Light Dancing Words

And perhaps... some sad news.

I foresee an ending to Crossroads of the Heart. I do love writing CJ Braxton and his steady love for Y/N, with the chaos gremlin that is Gabby and her unusual love with Miles, but I feel the end has come for that storyline. I don't know when it'll end, only that it will. I promise it'll end well and happily though!

And I know I mentioned I'd be working on a novel! Well, it's definitely going to be worked on! I have a tentative title in place, and a general storyline already! 😄

General teaser of the novel, for those who wanted to know about it:

[Male main character/MMC] thought the best parts of his life were behind him.

[Female main character/FMC] spends every weekend singing at weddings and every Monday reminding herself not to believe in fairy tales.

When a mutual friend's wedding throws them together, neither expects more than a pleasant conversation. Instead, they find themselves drawn into an easy friendship built on sharp humor, honest conversations, and the kind of understanding that only comes along once in a lifetime.

As friendship slowly deepens into something more, [MMC] and [FMC] begin to wonder if maybe life isn't divided into winners and losers, first loves and lost chances.

Maybe there are second verses.

And maybe the most beautiful songs are the ones that continue after you thought they were over.

———

So yeah. I'm happily writing again. The FUBAR is, hopefully, seeing the end.

Oh, life will continue to, er, life—but that difficult situation? I got out. I'm safe. To borrow a phrase from a family member, I'm rebooting my life and it's getting better. Not great, but far better. I'm healthier. And outside of melting in the heat, the stress... is manageable. To the point where my muse is exploding with stories again.

So thank you all for being patient with the sudden silence, the lack of updates. I super appreciate it all. 💖

Sincerely, Taylor

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@foxyjwls007, @katastrophicmind, @globetrotter28, @deansimpalababy, @daisychaingirl

@nancymcl, @deans-baby-momma, @kickingitwithkirk, @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick

Sam immediately looked down at his plate to hide a smile.

Bobby ignored him.

“Food first,” he declared. “Apocalyptic soul-stealin' nightmare later.”

Natalie found herself smiling despite everything.

Bobby noticed and pointed at her next. “And you. Eat.”

“I am eating.”

“More.”

“Bobby—”

“More.”

Dean snorted into his beer.

Natalie shot him a look.

Traitor.

Bobby sat back, apparently satisfied that everyone had food in front of them, and for the first time all evening, the house settled into something almost normal.

Almost.

Conversation drifted in fits and starts. Sam made an observation about the water spirit. Bobby complained about hunters who never returned books where they found them. Dean argued that Bobby's filing system was incomprehensible.

Through it all, however, something had changed.

Something small.

Something private.

Natalie sat beside Dean, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed. The first touch was accidental. At least, it could have been. Her hand shifted near her plate and her knuckles brushed his.

Neither of them pulled away.

A few moments later, Dean's thumb grazed lightly against the back of her hand. Natalie's breath caught. No one noticed.

Well.

No one except Sam. Sam noticed everything. Across the table, he wisely kept his mouth shut.

A little while later, Natalie reached for her beer at the same time Dean reached for his. Their fingers touched. This time Dean let his hand linger. Just for a second. Just enough to make sure she felt it.

Natalie's lips curved faintly.

Bobby was in the middle of complaining about rust demons—"which ain't a thing but probably should be"—when Dean's hand found hers again beneath the table.

Not holding. Not yet. Just resting close enough that his thumb could stroke lightly over her knuckles. The gesture was so small. So simple.

And somehow it felt more intimate than the kiss.

Because this was Dean. Dean, who rarely slowed down. Dean, who carried affection in actions more than words. Dean, who kept finding reasons to touch her simply because he could.

Natalie looked down at her plate to hide her smile.

Across from them, Sam saw it anyway. He glanced between the two of them. The subtle touches. The quiet happiness. The way Dean looked lighter than he had in years.

Sam smiled to himself and returned to his dinner.

At the head of the table, Bobby continued grumbling about food, hunters, and the state of the world. But beneath all that gruff irritation was relief.

For tonight, at least, everyone was home. Everyone was alive. And for the first time in a very long time, the house felt full again.

Bobby sighed. The kind of sigh that suggested he had personally suffered on behalf of every stubborn person in the room. His eyes drifted to Natalie's plate.

Natalie immediately caught him looking. And gave him a look. It was a very specific look. I am eating. Back off, old man.

Bobby's mouth twitched.

Dean saw the exchange and barked out a laugh.

Natalie shot him a betrayed glance.

Dean bumped his shoulder lightly against hers.

"I ate," she insisted.

Bobby grumped under his breath, eyeing the admittedly diminished contents of her plate.

Then, reluctantly, he nodded. "Fine."

"Thank you."

"Don't get used to it."

Natalie rolled her eyes.

The moment settled something in the room. A little of the tension leaked away. The familiarity of it—the banter, the grumbling, Bobby monitoring everyone's food intake whether they liked it or not—felt strangely comforting after everything that had been revealed.

For a few moments, they simply ate.

Then Bobby set down his fork. The room quieted. He looked at Natalie. This time there was no irritation in his gaze. Just concern. "Tell us about the Master."

Natalie's smile faded.

Dean immediately felt her tense beside him. Without thinking, his hand brushed hers beneath the table. A silent reassurance.

She glanced at him briefly. Then took a breath. "I'm not sure how much of what it told me was true."

Sam leaned forward slightly. "Tell us anyway."

Natalie nodded. "It doesn't think the way we do." That was how she began.

The room went still.

"When I talked to it..." She paused, searching for words. "I got the impression that Heaven and Hell weren't enemies to it."

Dean frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean it wasn't aligned with either side."

Bobby's expression darkened.

Natalie stared down at her beer bottle. "It spoke about both of them like they were neighboring countries."

The statement landed heavily.

Sam's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "It exists outside the system."

Natalie nodded. "As far as I could tell." She rubbed her thumb against the glass. "Outside Heaven. Outside Hell. Outside the usual universe entirely, maybe."

Dean's stomach tightened. The way she said it sounded less like theory and more like experience.

"It described Heaven and Hell as..." She hesitated. "Structures."

Bobby looked disgusted by the implication.

"Structures built around rules."

"And this thing isn't bound by those rules?" Sam asked.

"No." Natalie swallowed. "It lives in the spaces between them."

The room fell silent.

Dean remembered the scar. Remembered her saying it could have killed her. Remembered the fear in her voice when she'd admitted she wasn't strong enough. "What does it want?" he asked quietly.

Natalie looked at him.

For a moment, Dean saw the memory of Nova Scotia flash across her face.

Then she answered. "Power." A pause. "But not the way demons want power."

Sam frowned. "Then what kind?"

Natalie's gaze drifted toward the dark window over the sink. "The kind that comes from controlling what everyone else ignores."

Nobody spoke.

She continued softly. "The lost." Another pause. "The forgotten." Her voice dropped lower. "The souls that slip through the cracks."

The room grew very quiet indeed. Because every hunter at that table knew one terrible truth: There were always cracks.

The silence lingered after her last words. Dean could feel everyone thinking. Turning over possibilities. Trying to understand something that sat completely outside the lore they knew.

Natalie stared at the label on her beer bottle for a moment before speaking again. "The Master called them border souls."

Sam's attention sharpened immediately. "Border souls?"

Natalie nodded. "Souls caught between destinations."

Dean frowned. "I thought when people die, they either go to Heaven, Hell, become ghosts, or move on."

"So did I," Natalie replied.

The answer was quiet. Too quiet.

Bobby's jaw tightened. "What'd Missouri tell you?"

Natalie looked up. The question seemed to pull her backward through time. "When I finally got her to talk..." she said softly, "she told me my father wasn't at peace."

The room went still. Dean remembered her saying as much earlier. But hearing it again somehow landed harder.

"She said Leandro hadn't crossed cleanly." Natalie swallowed. "That he wasn't suffering."

A flicker of relief crossed Bobby's face. Then vanished.

"But he wasn't free either."

The relief died completely.

Dean watched Bobby's expression close.

Natalie continued. "Missouri said that when my father died, he wasn't killed by the master."

"He was killed by the monster," Sam said, recalling the story.

Natalie nodded. "That's when she started talking about border souls." Her fingers tightened around the bottle. "She said sometimes a death creates... interference."

Dean frowned. "Interference how?"

"I don't know." The admission frustrated her. "I kept asking. She kept refusing to explain." A sad smile touched her lips. "She spent half the conversation trying to convince me to leave it alone."

Bobby snorted. "Smart woman."

Natalie shot him a look.

Dean almost smiled. Almost. Because he already knew where this was going.

"She told me my father was one of them." The room quieted again. "A border soul." Natalie's voice softened. "Not in Heaven." A pause. "Not in Hell." Another. "Just... trapped."

Dean felt her pain then. Not the physical kind. The grief. The years of it. Because until that moment, Leandro had been dead. Gone. Mourned. Now he occupied a far crueler place. Not gone. Waiting.

Lost.

"And Missouri knew?" Sam asked.

Natalie nodded. "I think she knew more than she ever told me."

"Probably." Bobby's voice was rough.

Natalie looked toward him. "I think she was trying to protect me."

"She was." The certainty in Bobby's answer surprised everyone. He stared into his beer. "Missouri wasn't the kind to hide things unless there was a reason."

Dean watched him closely. Bobby looked older suddenly. Tired. Like he was remembering old conversations he'd hoped would stay buried.

Natalie noticed it too. "You knew something."

It wasn't an accusation. Just a realization.

Bobby was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed. "I knew there were questions."

Dean immediately looked at him. "Bobby—"

"I never had answers." His voice carried genuine frustration. "I knew the hunt didn't sit right. Knew things about it never lined up." He rubbed a hand over his face. "But not enough to go chasin' ghosts."

Natalie looked down. "Well." Her laugh was small and humorless. "I did."

Nobody argued with that. Because the scar on her stomach was proof enough. Dean's hand found hers beneath the table again. This time he didn't bother pretending it was accidental.

Natalie looked over. His thumb brushed once across the back of her hand. A simple gesture. But the message was clear: You're not carrying this alone anymore.

For the first time since she'd started talking, some of the tension left her shoulders. And Bobby noticed. Of course he did. He watched them for a second. Then looked away.

Not because he disapproved. Quite the opposite. Because after everything Natalie had just told them, Bobby found himself grateful that when she finally decided to stop carrying the burden alone: Dean Winchester had been waiting to catch it with her.

Dean sat with his beer untouched, Natalie's hand still beneath his, his thumb occasionally brushing across her knuckles as the conversation settled into an uneasy silence.

The house seemed smaller somehow.

Maybe because the thing they were discussing wasn't a ghost. Wasn't a vampire nest. Wasn't even a demon.

It was something that existed beyond the categories that had shaped Dean's entire life.

The old clock on Bobby's wall ticked. The refrigerator hummed. Outside, the South Dakota wind rattled loose sheet metal in the junkyard.

Finally, Dean broke the silence. "How do we kill it?"

The question landed with the weight of a dropped stone. Natalie closed her eyes briefly. Sam looked thoughtful. Bobby immediately looked irritated.

"That's your first question?" Bobby demanded.

Dean turned toward him. "It nearly killed her."

"That wasn't my question."

"It is now."

Bobby pushed his chair back slightly, the wood scraping against the floor. "You don't even know if it can be killed."

Dean's jaw tightened. "Everything can be killed."

Natalie made a small sound under her breath.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dean—"

"No," Dean said, leaning forward. "We're talking about a thing that's collecting souls and using monsters as tools. So yeah. I want to know how we put it in the ground."

Bobby barked out a humorless laugh. "And then what?"

Dean frowned. "What do you mean, then what?"

"What happens to all those souls if this thing is holdin' them together?" Bobby shot back. "What happens if it's part of the structure?"

The room fell quiet again. That possibility hadn't occurred to Dean. It clearly had occurred to Bobby.

"You don't know that," Dean argued.

"No," Bobby agreed. "Neither do you."

The older hunter stood and began pacing again, his beer forgotten on the table. Dean could see the gears turning behind his eyes, could see decades of experience trying to wrestle with something completely outside the normal rules.

"We're making assumptions," Bobby continued. "Big ones."

Natalie watched him carefully. "We know it's dangerous."

"Damn right it's dangerous."

"We know it's trapping souls."

"Maybe."

That made her blink. "Maybe?"

Bobby stopped pacing and pointed at her. "You know what it told you."

Natalie's expression hardened. "I saw the records."

"You saw what it wanted you to see."

The room went still. Dean felt something shift. Because Bobby had a point. A frustrating point. But a point.

The Master had controlled the battlefield from the beginning. It had expected Natalie. Expected her questions. Expected her grief. For all they knew, the entire encounter had been staged.

Sam sat forward, elbows on the table. "Actually," he said slowly, "that's the real problem."

Everyone looked at him.

"We don't know what's true."

Natalie frowned. "What do you mean?"

Sam spread his hands. "Think about it. Everything we know comes from three sources. Missouri. The Master. And assumptions."

Dean hated when Sam got that look. The one that meant he was right.

"Missouri said Leandro wasn't at rest," Sam continued. "The Master confirmed it. But neither one actually explained the mechanics."

Natalie's shoulders tensed. "You're saying my father might not be trapped."

"I'm saying we don't know."

The distinction mattered. Dean could see it hit her. Not relief. Not hope. Something more complicated. The possibility that she had spent three years chasing a story whose ending she still didn't understand.

"I met it," Natalie said quietly.

"No one is saying you didn't."

"It nearly killed me."

Dean's hand tightened around hers instinctively.

Sam nodded. "I know. But that's different than understanding what it actually is."

The silence stretched. Then Bobby sighed heavily and dropped back into his chair. "What I'm hearin'," he said, rubbing a hand through his beard, "is that everybody's already talkin' about killin' somethin' we don't understand."

Dean opened his mouth.

Bobby cut him off. "And before you start, boy, if this thing really exists outside Heaven and Hell..." He pointed toward the ceiling. "Then we are officially operating outside our pay grade."

That earned the smallest snort from Sam. Even Natalie smiled faintly. Dean did not. Because he kept returning to one image. Natalie bleeding out on a cold floor in Nova Scotia. The scar. The fear in her voice when she'd admitted she almost hadn't come home.

"You know what?" Dean said finally.

Everyone looked at him. His voice was calm. Too calm.

"I don't care."

Bobby groaned immediately. "Of course you don't."

Dean ignored him. "I don't care if it's part of the structure. I don't care if it exists outside Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Oz, Narnia, wherever the hell."

Sam rolled his eyes.

Natalie actually laughed.

