Family don't end in blood!

🌒 One-Shots:

🥧 Baked Just Right || set during Chapter 8 ⇒ 🔮 Tumblr: Aug 28 || Patreon

🛍️ Meet Me Behind the Mall || set during Chapter 10 After discovering Dean's skipped a few milestones growing up, you make it your personal mission to change that and drag him to a mall for the first time in his twenty-seven years of life. Obviously, he hates every minute of it and complains the whole time – that is, until the food court wins him over. ⇒ 🔮 Tumblr: September 25 || Patreon: August 2

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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 two 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. 

As Dean slides behind Baby’s wheel, the familiar creak of the door and the distinct scent of old leather and gun oil instantly envelope him like a second skin. The engine rumbles to life with that low, satisfying growl he never gets damn tired of hearing as he lets his head tip back against the seat for half a second and grins like he just won a bet against Sam he never actually made out loud.

“See?” he says, throwing the car into gear and pulling away from the curb. “Hate to say I told you so. Normal girl. Sad story, smart as hell, works with gross stuff dead people leave behind for a living. No demon deals, no witchy vibes, no nothing. Just a hot CSI with a tragic backstory and killer legs.”

Sam slumps in the passenger seat and crosses his long arms, staring straight ahead with a sour look. “She gave us holy water, Dean.”

Dean snorts loudly at that, one hand drumming the steering wheel to the tail end of Zeppelin. “Dude, she gave us water. Cold water. From a fridge. In July. In a lab and a building full of cops. You’re reaching, Sammy.”

“She watched us drink it. Didn’t take her eyes off us once. That’s not casual hospitality. She was testing us,” Sam counters. 

Dean rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t fall out the window. “Or she’s polite and didn’t want us dying of dehydration while she answered our invasive questions about her dead family. Either way, you’re projecting. You want her to be part of Dad’s puzzle so bad you’re inventing clues.”

Sam’s jaw flexes. “I think she was playing us. Don’t you think she answered every question too perfectly? She was too calm. She gave us exactly what we wanted to hear and nothing more. No slip-ups, no emotions, nothing. People who’ve been through that kind of trauma usually crack a little when you bring it up. She didn’t.”

Dean’s grin fades a fraction, grip tightening imperceptibly on the wheel. He keeps his eyes on the road, though, but the image of you flickers behind his lids. You’ve learned early to lock your pain down tightly, carrying it without letting it spill. Dean remembers being four. He remembers the smell of smoke, the heat, his mother’s scream cut off like someone snuffed a candle. Sam was only a baby. He got the blank slate version. Dean got the full-color replay that still shows up in nightmares, the taste of ash on his tongue when he wakes up gasping.

An eleven-year-old girl watching her whole world burn? Pulling herself out of that hell – or being pulled – only to have strangers poke at the scars years later?

Yeah, he gets why you’ve built walls. Hell, he respects it.

“She’s allowed to be guarded,” he mutters, quieter than the usual bravado he serves Sam in these instances. “Doesn’t make her a monster. Makes her smart. You’d do the same.”

Sam shoots him a sideways look, surprised. “You’re defending her now?”

“I’m saying she’s human, Sam,” Dean snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it. “And humans who’ve been through hell learn how to smile through the questions. Doesn’t mean she’s hiding a cauldron in her basement. Although, in this town, she just might. But probably only for Halloween decorations.”

He flicks the turn signal, changes lanes, and tries to shake the weird tug in his gut when he thinks about you standing there in that white lab coat, all competence and quiet steel. It felt familiar – like déjà vu he can’t place. Not in a creepy way, though. It’s more like recognizing a song one hasn’t heard since their childhood. But he shoves the feeling aside. After all, what’s the point in chasing something when the facts are clear?

You’re clean. Case closed. And maybe legs open?

Dean knows better than to say that last thought out loud, however. Sam would only smack him again. Nevertheless, there’s something really satisfying about the possibility of ending the night with company that isn’t his little brother or a poltergeist for once. 

“You should go for the friend,” he suggests then, smirk molding back in place. “Paige. She’s got that bubbly energy. Balances out your brooding. You two could talk about feelings or whatever while I handle the grown-up stuff with the Crime Scene Siren. Maybe offer up my body for some scientific research.”

Dean wiggles his brows. Sam snorts, finally cracking a genuine smile. 

“I’m not looking to ‘go for’ anything tonight,” Sam states as expected, however. “I’m going back to the motel. There’s still Dad’s notes, the rune, the adoption records. Something’s off, Dean. I can feel it.”

Dean sighs – internally at first, then out loud for effect. “Yeah, yeah, you and your feelings. Suit yourself. Means more drinks and girls for me. And hey, if things go well, maybe I won’t even come back tonight.” 

The mental image already flashes shamelessly behind his eyes – you laughing at all his jokes across the table, maybe leaning in close enough that he catches whatever shampoo or perfume you use, maybe letting him walk you to your car, maybe–

He cuts the thought off before it gets too detailed (or his jeans become too tight).

But the grin creeps right back a second later. Sam can sulk in a motel room with yellowed journal pages all he wants. But Dean? He’s got plans. And for the first time since his father died, those plans don’t involve a shovel or a shotgun.

He turns up the volume of the stereo as Ramble On kicks in, letting the guitar fill the silence. Even if Sam’s right – and Dean’s pretty damn sure he isn’t – tonight’s not about answers for once. Tonight’s all about forgetting the damn questions for a couple of hours.

Dean’s elbows lean casually on the scarred wood of a high-top table at a cozy little dive bar called Clancy’s, a beer bottle dangling loosely between his fingers while his grin is shamelessly wide as you lean close and hold his gaze in such an easy way that the whole damn room feels a size smaller. 

The bar’s got that lived-in feel as classic rock fills the air in the mid-evening buzz, people chatting and clinking glasses. It’s got just enough grit to keep things lively. Your friend Paige went for a refill a while ago but never made her way back, which Dean doesn’t mind even a little. He’s got you right where he wants you – smiling, leaning in, batting your lashes, and some time ago, you even touched his forearm for several seconds, which is the universal signal for getting laid tonight. He’s three beers in already while you’re only on your second one, so he’s got to watch it a little. 

