#rowena x reader

"You're not gonna use your witch powers to seduce my sister, you evil bitch." He said, his nose twitching with irritation. She chuckled at his comment, "Oh, dear, you needn't worry. I would only sleep with her if she wanted me to." She said, winking at you, your face burned hot. Sam groaned at the comments she was making. "Please, don't talk about her like that." He said, grimacing at the suggestiveness of the conversation. Rowena giggled, you huffed as Dean still shielded you from the woman. "Dean, I'm not a kid, you don't need to protect me," you said, moving to the side.

"Yes, she's a big girl. You needn't worry about a big bad witch snatching her up in the night." She smirked at him, "Well… Unless she wanted me to, that is." She sent another wink your way, and Sam sighed, "Just stop. Geez, I don't want to hear this." He said, Rowena just laughed, "Hm, well, I must be off, I have important things to do. It was nice seeing you boys." She said, turning to walk away, "Oh, and dearie,' she said, turning to you,' Do call me sometime, you have my number," she said, turning away and walking out of the building. When she was finally gone, your brothers turned to you, "Really?!" Dean shouted, his arms waving in the air as he spoke, "Oh shut up, you're acting like you haven't slept with the enemy before." Sam nodded at that, "She is kind of right.." he said to Dean. Dean glared at him. "Oh shut up."

You nodded, as though you perfectly understood the lyrics of her siren’s song. In truth, you had not the faintest idea what she was implying. Just that it — her voice — sounded like everything you ever dreamed of.

The woman cupped your face with such tenderness that you forgot what they were capable of. Destroying lands and rebuilding them anew, chaos and order all at once. You shuddered, not because of her power, but because she didn’t use them against you.

Not yet, anyway.

People were right to fear Rowena MacLeod. She’s always been avant-garde. Fools wrongfully belittled her as delusional. Not you. Never you. What others called megalomaniacal, you deemed genius.

It surprised you that a witch as skilled and intelligent as Rowena was thrown out of every coven for not abiding by their regulations. Wasn’t the whole point of witchcraft to be free? Free from rules and restrictions, free from oppression.

What was the point, then, to make sorcerers bow again?

From the corners of your eyes, kneeling figures continued humming and swaying gently from left to right in perfect harmony, the unison a tidal wave, Rowena and yourself in the hurricane’s eye.

The irony didn’t get lost on you, but there was a difference between students and servants worshipping their Queen and the higher-ups pushing elbows.

Rowena deserved a crowd of devoted followers. Underlings whose attention was glued to her lips and the wise words they formed. Underlings such as yourself.

The fact that she picked you out of all of them filled you with joy beyond measure. It set your heart ablaze, your skin prickling with the pride that flowed through your veins. Rowena always rewarded those who worked hard.

“Can you tell me what it is we are doing, love?”

Despite her lowering her voice to a whisper, her thick accent was all you could focus on. Your eyes lit up at the prospect of getting to show off your knowledge. You had studied countless nights prior for this exact moment, to prove your worth to your mistress, to impress your very icon.

“A Sanguine Moon Ritual,” you beamed eagerly. “During an orgy under October’s full moon, the coven’s blood revitalizes in preparation for winter.”

Rowena’s sharp lips widened into a smile, and she tilted her head, softly patting your cheek twice.

“A textbook answer,” she nodded happily. Your heart jumped in joy, for her praise was all you and your coven-sisters craved. “And now in your own words: What are we doing, the two of us, you and I?”

You blinked at her, dumbfounded. Heat crept up to your face, caught by the palms of your Priestess still. How could you paraphrase something so sacred and taint it with your own crass, lewd language?

“We’re— uh, well…” In your trailing off, your gaze wandered away from her eyes and downwards.

You became painfully aware of her pale skin glowing under the moon — A Sanguine Moon’s gleam was reddish, complimenting the fiery copper of her curls. Though she was petite, her aura was all-consuming, able to knock a small gasp out of your lungs. Sigils and crests adorned her naked form, drawn with blood. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

Truth be told, the ritual was more of a front. You wanted her. You wanted to touch her, kiss her, worship her until the two of you would become one. The full moon was just an occasion. If it were for you, no stars, no planets, no suns would be needed to fuel your desire for her.

No longer stunned by your mistress’ blunt question, you cleared your throat.

You were not ashamed of your desire for her. She taught you better than that. You were proud of them.

“I am going to serve you and worship you,” you answered at last.

Rowena chuckled softly and tilted her head to the side. Her eyes flickered down briefly, scanning you from head to toe. Similar to her, you stood bare before her, skin illuminated by the moon creeping in through the windows and the dance of an arrangement of candles.

“Not quite,” she corrected you, letting her hands wander lower. Her tone was neither scolding nor condescending, but reassuring. Her fingers grazed over your shoulders, down your arms, before she took your hands into her own. “We, my dear, are going to indulge. You and I fucking each other stupid, nothing more, nothing less.”

Your blush deepened. Like you thought, Rowena was a woman ahead of her time, speaking her mind openly and proudly.

She squeezed your hands and pulled you in, her mouth crashing into yours, and you knew this was it. Pleasure for pleasure’s sake, two bodies sinking to the ground together, while a protective choir lingered around them, and a watchful moon heightened their senses. You returned the favor eagerly, your hungry lips chasing after hers, tongues dancing, teeth clashing.

Rowena’s hands found the curve of your waist, the shape of your hips. Your mouth found the slope of her neck, the column of her throat. Your lips burnt admiration into her collarbones, her touch branded lust between your thighs.

As she slipped her fingers through your sex, you moaned against her chest. You mirrored her movement, allowing your hands to map out every dip and curve of her. Once your thumb found her slick, you pulled her closer, circling her clit like she did yours.

The other witches, still kneeling, grabbed each other’s hands. Their humming grew louder and louder, matching the rhythm of Rowena’s and your moans, cheering you on. They were background noise and offering spotlight all the same.

Rowena and you paid them little mind, focusing on the tango between the two of you. Limbs entangled, flushed skin pressing together. The embrace was tight, intimate, holy. You both angled a leg each, tucking one under the other’s.

The woman across you bucked her hips, rolling them against yours, making you gasp. Her folds, warm and wet, kissed yours. Again and again, accompanied by the symphony of your moans and the portrait of her grin.

“Did you know,” she chuckled — as if you could focus on a lesson from her now — “A Sanguine Moon, or Blood Moon, is also called a Hunter’s Moon.”

Your brow twitched in confusion. The rest of your body was very sure of what it wanted and of what it needed to do. You kept moving, as if on instinct, grinding your drooling pussy against Rowena’s.

