys often tend to do. You then glance back at Paige. “I’m almost done, alright? Just wait at Clancy’s. I’ll be out in five.”

Paige nods slowly but tosses you a worried look as if she can feel the tension in your muscles. You don’t want her to get hurt. If hunters are poking around in your life and even remotely suspect you’re a witch, they will look at any woman close to you and automatically assume it’s a coven. 

To clarify, it’s not. 

Sure, you’ve taught her a spell or two, mostly for self-defense. Like a father teaching his daughter how to knee a douche in his crown jewels. Not that you have any first-hand experience with that since you don’t know your dad, but you imagine that’s probably a pretty similar reason. However, you’ve never ever sat around a cauldron before and cackled like a maniac.

God, you hate most witch movies. They really give your kind a bad rep. Melissa Joan Hart gets a pass, though. Whoever made Hocus Pocus, on the other hand, should be burned at the stake, especially the person responsible for casting Sarah Jessica Parker. Carrie was fucking annoying in Sex and the City, too.   

“You know, me and my partner could use a drink,” Metallica suddenly chimes in, charismatic grin shaping into form. Fucking hell. He still needs to mend his ego and lick his wounds in front you, it seems. You steel your expression as you meet his expectant eyes. “Mind if we crash girls’ night? Tag along? Off duty, promise.”

Yes, I’d mind, dickhead, you think bitterly. Read the fucking room.

Even Bon Jovi shoots him a look of clear disapproval, blue cooling the flare in Metallica’s red. But his partner skillfully ignores it, undeterred, gaze locked on you. The interest is obvious now that he’s apparently decided you’re safe. You wonder how a guy with those instincts is still alive, considering tricking him only required a smile, a sad story, and a little cleavage from you. You guess Bon Jovi’s intelligence is mostly keeping him out of greater trouble. 

You keep the smile trained on your face, but your frustration spikes. You want them fucking gone, out of this town, and not embedding themselves in your normal life. But refusing outright might ping suspicion. 

Play along. Survive. Make sure no one else gets hurt.

“Sure,” you say and clear your throat slightly. “The more the merrier. The bar’s called Clancy’s. It’s on Church Street. Meet you there at seven?”

“Great.” Metallica gives you a nod, satisfied. In his head, the gears are shifting, already planning the night. “See you, ladies.”

You watch them go, exhaling slowly once the door shuts. Harmless? Hardly. But they’ve bought the act. For now, you’re just the normal girl with the sad story and the cute friend, and Metallica thinks he’s got a shot at taking you back to whatever roach-infested motel they’re crashing in.

You almost laugh out loud at the irony. Keep dreaming, hunter.

“Hey, what’s going on? Why was the FBI here?” Paige whisper-asks as she hurries over to you, even though the door is firmly shut again and the men in black are long gone.

“They’re not really FBI,” you explain. “I think they’re hunters.”

“Shit,” it slips out of her, brow scrunching. “Really? Do they know you’re, like, you know…”

“No, obviously not, or I would be dead by now,” you hiss and start to pace your desk to free yourself of some of the nervous energy buzzing in your veins. 

“Why would you invite them to drinks, then?”

“Dude! What was I supposed to say? I didn’t wanna raise suspicion by trying too hard to get rid of them.”

“Right. Smart.” Paige nods, purses her lips, and then looks back at you. “So, what now? What’s the plan?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, feeling somewhat helpless. “Act normal? Hope they leave again? Get ‘em drunk enough to miss their aim?”

“Good plan.”

When the door suddenly swings back open, you already brace yourself for a bullet flying your way before recognizing Mia and exhaling another breath of relief. She shuts the door quickly and quietly and then instantly finds your eyes. 

“Just saw those two agents leave the precinct. Are they hunters?” she asks, her voice sterner than usual, but you’ve learned over the years that just means she’s concerned. 

You nod. “I think so, yeah. They asked about the fire. And they wanted to know about John Winchester.”

“Did you tell them anything?”

You shake your head, swallowing. 

“Good. Keep it that way,” she tells you, and you know it’s more than just a command. “Are they leaving town again?”

Another head shake from you. “No, they invited themselves to Clancy’s with me and Paige tonight.” 

Mia takes that in with a pensive bob of her head, then lets out a sigh. “Alright, go, but be careful. Don’t say too much. We don’t need them poking their noses into our business,” she says. “I spoke to Amy at the hospital again. She says she already wants to leave tonight if possible. Try to get rid of them by then, yeah?”

You nod quickly and share another look with Paige. You’ve played normal all your life. You can do it again tonight.