“By the way, apologies for my partner earlier. Sambora's got that whole, you know, brooding-genius thing locked down. Thinks every loose end’s hiding a conspiracy,” Dean says, takes a sip of beer, and leans an inch closer. “Me? I’m the approachable one. The fun one. The guy who closes cases and still has time for a drink with a sharp forensics expert like you.”

You quirk a brow, lips curving in amusement. “Approachable, huh? Is that what we’re calling ‘the fed who shows up unannounced and asks personal questions’ these days?”

He chuckles, leaning forward a fraction more. “Guilty. But in my defense, it’s hard not to be curious when the CSI on scene is this smart. And easy on the eyes. And funny. Triple threat.”

Your laugh softly, teeth rolling over your bottom lip. “Careful with the flattery, or I might just think you’re after more than just case details here,” you quip and take a sip of beer without breaking eye contact. “So is that your pitch? You’re the cool agent who doesn't let the job eat him alive?” 

“Something like that.” Dean shrugs casually, chuckling. “Gotta balance out the gloom. Life’s too short for all work, no play, right? Otherwise, it’s all stakeouts and bad coffee. Though I’d take bad coffee any day if it came with company like this.” 

Your eyes narrow, but there’s a spark in them that sharpens your smile. “C’mon, Agent Hetfield–”

“Dean,” he offers. 

“Dean,” you repeat, and he shivers a little when you do because it feels like your voice learned its own melody just to say his name. “What’s really on your mind, huh? I’m sure you didn’t tag along just to charm me out of my crime scene stories.” 

He licks his lips, chuckling softly. “Uh, not entirely, no,” he admits and nurses his beer, knuckles lightly tapping the wooden table. “You know, uhm, actually, can I ask you about some other cases?”

You purse your lips, brow pinching slightly. “Uhm, sure.”

“You, uhm, ever seen the missing women posters outside the station?”

“Yeah, sure, I have,” you reply. “Hard to just walk by something like that.”

“Right, uhm, well, I looked into it a little and saw they had all domestic disturbance calls prior to their disappearances,” he says and watches you nod along. “You were the CSI on some of those scenes when things went south, right?”

“Yeah, it’s really sad what happened to them. I hope they’re okay,” you note sympathetically. “Are you suspecting any of the husbands? Because I didn’t find any relations or other things connecting each victim.”

“Uh, no,” he says at first but then quickly shakes his head. “I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. Yeah.” He clears his throat. “When you were at those scenes, you ever notice anything off? You know, weird vibes, anything that screamed ‘not just a runaway’?” 

You pause mid-sip and lower your beer again, brow furrowing slightly as it often does with people whenever he asks those kinds of questions. He may have just ruined his chances for sex, but a case always comes first. Well, most times it does. 

“Vibes?” You arch a brow, amusement sneaking back into your smile. “Didn’t know the FBI was regarding crime scene vibes as cold, hard proof.”

Dean just smirks. “Humor me a little. You’ve seen any symbols? Felt anything off? You know, small things that don’t make the report but stick with you.”

“Off? Symbols? In Salem? Half the town’s built on weird vibes,” you quip, laughing. 

“Right, yeah,” he chuckles. Stupid witch capital of America. 

“Listen, those women mostly came from broken homes, you know? To be quite honest with you, I think they just finally snapped and left without a forwarding address,” you say. “There never was any blood or fingerprints that didn’t match. No ransom notes. If there’s a pattern, it’s probably human nature and not some X-Files twist. In my lab, it’s DNA and fibers only. Sorry to disappoint.”

Dean nods, taking it in. “Human nature, huh? Guess you’re probably right. Still, eight in a year. No trace. Makes a guy wonder.” 

“Oh, wonder all you want, agent,” you say with a sly smile. “But if it was a monster under the bed, I’d have found the claw marks by now. Promise.”

Dean barks a laugh at that because he’d love to tell you how wrong you are, but he only ever steals people’s innocence and shatters their illusions about the real world when he absolutely has to – when their lives depend on it. But for a moment, the FBI mask and bravado still slip. His eyes study you for a beat – not just skimming the surface, but how you’ve constructed your life. You’ve got friends who drag you out, a job that keeps you grounded, and routines that surely don’t involve salt rounds or devil’s traps. 

He envies it more than he wants to admit. Wonders what it would’ve felt like to grow up without the road and without the weight of revenge. If he hadn’t been dragged from one monster to the next. If he’d stayed in one place long enough to finish school, date someone normal – maybe even have a girl like you laugh at his dumb jokes over cheap beer on a Wednesday night without having to lie about his entire existence.

He understands your quiet armor. Admires it even. You’ve turned fire into focus, loss into logic. He carries his own version of it every day. 

“Why?” you ask then, a hint of concern lacing your tone. “You think there’s something more to these cases?”

“Nah.” Dean shakes his head, gulping his beer. “Just covering bases. Town like this – tourists, history, all the ghost-tour crap. Can make someone wonder if the stories ever bleed into real life sometimes.”

“Only on the brochures,” you tease, grinning.

He smirks, raising his bottle in a mock toast. “To keeping it boring, then.”

You clink your bottle with his, the conversation then drifting to bar stories, bad cases, and the sort of small talk that feels bigger because neither of you is pretending to be someone else. Well, at least, not entirely. 

Admittedly, Dean likes how you match him – quick, dry, and never flinching. He likes how you don’t shrink when he leans in or when the flirting edges closer to reality. It feels… natural.

“Paige is a force of nature. Keeps me from turning into a hermit,” you tell him after drink number three, while he switched the beer for a whiskey on the rocks. You’re a little warmer and looser now, but there’s still that silent steel underneath around your heart he clocked back at the lab. “Someone has to drag me out when I start talking to evidence bags like they’re people, you know?”