Where you were panting and breathless, she was perfectly grounded. The hitch of a breath here and there, nothing worth mentioning. She leaned closer, looming over you.

“The last moon was that of the harvest. Now, the season of predator and prey has arrived,” she explained, one of her hands splaying across your chest. Her touch was cold, sending a shiver down your spine.

Not the good kind, necessarily.

You thought you knew the tales. Some hunters, despite claiming to go after witches, believed that this full moon was the beginning of a successful month for their kind in particular. One where they could shed a lot of blood, hence the moon’s red hues. Scholars believed it to be a bunch of hocus-pocus. Though it wasn’t clear why exactly the Sanguine Moon was deemed to be that of the Hunter.

The wild look in Rowena’s eyes, her irises briefly flashing with purple lightning bolts, gave you an idea.

Suddenly, the witch pushed, knocking your back down against the cold stone floor. She towered over you, her legs still crossed with yours.

The lilac flash in her eyes didn’t vanish entirely. Instead, it traveled through her veins, stopping at the once crimson symbols on her skin. The marks were now glowing purple. The one on her thighs, where her skin met yours, burnt hotter than any fire’s flame could. The one on her hand began seeping into you, splashes of raw heat infiltrating your chest, like pin prick needles sinking into flesh.

You yelped, arching your back, but Rowena held you down. Surges of energy made a home in your heart.

“Relax, dear,” she hummed soothingly, her other hand reaching for your face to stroke your cheek. “You’re doing so good.”

She thrusted her hips against yours harder this time, the sound of wet skin against wet skin mixing with your whimpers and the chorus surrounding you. Pressure built within you, a tight coil forming in your very core and overwhelming all of your senses.

“Ex luna ad undas, a capite ad calcem. Esto quod es.”

Rowena’s voice boomed not through your ears, but your soul, emphasized by the continuous sway of her body against yours. The rest of the coven repeated the incantation, over and over again, chanting the words like a prayer.

Out of the moon to the sea, from head to heel. Be what you are.

Out of the moon to the sea

From head to heel.

Be what you are.

With another sharp move of Rowena’s hips, your vision turned white, and your whimpering turned into a screeching moan. Pleasure flooded your senses, blanking every thought in your mind.

It wasn’t until several seconds later that you recovered from your orgasm, a thin sheen of sweat coating your skin. Your eyelashes fluttered tiredly as you blinked up at Rowena, whose face was as flushed as delighted. Her teeth, white and bright, glistened through her wide smile. The purple marks dulled, like a flame slowly dimming.

She looked contented, the brush of her knuckles against your cheek confirming as much.

“Now, you’re one of us. One of mine.”

Rowena MacLeod Taglist:

@alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @angelicjackles @bejeweledinterludes2 @castielscaplan @chronic-fangirl-222

@foxyjwls007 @justwhisperingfantasies @ladykitana90 @mahi-wayy @multiversefanfics

Patience had never really been your virtue. 

You blamed it on the fact that you were part of the ‘instant gratification’ generations. Your parents definitely tried to put a stop to it, but given the omnipresence of technology in all its forms and its constant evolution, it was inevitable. It was like the world moved too slow for you, everything at a snail's pace and holding you back. 

Your parents had both been witches. Growing up, the danger of hunters, especially the Winchester brothers, could not have been stressed more. Stay hidden, keep a low profile, and only practice in private or when absolutely necessary. It wasn’t your fault, that was also stressed to you. You couldn’t help the magic in your veins, the undeniable pull you felt towards the arcane. The rush you got with every spell was intoxicating, even the smallest incantation left you with a high. 

The running joke between you and your mom was that she and your dad never had to worry about you doing drugs or drinking alcohol because of how much you loved the rush of casting spells. Not that it was much safer, given the fact that one spell at the wrong time could end with a bullet in your chest or head, and you were nothing if not impulsive at the most inopportune times. 

If only your parents could see you now. Not only had you met the Winchesters, but you lived with them, and were helping them hunt down the supernatural. They were wary, sure. That was to be expected, but it helped that you were not the first witch they worked regularly with. 

You had been enamored with Rowena the second she floated into the Bunker. At first it had been innocent enough. You watched in awe as she found and cast spells with ease, going so far as to teach Sam the very basics, the youngest Winchester proving to be a very avid student, eager to learn what she was teaching him. Hovering around their shoulders as she taught him, you observed every step, the way her hands expertly picked the very best ingredients, the thick accent in which she spoke, the incantations falling off her tongue with perfect diction—a testament to the centuries she had been practicing. 

A giddy smile had pulled tight across your mouth, reverence flooding your expression as you approached her. Just short of begging, you had done everything you could to get her to mentor you alongside Sam. Handing her your own grimoire, you spoke faster than you ever had before, detailing orally to her all of your own studies, your experience, your lineage. 

Your sigh of relief when she agreed, almost vehemently so, was a weight off your chest. Terrified of making a fool of yourself, her willingness and interest in you was a balm for your frayed nerves. 

Unfortunately, an influx of non-magic related cases flooded you and the Winchesters for months following the interaction. Case after case of ghosts, vampires, demons and shifters and by month 5 the subdermal itch to practice had become unbearable. Downtime finally arrived, but practicing on your own no longer had the same luster as it once did, the prospect of becoming better—learning—muted the once untouchable high of casting spells. 

But one day, not long after you had been slumped over one of the long tables in the library. You had been pouring over a large tome full of herbology, thumbing through the pages which were yellow with age, when the witch just appeared next to you. You had nearly jumped out of your seat, as she inquired into what you were studying. She had sat down next to you, and before you knew it, hours had passed, the conversation spanning a multitude of topics. 

It was the most riveting conversation you had in, well, you didn’t know how long.

With the lull in cases, Rowena started showing up more and more. She brushed it off as teaching you and Sam, holding joint sessions between the three of you. But what Sam didn’t get were one-on-one chats. In the library over breakfast with a pile of books taller than you were, late at night in your room while you lounged on your bed, her sat perfectly poised at your desk. At least at first. Slowly, as time progressed and the two of you met more frequently, she moved closer and closer, first moving the chair to the bedside, then ending up on the bed next to you. She would sit so close to you that all you could smell was the lavender and rose of whatever perfume she wore. 

Hours were spent in the alchemy room, her gentle words coaching you and Sam through the spells. As was the nature of your affinity for casting, you always had an easier time than Sam. The younger Winchester never grew frustrated, at least not when you were around, and performed remarkably well for a student. Dean was nice and all, but Sam was your favorite. He divulged to you one day over lunch that he wondered if it was because of Azazels’ blood in him that he was able to learn so quickly. He had been at the stove, making grilled cheeses for you both, back turned to you but still you could feel the uncertainty and fear roll off of him in waves. 