Dean pointed at her. "That thing hurt you." The room quieted instantly. His gaze didn't leave hers. "And maybe we don't know how to kill it."

A beat.

"Yet."

Something fierce settled across the table. Because Dean Winchester had never been particularly impressed by impossible.

Bobby stared at him for several long seconds before shaking his head. "God help me."

"No argument there," Sam muttered.

Bobby pointed at all three younger hunters. "You are not marchin' back to Nova Scotia tomorrow."

"We weren't—"

"You were thinkin' it."

Dean had, in fact, been thinking it.

Bobby's glare sharpened. "We do this right." The words carried the force of command. "We research. We investigate. We figure out what this thing actually is."

His gaze moved to Natalie. "Then." To Dean. "And only then." To Sam. "We decide whether killin' it is even the right answer."

No one immediately argued. Which, for this group, was as close to agreement as anyone was likely to get.

Dean sat back in his chair, but only physically. The rest of him remained wound tight as piano wire. The revelation that Natalie had nearly died, that she had spent three years chasing whispers across the continent, and that some impossible thing had marked her and let her live, had settled beneath his skin like a splinter he couldn't remove. Every instinct he possessed kept returning to the same place: the scar across her stomach. He could still see it every time he closed his eyes.

The room itself felt deceptively normal. Dinner sat half-finished on plates. Bobby's old kitchen light cast a warm yellow glow across scarred wood and mismatched chairs. The refrigerator hummed softly in the background. It should have felt like every other evening they'd spent at Bobby's over the years.

Instead, it felt like they were sitting around the edge of a cliff.

Dean finally broke the silence. "So how do we kill it?"

The question landed heavily in the room.

Natalie looked up from her plate. Sam's attention sharpened immediately. Bobby, however, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as though Dean had just confirmed every frustration he'd ever had about raising Winchester boys.

"Of course that's where your mind goes," Bobby muttered.

Dean frowned. "Something trapping souls isn't exactly getting a free pass from me."

Bobby's chair creaked as he leaned back. "And what exactly makes you think killing it's the right answer?"

The challenge caught Dean off guard. Not because Bobby disagreed—Bobby disagreed with him all the time—but because the older hunter seemed genuinely troubled by the question itself.

Dean gestured toward Natalie. "It nearly killed her."

"It nearly killed her because she went after it."

"And?"

"And that's not the same thing."

Dean stared at him in disbelief.

Across the table, Sam folded his hands together, his expression thoughtful in the way Dean knew usually meant his brother was about to become annoyingly reasonable. "Bobby might have a point."

Dean let out a sharp breath. "You too?"

Sam didn't flinch. "Think about what we actually know."

The words hung in the air.

Natalie had gone very still. Dean could see her listening carefully, her fingers wrapped around her beer bottle, her expression caught somewhere between hope and dread.

"We know the Master exists," Sam continued. "We know it had records. We know it knew about Leandro. We know it injured Natalie and let her leave. But beyond that?"

He spread his hands. "We're taking a lot on faith."

Bobby nodded immediately. "Exactly."

Dean hated when they agreed.

"What, you think she's lying?" he asked sharply.

"No." Sam's answer came immediately. "I think she believes what she saw."

Natalie's gaze dropped to the table.

The distinction mattered.

Dean could tell from the way her shoulders tightened.

Bobby rose from his chair and began pacing again, unable to stay seated when he was worried. It was a habit Dean had watched for years. Whenever Bobby started wearing a path into the floorboards, it meant something had gotten under his skin.

"This thing knew exactly what buttons to push," Bobby said. "It knew about her father. Knew she'd come looking. Knew she'd keep digging."

The older hunter stopped near the sink and turned back toward them. "For all we know, the whole damn encounter was orchestrated."

Natalie looked up sharply. "You think it lied?"

"I think powerful things rarely tell the whole truth."

The room fell quiet again.

Dean found himself watching Natalie's face. He could practically see the argument playing out behind her eyes. The certainty she'd carried home from Nova Scotia was being challenged now, not because Bobby thought she was wrong, but because Bobby had spent decades surviving by questioning everything.

Even his own conclusions.

Especially his own conclusions.

Natalie finally leaned forward, resting her forearms against the table. "When I was there," she said slowly, choosing each word with care, "it felt real."

Nobody interrupted her.

"The records were real. The souls were real. The fear was real." She swallowed. "And my father's name was there."

Something flickered across Bobby's expression then. Pain. Old pain. The kind that had never entirely healed.

Dean realized suddenly that Bobby wasn't just worried about Natalie. He was reliving Leandro's death all over again. Every new revelation peeled open another layer of guilt the older hunter had spent decades trying to bury.

Bobby lowered himself back into his chair, looking older than he had an hour ago.

"Kid," he said quietly, "I've spent twenty years wishing I'd had answers."

Natalie's eyes softened. "I know."

"No." Bobby shook his head. "I don't think you do."

His voice had lost all its irritation now. What remained was exhaustion and regret.

"When your father died, I tore that hunt apart. Every witness. Every scrap of lore. Every lead I could find. I wanted there to be a reason. I wanted there to be something I missed because that would've been easier than accepting what happened."

The room was utterly silent.

Dean glanced at Sam. Sam had gone still too.

"You know what I found?" Bobby continued.

Natalie slowly shook her head.

"Nothing."

The word landed heavily.

"Just a dead friend and a little girl who deserved her father."

Natalie's eyes glistened.

Dean felt her hand find his beneath the table. This time it wasn't subtle. It wasn't accidental. She simply reached for him.

He laced their fingers together immediately.

Neither of them commented on it.

Bobby noticed anyway.

Of course he did.

His gaze lingered briefly on their joined hands before moving away again. "Maybe this Master is exactly what you think it is," he said. "Maybe it really is holding souls. Maybe Leandro's one of them."

A pause followed.

"But if we're going after it, we're doing it because we know what we're dealing with."

Dean's jaw tightened. "And if we find out she's right?"

Bobby looked directly at him. "Then we'll burn that bridge when we get to it."

A reluctant smile tugged at Sam's mouth.

Natalie actually laughed softly.

Dean shook his head. "That's not the expression."

"It is now."

For the first time all evening, the tension eased slightly. Only slightly. Because everyone in the room knew the truth. The Master was still out there. Leandro's fate remained unresolved.

And somewhere beyond Heaven and Hell, something had noticed Natalie Guimet—and had allowed her to walk away alive.

The question hanging over all of them wasn't whether they would go after it.

The question was what they would discover when they finally did.

The conversation eventually ran out of steam. Not because they had reached any answers. If anything, they had accumulated more questions than when they started.

But there came a point where exhaustion settled over the room like a blanket. The beer bottles were mostly empty. The dinner plates sat abandoned. The clock on the wall had crawled steadily toward midnight, then beyond it.

Bobby was the first to surrender.

The older hunter pushed himself upright with a groan and reached for another beer from the refrigerator. He twisted the cap off with practiced ease and stood there for a moment, looking at the three younger hunters around his table.

His gaze settled on Natalie. Then Dean. Then back to Natalie.

The look alone was enough to make Dean suspicious. "What?"

Bobby sighed heavily. "Lord help me."

Dean frowned. "What?"

Bobby pointed vaguely between the two of them. "I don't wanna know."

Natalie blinked. "Don't wanna know what?"

"How the hell you two are gonna handle sleepin' arrangements tonight."

The silence that followed was immediate. Natalie's eyes widened. To Dean's absolute horror, he felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. Across the table, Sam immediately buried his face behind his beer bottle.

Bobby looked vindicated. "Yep."

"Bobby!" Natalie exclaimed.

"What?"

"You cannot just—"

"I absolutely can."

Dean opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Which somehow made everything worse. Natalie looked equally horrified. And embarrassed. And if Dean wasn't mistaken, actually blushing. That realization nearly finished him off.

Bobby took one look at both of them and barked out a laugh. "Oh, that's priceless."

"Bobby," Dean managed.

"Nope."

The older hunter pointed his beer at them. "Not hearin' it."

Then he pointed toward the hallway. "You two can figure out whatever awkward nonsense you're gonna figure out."

Dean wished the floor would open beneath him.

Natalie appeared to share the sentiment.

"I don't want details."

"Bobby!"

"I don't want explanations."

Dean groaned.

"I definitely don't want visual aids."

"Oh my God."

"Which means," Bobby concluded, taking a victorious swallow of beer, "you can both shut up, idjits."

With that, he turned and headed toward the hallway. Halfway there he paused. Without turning around, he added, "And if either one of you wakes me up, I'm changin' my will."

Then he disappeared. The sound of his bedroom door closing echoed through the house.

Silence followed.

Long.

Painful.

Silence.

Sam was the first to break. A slow grin spread across his face.

Dean pointed at him immediately. "Don't."

Sam lifted both hands. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

"Maybe."

Dean groaned.

Natalie dropped her face into her hands.

Sam's grin only widened. "You know," he said mildly, gathering plates, "I think I'll do the dishes."

"You're enjoying this."

"A little."

Dean muttered something rude under his breath.

Sam laughed quietly and carried the dishes toward the sink, giving them what privacy he could without actually leaving the room.

Which left Dean and Natalie sitting alone at the table.

Or at least as alone as two people could be while Sam Winchester deliberately made more noise than necessary with plates in the background.

For a few moments neither spoke. The enormity of the evening finally seemed to catch up with them. The confessions. The kiss. The Master. Leandro. Everything.

Dean found himself looking at Natalie. Natalie looked back. And suddenly the reality of it hit. They weren't wondering whether they had feelings anymore. That question had been answered. Decisively.

Instead they found themselves facing an entirely different uncertainty.

What happened now?

For years their friendship had been built on familiar ground. They knew how to be friends. Knew how to call each other in the middle of the night. Knew how to tease, argue, comfort, and trust one another.

But this?

This was new territory.

Natalie laughed softly, the sound carrying equal parts joy and nervousness. "This is weird."

Dean immediately nodded. "Yeah."

Another pause.

Then, unexpectedly, they both laughed. The tension loosened. Not entirely. But enough. Dean reached across the table and took her hand again. The gesture felt natural now. Easy. Natalie squeezed his fingers.

Outside, the junkyard settled beneath the South Dakota night. Inside, Bobby was pretending not to listen from his bedroom, Sam was washing dishes with entirely too much interest, and somewhere beyond the safety of the house waited questions neither of them could yet answer.

But for the moment, none of that mattered.

For the first time in years, Dean and Natalie simply sat together in the quiet, looking at one another and realizing that after all the waiting, all the fear, and all the years spent circling around what they felt—the story between them had finally begun.

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But she wasn’t really seeing any of it.

Her mind drifted instead through memory.

Dean at twelve, grinning like a menace with dirt on his face.

Dean at fifteen, tipsy and serious all at once.

Dean dancing with her in Bobby’s backyard under moonlight because some idiot had stood her up.

Dean’s voice over a crackling phone line telling her he’d fallen in love.

She’d thought it would hurt less than it did.

Footsteps crunched softly on gravel behind her.

Natalie didn’t hear them.

Dean stopped just inside the yard, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

He watched her for a moment.

The way she stood. The way her shoulders held tension even when she was still. The way the wind tugged lightly at her hair.

He remembered a hundred versions of her standing in this yard.

None of them had looked like this.

And that thought circled back again—the same one that had been gnawing at him since she started telling her story.

Why the hell had that phone call mattered so much?

Why would hearing him say he’d fallen in love send her chasing something that nearly killed her?

Dean stepped forward.

Gravel shifted under his boot.

“Natalie.”

She startled slightly, blinking as she turned. The faraway look vanished instantly.

“Oh,” she said. “Hey.”

Dean didn’t bother easing into it.

“Why?”

The question landed bluntly between them.

Natalie frowned. “Why what?”

“That call,” he said. “The one about Cassie.”

Her expression changed too quickly.

“What about it?”

Dean huffed quietly, running a hand through his hair. “You told us that’s when you started digging into your dad’s death.”

“So?”

“So,” he said, stepping closer, “why did me telling you I fell in love make you go on a suicidal mission to Nova Scotia?”

Natalie blinked, caught off guard.

“That’s not—”

“It is,” Dean cut in.

“No, it’s not,” she said quickly. “Dean, that phone call didn’t push me into anything. I already had questions about my dad.”

Dean stared at her.

Then he shook his head.

“Knock it off.”

Her mouth opened in protest.

“I know you,” he said flatly.

Natalie went still.

“I’ve known you since you were a kid,” Dean continued. “You lie when you get cornered. Your voice goes tight and you start talking too fast.”

She crossed her arms defensively. “I’m not lying.”

Dean took another step forward.

“You are,” he said.

Not accusing.

Just certain.

“I just don’t know why.”

The wind shifted through the junkyard, rattling loose metal somewhere in the distance.

Natalie held his gaze.

And for a long moment, neither of them moved.

Natalie swallowed.

Dean watched it happen.

It was small—just the movement of her throat, the tightening of her jaw—but it was enough to tell him something had landed harder than she wanted him to see.

She’d promised herself something in Nova Scotia.

Lying on that narrow clinic cot while someone stitched her stomach closed, the room smelling like antiseptic and salt air. Blood loss making the world swim.

She had promised herself that if she lived—if she walked away from that house alive—she wouldn’t keep running from the truth anymore.

She would tell Dean.

Even if she wasn’t ready.

Because she’d come so close to dying that night.

Too close.

Now here he was.

Standing in Bobby’s backyard, the same yard where they’d grown up half-wild and reckless, where he’d kissed her once when they were kids and everything had shifted in a way she hadn’t known how to handle.

That kiss.

God.

It had shown her something about Dean she hadn’t been ready for at fourteen.

Not just the cocky grin and the reckless dares.

The depth.

The way he could look at someone like they mattered.

Now they weren’t kids anymore. They were hunters. Grown. Scarred. Alive in ways that came with a price. And that terrified her.

Because she had seen what love did in this life. Her mother had never really recovered after losing Leandro. That kind of love didn’t fade—it hollowed you out and stayed. Hunters lost people all the time.

Now she and Dean both lived that life. What happened if she let herself fall into it What happened if she finally admitted what had been sitting in her chest for years— Only for Death to come knocking the way it always did? She couldn’t survive that.

Natalie’s heart began to race.

Dean took another step toward her. “Nat—”

“I can’t.”

The words burst out before she could stop them.

Dean froze.

She shook her head quickly, breath coming faster now. “I can’t tell you,” she said, voice tight with panic.

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Why not?”

Her hands clenched at her sides. “Because I can’t,” she repeated helplessly.