“I hear ya,” he says, nodding. “And hey, no judgement. I talk to my car.”

“Well, it’s a nice car,” you note and smirk, sharp eyes seeing right past the FBI suit and charm. “Although, you do strike me as the type who’d name it something ridiculous like… I don’t know – Betsy.”

“First of all, it’s a she,” he starts, only halfway serious. Well, seventy-five percent serious. “And her name’s Baby. She’s a ’67 Chevy Impala. Show some respect, alright?”

A laugh bubbles out of you at that, and Dean has to laugh, too. For a second, the tension between him and you sharpens and transforms into electricity. It’s the kind that makes him want to lean across the table and see how far that smile of yours goes. And fuck, he almost does. It’s so fucking easy how you fit – like you’ve done this before, even though Dean knows damn well you haven’t. 

He takes another swig from his beer, lets the cold bite chase away the softer thought. He’s not here for feelings. He’s here for a night that doesn’t end with blood or sulfur or another stained motel ceiling staring back at him. 

One night – that’s the deal he makes with himself every damn time.

Your phone then suddenly vibrates on the table. You glance at the screen for a second before your face shifts into professional calm. “Uh, sorry, it’s work. One sec,” you excuse yourself and turn toward a quieter corner of the bar. 

Dean stays put, but as you move, your bag on the table falls open. He doesn’t mean to snoop. He really, really doesn’t. But it’s almost impossible to keep his eyes away from its contents. 

He spies a small velvet pouch inside, a bundle of herbs that smell too sharply of sage, a notebook with that same angular B-rune on it, and a deck of tarot cards fanning out just enough for him to catch the intricate backs and one visible face – something with swords and a charging knight.

Dean’s gut twists.

Tarot. Herbs. A spell book. Holy water. The flawless deflections. Eight women vanishing clean after scenes you processed.

Goddammit. Was Sam fucking right? He’s never going to let Dean live that down.

But you’re a witch, aren’t you? And not just any witch – you’re the one he’s been hunting. 

When you finish the call, you hurry back to the table and scoop up your bag without noticing his stare. You then spin to him with a quick, apologetic smile. “Sorry. Lab emergency. Gotta run. Rain check?”

He forces the charm back into place. “Sure. No worries. Duty calls. Work never sleeps, right?”

“Yeah, something like that.” You flash a quick smile, nod, and sling the bag over your shoulder, heading for the door.

You’re gone a moment later, Dean’s eyes following you until the door swings shut behind you. Then the flirtatious warmth in his chest sours into hunter focus.

He downs the rest of his whiskey in one go, sets the glass down hard, tosses some cash on the table, and heads for the door as well. 

Game on, witch.

▶️ Chapter 2: Every Bait and Switch

Oh my, we might've pushed Dean a little too far here lol. You guys think he's more salty that she's a witch or that she got one over on him? 😂 Don't be fooled by the feelings and flirting in this first one, though. That boy's gonna switch quite fast now 🙈

What did you think of this rather rough start? Leave your thoughts and theories below, friends!

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“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. 

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When Carole King sings that she feels the Earth move under her feet, that’s what you feel when you set foot onto a crime scene. It’s hard to put into words, but there’s something in the air, in the earth, in the water. And that something always tells a story – one only meant for you. It’s like having a sixth sense. And no, luckily you don’t see dead people. 

Well, usually, you don’t…

You mostly try to stay away from ghosts and ghouls and everything that goes bump in the night. What you do have is a natural gift, however, passed down by your ancestors for generations.

You call Salem your home. 

Some might find that slightly ironic or odd or even reckless for a witch to settle here, considering the town’s well-documented and long, rich history of witch hunts. They do have a lot of museums and tourist attractions here to commemorate the joyous event…

Living here may get you hanged or burned at the stake, yes – or it may be the smartest cover of all time. Who, in their right mind, would ever expect a witch to choose this as her home and come looking for her here, after all? 

Exactly. 

You perfectly blend in with all the other pointed hats they sell at souvenir shops around here. Aside from that, the choice was never truly yours. 

John Winchester had once picked this place for you many moons ago. 

You exhale a sigh and glance up at the small family home in front of you, the white siding dulled by cloud coverage. It looks pleasantly innocent, but the earth underneath it knows what happened here. It’s restless beneath your feet, the roots threading through the moist soil pulled tight like they braced for an enormous impact. 

The trees around the property crowd close and whisper, feelings caught in bark and giving their secrets away to the wind. The woods always remember everything, but they’re downright awful storytellers. It’s usually up to you to translate.

Anger. Fear. Pain. 

You can feel it in the air all around you. Each emotion has a different aura and comes in different shades. But your grandmother once taught you how to read them before you’d even learned how to tie your shoes. 

Sometimes, gathering evidence isn’t just about what you can see with your own eyes. It’s not just about fingerprints and blood spatter and bodily fluids lighting up under UV light. Emotions, especially strong ones, leave imprints behind, too. 

Magic and a cosmic bond with the universe certainly doesn’t replace forensics, but it is its own kind of science. When people think of magic, they tend to assume it’s something supernatural that science can’t touch – an invisible, surreal force. But it’s very much tangible and real to you. Just because the average human can’t see it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Magic is part of this world like everything else – like gravity, space, time, motion, and light.

What? Because some fancy scientists at CERN haven’t found the atom for magic yet automatically means it doesn’t exist at all? Two millennia ago, humans also thought the Earth was flat until Aristotle proved them wrong. 

You’re Aristotle in this scenario. 

So, when you investigate a crime scene, you let the official science tell you the how, when, where, and, if you’re lucky, even the who. But magic provides the why.

Try telling that to the cops, though. 

The house itself is tucked just far enough from the main road that the gravel path leading up to it disappears into mud after the last summer storm, surrounded by scrub brush and scattered oaks. Even the grass seems uneasy, slick and bent under the weight of water, each blade vibrating faintly in the unsettled air. Summers in Salem are sticky, heavy with heat and humidity as the wind carries a richness from the land and sea alike. But even on the sunniest day, this town doesn’t feel harmless. 