You had reassured him that many students, regardless of bloodline or supernatural afflictions, could perform just as well as he did. All that mattered was the integrity of the student and their willingness and passion to learn. He had thanked you, pulling you into a hug after the both of you finished eating. With Rowena’s permission, you had started to teach him on longer hunts that took you away from the Bunker for extended periods of time. Your own grimoire was nowhere near extensive as hers, neither was your knowledge, but the practice was good for you both. 

The more you learned, the closer you and Rowena grew. A substantial part of casting was the mental state of the witch who was attempting to use their power. And she had made it very difficult to concentrate. Her thick accent whispered into your ear, a steady hand on your back as you tried to focus your energy, making sure the pronunciation of the words matched perfectly. Bad things would happen if they didn’t. You had temporarily turned Miracle into a bunny once when you were attempting a complicated transmutation spell. After a lot of panic and Dean threatening to kick you out you managed to reverse the spell and the pup was turned back into his shaggy self. 

You knew it was just a matter of time before Rowena found out, always wearing your heart on your sleeve. You just didn’t imagine it coming out in the way it did. 

The witch had you and Sam facing one another, seeing who could place a truth spell on the other. It was supposed to be so that you could place it on whatever monster you were hunting, or a witness or victim who couldn’t remember what they had seen and been through. Concentrate, Rowena had scolded, walking around the two of you in slow circles. You were trying, but the way her purple dress hugged her figure, red hair cascading down her back like fire was a little distracting. 

One second, one flick of your eyes to her only to find her staring back, was all it took for it all to fall apart. Energy, the spell, formed between Sam’s hands and the next thing you knew you were being shoved back by said ball of energy as it landed square in your chest. Needless to say, some shameful rambling later and the cat was out of the bag. Sam knew, of course. You had told him weeks beforehand. He was your best friend, after all. And like the friend he was, he immediately made himself scarce not long after, excusing himself from the room. 

One truth spell, one kiss (followed by many more later) and 8 months later led here. 

“How much longer?” You groaned from where you laid on the day bed in Rowena’s personal spellroom. 

The entire space smelled like books and the herbs she used in the spells. Most of the wall space was taken up by bookshelves, tomes and scrolls of varying ages lining them. Daylight poured in from the rectangular windows, reflecting off of the crystals and glasses she had scattered around the space. 

“I don’t know, dearie.” Rowena sighed, exasperated. 

And rightly so.

It was the third time you asked in the last half hour. Your impatience was the one thing she didn’t tolerate, and you did your best to staunch it, but it was easier said and done. It was one problem that couldn’t be remedied by a spell. The promise of fun was alluring, greatly so. But it was locked behind the gate of work, an exercise in your restraint, which was clearly failing. 

“Sorry, Ro.” You said quietly. 

“No, you’re not.” She said, not looking up from her grimoire. 

She sat perched in a wide leather upholstered chair in front of a grand dark-grained wooden desk. The top of it held various bits and baubles, but most importantly her book full of spells. 

“Come here.” She lifted one hand to crook a finger at you. 

Nervous, you rolled off of the daybed, bare feet padding against the stone floor. The candlelight glanced off her shiny red hair, illuminating her soft looking skin and striking features. She had traded her normal elegant dresses for a flowy silk dressing gown. The two panels were loosely tied around her waist, the slit parting harshly around one bare thigh. 

“Ro—”

“Sit.” She instructed, not letting you finish your thought. 

You cleared your throat, ignoring the way your core pulsated. The flowy skirt you had been wearing gathered around your thighs, your hips as you climbed onto her lap. The way you landed put one of her thighs slotted between yours, the muscle of her quad pressed against your core with only the material of your underwear acting as a barrier. 

“Now, I’m gonna finish this spell, and you are gonna grind that little clit against my thigh like a good girl.”

The whimper that resulted from her words was entirely involuntary. Your hips shifted forward and the material of your underwear rubbed against your clit. Her nondominant hand rested solidly on your waist, an agent of stability and nothing more. It was clear she meant what she said, it was up to you right now. 

Cheeks burning, you could do nothing but comply. 

You shifted your hips again, settling further onto her thigh, the friction pulling a soft moan from your lips. Repeating the motion you felt your clit throb harshly. Your motions set a steady rhythm, slow and easy passes on her thigh. 

Quickly the material of your underwear grew damp, sticking further to your core. The added sensation, the friction, had warmth pooling between your thighs. Each breath that puffed from your lungs was punctuated by a light moan, desperate and needy. The obscenity of it all, you humping her leg no better than a bitch in heat, was half the excitement. You dragged your hips back and forth across the top of her thigh and with each centimeter your underwear became more and more saturated with your arousal.

Your legs, bracketing Rowena's began to shake, each twitch low in your belly a tick towards your climax. But the feeling was too dull, lacking that pleasurably sharp edge that meant actually tipping over that line. Increasing the rhythm, you tried in vain to find that tipping point, that line pleasure and a good time, and both those things with an orgasm at the end. But it never came, only your panting breaths and shaking legs with an increasing desperation.

You were right there. You could almost feel it, taste it, but in a sick joke it stayed just out of reach, not quite tangible. Frustrated and embarrassed tears put pressure behind your eyes, and you squeezed them shut in an attempt to push them back, 

“Such a pretty mess.” Rowena cooed in a sing-songy voice as she set her pen down onto her book and sitting back against the chair. 

Her green eyes surveyed you. They followed the curve of your body on her lap, the swell of your breasts, the lines of your waist. You watched in real time as her pupils expanded watching you try to fall apart on her thigh. 

A broken whine was your only response, bracing your hands on the arms of the chair. The blunts of your nails dug into the dark leather in a steadying grip. 

"What's a matter, dearie.” The condescension dripped from her words. “You wanted me, you got me.”

“Not. ‘nough.” You whimpered, leaning forward to bury your face in her neck. “Please, Ro.”

“Not good enough. Try again.”

“Please.” A sob cracked your voice, desperate beyond belief. “Pl—ease. Please Ro. Please touch me. Need you.”

Finally, her hands landed on your waist, really touching you now. Intentional with her touch, she smoothed her palms up the front of your torso, fingers catching on the ruchings of your sweater. A moan, a real moan, came when her hands groped at your breasts over the sweater. Aside from the material of the shirt, there was nothing between her palms and your breasts, having foregone a bra. 

It wasn't much, but it was enough. Her ministrations nudged you over the line onto the ascent of your climax. Again, you dragged your hips over her thigh with renewed vigor. That tight feeling along the insides of your thighs grew and grew until your legs shuddered, snapping close around Rowenas, moaning into her neck. Your orgasm washed over you in languid waves, your hips rolling in time as you worked yourself through the sensations. 