Fear had wrapped around her ribs like a vice. If she said it out loud, it would become real. If it became real—it could be taken away.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, shaking her head again, eyes bright now. “Dean, I just… I can’t.”

And for the first time since he’d stepped into the yard, Dean Winchester had no idea how to push past the wall she’d just thrown up between them.

Normally, Dean would have backed off.

That had always been the way between them. Natalie drew a line, Dean respected it. It was one of the reasons they’d lasted so long as friends—through childhood, through years apart, through everything the hunter life had thrown at them.

But something about tonight felt different.

Maybe it was the scar.

Maybe it was the thought of her bleeding out on some cold floor in Nova Scotia while he had no idea.

Maybe it was the quiet panic he’d seen in her eyes just now.

Whatever it was, Dean didn’t step back.

He stepped forward.

Natalie saw it immediately. The shift in his posture. The set of his jaw. The way the hesitation left his shoulders.

“Dean,” she said quickly, almost pleading.

He shook his head once.

“No.”

The word wasn’t loud. But it landed.

“I’ve been patient,” he said.

She tried to laugh it off, though the sound came out thin. “You’ve been here five minutes.”

“You know what I mean.”

Natalie looked away, toward the rows of rusted cars glinting faintly under the moonlight. “This isn’t something I can just—”

“Nat.”

His voice stopped her.

Not harsh. Not angry.

Firm.

When she looked back, he was closer now.

“I’m not asking you to tell me everything about Nova Scotia,” he said. “I’m asking why that call mattered.”

Her chest tightened.

“I told you,” she said weakly. “It made me think about my dad.”

Dean exhaled slowly through his nose.

“That’s not the whole truth.”

She crossed her arms, defensive. “It’s enough of it.”

“For you, maybe.”

She tried to pivot away again. “Dean, it doesn’t matter now.”

“It matters to me.”

That stopped her.

The words hung there, quiet but immovable.

“Why?” she whispered.

Dean didn’t hesitate.

“Because you nearly died,” he said.

The bluntness of it stole the air from her lungs.

“You went chasing something that almost killed you,” he continued, voice steady but intense. “And the thing that kicked it all off was me.”

“That’s not—”

“It is,” he said. “And you know it.”

Natalie’s breath came quicker now.

“Dean, please—”

“No,” he said again.

He wasn’t angry.

That somehow made him more formidable.

There was no fight to push against. No heat to deflect.

Just the steady, immovable presence of someone who had decided he wasn’t walking away without the truth.

Natalie tried anyway.

“You’re making this bigger than it is.”

He didn’t respond.

“You’re assuming things.”

Silence.

“You always do that,” she muttered.

Still nothing.

Dean just stood there, waiting.

Waiting the way hunters waited out storms.

Eventually, her defenses started to crumble under the weight of it.

The junkyard was quiet around them. Wind sliding through broken metal. The distant hum of insects. The faint clatter of something shifting inside the house where Sam and Bobby were still cooking.

Natalie looked down at the dirt.

Her voice, when it came, was small.

“That call hurt.”

Dean blinked.

“Hearing you say you’d fallen in love,” she continued, staring at the ground. “It hurt more than I expected.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“Because,” she said slowly, “I realized something I’d been avoiding.”

Her hands trembled slightly.

“That I’d been half in love with you for years.”

The words settled into the night air like something fragile and irreversible.

Dean didn’t move.

Natalie forced herself to keep going before fear swallowed the moment.

“That kiss when we were teenagers,” she said. “I pretended it didn’t matter. We both did.”

Her voice shook now.

“But it did,” she admitted. “It scared me. Because it showed me something about you I wasn’t ready to deal with.”

Dean’s heart was pounding so loudly he could barely hear the wind.

“And when you told me about Cassie,” she said, “I realized I’d waited too long to figure out what that meant.”

She finally looked up at him.

Moonlight caught the shine in her eyes.

“So I ran,” she said softly. “I told myself I was chasing answers about my father.”

Her mouth twisted faintly.

“And part of me was.”

A breath.

“But part of me was running from you.”

The junkyard fell utterly still.

“And now?” Dean asked quietly.

Natalie shook her head once, helpless.

“Now I’m terrified,” she admitted.

“Of what?”

“Of letting myself fall in love with someone who lives the same life I do,” she said. “Because hunters lose people, Dean.”

Her voice cracked.

“And I don’t know if I could survive losing you.”

The confession hung between them in the dark, fragile and unguarded.

For a moment, Dean couldn’t move.

Natalie’s words still hung in the night air between them, fragile and raw.

I’d been half in love with you for years.

The junkyard was quiet—wind slipping through rusted metal, the distant hum of the highway somewhere beyond the trees—but Dean barely heard any of it.

Because something in his chest had just cracked open.

All those years.

All the moments that had sat half-finished between them. The dares. The laughter. The kiss they’d both pretended hadn’t mattered. The phone calls. The way she’d always been the one person he could talk to without posturing.

He’d thought it was just him carrying that weight.

Dean took a slow step toward her.

Natalie didn’t move.

Her eyes were wide now, shining faintly in the moonlight, like she’d just handed him something she wasn’t sure he’d take.

His hands trembled slightly where they hung at his sides.

“You idiot,” he said quietly.

Natalie blinked, startled.

Dean let out a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief.

“You ran across the continent chasing ghosts,” he said, voice softer now. “Nearly got yourself killed.”

A beat.

“Because you were scared of me?”

Natalie’s mouth opened slightly, ready to argue.

Dean closed the distance between them.

Not fast.

Careful.

Like he was approaching something fragile.

“I thought it was just me,” he admitted.

The words were rough, unused.

Natalie’s breath caught.

“All these years,” he continued, “I figured that kiss was just one of those dumb teenage things we both pretended didn’t mean anything.”

His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes.

“But it stuck with me.”

Natalie’s hands curled slightly at her sides.

Dean shook his head faintly.

“When I told you about Cassie,” he said, “I meant it. I loved her.”

He didn’t look away from that truth.

“But it wasn’t the same.”

Natalie’s voice was barely there. “What do you mean?”

Dean swallowed.

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

The confession came out quietly, but it landed like thunder.

Natalie stared at him.

Dean lifted one hand, hesitating just a second before resting it lightly against her arm.

The contact was warm. Real.

His voice dropped softer still.

“You’re scared of losing me,” he said.

Natalie nodded once, helpless.

“Yeah.”

Dean exhaled slowly.

“Nat… that’s the job.”

She flinched.

“But running from it doesn’t stop it,” he added gently.

Her eyes searched his face.

“What if you die?” she whispered.

Dean’s mouth curved faintly—not amused, not dismissive.

Honest.

“Then I die knowing I didn’t spend my whole life pretending the one thing that mattered most to me didn’t exist.”

Natalie’s breath hitched.

Dean leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching hers now.

“You’ve been half in love with me for years?” he murmured.

She nodded, eyes shining.

“Yeah.”

A quiet smile flickered across his face.

“Took you long enough.”

Natalie let out a shaky laugh through the tears threatening her eyes.

Dean’s thumb brushed lightly along her arm, grounding.

“Good thing,” he said softly, “I’ve been waiting.”

Natalie blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears from spilling.

For a moment she could only look at him.

The thing she had buried for years—pushed aside, outrun across continents, hidden behind hunts and questions and danger—was suddenly standing right in front of her.

Dean.

Real.

Warm breath in the cool night air. Green eyes steady on hers. His hand resting against her arm like he was afraid she might vanish if he let go.

This was the thing she had dreamed about.

The thing she had convinced herself would never happen.

And now that it was here, it wasn’t terrifying the way she had imagined.

It was… wondrous.

Amazing.

Real.

Her heart was racing so fast she could feel it in her throat, but beneath the fear there was something else rising—something lighter, brighter.

Excitement.

Natalie lifted her hand slowly and placed it against his chest.

The solid warmth of him beneath her palm grounded her instantly. His heartbeat thudded strong and steady under her fingers.

Dean inhaled softly at the contact.

For a moment neither of them moved.

Then, almost without thinking, they stepped closer.

One small step.

Then another.

The space between them closed slowly, deliberately—like neither of them wanted to rush something that had taken years to find its way here.

This wasn’t reckless.

It wasn’t the clumsy, uncertain kiss of teenagers stealing a moment they didn’t understand.

This was different.

Sacred in its quiet.

Natalie could feel Dean’s breath now, warm against her lips as they hovered just inches apart. Her fingers curled slightly in the fabric of his shirt. His hand slid gently from her arm to her waist, steady but careful.

Their foreheads brushed for the briefest second.

Dean’s voice was barely a whisper. “You sure?”

Natalie nodded, breath shaky but certain.

“Yeah.”

Their lips met.

Soft.

Tender.

Real.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just a quiet, deliberate joining—years of friendship shifting into something deeper, something that had always been there waiting.

Natalie felt the world narrow to that one moment—the warmth of him, the familiar steadiness of Dean Winchester now threaded with something new.

When they finally parted, they didn’t step away.

They stayed close, foreheads resting lightly together, both of them smiling faintly like they were still trying to believe it had actually happened.

Inside the house, the kitchen light spilled warmly across the sink and the cluttered counters.

Sam was standing at the stove, cautiously stirring something that might—if luck held—become dinner. Bobby leaned against the counter nearby with a beer in hand, pretending to be interested in the state of the onions Sam had chopped.

But the truth was the window over the sink gave a perfect view of the backyard.

And Bobby had been glancing out there every few seconds.

He watched Dean step closer.

Watched Natalie lift her hand to his chest.

Watched the slow, careful way the distance between them disappeared.

Bobby snorted.

Sam looked over. “What?”

Bobby tipped his chin toward the window.

Sam glanced out.

The two figures in the yard were unmistakable now—standing close, foreheads touching, then the soft shift of movement that made it very clear what had just happened.

Sam’s eyebrows climbed.

Bobby took a slow pull from his beer.

“Well,” he muttered.

Sam tried not to smile.

Bobby shook his head faintly, equal parts amused and relieved.

“About damn time.”

Outside, the junkyard was quiet except for the soft wind moving through the rows of old metal.

Dean didn’t step away.

For a moment he just stood there with Natalie, both of them still adjusting to the reality of what had just happened.

Slowly, almost cautiously, he lifted his hand again.

His fingers rested lightly at her waist first, like he was confirming she was really there. Then they slid gently to the small of her back. His other hand came up, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her cheek.

Every movement was careful. Curious.

Exploring the edges of something new.

Natalie felt it too—the wonder of it. The almost surreal shift from the years they had spent circling this thing without touching it.

She reached up in return.

Her fingertips grazed his cheek first, tracing the familiar line of it. Then his jaw, rough with the start of stubble. Finally her hand settled over his chest again, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palm.

Neither of them seemed able to stop touching the other, like they were rediscovering something that had always been there.

Natalie let out a soft breath.

“Dean…”

He tilted his head slightly. “Yeah?”

Her fingers tightened faintly in the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m scared.”

He didn’t laugh.

Didn’t brush it off.

“What part?” he asked quietly.

“The Master,” she said first. “Whatever it is. Whatever it’s doing.” Her voice dropped. “It nearly killed me once.”

Dean’s hand at her back tightened just slightly.

“And?” he asked.

Natalie swallowed.

“And I’m scared of losing you,” she admitted.

The words trembled a little as they left her.

She looked up at him, eyes searching his face. “Now that this is… real.”

Dean was quiet for a moment.

Then his hand came up to cup her cheek, warm and steady.

“Hey,” he murmured.

Natalie leaned instinctively into the touch.

“You don’t get to decide the ending before the story even starts,” Dean said softly.

Her lips twitched faintly at that.

He rested his forehead against hers again, grounding them both.

“We’ll deal with the Master,” he said. “Together.”

Natalie breathed in slowly.

“And the rest?” she asked.

Dean’s mouth curved into a small, confident smile.

“We’ll figure that out too.”

The back door creaked open.

Bobby stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, the other holding a dishtowel like it had personally offended him.

He looked out at the two of them standing in the yard.

Close.

Very close.

Dean’s hand still resting at Natalie’s waist. Natalie’s fingers curled into the front of Dean’s shirt.

Bobby squinted.

“Well,” he announced loudly, “that’s long enough of that.”

Natalie startled slightly, stepping back just enough to look toward the house.

“Dinner’s ready,” Bobby continued, gruff as ever. “And before anyone argues—yes, it’s edible.”

Sam’s voice drifted from the kitchen behind him. “That’s generous.”

Bobby ignored him.

Instead he speared Natalie with a look.

“And you,” he said, pointing a finger at her, “are eating.”

Natalie blinked. “I was planning to—”

“Uh-huh,” Bobby cut in. “You’re eating a lot. If I gotta sit there and force-feed you like a stubborn mule, I will.”

Dean huffed a quiet laugh beside her.

Natalie rolled her eyes faintly, but there was warmth in it. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me,” Bobby grumbled. “Just get in here before Sam burns the place down.”

He turned and disappeared back inside.

Natalie glanced up at Dean, amusement and lingering nerves flickering across her face.

“Well,” she murmured.

Dean smiled faintly.

“Guess that’s our cue.”

They started toward the house together.

Just before they reached the back steps, Dean’s hand brushed against hers.

For a moment it was the same casual contact it had always been between them.

Then he caught her hand fully.

His fingers laced through hers.

Natalie felt the shift instantly.

This wasn’t just habit.

This wasn’t just comfort.

This was new.

Warm. Certain. Real.

She squeezed his hand gently in return.

Not just as his friend.

But as the woman who had finally admitted she loved him.

Together they stepped into the house—toward dinner, toward Bobby’s worried watchfulness, toward Sam’s quiet support.

And toward whatever plan they would have to make to face the Master waiting somewhere out in the dark.

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She did.

There was no frustration in his face. No confusion. No wounded pride.

Only concern. And love.

“Whatever this is,” he continued, thumb brushing slowly over her knuckles, “it ain’t wrong. You hear me?”

Her throat tightened, but she nodded.

“You stepped back when you needed to,” he went on. “Not because I told you to. Not because you had to. But because it was what you needed. And I’d make that same choice again tomorrow.”

Ella babbled happily, tugging at his beard.

Beau smiled briefly at her before returning his full attention to Y/N.

“And if what you need next is different?” he said. “If you want to work again. If you want to study somethin’. Start somethin’. Build somethin’. Or if you want to stay right where you are for a while longer.”

He squeezed her hand.

“I support you. Completely.”

No hesitation.

“No matter what you decide,” he added quietly. “No matter what you feel. You don’t owe this family self-sacrifice at the cost of yourself.”

