...straight on till morning

Judging by the fuzzy edges in his vision and the milky filter that makes everything glow slightly orange, he seems to be currently stuck in a dream.

Dean’s not exactly sure, though, where in the dream he is. But the air feels cleaner and softer around here. It hasn’t been scraped raw yet by exhaust fumes and motel bleach. It smells like forest and sun-warmed grass and lake water as the Impala drives along a winding dirt road, leading up a small hill. 

He’s not the one driving, though. His father is, while him and Sammy are cramped into the backseat. 

His shoulders dig into the worn leather as he stares out the window. He’s about twelve, maybe a little younger or older as the leg space in the back seems to be a tiny bit tighter than it used to. 

And then, a house comes into view. 

Faded blue in places where the sun’s kissed it too much and lived-in. Old but sturdy. It sits on a gentle rise, a green hill rolling up toward it, tucked between trees that stretch tall into the sky. He almost gasps at its beauty. It’s not polished in the perfect way of magazine homes, but in the way something real is beautiful. 

And it’s big – bigger than anything Dean’s used to calling home. 

It looks like something taken straight out of a storybook. There’s a wide wrap-around porch hugging the entire ground floor, railings painted white, steps worn smooth in the middle from years of use. One side of the house rises into an octagonal tower, tall and narrow, with windows glinting in the bright light. 

His gaze lingers on the attic without knowing why. 

There’s a window set into the peak of the roof, a colorful mosaic of stained glass. A birch tree delicately stretches across it, its branches protectively fanning outward. The glass glows, even from down here. 

Dean feels it then before he understands it. He’s been here before. 

He doesn’t know why, but he knows how the porch creaks under his weight and how the front door sticks just a little in the summer heat. 

A smile rises on his lips before he can stop it. Before he can question it. Before anything in this life can weigh it down again. 

He likes it here. 

The Impala rolls to a stop in front of the house. It doesn’t have a driveway or even a road. There’s just a small dirt path leading up to the porch. Otherwise, there’s only nature surrounding it, grass greener than he’s ever seen anywhere before and stretching out endlessly. No neighbors. Not a single roofline in sight.

The entire place feels like a magical secret in another realm. 

The driver’s door creaks open as his dad steps out, already all business, already moving toward the house like he’s got somewhere to be, already focused on whatever brought them here in the first place. Sammy scrambles after him, no more than eight, tripping over his own eagerness as usual. 

“Watch your brother,” his dad throws over his shoulder.

Dean rolls his eyes automatically and mutters a “yeah, yeah,” pushing the door open and stepping out into the blinding sun. The air is warm against his skin, and everything feels already lighter here. And for a second, just a second, there’s nothing sharp or dangerous about the world for once. No monsters. 

“Dean!”

He turns at the sound of his name and sees her running toward him. 

Small. Fast. All bright energy and wind-tangled hair. The way she’s storming at full speed feels like she’s already been waiting the whole damn day for this exact moment. Maybe even longer. It does something weird in his chest that he can’t name at twelve yet, but he decides he likes that feeling as well. 

There’s dirt on her knees and something wild and alive in the way she moves. It seems like she belongs more out here than inside any house. She doesn’t slow down until she’s right in front of him, practically bouncing where she stands.

And Dean? He grins.

It’s easy. Natural. This is what he’s supposed to do. 

She’s a little breathless and flushed, but her eyes are shining and there’s something bright and untamed in her grin. 

“You’re back!” she blurts, looking up at him like he painted the sky mesmerizingly blue just for her. 

She says it like it matters – like he matters. There’s something warm and familiar about that.

Important. 

“Yeah,” he says and shrugs like it’s no big deal, even though it sort of is. A part of him has been looking forward to this without realizing it.

She steps closer then, lowering her voice like she’s about to share the greatest secret in the world. “I got it,” she whispers.

Dean’s brow furrows the slightest bit. “Got what?”

“My magic.”

The word drops between them and lands wrong, tilting everything on its axis.

It doesn’t fit with the sunlight or the trees or the way this place felt like something safe just a minute ago. It sits heavily in the air, sharp-edged now where everything else used to be so damn soft.

Something in Dean shifts then.

It’s small at first. Just a flicker. A hitch in his chest. A loss of warmth. Barely noticeable. But it spreads quickly, like a crack through glass.