Neither does this house.

You duck under the yellow tape, nodding at the uniform stationed by the front door. He gives you the usual look – half curiosity and half skepticism. Everyone at the station has a look they specifically reserve just for you.

The frown. The raised brow. An eye roll here or there. A challenging scoff. A glare. 

You’ve learned to ignore them, though, and even started to collect them over the years like trading cards.

Inside the house, the place still tries its damn hardest to look normal. And normal is usually the fucking problem. 

A few things are immediately obvious upon entry: the coffee table is pushed back an inch too far, a picture frame hangs crookedly on the wall – the glass not broken but spiderwebbed – and the couch cushions don’t line up like they should. The living room is already bustling with cops, techs, and a photographer trying to take pictures from an angle that will never tell the whole truth. 

Then there are the things only you can see. 

The threshold is smeared with the tiniest trace of something that doesn’t belong there – panic. It clings to the doorway like humidity, thick enough that you hesitate before stepping inside. Your aura brushes the frame, and the house responds like a startled animal. 

Fear leaves residue. Pain sinks deep. Violence doesn’t vanish just because someone cleaned the floor. 

You close your eyes for half a second and breathe it in. The ground exhales with you, relieved to be noticed. Then you pull gloves from your pocket and slip them on, mostly because it makes everyone else feel better, your mind already scanning and sorting.

Blood doesn’t shout, but it pulls at your attention like the tide, clinging to fibers and cracks and the places people forget to scrub. You crouch near the edge of the rug, your fingers hovering just above the fabric, and feel resistance there – the ghost of something wiped away but not erased.

“You gonna tell us what you’re seeing, kid?” a detective asks, his tone suggesting he already regrets the question. It’s Murphy, one of the older and more seasoned ones at the station. 

The other cops at the precinct never take you seriously, no matter how many times you prove them wrong. You’re always too young. You’re always too weird. Brilliant, thorough, impossible to fluster – but weird. 

You talk to yourself. You notice things no one else does. You correct people mid-sentence and don’t always apologize. The fact that you graduated early with a forensic science degree and solve cases faster than anyone else tends to buy you forgiveness, however. 

Most times, at least.

You rise smoothly to your feet and humor the man with a smile. “There’s trace under the sink. He washed up there. And check the stair railing. Skin cells should be under the varnish.”

Another detective, this one younger and nameless to you, squints at you from across the room. “You get all that from vibes or what?” 

“From paying attention,” you quip without bothering to turn around. “Highly recommend it.”

“She does this every time,” another one mutters under his breath. That’s Kaminski. He smokes a pack a day in the parking lot, which is why you recognize him by the rasp in his voice. 

“And I’m right every time,” you retort. “It’s almost like I know what I’m doing.”

“Educated guess,” Murphy scoffs, skeptical as ever. Old dogs don’t learn new tricks, you suppose. Especially the Irish ones. 

You ignore the comments and laughter that follow till the chatter suddenly dies down when Sergeant Mia Owens sets foot onto the crime scene. Years on the force have given her a presence that rearranges rooms without raising her voice. She’s been doing this too long to waste energy on theatrics.

“She’s not guessing,” Mia says, calm and firm all at once. “So if you’d like this wrapped up before next week, let her work, hm?” 

Mia meets your eyes, her expression sharp but warm, the way it’s always been ever since a hunter dropped you on her doorstep at eleven, feral with grief and too much truth in your blood. She never asked for explanations you weren’t ready to give. She just decided you were worth the trouble, opened her door for you, and told you to take your shoes off. 

Somewhere along the way, she became your anchor – your advocate, your shield, and the person who showed you how to exist in places that didn’t quite want you. She taught you how to stand your ground in a world that doesn’t like things it can’t categorize. 

She’s been defending you ever since.

Mia steps closer to you, lowering her voice so only you can hear. “Victim’s alive. Kid wasn’t hurt.”

“Good.”

“But his lawyer is already pushing an accident. Claims she fell,” she adds quietly and then studies you for a moment. “She doesn’t have anywhere to go. If this falls apart…”

She doesn’t need to finish. You understand without words.

“She still in the hospital?”

Mia nods. 

“I’ll finish up here and then stop by to talk to her,” you say softly. “Can you make sure no one goes into the bedroom? I wanna do a reading.”

Mia doesn’t hesitate, putting two fingers into her mouth, whistling loud enough for the entire room to turn their heads in her direction. “Alright, gentlemen, how about we clear out and let forensics do their job before you’re dragging mud all over the evidence, huh?”

The room clears quickly after that as you hurry into the main bedroom of the house. The air is more chill here, no warmth or love left inside these four walls. You carefully close the door behind you and settle down on the bed, pulling a deck of tarot cards from your shoulder bag. 

God, you can already imagine the raised eyebrows if one of those heathens outside could see you right now. 

You then shuffle the cards once before cutting the deck. The first question you always ask is: 

What happened here?

The Five of Wands is the first card you pull. It tells a story of conflict, chaos, and escalation. Violence was born out of anger here and not strategy. It wasn’t an accident. It was an argument that boiled over. 

The King of Cups shows up next, but it’s reversed. It’s meant for the perpetrator – the husband. It’s the usual card that comes up for an abusive drunk. It’s emotional manipulation and rage behind closed doors. It’s a man who knows how to cry alligator tears on cue and tells everyone how much he loves his wife while his emotions rot under the surface and ferment there. 

The Nine of Pentacles is reversed, too. It’s the wife. Her independence has been stripped away. She can’t leave easily. It’s a cage that disguises itself as a home, but this house isn’t safe anymore. 

But what happens next? That’s the most important question and decides her fate. 

Ten of Wands.

You swallow thickly. The card is a warning. Next time, it won’t be an ambulance. She’ll leave this house in a body bag. 