Rowena slid her hand up to your chin, tilting your head from against her neck. Her lips were warm and glossy against yours as she slotted her mouth over yours. The kiss was heady and needing, speaking to the restraint she had kept all the while you tried to get yourself off in her lap. 

“Go get on the bed.” 

You couldn’t get to your feet fast enough, though you kept your hand on the arm of the chair in case your unsteady legs failed you. Rowena wasn't far behind you, already kneeling your thighs as you landed on your back. With a snap of her fingers your clothes disappeared off your body. 

Jaw falling open, you watched with bated breath as she slowly pulled the tie of her dressing gown from its knot, the panels falling to the side to reveal her naked body underneath. With another flourish, she tossed the gown to the side, the material pooling on the ground in a mess of silk and lace. 

“So pretty, Ro.” You marveled, awe making your words breathy. 

“Thank you, dearie.” She smiled down at you. 

Her mess of red waves fell around her face as she leaned forward, lips coming into contact with the valley between your breasts. Hands finding your hips, her mouth trailed down the center of your torso. You reached down, fingers pushing her hair away from her face, watching her downward trajectory. 

You couldn't get enough air into your lungs as her tongue swiped across the space of skin just north of your clit. Lower back arching up off the daybed, your mouth dropped open as her tongue flicked down over your swollen clit.

“Ro.” You moaned, fingers tangling in her hair. 

Your thighs that had twitched closed were forced back open by her hands. For a woman who stood no taller than 5 foot 3 inches with a slender build, Rowena was deceptively strong. The flat of her tongue laved along your core, the tip flicking your clit as she went. Sloppy, open-mouthed kisses were laid along your clit, hands now a permanent fixture on your thighs to press them down against the daybed. 

Her skillful mouth had you barreling right back to that line, that edge. Your hips bucked up against her mouth, chasing her tongue. She was molten fire against your clit, your core, spreading warmth into your lower belly and thighs. Her name on your lips was a constant cycle, a plea and a prayer. 

Again, your pleasure at her hands wracked through you, her tongue lapping at your clit the epicenter of the shocks spreading through your body. All consuming, nothing else was on your brain, nothing but the feeling between your legs. Your clit tingled as the feeling waned, but not for long as Rowena kept going, except this time her dominant hand slid from your thigh to under her chin. 

“Ro.” You moaned. “I can’t. Too much.”

“Oh?” She popped her head back up, the pads of her fingers circling your entrance. “Was it you said not that long ago? It wasn't enough?”

“Ro.” Your voice cracked as her middle and ring fingers slipped inside you. “Please.”

“Be my good girl.” Rowena said, kissing your pubic bone before shifting her attention back to your clit. 

Not like you could really protest. Other hand still pinning your thigh to the bed, she held you captive under her touch, her mouth. You tried to squirm away, from her unrelenting mouth and dexterous fingers curling up inside you, but it was futile. 

The pressure built once again, each tick of pleasure tinged with pain as she brought you to the cusp of another orgasm. A haze started to cloud your brain; you couldn’t string together any coherent thoughts. Only her name. 

It fell desperately from you as your body seized hard beneath her. All your muscles tightening in sync as you clenched around her fingers. The only movement your body would allow was for your hips to squirm under her motions, trying to pull away from her. 

With a light laugh she shifted off of you, a hoarse sound came from you as she pulled her fingers from you. You lay there limp, vaguely aware of her kissing shocks back up your body. She crawled up to hover over you.

“Still with me?” She breathed against your mouth. 

“Mhmm.” You hummed your response, opening your lips for her. 

She kissed you deep and slow, tongue sweeping across yours. Her thighs were soft under your hands as you squeezed them, sliding around the backs up them and up to her ass. She laughed into your mouth, kissing you once more before breaking it. 

The anticipation grew in your chest as Rowena shifted further up your body. Following her lead, you shimmied down the bed so that she knelt with her heat right above your mouth. You couldn’t get her down fast enough. Your fingers dented the tops of her thighs as you dragged her down to meet your mouth. The taste of her on your tongue had you moaning into her clit. Her thighs pressed against the sides of your head, and you could hear her soft moans as you ate her out. 

She was a drug, one you couldn’t get enough of. You lapped at her core, paying attention to what you knew she liked and what made her moans get louder. The muscles in her thighs flexed against your head, as she neared her own climax. The angle of which she was perched changed, her leaning over more and more to rest her forearms on the arm of the couch. She was close, and that was all you needed to shift all your attention to her clit, each flick of your tongue another shove. 

Rowena cried your name as she came, hips grinding down onto your face, your mouth. Her resounding moans were music to your ears, even as her thighs tightened down around them. Fuck, she sounded beautiful. 

As the shuddering of her body subsided, she climbed off of your face, shifting to move back down your body. You let out a breath as she settled atop you. 

“See, now wasn’t that worth the wait?” She pressed a kiss to your collarbone.

A smile tugged at your lips. You shrugged. “Eh.”

She swatted your thigh. “Brat.”

𝚂𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐!𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛

𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚕 𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚊𝚔

𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚕

𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝙺𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 (𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚌)

𝙶𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚕

𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚛

𝙲𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚢

𝚁𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚊

I woke to the smell of lavender and rosemary, the familiar scent of Rowena’s cottage wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across the wooden floor of my bedroom. My bedroom, not some sterile dormitory in St. Clair’s Children’s Home. Even after a year, I still had moments where I’d wake up expecting to see those institutional white walls, hear the sounds of thirty other orphans shuffling through their morning routines. But this was real. This was home. 

I stretched beneath my quilt, handmade by Rowena herself with protective sigils stitched into the fabric in thread that only glowed when magic was near. She’d given it to me three months after she found me, after she decided I wasn’t just a project or a temporary responsibility. After she’d decided I was hers. 

The memory of that night still made my chest tight. I was thirteen, freshly orphaned, my parents killed by something I still couldn’t fully name, some creature with too many teeth and eyes that reflected light like a cat’s. The social workers had placed me in St. Clair’s, and I tried to be good, tried to be normal. But the magic that had always simmered quietly inside me, kept carefully controlled by my mother’s gentle guidance, had started to boil over without her there to help me manage it. 

The night I ran away, I accidentally set fire to my mattress during a nightmare. No one was hurt, but the fear in the other children’s eyes had been enough. I grabbed my backpack and fled into the rain, thirteen years old and terrified of what I was becoming. Rowena had found me in an alley three days later, half-starved and shivering, my magic crackling around me in desperate, uncontrolled bursts. I thought she was going to hurt me, this beautiful, dangerous woman with red hair and an accent that made every word sound like a spell. Instead, she crouched down, looked me in the eyes, and said,

“Oh, darling. You’re absolutely magnificent. And you’re coming home with me.” 