Her breath hitched.

“You’re my wife,” he said, voice steady. “Not just the mother of my kids. Not just the woman who keeps this house runnin’. You’re you. And that matters.”

Y/N’s eyes shimmered, not with panic now—but with relief.

“I don’t want you shrinking,” he finished. “Not for me. Not for anyone.”

Silence settled around them—soft and full.

The diner noise resumed at the edges, but at the center of the booth there was only them.

Y/N exhaled slowly.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Beau leaned forward and kissed her—gentle, reassuring, unhurried.

“Always,” he murmured against her lips.

Ella clapped between them, entirely pleased with herself.

And for the first time that day, the restlessness in Y/N’s chest felt less like a threat…

And more like possibility.

With Beau’s hand still loosely wrapped around hers, something inside Y/N loosened.

Not solved.

Not finished.

But steadier.

The food arrived, and Ella immediately declared war on the napkins.

“Deputy,” Beau muttered, attempting to rescue the stack before it hit the floor. “Stand down.”

Ella squealed and flung one anyway.

Y/N laughed—really laughed this time. The tightness in her chest eased as she reached across the table to intercept a rogue spoon before it launched.

Lunch moved forward in that softer rhythm families settle into when something heavy has been spoken and survived.

Beau cut his sandwich one-handed while keeping Ella from tipping sideways. Y/N stole one of his fries without asking. He pretended to be outraged.

“That was mine,” he said mildly.

“Shared resources,” she replied.

Ella babbled at them both, then reached toward Y/N with sticky fingers. Y/N leaned forward to kiss her daughter’s knuckles, unbothered.

Beau watched them, green eyes warm.

“You know,” he said lightly, “this is what I pictured when I was twenty-five.”

“Oh really?” Y/N raised a brow. “You pictured applesauce on your uniform?”

“Exactly this,” he said gravely. “Sticky baby. Beautiful wife. Questionable diner coffee.”

She smiled at him over the rim of her glass.

The earlier storm in his expression was gone. The shadow in her eyes had softened.

They weren’t avoiding the conversation.

They weren’t fixing it either.

They were just… carrying it together now.

Ella knocked over Beau’s water glass with triumphant timing.

Water sloshed across the table.

They both stared at it.

Then at each other.

Then laughed.

Beau grabbed napkins. Y/N lifted Ella away from the spreading puddle.

“Definitely your daughter,” Beau muttered.

“She’s yours too,” Y/N shot back.

The chaos was gentle. Manageable. Real.

And as Beau reached across to squeeze her knee beneath the table—just once, quiet and grounding—Y/N felt something shift.

Not away from motherhood.

Not away from this life.

But toward something opening.

Possibility.

Lunch finished with crumbs and laughter and a baby who had clearly won the day.

And when they stepped back out into the cold Montana air, Y/N no longer felt like she was bracing against something unnamed.

She felt… curious.

And that was different.

That was enough.

Outside the diner, the cold Montana air wrapped around them again, sharp but clean.

Beau adjusted Ella’s hat, tugging it down gently over her tiny ears. “You be good for your mama,” he told her solemnly.

Ella responded by grabbing his nose.

“Close enough,” he muttered.

He leaned in and kissed Y/N first—slow, steady, the kind of kiss that anchored more than it ignited. Then he pressed a softer one to Ella’s forehead.

“I’ll be home early,” he promised. “We’ll make it a night.”

Y/N smiled. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said simply.

There it was again.

Choice.

He stepped back, gave them one last look, and headed toward the station, already pulling his composure back on like a coat.

Y/N watched him go for a moment before turning toward the car.

The drive home felt different than the drive in.

Ella babbled in the backseat, kicking her boots lightly against the car seat. Snow glittered in the midday sun. The town passed by in familiar strokes.

And Y/N thought.

Did she dare?

The question didn’t feel frightening anymore.

Just big.

Did she dare go back to work? Step into something that belonged to her again?

Did she dare go back to college like Emily—sit in a classroom with a notebook and ideas and ambition humming in her veins?

She wasn’t trapped. She hadn’t been cornered. She had chosen motherhood when she needed to. And now—now she had options.

Endless ones.

Especially with a husband who would rearrange the world if she asked him to.

The car pulled into the driveway. Y/N turned off the engine and sat there for a moment, looking at the house. It wasn’t a cage.

It was a foundation.

She unbuckled Ella and lifted her into her arms, pressing a kiss to her soft cheek.

“Maybe Mama’s got some thinking to do,” she murmured.

Ella smiled, as if entirely in favor of that plan.

Y/N stepped out into the cold, heart lighter than it had been that morning.

Not because she had answers.

But because she knew she was allowed to ask the questions.

Beau kept his promise.

The truck pulled into the driveway just as the sun dipped low enough to turn the snow golden. He stepped out, already bracing for noise.

He wasn’t disappointed.

The moment he opened the door, the house hit him like a living thing.

“Eliza, the ducks are not allowed on the couch!” Y/N’s voice floated from the living room.

“They’re in negotiations!” Eliza shot back.

Caleb shrieked in delighted defiance at something unseen, little feet pounding against hardwood like he was testing structural integrity.

And Emily—sweet, long-suffering Emily—was in the middle of it, attempting to intercept Caleb before he used a throw pillow as a launching device.

Beau stood in the doorway for one long second, taking it all in.

Then he grinned.

“Well,” he called out, “looks like I came home to a war zone.”

“DADDY!” Eliza screeched, abandoning her wolves immediately and sprinting toward him.

He bent down just in time to catch her mid-leap. “Status report,” he demanded gravely.

“Ducks are suspicious,” she informed him breathlessly.

“Always are.”

Caleb barreled in next, colliding into Beau’s leg with zero regard for physics.

“Da!” he shouted, arms up.

Beau scooped him too, staggering slightly under the double assault. “Alright, alright.”

Emily laughed from the couch. “You’re outnumbered.”

“Never,” Beau replied, shifting both kids like he’d trained for this.

Y/N appeared from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. There was a flush to her cheeks and a strand of hair escaping her braid, but her eyes—her eyes were lighter than they had been that morning.

“You made it early,” she said.

“Told you I would,” he answered, meeting her gaze.

For just a second, everything else blurred.

Then Eliza tugged on his collar. “Daddy, you have to help. The ducks are making unreasonable demands.”

“Of course they are,” he sighed.

Emily intercepted Caleb before he attempted to dive headfirst off Beau’s hip. “I’ll take this one.”

“Bless you,” Beau muttered.

Somewhere down the hall, Ella let out a soft, sleepy sound—but didn’t fully wake.

“Only one behaving,” Y/N said dryly.

“That’s because she’s unconscious,” Emily replied.

The house swelled with laughter.

Wolves were reorganized.

Ducks were re-assigned.

Caleb was redirected toward blocks instead of furniture climbing.

Beau stepped fully into the chaos like it was oxygen.

And for Y/N—watching him there, sleeves rolled up, grin wide, children orbiting him like he was gravity—it didn’t feel overwhelming. It felt alive. Full bloom chaos.

And right in the center of it—home.

Dinner was loud but triumphant.

Eliza explained, in detail, why ducks were not to be trusted near mashed potatoes. Caleb attempted to feed Beau from his own fork with alarming enthusiasm. Emily fielded questions about college while simultaneously preventing a small-scale food uprising.

Beau carved chicken one-handed while holding a conversation about snow forts and zoning laws. Y/N moved between them all, laughing more easily tonight, less tight around the edges.

If the day had begun with a shadow, it was gone now—replaced by warmth and movement and the rhythm of family.

By the time plates were cleared, Caleb had sauce on his eyebrow, Eliza had somehow acquired glitter from an unknown source, and Ella—fully awake now—was babbling from her high chair like she’d been briefed on everything and had notes.

“Alright,” Beau declared, standing. “Operation Bath Time.”

Emily groaned in sympathy. “Godspeed.”

Eliza gasped dramatically. “The wolves are not bath creatures.”

“Tonight they are,” Y/N replied sweetly.

Caleb took off running.

Beau caught him mid-sprint. “Oh no you don’t, tornado.”

The bathroom filled with steam and laughter within minutes. Eliza negotiated the temperature like she was reviewing a contract. Caleb tried to drink the bathwater. Beau scooped water over both of them with exaggerated seriousness while Y/N stood guard with towels and shampoo.

“Caleb, we do not baptize the floor,” Beau muttered as water sloshed over the edge of the tub.

Eliza dumped a plastic duck onto Caleb’s head. “You have been chosen.”

Caleb shrieked in delight.

Y/N laughed so hard she had to brace herself against the counter.

Eventually—miraculously—both older children were clean-ish and wrapped in towels like squirming burritos. Beau carried Caleb down the hall upside down, to Caleb’s absolute ecstasy.

Then came Ella.

Her bath was quieter.

Gentler.

Beau held her securely while Y/N washed her tiny arms, her soft curls, her impossibly small toes. Ella blinked up at them, calm and curious, as if she understood that this was the safe part of the world.

When they wrapped her in a warm towel, she leaned into Beau’s chest, completely trusting.

By the time all three children were pajamaed and brushed and mostly settled, the house had shifted from chaos to drowsy contentment.

Eliza was mid-sentence about wolf strategy when she yawned.

Caleb had collapsed face-first into Beau’s shoulder.

Ella’s eyes were already fluttering closed.

Beau caught Y/N’s eye over the tops of their children’s heads.

They were both damp from bathwater.

Tired.

Smiling.

“Successful mission,” he murmured.

Y/N nodded.

“Successful,” she agreed.

And as they carried their sleepy pack toward bed, the house hummed—not with chaos now—but with the steady, earned peace that follows it.

The house finally stilled.

Three bedroom doors were closed softly. The dishwasher hummed. The lights dimmed one by one until only the warm glow from their bedroom remained.

Y/N stood at the dresser, brushing out her hair, the rhythm of it slow and thoughtful. The day had been long—good, but full—and she felt it in her bones.

She didn’t hear Beau at first.

She only felt him.

His presence moved into the room the way it always did—steady, grounding, warm. He stepped behind her without a word and rested his hands lightly at her hips, his chin brushing her shoulder.

“Hey,” he murmured.

She met his gaze in the mirror.

There was no storm in his eyes tonight. No worry. Just something deliberate.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” he said softly.

“That’s dangerous,” she replied faintly, echoing his morning tease.

He smiled against her hair.

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t demand.

He turned her gently in his arms, brushing a strand of hair back from her face with slow, careful fingers. His touch wasn’t urgent—it was intentional.

“You doubt yourself too much,” he said quietly. “You ever notice that?”

She looked away slightly. “I was rambling at lunch.”

“You were being honest,” he corrected.

His thumb traced along her jaw, then down to the hollow at her throat.

“You think your worth is tied to what you produce. What you manage. What you sacrifice.” His voice lowered. “But that’s not how I see you.”

He leaned down and kissed her—not heated, not hungry—just slow. A kiss that lingered. That said I choose you.

He walked her backward toward the bed without breaking contact, hands sliding along her waist, reverent rather than urgent.

“You are not valuable because you carry this house,” he murmured against her lips. “You’re valuable because you’re you.”

He eased her down onto the mattress, following her slowly. His hand moved through her hair, his mouth finding hers again, deeper this time—but still unhurried.

Every touch was deliberate.

Every brush of skin was affirmation.

He kissed along her cheek, her temple, her collarbone—mapping her like he was reacquainting himself with something precious.

“I see you,” he whispered against her skin. “Not just Mama. Not just my wife. You.”

Her breath caught.

There was no rush.

No proving.

Just warmth building between them—steady and sure.

He let his hands wander slowly, exploring, memorizing. He looked at her like he had the first time he’d realized he loved her—like she was something miraculous.

She felt it.

Not performance.

Not expectation.

Just being wanted.

Being known.

Being chosen.

When he finally drew her fully into him, it was slow and connected—more conversation than conquest. Their bodies moved together in quiet rhythm, breath mingling, foreheads touching.

He kissed her again and again, as if sealing something.

As if answering the unspoken question she’d carried all day.

When they finally stilled, tangled in sheets and warmth, he brushed his fingers down her spine and pressed one last kiss to her shoulder.

“You don’t have to earn your place here,” he murmured.

She rested her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

For the first time in days, the restlessness didn’t ache.

It simply rested.

Held.

They lay tangled together, the room dim and quiet except for the steady rhythm of Beau’s breathing.

Y/N traced a slow line along his chest, gathering her thoughts. The words felt less sharp now. Less frantic.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said softly.

He huffed lightly. “Should I brace myself?”

She smiled against his skin. “No.”

A small pause.

“I was thinking… maybe when Ella turns one.”

He shifted slightly so he could see her face better, though he didn’t let go of her.

“Go on.”

“I could go back to work,” she said. “Not tomorrow. Not next month. But when she’s a year old. That gives us time. Time to plan. To look at daycare. For me to figure out what I even want to do.” She swallowed. “She’s only seven months. We’re not rushing anything.”

Beau didn’t answer immediately. He studied her—really studied her.

“Is that what you want?” he asked gently.

“I think so,” she admitted. “At least… I think I want the option. I want to prepare for it. Adjust to the idea. I don’t want to wake up one day and feel stuck.”

His hand moved slowly along her back, steady.

“Alright,” he said simply.

She blinked. “Alright?”

He smiled faintly. “Darlin’, you think I’m gonna fight you on this?”

She searched his face.

“You sure?” she asked quietly.

“I’m sure,” he said. “If going back to work makes you feel alive again, we’ll make it happen. If you decide you hate the idea in six months, we won’t. If you want to try part-time. If you want to study instead. If you want to start somethin’ of your own.”

He brushed his thumb over her shoulder.

“I just want you happy.”

There was no ego in it.

No fear.

Just truth.

“I don’t need you to stay home to prove anything,” he continued. “And I don’t need you to work to prove anything either. I need you to be at peace with yourself.”

Y/N’s chest tightened—not with anxiety this time, but gratitude.

“It scares me a little,” she admitted.

“Good,” he said softly. “Means it matters.”

She laughed faintly.

He kissed her forehead.

“We’ve got time,” he reminded her. “Five months is a long runway. We’ll look at numbers. We’ll talk through schedules. We’ll figure out what makes sense.”

He nudged her chin gently so she’d look at him again.

“And if at any point it stops feelin’ right, we adjust. Together.”

Together.

That word settled deep.

Y/N exhaled slowly, resting her head back against his chest.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Okay,” he echoed.

Outside their bedroom, the house held steady.

Inside, something new had quietly taken root—not pressure.

Not obligation.

Possibility.