You gather the cards together again, your fingers steady even when your heart feels hollow and aches with sympathy. One card, however, slips free and lands right in front of you. 

Uh-oh. 

You hate when they do that because you know this one’s solely meant for you. You flip it around and place it down on the mattress in front of you. 

Knight of Swords.

Your whole body goes still, your brow furrowing. Ugh, not this guy…

Look at this dude, riding into battle on his high horse. It’s a man on a mission. He wants to succeed in his quest no matter what, blind to everything else around him. Once he charges forth, he can’t be stopped. It’s action before thought, justified by righteous certainty. 

After all, the world is simple if you hit it hard enough, right?

But what does that mean for you? 

Well, you suppose someone is coming, and they’re not riding gently into the night, either. On the contrary, they’re bringing an agenda with them. The knight won’t ask if he’s right because he has already decided that he is. 

Your skin creeps with goosebumps all the way up your arms, your eyes flicking to the closed door, the murmurs of cops barely audible outside. Did someone out there finally discover you’re a witch and is coming to burn you at the stake?

Your gaze lands back on the deck of cards. Why are you coming for me?

You pick up another card and flip it around. Your heart stops. Shit, it’s a big one, which means this isn’t good. 

The Judgment.

Oh, someone definitely caught your scent, seeing you for who you truly are. It doesn’t automatically mean death, though. It just announces a reckoning in some shape or form. There’s an outstanding score to be settled. 

God, who did you piss off this time?

As you gather the cards carefully again, tucking them back into your bag, you hear the deep rumble of a car outside. It surely doesn’t sound like any cop car you’ve ever heard, and it can’t be the owners of this home, either. 

Slowly, you rise from the bed and peek past the yellowed curtains out the window, spotting an old but classic, sleek-black Impala pulling up the muddy drive. 

Your skin tingles. The blood prickles in your veins. 

It’s not exactly a white horse, but you have a feeling your knight has just arrived. You curse the damn cards for warning you so late. Couldn’t they have already told you that last night when you still had time to pack a stupid bag?

A minute later, the car doors rattle open, two young men stepping out almost simultaneously like they practiced their exit. They don’t look like cops. They’re too clean for local law enforcement and too sharp for state boys. Their worn suits are ironed enough to pass but look more like costumes. 

One of them is obnoxiously tall and broad-shouldered with a mop of hair that hasn’t seen a pair of scissors in a while. The other is shorter with a solid build that suggests he knows exactly how to throw a punch. The tall one tilts his head and mumbles something, brows pinched tightly. The shorter one then smirks and says something that makes the other huff a breath in response. 

Frustration. 

You don’t need to read auras or tarot to understand that. 

As they start their march toward the house, you peel away from the window and force yourself into motion. You hurry back into the living room, where Mia is speaking to some of the remaining techs. You grab your kit, crouch near the rug again, photograph fibers, bag samples, and jot down notes you won’t ever submit. You let your hands stay busy so your ears can do the real work.

“Hey, uh, where can I find Mia Owens?”

It’s the short one. His voice is raspy and smooth like a bourbon, an undercurrent of authority lacing his tone. 

Mia’s voice rings out immediately. “Right here. Sergeant Owens.”

She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, already irritated and suspicious enough to make the two young men shake in their boots. 

“FBI, ma’am,” the shorter one says and flashes his badge quickly. “Special Agents Hetfield and Sambora.”

You frown a little at the names. Is it really a coincidence that one of them carries the same name as Metallica’s lead singer while the other shares one with a band member of Bon Jovi?

Your gut instinct says no. Again, you don’t even need magic to spot a liar.

“And what exactly does the FBI want with me?” Mia asks and raises an eyebrow, hands on her hips. It’s the same look and tone she’s used on you when you were a teen and tried to sneak out through the first-floor window of your bedroom. 

And where exactly do you think you’re going, young lady?

There’s a brief pause before the taller one, Bon Jovi, speaks this time, his tone lower and more careful. “We’re following up on a case that intersects with your jurisdiction. We were hoping to ask you a few questions about someone under your care.”

“Yeah, eleven years ago, you took in a kid, right?” Metallica asks more gruffly. 

“My adoptive daughter, yes.” Mia crosses her arms, nodding. “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?”

Metallica’s mouth opens for a second, swallowing heavily before Bon Jovi steps in for the rescue. “We–, uh, we’d just like to ask you some questions about a fire that occurred in 1995 in Sugar Hill, New Hampshire. You were the first responder on scene?”

Your breath catches in your throat. So that’s what they’re here for. You haven’t expected that. It’s been a while since you thought about the worst night of your life. 

“I was,” Mia replies sternly, not budging as her protective instincts take over. “It was ruled an accident.”

“Three fatalities. Grandmother. Mother. Eleven-year-old daughter,” Metallica notes.

Mia gives him a nod. “That’s right.”

Metallica cocks his head slightly. “Except here’s the thing,” he says cleverly, a false sense of confidence oozing from every pore. “Adoption records show you took in an eleven-year-old girl a few days later. Same age. That’s quite a coincidence.”

Mia’s glare could probably burn those boys to dust at this point. “What are you implying, agent?”

To your surprise, Metallica doesn’t budge. But he doesn’t know Mia as well as you do, which is why he doesn’t know that he really, really, really should back off when she’s got that look in her eyes. Again, you know that one all too well from your teenage years, and you definitely wouldn’t want to be in Metallica’s big boots right now. 

“I think you know,” he says with a stern little crease in his brow, just right above his freckle-dusted nose. 

You think those two are about to jump each other’s throats when Bon Jovi luckily steps in. “We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re just trying to understand what really happened that night.”

Unfortunately, they don’t know that placating doesn’t work with Mia either. That woman is an excellent hostage negotiator. 

“Listen, FBI or not, I don’t appreciate two men waltzing into my crime scene and asking about my kid–”

“Mia, it’s okay,” you cut in gently and step up beside her. Someone has to save those boys, although you don’t know exactly why you’re the one who's volunteering for that particular job. The cards already warned you, so you’re pretty sure those two aren’t coming in peace and mean you harm. 