That had been a year ago. Three hundred and sixty-seven days, to be exact. I counted every one. I climbed out of bed and padded across the floor to my desk, where my grimoire lay open to the page I’d been studying last night. Grimoire, even the word still gave me a thrill. It was mine, bound in soft leather that Rowena had helped me choose, filled with spells I’ve learned and adapted, notes in my own handwriting about magical theory and practice. My mother had taught me the basics before she died, but Rowena had opened up entire worlds I never imagined. The spell on the current page was a complex warding incantation, designed to keep out malevolent spirits. I’ve been working on it for weeks, trying to get the pronunciation exactly right. Rowena said I had a natural talent for protective magic, that it suited my personality. 

“You’ve got a good heart, Y/N.” She told me just last week, her Scottish accent warm with approval. 

“You want to keep people safe. That’s rare in our world, and precious.” 

I traced the Latin words with my finger, mouthing them silently. Spiritus malignus, te repello. Limen hoc non transibis.

“You’re up early.” I jumped, spinning around to find Rowena leaning against my doorframe, a cup of tea in each hand. She was already dressed, wearing one of her elegant dresses, this one a deep burgundy that complemented her hair perfectly. She always looked put-together, even at seven in the morning. I, on the other hand, was still in my pajamas, my Y/H/C hair probably sticking up in every direction. 

“I wanted to practice.” I said, accepting the tea she offered. It was perfectly prepared, with just the right amount of honey. She learned how I liked it within the first week. 

“I almost have the warding spell down.” 

“Almost?” Rowena’s eyebrow arched, but there was a smile playing at her lips. 

“Show me.” 

I set down my tea and positioned myself in the center of the room, taking a deep breath to center myself the way she taught me. Magic wasn’t just about words and gestures, it was about intention, about channeling the power that lived inside you and shaping it with your will. I raised my hands, fingers positioned in the specific configuration the spell requited, and began to speak. 

“Spiritus malignus, re repello. Limen hoc non transibis. Virtute mea, potaste mea, inperio meo-” 

The air shimmered around my doorway, a faint golden light tracing the frame. I could feel the magic flowing through me, warm and electric, responding to my call. For a moment, the ward held, solid and strong. Then my concentration wavered, and it flickered out. 

“Damn…” I muttered. 

“Language.” Roena chided, but she was smiling. “That was excellent, Y/N, truly. You held it for nearly ten seconds, that’s twice as long as last week. The ward will stabilize with practice.” 

“But what if I need it in a real situation?” I asked, frustration creeping into my voice. 

“What if something’s coming through a door and I can’t hold it?” 

Rowena crossed the room and placed her hands on my shoulders, her green eyes serious. 

“Then you’ll use a different spell, one you’ve mastered. You know dozens of them now, darling. A good witch knows her limitations and works within them. There’s no shame in that, only wisdom.” 

I nodded, but I still felt the sting of imperfection. I wanted to be good at this. I wanted to make her proud. As if reading my mind, and sometimes I suspected she actually could, Rowena squeezed my shoulders gently. 

“I am proud of you, every single day. You’ve come so far, Y/N. Your mother would be amazed.” 

My throat tightened. Rowena didn’t mention my parents often, but when she did, it was always with respect, never pity. She understood loss in a way most people didn’t. 

“Now,” She said, her tone brightening. “get dressed. I’m making breakfast, and then we have a full day of study ahead. I want to work on your scrying technique, you’re ready for more advanced methods.” She swept out of the room, leaving me with my tea and a warmth in my chest that had nothing to do with magic. 

We were halfway through breakfast, Rowena’s incredible Scottish pancakes with butter and jam, when her phone rang. She glanced at the screen, and something slickered across her face, surprise, maybe, or concern. 

“It’s Sam Winchester.” She said, more to herself than to me. 

I knew that name. The Winchesters were legendary in the supernatural world, even to someone as new to it as me. Rowena had told me stories about them, about the cases they worked, the apocalypses they stopped. She had a complicated history with them, sometimes allies, sometimes adversaries, but always with a grudging respect on both sides. 

“I need to take this.” She said, standing from the table. “Finish your breakfast.” 

She walked into the next room, but our cottage was small, and I could hear her side of the conversation clearly. 

“Samual, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Her voice was carefully neutral, giving nothing away. 

A pause as she listened. “Millbrook, Pennsylvania… A vengeful spirit, you say? And you can’t handle it yourselves because…?” 

Another pause. 

“Ah. Witch magic involved, I see.” 

My heart started to beat faster. A case. A real case. 

“When do you need me?” Rowena asked. More listening. 

“Tomorrow? That’s rather short notice, Samuel… Yes, yes, I understand the urgency. People dying and all that.” 

I set down my fork, my appetite suddenly gone, replaced by a mixture of nervousness and excitement. “I’ll be there.” Rowena said finally. “Text me the address… Yes, goodbye.” 

She came back into the kitchen, slipping her phone into her pocket, her expression thoughtful. 

“A case?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual. 

“Aye. A vengeful spirit in Pennsylvania that’s been killing members of a specific family. The Winchesters have tried the usual methods, salt and burn, but the spirit keeps coming back. THey think there’s witch magic anchoring it, keeping it tied to the physical world even after its bones were destroyed.” 

“And they need you to break the spell.” I said. 

“Precisely.” She sat back down, but didn’t touch her food. “I’ll need to leave tomorrow morning.” 

I took a breath, gathering my courage. “Can I come?” 

Rowena’s eyes snapped to mine, sharp and assessing. “Y/N-” 

“I know it’s dangerous.” I said quickly, before she could say no. 

“But I’ve been training for a year. I know protective spells, binding incantations, basic banishment rituals. I’ve studied everything you’ve taught me. When am I going to get to actually use it?” 

“When you’re ready.” Rowena said firmly. 

“How will I know I’m ready if I never try?” I countered. “You’ve said yourself that I have talent. That I’m learning faster than you expected. Don’t I deserve a chance to prove myself?” 

Rowena was quiet for a long moment, studying me with those penetrating eyes that seemed to see straight through to my soul. I held her gaze, trying to project confidence I didn’t entirely feel. 

“This isn’t a training exercise.” She said finally. “This is a real hunt, with real danger. The Winchesters are professionals, and even they’re stuffing with this case. If something goes wrong-” 

“Then I’ll have you there to protect me.” I said. “And I’ll have them. I won’t be alone.” 