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She waited for the explosion.

It never came.

Instead, Bobby leaned back in his chair and let out a long, heavy sigh. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t sharp.

It hurt.

The sound of it made her chest tighten.

He scrubbed a hand over his beard, eyes closing briefly like he was carrying something too big for the room. When he opened them again, the fire wasn’t there. Just ache.

He looked at Dean. “You wanna take it?” he asked quietly.

His voice was heavier than she’d ever heard it.

Dean didn’t answer right away.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Once. Twice. He set his beer down carefully, like if he moved too fast something would shatter.

Then he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, but it came out rough.

He turned toward her fully now.

Natalie met his eyes.

And whatever she’d expected—anger, accusation, heat—wasn’t there.

There was fear.

Dean opened his mouth.

Closed it.

His jaw flexed. The line between his brows deepened. He looked like he was standing at the edge of something he didn’t know how to cross.

“Nat—” he started.

Nothing came after it.

For the first time in as long as she’d known him, Dean Winchester didn’t have the words.

The silence stretched.

Sam shifted slightly in his chair, watching the two of them with quiet, steady patience. When it became clear Dean was stuck somewhere between protectiveness and panic, Sam leaned forward just a fraction.

His voice was calm. Simple. “What happened?”

And the room went very still.

Natalie didn’t answer Sam right away.

She sat there in the quiet, hands folded loosely on the table, eyes fixed somewhere between the wood grain and the space just past Dean’s shoulder.

Then she looked at him.

“Do you remember,” she began slowly, “that phone call you made the night you told me about Cassie?”

Dean blinked.

“Cassie?” he repeated, caught off guard.

The name felt distant. Dusty. Like something boxed up and shoved to the back of a closet years ago.

He frowned, digging through memory. “You mean that time I called you after I’d cleaned house at that poker game?” he asked. “Couple weeks into dating her? I was—” He made a vague gesture. “—in a mood.”

Natalie shook her head.

“No,” she said.

Her voice was thin. Strained. Like she was holding something tight behind her teeth.

And that was what made Dean go still.

That wasn’t casual reminiscing.

“That’s not the one,” she said quietly.

Dean’s confusion sharpened. He leaned forward slightly. “Then which call are you talking about?”

Natalie swallowed.

“The night you called me,” she said, eyes finally meeting his, “and told me you’d fallen in love.”

The room tilted.

Dean stared at her.

He felt something drop in his chest, heavy and uncertain.

“I—” He shook his head faintly. “I don’t remember that.”

Natalie gave a small, almost broken breath of a laugh. “You were probably drunk.”

Sam shifted subtly beside him. Bobby said nothing.

Dean searched his memory again—harder this time.

There had been motel rooms. Payphones. Late nights with too much whiskey and too many thoughts. He’d called her more than once back then. She’d been… steady.

Familiar.

But fallen in love?

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “Nat, I barely remember making half the calls I made in my twenties.”

Her expression didn’t change.

“You told me,” she continued, voice soft but unwavering, “that you’d told her the truth. About what you do. About monsters. And that she didn’t believe you.”

The memory flickered.

The motel railing. The cold air. The ache in his chest when he’d said it out loud for the first time.

“You said,” Natalie went on, “that you loved her. And you didn’t know if that made you stupid.”

Dean felt the words hit him like an echo.

He’d asked her that.

He remembered asking someone that.

His gaze sharpened on her face.

“You remember that?” he asked quietly.

Natalie nodded once. “I remember everything,” she said.

Dean’s mouth went dry.

He hadn’t known that call had mattered.

Hadn’t known she’d carried it with her.

He leaned back slowly in his chair, trying to reconcile the version of himself who’d made that call with the man sitting here now.

“Why are you bringing that up?” he asked.

Her hands tightened slightly against the table.

“Because,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “that was the night I realized something.”

And whatever that something was—Dean had a feeling it was about to change everything.

Dean didn’t like the way her hands were gripping the edge of the table.

He didn’t like the way she’d said I remember everything.

Natalie drew in a slow breath, steadying herself. He watched the rise and fall of her shoulders like it meant something tactical—like it would tell him where the blow was coming from.

“When you told me you’d fallen in love,” she said carefully, “and that you might’ve lost it… it reminded me how short this all is.”

Dean’s brows knit together.

“You sounded so sure,” she went on. “So sure that it mattered. Even if it hurt.”

He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable under the weight of her memory. He’d barely thought about that call in years. Barely thought about Cassie.

“You were willing to tell the truth,” she said. “Even knowing it might cost you.”

Dean swallowed.

For a split second—unbidden—the memory of another truth flickered through him. Whiskey. Her wrist under his hand. That awkward, charged kiss when they were kids and too young to understand what it meant.

He wondered: Did she ever think about that night?

Before the thought could settle, she continued, cutting through it.

“I started thinking about what I didn’t know,” she said. “About the things I’d never asked.”

Dean’s focus sharpened. “Like what?” he asked.

Natalie’s eyes didn’t leave his. “The full story,” she said quietly. “About what killed my father.”

Bobby’s chair scraped sharply against the floor.

Dean’s head snapped toward him.

Bobby was staring at Natalie now, irritation flaring hot and quick. Not rage—something sharper. Recognition.

“So that’s what this is,” Bobby muttered.

Natalie’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t look away.

Dean felt the pieces start to shift in his head. “You asked him,” Dean said slowly.

Natalie nodded once. “Yeah,” she admitted.

Bobby’s gaze cut between them. “And I told you what you needed to know.”

“You told me what you thought I needed to know,” Natalie replied, voice calm but firm.

Dean’s stomach dropped.

This wasn’t random. This wasn’t a reckless solo hunt gone sideways.

This had started here.

At this table.

With a question.

And whatever Bobby hadn’t told her—it had sent her chasing answers across an ocean.

Then:

A few weeks after that call, Natalie found herself sitting at her mother’s kitchen table, staring at nothing.

Dean’s voice still echoed in her head.

I think I loved her.

She hadn’t meant to let it get under her skin the way it had. She told herself it was fine. Of course he’d fall in love. Of course he would find someone. They weren’t anything. They’d never been anything. Just kids who’d grown up around the same grief.

So why had it felt like something had quietly shifted inside her chest?

She hated the answer.

Part of her knew exactly what she was doing when she started digging into her father’s death again. It wasn’t just about Leandro. It wasn’t just about truth.

It was about distraction.

About not sitting in the motel silence replaying Dean’s drunken confession in her head.

But that wasn’t the whole of it.

Because she watched her mother, Julia, every day. Watched the way her eyes softened at old photographs. The way she never took her wedding band off, even all these years later. The way Leandro’s name still lived in the house like a presence.

Julia had never moved on.

Not really.

That kind of love didn’t just fade.

And if her mother could carry that love forward for decades—if it still mattered that much…

Then Natalie owed it to her father to understand who he had been. Not just the version preserved in stories. The full truth. The complicated parts.

So she drove to Sioux Falls.

Bobby had been under the hood of a truck when she arrived. He’d glanced up, surprised but pleased, wiping his hands on a rag as she approached.

“What’s got you lookin’ like that?” he’d asked.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to ask me for somethin’ I ain’t gonna like.”

She’d tried to smile.

“Tell me about my dad,” she’d said.

Bobby had stilled. “Been tellin’ you about him your whole life.”

“No,” she’d replied. “Tell me how he died.”

That had changed everything.

Bobby’s expression had shuttered slightly. Not closed. Just… guarded.

“It was a hunt,” he’d said gruffly. “Went bad. Your father pushed me outta the way. Took the hit. End of story.”

“That’s not a story,” she’d pressed.

“That’s what happened.”

“What were you hunting?” she’d asked.

“Don’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Bobby had looked at her long and hard then. “You think knowin’ the specifics changes the outcome?” he’d asked. “He died protectin’ someone. That’s who he was.”

“But what were you hunting?” she’d repeated.

Bobby’s jaw had tightened. “Monster,” he’d said finally. “Ugly one.”

Too vague.

Too clean.

Natalie had felt it immediately—the missing pieces. The way he sidestepped certain words. The way his eyes flicked away when she asked about ritual interference, about outside forces, about whether there’d been anything… strange about the aftermath.

“Bobby,” she’d said quietly, “what aren’t you telling me?”

He’d set the rag down. “I told you what you need to know.”

It was the same phrase he’d always used when he thought something would only hurt her.

And that was the moment it clicked.

He wasn’t protecting himself.

He was protecting her.

Which meant there was more.

Natalie had left that day with half-answers and a growing certainty that her father’s death hadn’t been simple.

And once that thought took root… it wouldn’t let her rest.

Now:

Dean stayed very still.

He watched the irritation climb Bobby’s spine the way he’d watched it a hundred times before—shoulders going rigid, jaw locking, eyes narrowing not in anger, but in fear.

Bobby’s version of worry had always been sharp-edged.

“You came to me,” Bobby said, voice tightening. “I told you what happened.”

“You told me part of it,” Natalie replied.

“That was the part that mattered.”

“To you,” she said softly.

Dean felt the air shift again.

Bobby’s hand flattened against the table. “You think I was hidin’ somethin’ for kicks?”

“I think you were trying to protect me.”

The words didn’t calm him. They made it worse.

“Damn right I was,” Bobby shot back. “Because you don’t go diggin’ into graves that don’t need diggin’!”

Dean’s stomach knotted.

Sam stepped in before it could spiral.

“What did you do next?” Sam asked, voice level, measured. “After Bobby wouldn’t give you more.”

The question cut cleanly through the heat.

Natalie’s gaze shifted to Sam. Gratitude flickered there briefly.

“I started looking for someone who might,” she said.

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

Natalie hesitated. Then: “Missouri Moseley.”

Dean blinked.

Bobby’s irritation snapped into surprise. “You went to Missouri?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“A few months after I talked to you.”

Dean’s mind reeled. “Missouri Missouri?” he asked, because that was somehow easier than processing the implications.

Natalie almost smiled. “Yes, Dean. That Missouri.”

Bobby leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. “What’d she tell you?”

Natalie’s fingers curled slightly against the table again.

“She knew why I was there before I said anything,” Natalie said quietly. “She told me I wanted to know if my father was at peace.”

Dean felt his chest tighten.

“And?” Sam prompted gently.

Natalie’s eyes flicked to Bobby, then back to Dean. “She said he wasn’t.”

The words landed like a physical blow.

Dean’s breath left him in a slow exhale.

Bobby went utterly still.

“She said he wasn’t at rest,” Natalie continued. “That he hadn’t been killed by the master… but by the monster.”

Dean frowned. “Master of what?”

“She wouldn’t say. Not directly. But she implied there were… outside forces. That something about his death didn’t cross clean.”

Silence settled heavy over the table.

Sam’s mind was already working, Dean could see it. “So you thought there was something managing that?” Sam asked. “Something overseeing whatever didn’t cross?”

Natalie nodded once.

“I started tracking stories,” she said. “Hunters who died mid-fight. Souls that didn’t register in Heaven or Hell. Whispers of something… collecting what slipped through.”

Dean felt the shape of it forming now.

“And that led you north,” he said.

“Yes.”

Bobby’s jaw clenched again. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I knew you’d try to stop me.”

“And you think that didn’t tell you somethin’?” Bobby snapped.

Dean didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Because he understood something Bobby didn’t in that moment.

Natalie hadn’t gone chasing danger for glory. She’d gone chasing her father.

And maybe…

Maybe she’d also been running from something else entirely.

The room felt smaller now.

And Dean had a feeling the worst part of the story hadn’t even started yet.

Now:

Natalie didn’t rush it.

She let the silence sit a moment longer, as if bracing herself against the weight of what came next.

“There were rumors,” she said finally, voice steady but quiet. “Not mainstream hunter stuff. Not in books. Just… whispers.”

Dean leaned forward slightly without meaning to.

“Hunters talk,” she continued. “Especially the older ones. Especially when they think no one’s really listening.”

Bobby’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I started hearing about deaths that didn’t track,” she said. “Hunters killed mid-fight. Clean kills. No deals made. No signs of crossroads involvement. But their names never showed up in Heaven lore. No angel interference. No reapers lingering.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “You checked that?”

“Yes.”

Dean shot him a look—of course she did.

Natalie went on. “Then I heard about something else. A pattern. Certain monsters showing up more frequently around hunters who’d dug too deep into angel business. Monsters that were… guided.”

“Guided how?” Dean asked.

“Steered,” she replied. “As if someone was letting them through wards. Letting them land specific hits.”

The room went still.

“And the rumor?” Sam pressed gently.

Natalie swallowed.

“That there’s a being,” she said, “not angel. Not demon. Something older than both systems. Something that exists in the cracks.”

Dean felt a chill crawl up his spine.

“It doesn’t make deals in the crossroads sense,” she continued. “It bargains in souls that don’t cross clean. Souls caught between Heaven and Hell. Souls interrupted mid-transition.”

Bobby’s voice was rough. “You’re sayin’ someone’s harvestin’.”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“Power,” she said simply. “Leverage. Knowledge. Influence over gates.”

Dean’s stomach dropped.

“And you think your father—” he began.

“I think,” Natalie cut in carefully, “that whatever killed him wasn’t random.”

She met Bobby’s eyes then.

“I think the monster was the weapon,” she said softly. “Not the cause.”

The words landed heavy.

Sam leaned back slightly, processing. “And these rumors led you to Nova Scotia?”

Natalie nodded.

“There were clusters of sightings up there. Hunters dying under similar circumstances. A house on the coast tied to old warding practices that didn’t align with either angelic or demonic script.”

Dean’s jaw flexed. “So you went.”

“Yes.”

“Alone.”

“Yes.”

Bobby swore under his breath.

Dean didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Because as much as every instinct in him screamed that it was reckless….

He understood exactly why she’d done it. And the scar on her stomach suddenly felt less like an accident. And more like proof she’d found exactly what she was looking for.

Now:

Natalie’s fingers traced the rim of her beer bottle, slow, absent.

“I found it,” she said.

No one moved.

“The house was real. The wards were real. The records were real.” She swallowed. “And so were the names.”

Dean’s chest tightened.

“My father’s was there,” she said quietly. “Not listed as crossed. Not listed as damned. Just… held.”

Bobby’s hand flattened against the table again. “Held how?”

“In suspension,” she replied. “Like a ledger entry waiting for disposition.”

Sam leaned forward. “Disposition by who?”

Natalie looked at him.

“By the Master.”

The word hung there.

Dean felt his pulse in his throat. “You saw it.”

“Yes.”

“What is it?” Bobby demanded.