“You don’t have to–” Mia starts, but you stop her with a wave of your hand. 

“It’s fine,” you assure her.

Mia shoots you a look, searching your face for doubt or fear, but you give her a steady nod instead. She doesn’t like it, but she trusts you. She exhales slowly, retreating just enough to signal that this is your call now, though her sharp eyes never fully leave the men.

The shorter agent’s attention, meanwhile, has fully latched onto you. His posture loosens, shoulders rolling back like he’s settling into a role he enjoys way too much. His eyes, greener than the lush, wet moss in the woods outside, drag over your face, your stance, the CSI jacket, and the badge clipped to your belt. 

“You wanted to speak to me?” you prompt, forcing Metallica to clear his throat and refocus. 

“Yeah, uh–… Yeah.” He nods and reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out a badge and showing it to you. “Special Agent Hetfield,” he says and motions to his partner. “This is Special Agent Sambora.”

You step closer and glance at the ID for longer than necessary – so much so their auras grow nervous. But you don’t need to read them to know they’re lying. You already know they’re not FBI or any other kind of official law enforcement. 

Hunters. 

You exhale a breath and school your expression into something professional and harmless. If they’re really here for you, the worst thing you can do is panic. 

You offer them a bright and easy smile, tilting your head just enough to look curious instead of threatened. “Sure,” you say smoothly. “What can I do for you, agents?”

▶️ Chapter 1: Rough on the Surface – May 29

Well, well, the knight has arrived, it seems lol. I've had a lot of fun figuring out tarot cards for this series. Consider this a little taste-test. In Chapter 1, we're then gonna dive into the boys' side of things and find out how they even ended up there.

PS: As a teen I was obsessed with Charmed, Sabrina, and Practical Magic, so you may encounter a few of those elements in this series. I've developed my own witch lore and weekly monster cases covering local myths etc. for this one, and we'll also slowly uncover reader's whole family mystery in due time 😉🔮

Ready for the big one on Friday? Leave your first impressions and theories in the comments, my witches 💜

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“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.

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“Hello, Dean,” he said, with a voice that sounded like an aftertaste. The sound shook you and you immediately crawled across the bed to move closer to Dean, grasping at the back of his flannel. 

“Dean!” you cried out, terror in your voice. He instantly turned and wrapped one arm around you, still keeping his frame between you and the angel. 

Dean’s eyes never left the angel. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” 

“His voice,” you stammered, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of Dean’s shirt so tightly your knuckles ached. “It’s… it’s the voice from the car. The day I woke up in the hospital. I remember the sound of it echoing inside my head before everything went black.”

Dean’s arm tightened around you, pulling you flush against his side. The protective warmth of his body was a sharp contrast to the ice-cold dread flooding the room. His green eyes were locked onto the angel, a terrifying, lethal promise burning behind them.

“You son of a bitch,” Dean growled, his voice dropping into a deep, dangerous tone that made the air feel heavy. “You’re the one who did this to her.”

The angel didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head, his sharp, bright blue eyes watching the way you clung to Dean with a look of cold, analytical detachment.

“I am Sariel,” the angel said, and that strange, echoing aftertaste in his voice made a sharp spike of pain throb behind your eyes again. “And I did not harm her, Dean. I saved her. Left to your devices, she would have ended up dead in a ditch, or worse, corrupted by the life you force upon everyone around you.”

“You brainwashed her!” Brian yelled from the other side of the bed, his voice cracking with a mixture of fear and absolute fury. He was shaking, his eyes wide as he stared at the celestial being standing in his bedroom. “You messed with my head too! You made me believe a whole lie of a life!”

Sariel slowly turned his gaze to Brian. The sheer weight of the angel’s attention made Brian choke on his next breath and slide back against the headboard. “You were a suitable anchor, Brian. Good looking, stable, easy enough for us to control without rocking the boat too hard. We gave you a miracle; a beautiful life. A quiet life. We chose you to keep her safe from the misery the Winchesters bring.”

“We didn’t ask for your damn miracle!” Dean snapped, stepping forward just a couple inches to completely shield you from Sariel’s view with his body. He didn’t have an angel blade on him, but his posture was pure, tightly coiled violence. “You took her memories. You took her life. Our life. His life.”

“And I gave her a sanctuary,” Sariel replied calmly, his posture immaculate, completely unbothered by the hostility in the room. He took a single, slow step toward the bed. “But the edges are broken and cracked. The human mind is remarkably stubborn when infected by the Winchester curse. It is time to put the walls back up.”

Sam, who had been quietly tracking Sariel’s movements from the edge of the room that he had slipped to unnoticed, subtly shifted his weight. His hand was still on Dean’s gun, but he knew conventional bullets wouldn’t do a damn thing to an angel. He caught Dean’s eye for a split second, a silent, frantic question passing between the brothers: How do we play this without an angel blade?

Sariel raised his hand, his fingers starting to glow with a faint, rhythmic pulse of white celestial light as his eyes locked onto you. “Come here,” he commanded softly.

“You’re not fucking touching her, you son of a bitch!” Dean roared, his arm pulling you tighter against his back. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he muttered to you. 

You clung to him for dear life, starting to tremble slightly. “Dean,” you pleaded in a whisper. “Don’t let him do this to me again.”

“I won’t,” Dean vowed, his voice a low, fierce promise right against your ear. “I swear to God, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

Sariel’s glowing fingers twitched, his expression hardening into something cold and entirely unyielding. “You cannot fight the will of Heaven, Dean. Your attachments are your weakness. They always have been.”

Before the angel could take another step toward the bed, a sharp, metallic scraping sound sliced through the room.

Sam had lunged forward from the shadows, using the distraction to dive toward the master bedroom’s vanity mirror. With a brutal swing of his heavy boot, he shattered the glass, sending shards raining onto the floor. In one fluid, practiced motion, Sam grabbed a long, jagged wedge of the silvered glass, cut deep into his own thumb, and slammed his bloody hand against the closet door, rapidly drawing an angel banishing sigil.