“That’s not the point-” 

“Please?” I reached across the table, taking her hand. “I need to do this. I need to know that I can. That all this training means something.” 

Rowena’s expression softened slightly. She turned her hand over, squeezing mine. “It already means something, darling. You don’t have to prove anything to me.” 

“Maybe I need to prove it to myself.” I said quietly. 

She sighed, and I knew I won. “You’ll follow my instructions exactly. No improvising, no herotics. If I tell you to run, you run. Understood?” 

“Understood.” I said, unable to keep the smile off my face. 

“And you’ll need to be prepared for the Winchesters’ reaction.” Rowena added, a hint of amusement in her voice now. 

“They don’t know about you. This will be… a surprise.” 

“What are you gonna tell them?” 

“The truth.” Rowena said simply. “That you’re my daughter.” 

The word still made my heart skip… Daughter. She started using it about six months ago, casually at first, then more deliberately. We never made it official, no adoption papers or legal proceedings. But in every way that mattered, it was true. 

“They’re going to have questions.” I said. 

“Let them question.” Rowena’s smile was sharp now, the one she wore when she was feeling particularly wicked. 

“It’ll be entertaining.” 

We spent the rest of the day preparing. Rowena pulled out her traveling grimoire, a smaller, more portable version of her massive spell collection, and we went through it together, marking the spells that might be useful. 

“Vengeful spirits are tricky.” She explained, her finger tracing down  a page of Latin text. 

“They’re fueled by rage and pain, which makes them powerful but also somewhat predictable. They’ll focus on their targets obsessively, which we can use to our advantage.” 

“But if magic is anchoring it, won’t it be stronger than a normal spirit?” I asked. 

“Aye, and more resistant to standard banishment methods. We’ll need to identify the specific spell being used and craft a counter-spell. That’s where the real work comes in.” 

She showed me several complex banishment rituals, walking me through the components and pronunciation. Some required ingredients we’d need to gather on-site, graveyard dirt, blessed water, specific herbs. Others were purely incantational, relying on the witch’s power and will. 

“This one.” Rowena said, pointing to a particularly intricate spell. “is what I’ll likely use for the final banishment. It’s designed to sever magical anchors and force spirits back beyond the veil. But it requires significant power and concentration. I’ll need you to protect me while I’m casting it.” 

“Protect you how?” I asked, my stomach fluttering with nervousness. 

“Binding spell, primarily. If the spirit attacks while I’m working, you’ll need to hold it back long enough for me to complete the ritual. Can you do that?” 

I thought of the binding spell I’ve been practicing, the one I could now hold for almost thirty seconds. 

“Yes.” I said, with more confidence than I felt. 

Rowena must’ve heard the uncertainty in my voice because she set down the grimoire and took both my hands in hers. 

“Y/N, listen to me. I wouldn’t bring you if I didn’t believe you were capable. But I need you to be honest with yourself and me. If at any point you feel overwhelmed, if the magic is too much, you tell me immediately. There’s no shame in knowing your limits.” 

“I know.” I said. “I will, I promise.” 

“Good.” She released my hands and returned to the grimoire. 

“Now, let’s practice the binding spell one more time. I want to see you hold it for a full minute.” 

We worked until late into the evening, running through spell after spell until my voice was hoarse and my hands ached from holding the proper gestures. But by the time Rowena finally called it quits, I could hold the binding spell for ninety seconds, and I successfully performed a minor bandishment on the small spirit Rowena had summoned for practice. 

“Excellent work.” She said, genuine pride in her voice. “Get some rest, we leave at dawn.” 

I tried to sleep, but my mind was racing. Tomorrow, I’d meet the legendary Winchester brothers. Tomorrow I’d face a real vengeful spirit. Tomorrow, I’d find out if I was really a witch, or just a girl playing with magic. Eventually, exhaustion won out, and I drifted off into restless dreams of spirits, spells, and Rowena’s voice calling me daughter. 

The drive to Millbrook took most of the day. Rowena had a car she kept for situations like this, a sleek black sedan that she drove with the same confidence she did everything else. We listened to music, talked about magic theory, and stopped once for lunch at a diner where the waitress complimented Rowena’s hair and I tired not to be too obvious about studying the protective charms Rowena had placed around our booth. 

As we got close to Millbrook, my nervousness increased. I kept running through spells in my head, checking and rechecking that I had all the components we might need in my bag. 

“You’re going to be fine.” Rowena said, glancing over at me. “Just remember your training and trust yourself.” 

“What if they don’t want me there?” I asked. “The Winchesters, I mean. What if they think I’m too young, or a liability?” 

“Then they’ll be wrong.” Rowena said simply. “And I’ll tell them so. You’re my daughter, Y/N. Where I go, you go. They’ll accept that, or they can handle their spirit problem themselves.” 

The motel Sam had texted her about was a typical roadside place, the kind hunters apparently frequented. Rowena pulled into the parking lot and found a space near room 12, where a black Impala was already parked. 

“That’s their car.” Rowena said. “The Impala. Dean Winchester’s pride and joy, from what I understand.” 

We got out, and I shouldered my bag, trying to project confidence I didn’t feel. Rowena knocked on the door of room 12, and a moment later, it opened. Sam Winchester was tall, like really tall, even taller than I expected. He had long hair and a kind face, though there was a wariness in his eyes as he looked at Rowena. Then hsi gaze dropped to me, and confusion flickered across his features. 

“Rowena.” He said. “Thanks for coming. Uh… who’s this?” 

“Can we come in, Samuel?” Rowena asked, her tone pleasant but brooking no argument. 

“Or shall we discuss the case in the parking lot?” 

Sam stepped back, letting us enter. The motel room was exactly what I expected, two beds, a table covered in papers, a laptop, and another man sitting at the table who had to be Dean Winchester. He was shorter than Sam but broader, with short hair and eyes that immediately assessed me as a potential threat. 

“Rowena.” Dean said, standing. “You brought a kid?” 

“I brought my daughter.” Rowena corrected, her voice cool. “This is Y/N. Y/N, these are the Winchester brothers, Sam and Dean.” 

The silence that followed was deafening. Sam and Dean exchanged a look that clearly said did she just say daughter?” 

“Your… daughter?” Dean repeated slowly. “Since when the hell do you have a daughter?” 

“Since I found her a year ago and took her in.” Rowena said, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. She moved further into the room, gesturing for me to follow.

“She’s a witch, quite talented, and she’ll be assisting me with your case.” 

“She’s a kid.” Dean said flatly. “She can’t be more than, what, fourteen?” 

“Fourteen and a half.” I said, finding my voice. “And I’ve been training with my Mom for a year. I know what I’m doing.” 