Natalie shook her head faintly. “Not angel. Not demon. Not something I could classify cleanly. It exists between systems. It doesn’t answer to Heaven or Hell. It exploits the gaps.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “And it knew you were coming.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But it was expecting me.”

She drew in a breath.

“It spoke like this was inevitable. Like grief is predictable. Like daughters always come looking.”

The words hit harder than she intended. Dean felt it.

“What happened?” Sam asked quietly.

Natalie didn’t look at him. She looked at Dean.

“I tried to confront it,” she said. “I didn’t go to bargain. Not at first. I went to confirm. To see if my father was truly trapped.”

“And?” Dean asked, voice low.

“And it confirmed enough,” she said. “It told me he wasn’t at rest. That he had been interrupted mid-transition. That the monster that killed him was… guided.”

Bobby swore softly.

Dean’s hands curled into fists under the table.

“It said hunters like him are valuable,” Natalie continued. “Brave. Trained. Full of unfinished intent. Those souls hold… energy.”

Sam’s face went pale.

“And when I refused to leave without trying to free him,” she went on, voice thinning slightly, “it demonstrated how small I was in comparison.”

Dean’s heart began to pound.

“It didn’t kill me,” she said carefully. “It could have. Easily.”

Her gaze flicked down, just briefly, to her abdomen.

“It cut me,” she said. “Deliberately. Deep enough to make a point. Not deep enough to end me.”

Dean’s breath hitched.

“It told me I wasn’t strong enough. Not yet.” A hollow breath escaped her. “Then it let me go.”

“Let you?” Bobby echoed, anger rising again.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Dean demanded.

Natalie met his eyes steadily.

“Because it knew I would carry the message back,” she said. “Because fear spreads faster when it’s delivered by someone who survived.”

Silence fell over the room.

Dean’s mind replayed the image: her on that floor, bleeding, alone, and something standing over her deciding whether she lived or died.

He felt sick.

“And your father?” Sam asked gently.

Natalie’s voice softened.

“It said he’s not suffering,” she said. “But he’s not free.”

Dean closed his eyes briefly.

“And now?” Bobby asked.

Natalie looked at each of them in turn.

“Now,” she said, “it knows I’m still looking.”

The room felt smaller than ever.

And for the first time that night, Dean understood something with terrifying clarity: Nova Scotia hadn’t been the end of it.

It had been the beginning.

Now:

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Bobby pushed back from the table so abruptly his chair scraped hard against the floor.

“Son of a—”

He didn’t finish it.

He started pacing instead.

Back and forth across the worn living room floor. Past the bookshelf. Past the couch. Hands braced on his hips. Then dragging down over his beard. Then fisting at his sides.

Dean watched him carefully.

Because this wasn’t just anger.

This was realization.

“That hunt,” Bobby muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “That damn hunt…”

He stopped near the fireplace, staring at nothing.

“I always figured it was just bad luck. Wrong place. Wrong timing. Ugly monster.” His jaw tightened. “But if that thing was guiding it—”

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Then it started back then,” he said. “And I didn’t see it.”

Natalie shifted in her chair. “Bobby—”

He turned on her, not furious—just raw.

“You think I don’t hear what you’re sayin’?” he demanded. “This didn’t end with Leandro. It followed you.”

The room went still.

Dean felt the truth of that settle heavy in his chest.

Bobby ran a hand through his hair, pacing again.

“That hunt killed your father,” he said roughly. “And now it’s got its hooks in you.”

Natalie opened her mouth to argue.

He cut her off. “Don’t.”

His voice cracked—not loud, but enough.

“You are not collateral damage from my past,” he said. “I lost Leandro once. I ain’t losin’ you to the same damn shadow.”

The words hung there.

Dean’s jaw tightened.

Because Bobby wasn’t just angry at the Master.

He was angry at himself.

For not digging deeper back then.

For not asking different questions.

For not seeing the pattern.

Natalie stood slowly from her chair. “I’m not a kid,” she said gently. “You didn’t send me there.”

“No,” Bobby agreed gruffly. “But I didn’t stop you either.”

“You couldn’t have.”

He stopped pacing.

Looked at her.

The girl he’d helped raise. The one who’d camped in his yard and burned marshmallows and laughed too loud in a house that had needed that sound.

Now standing in front of him with a scar that said something far older had marked her.

“This thing,” Bobby said lowly, “ain’t just a ghost story anymore.”

Natalie shook her head once. “No.”

Dean leaned forward slightly, eyes dark.

“It’s personal,” he said.

And Bobby gave a single, tight nod.

Yeah.

It was.

Now:

Dean didn’t take his eyes off Natalie.

Something old and instinctive surged up in him—something that had started when they were kids daring each other into trouble and had never really gone away.

She’d stood alone in Nova Scotia.

She wasn’t doing that again.

“No,” he said quietly.

Natalie looked at him. “Dean—”

“No,” he repeated, firmer now. “You don’t go back after this thing alone.”

“I wasn’t planning to—”

“You were,” he cut in.

She opened her mouth to argue, but the look on his face stopped her.

It wasn’t anger.

It was resolve.

The kind that didn’t bend.

Sam rose from his chair without fanfare, moving to stand beside Dean. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just solid.

“She’s not wrong,” Sam said calmly, glancing at Natalie. “This isn’t something one person handles. If there’s a being harvesting souls in the cracks between systems, that’s not a solo mission.”

Natalie’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t ask you to—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean said.

Bobby watched the two brothers stand shoulder to shoulder, watched the unspoken agreement pass between them the way it always had. Something warm and fierce stirred in his chest.

He’d raised these boys, too.

Not by blood.

By choice.

And now they were choosing her.

“You think I’m gonna let you walk back into that lion’s den by yourself?” Dean asked, stepping closer. “After what it did to you?”

“I survived,” she shot back.

“Barely.”

The word hit.

Natalie’s hands curled at her sides. “You don’t even know what it would take.”

“Then we’ll figure it out,” Sam said evenly.

Bobby gave a sharp nod. “Damn right.”

Natalie looked between the three of them—Dean’s fire, Sam’s steady logic, Bobby’s stubborn protectiveness.

“This isn’t just about revenge,” she said softly. “It’s bigger than that.”

Dean’s eyes didn’t waver.

“Good,” he replied. “Because I’m not doing this for revenge.”

Her breath caught.

“I’m doing it,” he said, voice low and certain, “because it marked you. And that makes it my problem.”

Silence.

Bobby felt something fierce and grateful bloom in his chest. These boys—these idjits—weren’t just hunters he’d trained.

They were family.

Natalie shook her head faintly. “You don’t have to—”

“We’re not asking,” Sam said gently.

Dean took another step closer.

“You’re not alone in this,” he told her. “Not anymore.”

And for the first time since Nova Scotia, Natalie looked like she didn’t quite know how to stand against that kind of promise.

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Now the two of them sat in the cab, engine humming low, fields stretching dark and endless on either side of the road. The sky was bruised purple at the edges, the last of the sun bleeding out behind them.

Bobby kept his eyes on the road.

Natalie kept hers on the window.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was loaded.

She could feel it in the way his grip tightened on the steering wheel. In the way he cleared his throat once and didn’t follow it up with anything. In the way he kept glancing at her without turning his head.

She studied him sidelong for a second, then said softly, “You can ask.”

Bobby huffed. “Don’t tempt me.”

“I mean it,” she said. “You don’t have to pretend.”

He drummed his fingers once against the wheel, jaw working.

“I ain’t sure I wanna know the answer,” he admitted gruffly.

Natalie’s lips pressed thin.

“Or maybe,” he went on, “I should leave it to Dean. Let him do the diggin’.”

She looked back out at the dark fields.

“I don’t know if I could tell Dean,” she said quietly.

That one landed.

Bobby didn’t respond right away. The tires hummed over asphalt. A mile marker slipped past.

“You think he ain’t already seen enough to know somethin’s wrong?” Bobby asked.

She gave a small, humorless breath. “That’s the problem.”

Silence again.

Bobby drove another long stretch without speaking, the headlights cutting a steady path through the dark. He didn’t push. Didn’t press. Just let the road do what roads did—give space for truths to settle.

Finally, he asked one thing.

“Did you get what you were lookin’ for?”

Natalie’s fingers tightened in her lap.

Nova Scotia flashed behind her eyes. Cold air. Salt water. Blood in the snow. Missouri’s voice. The answer she hadn’t wanted but had chased anyway.

She blinked fast, turning her face just slightly toward the window so the dashboard light wouldn’t catch her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I did.”

Bobby heard the strain in it.

But he didn’t call it out.

He just nodded once, slow and heavy, and kept driving toward home.

Then:

The room felt smaller after Missouri said it.

Baby girl, I don’t think you’re ready for this.

Natalie swallowed hard. “Ready for what—”

Missouri lifted a hand.

“Don’t,” she said gently. “You’re about to ask something you already know the answer to. You just don’t want it confirmed.”

Natalie froze.

Missouri’s eyes softened—but didn’t waver. “You came here to ask if your father’s at peace. If Leandro made it to Heaven. If the kind of man he was… if the way he died… earned him rest.”

Natalie nodded once, barely.

“He died protecting someone else,” she said quietly. “That has to count.”

Missouri was silent for a long moment.

The air in the room seemed to press in, heavy and unmoving.

Finally, Missouri spoke.

“He was brave,” she said. “He was good. And yes—those things matter.”

Hope flickered in Natalie’s chest.

Then Missouri stopped.

The silence stretched. Tight. Uneasy.

Natalie leaned forward. “Is he at peace?”

Missouri didn’t answer.

Instead, she shook her head.

Once.

Slow.

No.

The word wasn’t spoken. It didn’t need to be.

Natalie blinked, like maybe she’d misread it. “No… what?”

Missouri’s voice, when it came, was gentle—but unflinching. “No, baby girl.”

The world tilted.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Natalie said immediately. “He died saving someone. He didn’t make a deal. He wasn’t—”

“Not all unrest comes from damnation,” Missouri said quietly.

Natalie’s breathing turned shallow. “Then where is he?”

Missouri hesitated.

That hesitation said more than anything else.

“I don’t think you’re ready for the rest of that answer,” she said.

Natalie leaned forward again, desperate now. “I can handle it.”

Missouri’s gaze sharpened, sadness threading through it. “You think that now.”

Natalie’s hands trembled in her lap.

“Is he in Hell?” she whispered.

Missouri did not answer that directly.

Instead, she said, very carefully, “He is not at rest.”

The room fell silent.

And for the first time since she’d walked through that door, Natalie wished she hadn’t.

Then:

They were nine and ten and convinced that camping in Bobby’s backyard counted as wilderness survival.

The tent was pitched crooked again, staked between two junked cars like they were mountain peaks instead of rusted relics. A small fire crackled in the pit Bobby had cleared years ago, sparks lifting into the warm South Dakota night.

Natalie sat cross-legged in the grass, carefully rotating a marshmallow over the flames.

Dean sat opposite her, poking at the fire with a stick like it had personally offended him.

The split lip was obvious in the firelight. So was the black eye blooming dark along his cheekbone.

Natalie tried not to stare.

She failed.

“What?” Dean muttered without looking at her.

“Nothing.”

“Then stop lookin’ at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m about to fall apart.”

She frowned. “I’m not.”

He prodded the fire harder. “It’s nothing.”

She didn’t believe that for a second.

He wouldn’t tell her what had happened. Hadn’t told Bobby either, far as she knew. Just showed up that afternoon quieter than usual, jaw tight, refusing ice packs like they were an insult.

Natalie let the silence stretch, then brightened deliberately.

“Okay,” she said suddenly. “New rule.”

Dean groaned. “I don’t like new rules.”

“Too bad. Whoever makes the best marshmallow wins.”

He blinked. “Wins what?”

“Bragging rights.”

“That’s not a prize.”

“It is if you win.”

He rolled his eyes but adjusted his stick, holding the marshmallow closer to the coals. Natalie pretended to take it very seriously, squinting at the rotation angle like it was engineering.

“Too fast,” she announced. “You’re gonna burn it.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Sure enough, it caught fire.

Natalie gasped theatrically. “Rookie mistake!”

Dean shook the stick furiously, cursing under his breath. She dissolved into laughter.

He tried not to smile.

He failed.

“Okay, okay,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Round two. But this time, we tell ghost stories while we cook.”

“I’m not scared of ghost stories,” he said flatly.

“I didn’t say you were.”

She launched into the most ridiculous tale she could conjure—about a haunted raccoon that only attacked people who didn’t finish their vegetables. She made dramatic clawing noises. Widened her eyes. Wiggled her fingers at him across the fire.

Dean stared at her like she’d lost her mind.

“You’re an idiot,” he said.

She grinned. “You’re smiling.”

He touched his lip reflexively and winced. The smile faded just a little—but not entirely.

Natalie’s voice softened. “It looks worse than it is,” she said, nodding at his eye.

He shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt.”

“Liar.”

He glanced at her then—really looked at her—and some of the tension bled out of his shoulders.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“For what?”

He shrugged again. “For being dumb.”

She beamed. “Anytime.”

The fire popped, sparks drifting upward into the vast summer sky. Dean leaned back on his hands, face still bruised, still sore—but less tight than it had been an hour ago.

Natalie hadn’t fixed whatever had happened.

She hadn’t needed to.

She’d just stayed.

And sometimes, at nine and ten years old, that was enough.

Now:

Headlights swept across the junkyard as Bobby’s truck rolled in.

Dean was already outside the Impala, arms folded tight across his chest, boots planted in the gravel like he’d been standing there longer than he wanted to admit. Sam leaned against the hood, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, posture loose, patient.

Dean wasn’t patient.

He watched the truck cut its engine. Watched the cab light blink out. Watched the passenger door hesitate a fraction of a second before it opened.

Natalie stepped down first.

She moved carefully—subtle, but there. Not limping. Not weak. Just aware of her body in a way that hadn’t been there before Nova Scotia.

Dean’s jaw tightened.

Sam glanced sideways at him. “Take it easy,” he murmured.

Dean didn’t respond.

He knew something had happened. He’d known it for months, if he was honest—heard it in her voice, felt it in the way she deflected, seen it in the way she’d come back thinner, harder. But that scar—that scar had a shape to it. A story.

And it wasn’t small.

He wanted answers. Wanted them the way he wanted oxygen when he’d been held underwater too long. What could possibly have driven her that far north? What had kept her there three years? What had cut her open like that and let her walk away breathing?

The questions pressed against his ribs.

Natalie closed the truck door and looked up.

Their eyes met.

For a second, something flickered there—awareness. Recognition of the storm sitting just behind his calm.