Sariel’s bright blue eyes snapped toward Sam. “Samuel, do not try to outsmart me.” With a flick of his wrist he slammed Sam back against the wall, the shard of glass falling from his hand on impact.  Both of his hands were pinned against the wall so that he couldn’t move them and his feet were about six inches off the ground. 

Another swoosh of air and flutter of wings interrupted the altercation. “Sariel, stop!” Castiel commanded, voice serious and dark blue eyes trained on the other angel. 

“Cas, finally, man,” Dean grunted, relief flooding his voice. 

“Brother, what have you done?” Castiel said, ignoring Dean completely. 

“What I had to do. This is the will of Heaven, Castiel,” said Sariel with a solemn expression. 

“The humans may believe that but I know better. This is not Heaven’s will. This is your own vendetta,” Cas said, brow pulled tight as he stepped closer to Sariel. “Put Sam down, right now,” he demanded. 

“Maybe in a minute,” Sariel replied. 

Sariel gave a microscopic tilt of his chin, and Sam let out a choked gasp as the invisible force pinning him against the wall tightened, his boots dangling uselessly above the hardwood.

“Sam!” Dean called out, anger flaring higher.

“You have always had a weakness for them, Castiel,” Sariel said, his tone dripping with a quiet, dangerous disappointment. “You fell for them. I am merely trying to correct the anomaly before the damage spreads further.”

“She is not an anomaly,” Castiel countered, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that seemed to vibrate the floorboards. “She is a human being who has earned her place beside them. What you have done to her—and to this innocent man—is a violation of the highest order. You know we are not to interfere with free will.”

Dean’s grip on your waist turned to steel. He couldn’t get to Sam, and he couldn’t fight Sariel, but having Cas in the room meant they finally had a weapon. “Cas, slice this son of a bitch open!” Dean barked, his eyes flashing with a lethal impatience.

But Sariel was faster. With a sudden, blinding burst of motion, he lunged toward Castiel, his hand slicing through the air. A blade of pure, shimmering celestial light materialized in his palm.

Cas anticipated the move, drawing his own silver angel blade from his sleeve with a sharp, metallic ring just in time to block the strike. The collision of their weapons sent a shower of blinding, white-hot celestial sparks flying across the bedroom, illuminating the dark corners in violent flashes.

“Brian, get down!” you screamed, your old survival instincts roaring to life through the fog in your brain. You threw yourself across the mattress, grabbing Brian by the arm and dragging him down toward the floor on the far side of the bed, using the heavy wooden frame as a shield. Brian didn't even fight you; he scrambled down, his hands over his head, completely paralyzed by the supernatural war breaking out in his own bedroom.

Dean screamed your name but held his position, still between you and the angel. 

The sound of blades clashing echoed like thunder in the enclosed space. Cas was holding his ground, his face set in grim determination, but Sariel was fueled by a fanatical, righteous fury.

“You cannot save her from her fate, brother!” Sariel roared, sustaining a vicious swipe from Cas that forced him back toward the doorway.

With Sariel’s focus entirely locked onto Castiel, the invisible grip holding Sam vanished. Sam dropped heavily to the floor, gasping for air as his boots slammed into the rug. He didn't waste a single second. He scrambled across the floor, his eyes scanning the debris until his fingers wrapped around the jagged shard of vanity glass he’d dropped earlier.

“Dean!” Sam choked out, coughing as he pushed himself up. “The sigil! I need a surface!”

Dean’s eyes snapped from the fighting angels to his brother, then to the blank expanse of the wooden headboard right above your pillows. “Right here! Do it now!”

“No, wait!” Castiel yelled. “Not yet.”

He moved swiftly and as their blades clashed again, Cas disarmed Sariel, his blade skittering across the floor toward the bathroom. Castiel’s blade was now under his chin pushing Sariel’s head up. “Now, brother, you will fix what you broke,” he demanded, voice firm and steady. 

Sariel huffed out a hysterical sounding laugh. “I will not.”

Cas pushed the blade up just slightly puncturing a small hole in the angel’s chin, a bright blue and white light leaked out. “Yes, you will.”

Sariel raised his hands to his sides, surrendering. “Very well. I’ll fix them but know I will never stop. I will reverse this in due time and this time I will kill Dean. Your pet will be no more and then things will be as they should,” Sariel vowed as he stared down at Castiel.

Sariel closed his eyes, and a low, melodic hum began to vibrate through the walls of the room.

Suddenly, your head felt like it was splitting entirely in two. The white-hot pain returned with a vengeance, so intense that you collapsed against the side of the bed, your fingers clawing at the carpet as a muffled scream tore from your throat. Beside you, Brian let out a loud, agonized cry, his hands flying back to his head as he curled into a tight ball on the floor.

It felt like a dam breaking inside your mind. The last two years of your life—the quiet mornings, the cozy library, the wedding planning, the gentle, domestic love you had shared with Brian—didn't vanish, but they suddenly shifted, pushed aside by a massive, roaring tidal wave of years of your real identity.

Memories flooded back in a dizzying, chaotic rush. Hunting monsters. The smell of cheap motels and old diner coffee. Late-night drives in the Impala. The heavy weight of a shotgun in your hands. Fighting alongside Sam. And Dean. Dean. A year and a half of fighting beside him, laughing with him, loving him, and the agonizing memory of the exact moment Sariel had ambushed your car in Kansas and dropped you in Georgia, ripping you away from the only family you had left.

As the hum abruptly snapped off, the pain vanished as quickly as it had come.

You gasped, your chest heaving as you opened your eyes. The fog was completely gone. The room was sharp, clear, and terrifyingly real. You looked up, your gaze instantly cutting past the broken glass and the chaos straight to the man standing by the bed.