Dean’s expression suggested he very much doubted that. Sam, at least, looked more thoughtful than dismissive. 

“Rowena.” Sam said carefully. “We appreciate you coming, but this is a dangerous case. We’ve already had three deaths this week. Are you sure it’s appropriate to bring-” 

“I’m sure.” Rowena interrupted. “Y/N is more than capable, and I wouldn’t have brought her if I thought otherwise. Now, shall we discuss the case, or would you like to continue questioning my parenting decisions?” The edge in her voice made it clear that the latter option would not end well for them. Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but Sam put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. 

“Okay.” Sam said. “Okay, let’s talk about the case.” 

We all sat down. Rowena and I on one bed, Sam and Dean at the table. Dean was still watching me with obvious skepticism, but I tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the papers spread across the table. 

“So, tell me about this spirit.” Rowena said. 

Sam pulled out a file and began laying out photos and documents.

“Martha Ashford. Died fifty years ago in her family manor here in Millbrook. According to the records, she caught her husband cheating and confronted him. He pushed her down the stairs, and she broke her neck.” 

“Classic vengeful spirit origin story.” Dean added. “Eccept she’s not going after her husband, he died twenty years ago. She’s going after his descendants, Three dead in the last week, all from the same family line.” 

“And you’ve already burned the bones?” Roewna asked. 

“Salted and burned.” Sam confirmed. “But she’s still appearing. Still killing.That’s when we thought there might be magic involved.” 

Rowena leaned forward, studying the photos. I did the same, trying to see what she was seeing. The victimes all showed signed of violent death, broken necks, like Martha’s own death. There was a pattern there, a symmetry that suggested magical reinforcement.” 

“May I?” I asked, reaching for one of the documents. Sam looked surprised but nodded. It was a police report from Martha’s death. I read through it carefully, noting the details. 

“It says here that Martha was known to practice folk magic.” I said. “Charms and hexes, mostly. What if she anchored herself before she died? Set up a spell that would keep her tied to the physical world?” 

Rowena’s eyes lit up with approval. “That’s an excellent theory, darling. Sam, do we know if Martha had any grimoires or magical items?” 

“The family donated most of her stuff to the local historical society after her husband died.” Sam said, pulling out his laptop. 

“But there might be something still in the manor. It’s been abandoned for years.” 

“Then that’s where we need to go.” Rowena said. “If there’s a magical anchor, it’ll be there. We find it, break it, and the spirit should be vulnerable to standard banishment.” 

“Should be?” Dean asked. 

“Magic is rarely absolute, Dean.” Rowena said dryly. “But yes, I’m confident we can handle this.” 

“We should go tonight.” Sam said. “The spirit’s been appearing every night around midnight. If we can find the anchor before then, we’ll have time to prepare.” 

“Agreed.” Roewna said. She turned to me. “Y/N, you’ll need to prepare the binding spell. If Martha appears before we’ve broken the anchor, you’ll need to hold ehr while I work.” 

“I can do that.” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. 

Dean was still watching me with that skeptical expression. “No offense, kid, but have you ever actually faced a vengeful spirit before?” 

“No.” I admitted. “But I’ve been training for this. I know the spells, I know the theory-” 

“Theory doesn’t mean much when you’ve got an angry ghost trying to break your neck.” Dean interrupted.

“Dean.” Sam said warningly. 

“What?” I’m just saying, maybe she should stay here while we handle the actual dangerous part-” 

“She’s coming.” Rowenea said, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And if you have a problem with that, Dean Winchester, you can handle this case yourself. I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully without any magical assistance.” 

Dean’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue further. Sam shot me an apologetic look. 

“Let’s just… focus on the case.” Sam said. “We’ll head to the manor at ten. That give us two hours to prepare.” 

The next two hours were a flurry of activity. Rowena and I prepared our spell components while Sam and Dean gathered their usual hunting gear, salt and iron. I could feel Dean’s eyes on me periodically, still skeptical, still doubtful. I was determined to prove him wrong. Rowena pulled me aside while the brothers were loading their car. 

“Don’t get Dean get to you.” She said quietly. “He’s protective, and he’s seen too many people die in this life. His skepticism comes from experience, not malice.” 

“I know.” I said. “I just want to show him I can do this.” 

“You will.” Rowena said, cupping my face in her hands. “But remember, you’re not doing this to prove anything to him. You’re doing this because it’s right, because people need help, and because you have the power to provide it. That’s what matters.” 

I nodded, feeling some of my nervousness ease. Rowena always knew what to say. 

“Now, let’s go banish a spirit.” She said, releasing me. 

Ashford Manor loomed agains the night sky, a Gothic monstrosity of stone and shadow. It had been abandoned for decades, and it looked it. Broken windows, overgrown ground, an aura of decay and sadness that made my skin prickle.

“Cheerful place.” Dean muttered as we approached the front door. 

Sam had already picked the lock, and we entered carefully, flashlights cutting through the darkness. The interior was just as decrepit as the exterior, peeling wallpaper, rotting furniture, the smell of mold and age. 

“We should split up.” Sam suggested. “Cover more ground. Look for anything that might be a magical anchor- Jewelry, books, persona; items.” 

“Y/N stays with me.” Rowena said immediately. Dean looked like he wanted to argue but thought better of it. 

“Fine.” He said. “Sam and I will take the upper floors. You two take the ground floor.” 

They headed for the stairs while Rowena and I began searching the main rooms. I could feel the magic in this place, old and angry, seeping from the walls like poison. Martha’s presence was everywhere, a cold fury that made the air thick and hard to breathe. 

“Focus.” Rowan murmured. “Don’t let the ambient magic distract you. We’re looking for a concentration point, somewhere the spell would be anchored.” 

We searched the parlor, the dining room, a library filled with moldering books. Nothing stood out as obviously magical until we reached what must have been Martha’s personal sitting room. The moment I crossed the threshold, I felt it, a pulse of power, rhythmic and strong, like a heartbeath. 

“Here, it’s here.” I said. 

Rowena felt it too. She moved to the center of the room, her eyes closed, following the magical signature. 

“There.” She said, pointing to a portait on the wall. “Behind that.” 

I helped her take down the portrait, a painting of Martha herself, beautiful and severe, and found a small alcove behind it. Inside was a wooden box, carved with symbols I recognized from my studies. Protection runes. Binding runes. Anchoring runes. 

“That’s it.” Rowena breathed. “That’s the anchor.” 

She reached for the box, but the moment her fingers touched it, the temperature in the room plummeted. My breath came out in visible puffs, and the lights from our flashlights flickered. 

“She knows.” I said. 