Dean straightened slightly, the instinct to push rising sharp and immediate.

Tell me.

He didn’t say it.

Because he knew he couldn’t. Not like that. Not after all the years between them. Not when she’d asked for “not here.”

God, he wished he could.

He wished he could grab her shoulders and demand it. Shake the truth loose. Drag whatever darkness she’d brought home into the open where he could see it, fight it, fix it.

But this wasn’t a hunt.

This was her.

Sam shifted beside him, ever steady. “You gonna talk to her?” he asked quietly.

Dean’s gaze never left Natalie as she walked toward them.

“Yeah,” he said.

Not yet.

But soon.

Because whatever had happened in Nova Scotia hadn’t just left a scar.

It had changed her.

And Dean Winchester wasn’t going to stand by and pretend he didn’t see it.

Now:

Natalie stepped away from Bobby’s truck and met Dean’s gaze head-on.

She didn’t look away.

She saw it immediately—the hunger in him. The need. Not curiosity. Not idle concern. Something sharper than that. A demand he was fighting not to voice.

His jaw had already tightened. A muscle ticking once near the hinge. The faint line carved between his brows. The way his shoulders squared when he was bracing for a fight.

And his eyes.

God, his eyes.

Green, bright even in the low junkyard light, lit now with something that wasn’t anger—but wasn’t far from it either. Fear, maybe. The kind he disguised with control.

She knew those tells like she knew the back roads of Sioux Falls.

She’d grown up reading him.

Dean took a half step forward before he caught himself. The movement was small, but she didn’t miss it.

Tell me, his entire body said.

Natalie held his stare and let a slow breath out through her nose.

If she told him why she’d gone to Nova Scotia—if she told him it had started with Missouri Moseley shaking her head and saying no—if she told him she’d followed whispers and crossroads rumors and half-forgotten ritual texts because she’d needed to know whether her father was trapped somewhere between—

Dean would’ve stopped her.

He would have argued. Would have told her it wasn’t her fight. Would have said some version of that’s not how this works.

And maybe he would’ve been right.

But she hadn’t gone north for logic.

She’d gone because Missouri had told her Leandro wasn’t at rest.

And Natalie Guimet had never been very good at leaving unfinished things buried.

Dean’s jaw clenched again.

She saw the moment he chose restraint. Saw the swallow. The breath he forced steady.

She offered him the smallest, most deliberate nod—not here. Not like this.

His eyes searched her face, looking for cracks.

She gave him none.

Because if he knew she’d crossed oceans and borders chasing rumors of fractured gates and angelic interference… if he knew how close she’d come to making a deal she couldn’t undo…

He wouldn’t just have stopped her.

He would’ve followed.

And she hadn’t been willing to let him risk that.

So she held his gaze and let him see only what she wanted him to see: steady. Alive. Here.

The rest could wait.

For now.

Then:

Three years ago, Natalie leaned forward in Missouri Moseley’s parlor, fingers knotted together so tightly her knuckles had gone pale.

“Please,” she whispered. “Tell me.”

Missouri pursed her lips, eyes studying her like she was weighing something far heavier than words.

“I’m not sure I should,” she said at last.

Natalie’s stomach dropped. “Why not?”

“Because your father was a good man,” Missouri replied gently. “A good hunter. And good men don’t always want their children walkin’ the same crooked roads they did.”

Natalie frowned. “I already hunt.”

Missouri’s gaze sharpened. “I’m not talkin’ about huntin’, baby girl. I’m talkin’ about deals. Complications. Choices made when the night got too long.”

The word deals hit like ice water.

Natalie blinked. “What deals?”

Missouri said nothing.

“You think my dad made a deal?” Natalie pressed. “With what? A crossroads demon? That doesn’t make sense—he would’ve told my mom. Bobby would’ve—”

She stopped.

Because Bobby hadn’t told her everything. She knew that much. Hunters always carried more than they handed down.

Natalie’s brows furrowed. “Did Bobby know?”

Missouri’s lips curved faintly—not unkind, but knowing. “You know the answer to that, baby girl.”

The implication sat heavy.

Before Natalie could push further, Missouri shifted slightly, reclaiming control of the conversation.

“When your father died,” she said carefully, “he wasn’t killed by the master.”

Natalie stared at her. “The master of what?”

Missouri’s gaze held hers. “He wasn’t taken by the one who pulls the strings.”

A pause.

“He was killed by the monster.”

The words felt deliberate. Specific.

Natalie’s pulse quickened. “That doesn’t—what does that mean?”

Missouri didn’t elaborate.

“Sometimes,” she said instead, voice lower now, “when a hunter dies mid-fight, somethin’ breaks in the crossing. Especially if there were… outside forces in play.”

“Outside forces,” Natalie repeated, dread creeping in.

Missouri folded her hands in her lap. “You came here because you felt it, didn’t you? That somethin’ about your father’s death wasn’t settled.”

Natalie’s throat tightened. “Yes,” she admitted.

Missouri nodded once.

“Then listen to that instinct,” she said. “But be careful where you follow it.”

Natalie leaned forward again, desperate now. “Is he trapped?”

Missouri’s silence was answer enough.

And in that silence, the first seed of Nova Scotia took root.

Now:

The door creaked open and they all filed in, boots thudding against worn wood floors.

The house felt different tonight. Charged. Like the walls themselves knew something was about to break loose.

Dean stepped in first, already opening his mouth.

Bobby held up a hand.

“Not a word.”

Dean blinked. “Bobby—”

“I said not a word.” Bobby shut the door with a firm shove and turned to face all three of them. His gaze swept across Dean, Sam, then Natalie—lingering just long enough to make clear he wasn’t blind.

He exhaled through his nose.

“Before the yellin’ starts,” he said, “I want a beer.”

The words hung there.

“And since I ain’t havin’ one alone, you’re all sittin’ down and shuttin’ up until I crack ‘em open.”

Sam’s brows lifted slightly.

Dean looked like he might protest anyway.

Bobby pointed at the table. “Sit.”

Natalie’s lips twitched.

The command. The tone. The sheer stubborn insistence on ritual before chaos.

God, she’d missed this.

She dropped into a chair without argument, leaning back slightly as Bobby disappeared into the kitchen. The fridge door opened. Bottles clinked.

Dean hovered a second longer before finally pulling out a chair across from her. Sam sat quietly beside him, posture loose but attentive.

Bobby returned, setting bottles down one by one with deliberate weight.

“Drink,” he said.

They did.

The first sip was cold and grounding, the familiar bite of cheap beer sliding down her throat. Natalie let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Something about this—the four of them around Bobby’s scarred wooden table, tension simmering but not yet boiling—felt achingly familiar.

Like childhood. Like coming home covered in dirt and being told to wash up before explaining anything.

Bobby took a long pull from his bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“All right,” he said gruffly.

And this time, no one stopped him.

Bobby didn’t look at Dean. Didn’t look at Sam. He looked at Natalie. He exhaled hard, like the words were heavier than the beer in his hand.

“You’re like a daughter to me.”

Natalie blinked.

Of all the ways she’d imagined this conversation starting, that hadn’t been one of them.

Bobby shifted in his chair, uncomfortable already, but pushing through it anyway. “Don’t make a face. You know it’s true.”

She hadn’t been making a face. She’d just… froze.

He went on, gruffer to cover it. “You takin’ off to Nova Scotia like that. No explanation. No timeline. Three damn years without so much as a proper sit-down.” His jaw worked. “That was hard.”

Natalie swallowed.

“And then you show back up just as sudden,” he continued, eyes steady on hers. “No warning. No heads up. Just—boom. You’re standin’ in my doorway like no time’s passed.”

The room was quiet. Even Dean didn’t interrupt.

“You worried me,” Bobby said bluntly. “You scared me.”

Natalie’s heart clenched.

“And I don’t scare easy,” he added. “But that scar? The way you look at certain things now? That ain’t nothin’.”

His voice dropped just a fraction. “Dammit, Natalie. I need to know you’re okay.”

The words weren’t loud.

They didn’t have to be.

Natalie stared at him, completely disarmed. This wasn’t gruff lectures or irritated commands. This was something rawer. Something he didn’t offer often.

She hadn’t expected it to hurt this much.

“I—” Her voice caught. She steadied it. “I’m okay.”

She meant it.

But she couldn’t quite leave it there.

“…Now.”

The word slipped out softer than she intended. It landed like a dropped glass.

Dean’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around his bottle.

Sam’s gaze sharpened.

Bobby didn’t miss it either. His eyes flicked over her face, reading the gap between past and present.

“Now,” he repeated slowly.

Natalie nodded once.

The distinction hung there, thick and undeniable. She wasn’t pretending anymore. But she wasn’t finished talking either.

And every man at that table knew it.

Nova Scotia, few months ago:

Nova Scotia had been colder than she expected.

Not just the air.

The ocean wind cut sharp along the cliffs, salt spray freezing against black rock, the sky a low, iron-gray ceiling that never seemed to lift. Natalie had followed the trail for months—old ritual sites, whispered rumors of hunters who died mid-fight and never crossed clean. Souls caught halfway. Suspended.

It had led her here.

To the master.

Not the monster that killed her father. That thing had been nothing more than teeth and instinct. No, this was the one who managed what came after. The one who gathered what slipped through cracks when deaths didn’t align neatly with Heaven or Hell.

She’d tracked them to a coastal house that shouldn’t have existed. White paint peeling. Windows dark. Wards etched into doorframes so subtly most hunters would’ve missed them.

She hadn’t.

She’d broken them anyway.

Inside, she’d found records. Names. Dates. A ledger of souls not accounted for in either direction.

Leandro Guimet.

Not at rest.

Her heart had stopped for a full second when she saw it.

And then: “I was wondering when you’d arrive.”

The voice had come from behind her. Calm. Almost pleasant.

The master had been waiting.

Somehow, they’d known she would come. That grief would drive her. That love would make her reckless.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the master had said mildly.

Natalie had reached for her blade.

The fight had been fast.

Too fast.

She’d landed hits. Broken wards. Cut through whatever illusions they’d thrown at her. But this wasn’t a monster with claws. This was something older. Smarter. Something that didn’t fight fair.

Pain had exploded across her stomach before she even registered the movement.

She’d hit the floor hard.

Warmth spread beneath her fingers. Wet. Slippery.

She tried to breathe.

The master crouched beside her, expression almost curious. “You thought you could negotiate?”

“I didn’t come to negotiate,” she’d managed.

“Of course you did,” they’d replied gently. “You came to bargain.”

Her vision had begun to blur.

Outside, the ocean crashed violently against stone.

She’d thought of Bobby then.

And then—Dean.

The memory came unbidden. Fifteen years old. Whiskey on his breath. His hand catching her wrist. That awkward, stolen kiss in Bobby’s living room. The way they’d pretended it hadn’t happened the next morning.

You’re stuck with me.

She’d been half in love with him ever since.

Idiot.

She’d chased a ghost across an ocean for a man who might not even be reachable—and now she might never get to tell the one person who’d always come when she needed him.

The master had stood again, stepping back. “You’re not strong enough,” they’d said almost kindly. “Not yet.”

Not yet.

She’d clung to that.

Because it meant she wasn’t dead.

Not yet.

Natalie pressed a shaking hand to her wound, grit and salt stinging her skin. Forced herself to roll. To crawl. To move.

Get up, she told herself. You don’t get to die here.

The wind screamed outside as she staggered through the doorway, vision narrowing, the world tilting sideways.

Somehow—through blood loss and stubborn fury and pure tenacity—she’d made it to the car.

She didn’t remember the drive.

Only waking hours later in a remote clinic that asked too few questions. The scar was clean. Surgical. Deliberate.

She had lived.

And as she lay there, staring at the ceiling, she’d made herself a promise: If she walked away from this…. She would stop running from the things she felt.

Even if she wasn’t ready to say them yet.

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She lay there for a moment without moving, simply breathing him in.

His arm was draped loosely over her waist, heavy and protective even in sleep. His breathing was slow and deep, chest rising and falling beneath her palm. The faint scent of him—soap, warmth, something uniquely Beau—wrapped around her like a blanket.

She turned her head slightly and studied him.

The sharp line of his jaw, softened by sleep. The beard she loved so much, now threaded with more gray than when they’d first met. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the proof of laughter, of worry, of living fully.

He was closer to fifty now than the man she’d first known.

That thought landed gently, not frightening—just real.

Time had moved.

They had moved with it.

Y/N traced a finger lightly along the edge of his shoulder, marveling at the quiet miracle of it all. She had not expected this life. Not this marriage. Not this steady, chosen love that felt less like fireworks and more like bedrock.

She had not expected to find a man who looked at her like she was the answer to a question he hadn’t known he was asking.

And yet here he was.

Her Texan husband.

Closer to fifty, sure—but never old. Not in spirit. Not in presence. Not in the way he moved through the world, vibrant and alive and stubbornly, beautifully virile.

She smiled to herself.

A slow, satisfied, almost smug little smile.

Without opening his eyes, Beau murmured, voice rough with sleep, “You better have a good reason for that cat-smug smile.”

Y/N startled, then laughed—low and warm, pressing her face briefly into his shoulder.

“Were you awake?” she whispered.

“Mm,” he grunted. “Not entirely. But I know that smile.”

She lifted her head, brushing her lips against his jaw. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re smilin’ like you got a secret,” he muttered, eyes still closed.

She traced the gray at his temple gently. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” he murmured.

She laughed again, softer this time, the restless flicker she’d felt moments earlier easing under his sleepy presence. Whatever that strange, unsettled feeling had been—it didn’t matter right now.

Right now, there was this.

Warmth.

Love.

The steady weight of a life built together.

Beau shifted slightly, pulling her closer without waking fully, and she let herself settle into him, smiling against his skin.

Restless could wait.

For this moment, she was exactly where she belonged.

Morning did not arrive gently.

It arrived with Eliza declaring that the wolves had spotted suspicious duck behavior near the cereal cabinet.

It arrived with Caleb running through the hallway like a joyful tornado, one sock missing, shouting something about “truck!” while holding absolutely no truck.

It arrived with Ella, seven months old and done waiting for attention, loudly announcing her existence from the crib in a series of indignant squeals.

Beau and Y/N moved like they always did—without discussion, without friction.

He scooped Ella first, pressing a kiss to her soft hair while she grabbed fistfuls of his shirt. Y/N intercepted Caleb before he could climb onto the back of the couch. Eliza narrated everything at a volume that suggested national importance.

“Ducks are not allowed in the pantry,” she declared.

“Copy that,” Beau said solemnly.