“Dean,” you breathed, your voice no longer carrying the timid, pained confusion of the last few days. It was steady, grounded, and entirely yours.

Dean’s green eyes locked onto yours, and the sheer, agonizing weight of the last two years seemed to drop from his shoulders in an instant. “Sweetheart?” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly, searching your face for the confirmation he was desperate for.

Before he could step toward you, Sariel’s eyes snapped open, his striking blue gaze flashing with a bitter malice. “It is done, Castiel. I have restored their pathetic little minds. Now, remove the blade.”

Cas didn't lower the weapon an inch. His expression remained grim, his deep blue eyes locked onto his brother. “You promised you would never stop, Sariel. You threatened Dean’s life. Heaven may not care about your personal vendetta, but I do. I cannot allow you to remain a threat to them.”

Sariel’s eyes widened slightly as he realized what Cas was implying. “Castiel, you wouldn't—”

“You left me no choice,” Cas said, thrusting the blade up through his jaw. A blinding white light burst through the angel, coming out of his eyes and mouth that was open in a silent scream. Black charred wings spread across the doorway and along the walls. 

Cas slowly lowered his angel blade, sliding it effortlessly back into his sleeve as he let out a heavy, solemn breath. “I’m sorry, brother,” he whispered, mostly to himself. 

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. On the floor beside you, Brian was slowly uncurling, his breathing shallow and ragged as he stared at his hands. The look in his eyes was entirely different now—the glassy, brainwashed devotion was gone, replaced by the staggering, heavy realization of his own real past. He remembered Charlotte. He remembered Chrissy. He remembered his actual life.

Dean didn't care about the angel’s death. The second the light faded, he dropped to his knees right in front of you on the floor. His hands came up to cup your face, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin, his jade eyes burning into yours with a raw, fierce intensity.

“Hey,” Dean murmured, his voice rough and thick with emotion, his thumbs gently brushing across your cheekbones. “Hey. Talk to me. Tell me it’s you.”

“Dean,” you murmured as you threw your arms around him, raising up onto your own knees. You slammed your mouth into his, kissing him with every piece of your soul that had been locked away for two years. Dean’s fingers slid into your hair and pushed your head harder against his lips, his tongue exploring your mouth as if it were the first time. He kissed you deeply and a small sound escaped your throat and he swallowed it. As your lips moved against his you pressed your body tighter against him. 

After a moment you pulled back, both of you breathless, staring into each other’s eyes like neither of you could trust that this was truly real. “God, I fuckin’ missed you,” he rasped, leaning his forehead against yours as his hands cupped the sides of your face. 

“I missed you too. I love you, Dean,” you said, eyes watery. 

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

Neither Sam nor Brian interrupted the reunion. Both fully understood the levity of it. Now that Brian was sorting through his own memories and emotions, he stood up and sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled out his phone and dialed Chrissy’s number, silently praying it was still the same. 

“Hello,” her voice answered. 

“Chrissy…” Brian said. 

There was a long pause. “Brian?” she said, her voice barely a whisper. 

“Yeah, it’s me, honey,” he said, a tear falling down his cheek. 

“But… No, it can’t be. Brian disappeared two years ago. This isn’t funny. Who is this?” she said, emotions threatening to overwhelm her and he could hear it in her voice. 

“It’s really me, honey. I was… well I was taken. I can explain everything. Are you still in Charlotte? Are you… are you still single?”

“Yes. And as of a month ago, yeah I am single again,” she said slowly. “Brian, is it really you?”

“Yes, babe. It’s really me. Finally,” he blurted out. 

“Finally?” she asked, confused. “Don’t worry. I’m in Mississippi but I’m going to pack my car and drive straight through to Charlotte. To you.”

“I can’t believe it’s really you. I’ve been so worried. I still think about you every day. I was so afraid that you–” she trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. 

“I’m coming home. I’ll explain it all when I get there,” he promised again. “Let me pack some things and I’ll call you from the car.”

“Okay,” she said, tears in her voice. “I love you.”

“I love you too, honey,” he said and then hung up. He turned to find the three of you looking at him but Sam and Dean quickly looked away. 

You pulled out of Dean’s arms after giving him a quick peck to the lips. Slowly, you walked over to Brian and held out your arms. He gave you a hug and you both sank into each other. It was a long hug filled with all your past memories and the relief that you finally had your real identities back.  When he pulled back you slipped off your engagement ring and tucked it into his hand, closing his fingers over it. You both gave each other a small smile of understanding. 

“Thank you for being so good to me, Brian,” you said before you let go of his hands. 

“You were good to me too,” he replied. “I’m glad you have your real boyfriend and I hope that Chrissy and I can get past this too. She won’t understand like boyfriend does. Hell, I don’t even understand it fully. It’s a good thing I have a long drive to try and figure out how I’m going to explain it to her,” he said nervously. 

“You will. If you need help, maybe Cas can come and explain it to her. Show her,” you said, looking back over your shoulder at Cas who gave you a simple nod of agreement.

Brian nodded too and looked at you one more time. “Take care of yourself,” he said, almost calling you honey but catching himself. 

“You too,” you said and you watched him turn towards the closet to grab a suitcase. 

You walked up to Sam and gave him a big hug. “I missed you too, you know,” you said with a smirk. 

“Me too,” he said with a smile as he rubbed his hand over your back. 

You turned and Dean was right behind you. Ready to pull you back into his arms again. “Babe, can you give me like ten mins to pack some things and change and then we can get out of here?”

He pouted but nodded. “Yeah,” he said, letting his hands fall back to his sides. As you pulled some personal things out and set them on the bed, Dean began packing them into a bag from the walk-in. He wanted to get you back to the motel as fast as humanly possible. Sam was already downstairs in the car. 

A few minutes later, you were ready to go. You gave Brian one more hug and hugged and thanked Cas for giving you your life back and told him you’d see him soon. Then you followed Dean out into the dark night. The crisp air hit your skin as you pulled the Impala door open and slid in beside Dean.

Part 7