“Get ready.” Rowena commanded, pulling the box from the alcove. 

The spirit manifested between us and the door, Martha Ashford, translucent and purious, her neck bent at the unnatural angle. Her eyes were black pits of rage, and when she opened her mouth, the sound that came out was like nails on a chalkboard. 

“MINE!” She shrieked. “MINE!” 

She lunged at Rowena, but I was already moving, my hands coming up in the binding gesture, the words of the spell flowing from my lips. 

“Lingare! Constringere! Te teneo!” 

Golden light burst from my hands, wrapping around Martha’s form like chains. She screamed, thrashing against the binding, but I held firm, pouring my will into the spell. I could feel the drain on my power, the effort it took to hold a spirit this strong, but I didn’t let go. 

“Good gir.” Rowena said, already opening the box. Inside was a lock of hair, a wedding ring, and a small journal, all items tired to Martha’s identity, all feeding the anchoring spell. 

Rowena began to chant, her voice strong and clear. The items in the box began to smoke, then burn, consumed by magical fire. Martha’s scream intensified. She fought harder against my binding, and I felt the spell start to slip. My arms were shaking, sweat beading on my forehead despite the cold. 

“Hold her!” Rowena commanded, not breaking her chant. 

I gritted my teeth and pushed more power into the binding. “Te teneo! Te teneo!” 

The golden chains brightened, tightened. Martha was trapped, unable to reach Rowena, unable to stop the destruction of her anchor. The items in the box crumbled to ash. Rowena’s chant reached a crescendo, and she threw her ahnds up, shouting the final words for the banishment. 

“Spiritus, recede! Vade retro! Non hic manebit!” 

A blast of white light filled the room. Martha’s form convulsed, the black pits of her eyes widening in what might have been fear, or fury, or both. Then, with one final, ear-splitting shriek, she was gone. The temperature returned to normal. The oppressive magical pressure lifted. I dropped my hands, gasping, my legs suddenly weak. 

Rowena caught me before I could fall. “I’ve got you.” She said. “You did it, Y/N. You did beautifully.” 

“Is she gone?” I asked, my voice hoarse. 

“Aye. The anchor is destroyed, and the banishment is complete. She won’t be coming back.” 

Footsteps thrundered down the stairs, and Sam and Dean burst into the room, weapons drawn. 

“What happened?” Dean demanded. “We heard screaming-” He stopped, taking in the scene. The burned box, the ash on the floor, me leaning against my mom, exhausted but triumphant. 

“The spirit’s been banished.” Rowena said calmly. “The case is closed.” 

Sam and Dean exchanged another look, this one less skeptical and more impressed. 

“You did it.” Sam said. “Both of you.” 

“Y/N held the spirit while I destroyed the anchor and preformed the bandishment.” Rowena said, and there was unmistakable pride in her voice. 

“She did exactly what needed to be done.” 

Dean was looking at me differently now, the skepticism replaced by something like respect. 

“That binding spell, that was you?” He asked. 

I nodded, still catching my breath. 

“That was… actually pretty impressive.” He admitted grudgingly. 

Back at the motel, the four of us sat around the table, the tension from earlier completely dissipated. Dean had produced a bottle of whiskey. 

“For medicinal purposes.” He said with a grin, and poured drinks for everyone. He started to pour one for me too, but Rowena had given him a look that could have melted steal. 

“She’s fourteen, Dean.” 

“Right. Sorry.” He got me a Coke instead. 

“So,” Sam said, leaning back in his chair. “you’ve really been training Y/N for a year?” 

“Aye.” Rowena said. “She’s a natural talent. Her Mother taught her the basics before she died, but she needed proper instruction. Guidance.” 

“What happened to your parents?” Sam asked gently. I’d gotten better at talking about it over the past year, though it still hurt. 

“Something attacked them.” I said. “I don’t know what. I was at a friend’s house when it happened. By the time I got home…” I trailed off. 

“I’m sorry.” Sam said, and he sounded like he meant it. 

“The supernatural world is cruel to those who don’t understand it.” Rowena said, her hand finding mine on the table. “But Y/N is learning to navigate it. To protect herself and others.” 

“She did good tonight.” Dean said, and coming from him, that felt like high prose. “I’ll admit, I had my doubts. But that binding spell? That was solid work. How long can you hold it?” 

“About ninety seconds.” I said. “I’m working on extending it.” 

“Ninety seconds is plenty.” Dean said. “Most spirits don’t last that long once you work what you’re doing.” 

We talked for another hour, swapping stories about cases, magic, and the stange, dangerous world we all inhabited. Sam asked intelligent questions about magical theory that I did my best to answer. Dean told stories about past hunts that made Rowena roll her eyes but also smile. Eventually, Sam raised his cup of whiskey. 

“A toast.” He said. “To new family members. Welcome to the crazy, Y/N.” 

“To family.” Dean echoed, and even Rowena raised her glass. 

“To family.” I repeated, feeling warmth spread through my chest. 

Later, after we said our goodbyes and promised to stay in touch, Rowena and I drove back to our hotel room. I was exhausted, running on fumes, but also exhilarated. I’d done it. I faced a real vengeful spirit and helped banish it. I proven to the Winchesters, to Rowena, and to myself that I was capable. 

“You should be proud.” Rowena said as we got ready for bed. “You handled yourself like a true witch tonight.” 

“I was terrified.” I admitted. 

“Good.” Rowena said. “Fear keeps you sharp, keeps you careful. It’s overconfidence that gets you killed.” 

She came over and sat on the edge of my bed, brushing my hair back from my face in a gesture that was becoming familiar, maternal. 

“Your mother would be so proud of you, Y/N. I hope you know that.” 

My throat tightened. “Do you think she’d approve? Of me learning from you? Of… us?” 

“I think she’d be grateful that you found someone to care for you.” Rowena said softly. 

“Someone to teach you, to protect you, to love you. That’s all any parent wants for their child.” 

“And that’s what you do? Love me?” I asked quietly. 

Rowena’s expression softened in a way I rarely saw. “Oh, darling, of course I do. You’re my daughter. In every way that matters, you’re mine, and I’m your mother.” 

I threw my arms around her, hugging her tight. She stiffened for just a moment; physical affection still didn’t come naturally to her, but then she relaxed and hugged me back. 

“Thank you.” I whispered. “For finding me, for taking me in, for everything.” 

“You’ve given me something I never thought I’d have, a family. A real one.” 

We stayed like that for a long moment, mother and daughter, two people who found each other in the darkness and built something bright. When we finally pulled apart, Rowena stood and moved toward the door. 

“Get some sleep. We have a long drive home tomorrow.”