Y/N smiled faintly as she poured milk, wiped a spill, kissed Caleb’s temple, adjusted Ella’s blanket. Her body knew the rhythm of this life. It had settled into her bones.

And yet… the restlessness was back.

A faint ache beneath her ribs. A hum just under the surface of everything. Not panic. Not fear. Just… something unsettled. Like a thread tugging gently at the edge of her awareness.

She couldn’t name it.

She just felt it.

She moved through the morning anyway—steady, practiced. Toast popped. Diaper changed. Backpack zipped. Beau lifted Caleb and tossed him once into the air, catching him easily while Caleb shrieked with delighted chaos.

Beau laughed, full and open, wrestling lightly with their son in the living room.

And in that moment—mid-tussle, Caleb’s hair wild, Eliza marching past with wolf business—Beau glanced up.

He saw it.

Just a flicker.

A shadow in Y/N’s eyes that didn’t belong to exhaustion.

He stilled slightly, though Caleb kept wriggling in his arms.

“You alright?” he asked, casual but sharp.

Y/N blinked, pulled from wherever her thoughts had drifted. “What?”

“You look… somewhere else.”

She caught herself immediately. Smiled. Nodded.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just thinking.”

He studied her a second longer.

“Fine?” he pressed gently.

“Fine,” she repeated, firmer now.

Beau nodded, but his gaze lingered just a moment too long before he turned back to Caleb.

The house surged forward again—noise, laughter, spilled milk, a wolf emergency.

Y/N moved with it.

But inside, as she rinsed a cup and watched the light shift through the kitchen window, a quiet question surfaced.

Was she fine?

Or had something shifted in her world that she hadn’t yet found the words for?

Y/N tied Eliza’s boots with steady fingers while Eliza narrated a very urgent update about snow tracks near the mailbox.

“Wolves don’t wear boots,” Eliza informed her.

“No,” Y/N agreed softly, tightening the knot. “But kindergarteners do.”

Caleb was less cooperative. He wriggled like a live wire while she tried to zip his jacket, giggling as if this were a game designed purely to test her patience. She caught him by the waist, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, and finished the zipper anyway.

Ella was already bundled in her playpen, blinking solemnly as if she understood that morning departures were Serious Business.

Beau came through the hallway, keys in hand, hat already on. “Alright,” he said, clapping once. “Load up.”

Eliza marched toward the door like a commander heading to duty. Caleb followed in a zigzag pattern that required interception.

Y/N handed off lunchboxes, adjusted a mitten, smoothed Eliza’s hair one last time.

Then, just as Beau was about to step out with both children in tow, he stopped.

He turned back.

Eliza was halfway down the steps. Caleb was arguing with the air.

Beau reached for Y/N’s wrist gently and pulled her just a step aside, out of the children’s immediate orbit.

He didn’t speak at first.

He just looked at her.

Really looked.

Searched her face. Her eyes.

The shadow was still there. Not dramatic. Not broken. Just… not her usual bright steadiness.

He lifted a hand to her cheek.

“You sure?” he asked quietly.

Y/N’s breath caught for a fraction of a second. Then she smiled, softer this time.

“I’m okay,” she said. “Really.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t push.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed her.

Not rushed. Not possessive. Just soft. Tender. A grounding kiss that said I see you without forcing her to explain anything.

His thumb brushed her jaw once before he pulled back.

“I’m here,” he said simply.

She nodded.

“I know.”

He gave her one last searching look, then stepped back, scooping Caleb up under one arm while calling to Eliza to stay out of the snowbank.

The door shut behind them.

The house went quiet.

Y/N stood there for a long moment, fingers brushing her lips where he’d kissed her.

He had seen it.

Whatever it was.

And he hadn’t demanded answers.

He had just loved her through it.

The ache in her chest shifted slightly—not gone, not solved—but steadied.

She exhaled slowly.

Maybe she wasn’t fine.

But she wasn’t alone in it either.

The house felt too quiet once the door closed behind Beau and the kids.

Not empty—never empty—but stretched.

Y/N stood there for a moment longer than necessary before moving.

Ella filled the silence first. A soft coo from the living room. A kick of her feet against the blanket. A reminder that the day was still very much in motion.

Y/N scooped her up, pressing her nose briefly into the baby’s warm neck. Ella smelled like milk and sunshine and something sweetly new.

“Well,” Y/N murmured, bouncing her gently. “It’s just us.”

Ella responded with a delighted squeal, grabbing a handful of Y/N’s hair.

They played on the floor for a while—stacking soft blocks, rolling a rattle back and forth, Y/N narrating everything like she used to when Eliza was this small. Ella laughed when Y/N made exaggerated wolf noises. She kicked and twisted and rolled until she finally began to rub at her eyes.

“Alright,” Y/N whispered. “That’s my cue.”

She rocked her until the baby’s weight went heavy and trusting in her arms. Settled her in the crib. Watched the tiny chest rise and fall.

Silence again.

The restlessness crept back in.

Y/N moved to the kitchen.

She wiped counters that were already clean. Straightened chairs that didn’t need straightening. Ran the dishwasher though it was only half full. Folded a dish towel twice, then a third time, as if precision might quiet whatever was stirring inside her.

It didn’t.

She tried the laundry next. The vacuum. Sorting through a stack of mail she’d already skimmed yesterday.

Her body moved efficiently, habitually.

Her mind did not settle.

It wasn’t sadness.

It wasn’t anger.

It was a low hum beneath her ribs—like something unspoken pressing gently at the inside of her chest.

She paused at the sink, hands braced on the counter, staring out the window at the pale Montana sky.

Everything in her life was good.

Her husband loved her.

Her children were healthy.

Her home was warm.

So why did it feel like something was… shifting?

Or missing?

Or waiting?

She pressed her palm flat against her sternum, as if she could physically smooth it out.

“Stop,” she whispered to herself.

But the restlessness didn’t stop.

It lingered.

Soft.

Persistent.

Unanswered.

By the time the clock crept toward lunch, Y/N had wiped down every surface twice and reorganized a drawer that did not need reorganizing.

The restlessness had not left.

It had only grown teeth.

She stood in the hallway outside Ella’s nursery for a long moment, listening to the soft babble coming from the crib. Then, almost impulsively, she moved.

“Okay,” she murmured. “We’re going on an adventure.”

Ella did not object.

Y/N bundled her carefully—tiny hat, thick coat, blanket tucked around her legs—and loaded her into the car. The drive into town felt brisk and purposeful, the cold Montana air sharp against her cheeks when she stepped out.

The sheriff’s department door opened with its familiar weight.

Warmth and the low hum of office chatter greeted her.

Doris looked up first.

“Well look what the snow blew in,” she said, arching a brow. “And she brought the tiniest deputy.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “Is Beau around?”

Doris tilted her head toward the back hallway. “Mayor’s in there. Important meeting. He’ll be a minute.”

Y/N nodded and shifted Ella higher on her hip. “That’s fine.”

They settled near Doris’s desk, Ella immediately reaching for a stack of papers like she intended to audit something. Doris intercepted smoothly.

“Whoa there, future sheriff.”

Doris eyed Ella critically, then softened in spite of herself. “She’s gotten big.”

Y/N glanced down at her daughter. “She has.”

“Won’t be long before she’s walkin’,” Doris added.

Y/N nodded again, distracted. “I know.”

Doris leaned back in her chair, studying Y/N now instead of the baby.

“What will you do then?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

Doris shrugged one shoulder. “Well. Once she’s big enough for daycare, honey… whatcha gonna do?”

Y/N shifted slightly, caught off-guard. “What do you mean?”

Doris’s gaze sharpened—not unkind, but direct.

“I mean,” she said plainly, “what’re you gonna do with yourself?”

The question hung in the air between them.

And for the first time that morning, the restlessness in Y/N’s chest had a shape.

The office door at the end of the hall opened sharply.

Beau stepped out first.

His expression was storm-dark—jaw tight, shoulders squared, the look he wore when a conversation had gone sideways. The mayor followed a step behind, speaking in low, clipped tones, but Beau wasn’t listening anymore.

Then he saw her.

The tension drained from his face so quickly it was almost visible.

“Hey,” he breathed, surprise and warmth overtaking everything else.

Y/N’s lips curved softly. “Hi.”

Ella spotted him next and let out an excited squeal, arms pumping like she might launch herself.

“Well look at you,” Beau murmured, crossing the room in long strides. He didn’t hesitate—just scooped Ella out of Y/N’s arms and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Came to check on me?”

Y/N watched him, the way his entire presence shifted when he held their daughter. “We thought you might need a break.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You have no idea.”

Doris, watching from her desk, muttered something under her breath about good timing and retreated into paperwork.

Beau leaned down and kissed Y/N—quick, but lingering enough to anchor them both. “Lunch?”

“That was the plan,” she said gently.

He didn’t need convincing.

“Let’s go.”

He carried Ella himself, one arm steady around her while the other rested lightly at Y/N’s back as they stepped out into the cold. The walk to the diner was short. Snow crunched under boots. Ella babbled happily, gripping Beau’s collar like she owned him.

Inside, warmth and familiar noise wrapped around them.

They slid into a booth—Beau with Ella, Y/N across from them. He bounced the baby absently while scanning the menu.

“Mayor tried to tell me we need to cut patrol hours,” he muttered, irritation flickering briefly. “Said budget’s tight.”

Y/N listened, nodding, offering quiet understanding.

But beneath the conversation—beneath the warmth of the diner and the sight of Beau grinning down at Ella—Doris’s voice echoed.

What will you do then?

Once she’s big enough for daycare… whatcha gonna do?

Y/N watched Beau play with Ella’s tiny fingers, watched the way he was so fully rooted in purpose.

Sheriff.

Father.

Husband.

Her.

She smiled when he glanced up at her. But inside, something shifted again. Because for the first time, the question wasn’t abstract.

It was real.

What would she do?

Y/N flipped through the menu, though she wasn’t really reading it.

The words blurred together.

Her mind drifted.

Back.

Back to a different kind of morning—one where she couldn’t get out of bed without dizziness swallowing her whole. Where doctors’ voices were cautious and clipped. Where phrases like high risk and monitor closely lived in the air like permanent fixtures.

She remembered lying there, frustrated and frightened, feeling useless.

Remembered the guilt.

Remembered the fear that she was failing—at work, at motherhood, at everything.

She had been so overwhelmed then. So stretched thin between wanting to be present for Eliza, for Caleb, for Beau—and still trying to prove she could do it all.

She’d cried one night.

Not quietly. Not stoically.

She had looked at Beau and admitted she couldn’t keep doing both. That she felt like she was drowning. That she wanted—no, needed—to just be a mother for a while.

He hadn’t argued.

Hadn’t hesitated.

Hadn’t once made her feel like she was asking too much.

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he’d said.

Simple.

Decided.

Final.

He’d picked up extra shifts. Stayed late. Taken on the financial strain without a single complaint. When she apologized—because of course she had—he’d kissed her and told her she wasn’t a burden. She was his wife.

When Ella’s pregnancy nearly broke her body, when the hospital visits multiplied and the fear became tangible—Beau had stepped up again.

Chosen her.

Every time.

He’d sat in uncomfortable chairs. He’d memorized her medication schedule. He’d learned how to take her blood pressure. He’d carried the house when she couldn’t.

He had never stood in her way.

Never resented her.

Never made her feel small for needing something different.

Across the table now, he was making Ella laugh by scrunching his nose and pretending to steal her tiny hand.

The storm from earlier was gone.

He was steady again.

He always was.

Y/N’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

She had asked to step back.

He had built space for her to do so.

And now… now Ella was growing.

The house would quiet eventually.

The question wasn’t about money.

It wasn’t about obligation.

It was about her.

Who was she becoming now?

Beau glanced up, catching her expression mid-thought.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

She smiled at him.

“Yes,” she said.

And she meant it.

But the question still lingered.

Not heavy.

Just waiting.

The diner noise faded again.

Not entirely—but enough that Y/N could hear her own thoughts.

She remembered the grocery store.

The day Eliza had knocked a pyramid of cans onto the aisle, not even two years old yet. Y/N had been exhausted. Alone. Embarrassed. Overwhelmed.

And then—boots had stopped beside her.

A steady voice.

A man who didn’t flinch at chaos. Who had crouched down and spoken to her toddler like she was a person instead of a problem.

She hadn’t expected anything from that moment.

Certainly not this.

She hadn’t expected to fall in love with a sheriff from Texas.

Hadn’t expected marriage.

Hadn’t expected Caleb’s laughter filling a hallway.

Hadn’t expected Ella’s tiny fingers gripping his beard.

Hadn’t expected this life.

Across from her now, Beau was wiping applesauce off Ella’s chin with a napkin, brow furrowed in total concentration.

Her heart swelled.

And tightened.

She leaned forward suddenly and caught his free hand in hers. “Beau.”

He looked up immediately.

Something in her tone shifted his entire posture.

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

She swallowed. “No,” she said. “I’m not entirely okay.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.

She pressed on, the words tumbling faster than she meant them to.

“I should be. Everything is good. The kids are healthy. You’re amazing. This life is beautiful and I love it. I love us. But I—” Her breath hitched. “I feel restless. And I don’t even know why. It feels wrong to feel that way. Ungrateful.”

Her fingers tightened around his.

“Doris asked me what I’m going to do when Ella’s big enough for daycare and I didn’t have an answer. I stepped back because I needed to. You supported me through all of it. You carried so much. And now I don’t know who I am outside of being Mama. And I love being Mama. I love it. But I don’t know what’s next and that scares me and I feel like I shouldn’t be scared because everything is good and—”

“Hey.”

Beau’s voice cut through gently but firmly.

She hadn’t realized she was nearly breathless.

He squeezed her hand once, grounding.

“Slow down,” he murmured.

Her chest rose and fell too fast.

“Breathe.”

She tried.

He shifted Ella to his other arm and reached across the table with his free hand, cupping the back of Y/N’s fingers, steady and warm.

“You’re not ungrateful,” he said quietly. “You’re human.”

She shook her head faintly. “I shouldn’t feel like something’s missing.”

“Doesn’t mean something’s missing,” he replied. “Might just mean something’s changin’.”

The words settled.

He watched her carefully, eyes steady, not judgmental, not alarmed.

“Restless doesn’t mean broken,” he continued. “And it sure as hell doesn’t mean you don’t love this life.”

Her eyes stung. “I just don’t know what to do with it,” she whispered.

He squeezed her hand again. “Then we’ll figure it out,” he said simply.

No panic.

No defensiveness.

No threat.

Just them.

And the next chapter, waiting.

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