Magic. Witch.

The smile fades before he can stop it because he doesn’t like that. Not one bit. Doesn’t like the way it sounds, the way it feels, the way it suddenly changes everything about her without actually changing the way she looks, or the way it instantly makes everything here… different. Off. 

Before, she was normal. There wasn’t anything weird about her. Nothing to worry about. Nothing that reminded him of the things that go bump in the dark. 

But now, the ground under his feet isn’t as steady as it was a moment ago. Now, she’s something else. Something closer to the things he’s been taught to hate.

He looks at her again and really looks this time. And something clicks into place in a way that doesn’t make sense – not for twelve-year-old Dean standing in the tall grass at least. But it makes sense for the version of him watching through older eyes as something else threads through the dream.

He knows that little girl. Not the way a kid knows another kid, though. It’s something deeper. Something that doesn’t belong to this moment alone.

That little girl is… you. 

The realization hits quiet but certain, settling under his skin like it’s always been there, just waiting to be noticed. And somehow, that only makes it worse. Makes the disappointment sink deeper and take root. 

Because now the word witch doesn’t just sit wrong – it twists.

You’re still talking, still glowing with excitement, completely unaware of the way his expression’s changed.

“I can show you,” you offer keenly, reaching for the sleeve of his jacket like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t anchor him there. “It’s really cool, I promise. I’ve been practicing and–”

Dean pulls back his arm. 

Not hard. Not enough to be obvious. But enough to draw a line. The space between the two of you expands to a canyon in a millisecond.

He shrugs it off, eyes already drifting past you, toward the trees, toward the edge of the hill where the land dips down toward the pond, toward anything that isn’t this.

“Maybe later,” he mutters.

Your face falters, confusion replacing the earlier joy. 

“You don’t wanna see?” you ask with a slight wobbling pout on your lips.

He exhales through his nose, like you’re asking something annoying instead of something that matters.

“I said maybe later,” he snaps and averts his eyes when you flinch. “Go play with Sammy or somethin’.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond this time. Doesn’t look at you again, either. He just turns, shoving his hands into his pockets as he heads down the slope toward the water glinting through the trees. Each step feels easier than the last because distance is the only thing that makes sense right now.

Behind him, your voice echoes for half a heartbeat before it fades into the silence. But Dean keeps walking and doesn’t stop.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Dean’s eyes crack open to the dim, familiar ceiling of Bobby’s guest room, the wood panels stained and slightly warped with age. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just lies there in the narrow twin bed, watching the soft morning light seep through the yellowed curtains. 

The room is quiet in that particular way old houses tend to be – never truly silent but filled with the creaks and cracks of wood that has seen too many years. Bobby’s place has always been like that. Warm. Chaotic. A little rundown. Grounded. Home. 

And yet, Dean feels… off.

A part of him hasn’t quite made it back to reality yet. Part of him is still somewhere else. Still standing in a field that shouldn’t exist. Still watching a blue house glow in the sunlight like something out of a story he doesn’t remember reading. Still hearing your damn voice – bright, excited, and too fucking real.

He exhales slowly and drags a hand down his face, the rough scrape of his palm against his skin anchoring him a little more firmly in the present. But the dream sticks, stubborn in a way most aren’t. It’s too coherent to be dismissed entirely, even as he tries his damn hardest to forget it. 

There’s no immediate adrenaline in his veins, no hand flying under his pillow for a gun, and no sharp inhale of air like he’s startling straight out of another nightmare. It’s not the usual gist when it comes to dreams. Resurfacing feels slower than that. Feels more like he’s wading through something thick, something that clings.

My magic.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut for another second before letting out a quiet, irritated breath. 

Yeah… nope. He’s not dealing with that. He’s already got enough on his plate as is. It’s just a dream. A stupid, stupid, meaningless dream. A weird, persistent, too-detailed dream, but still just that.

That’s the only explanation that makes any kind of sense. Because the alternative – that it’s something else, something real – isn’t even worth entertaining. He’s never been to that place. Never seen that house. Never–

Dean’s frown deepens slightly.

There’s a strange familiarity to it, though. Not the kind that comes from memory exactly, but something adjacent to it, like his mind is filling in details it shouldn’t have, smoothing over gaps that shouldn’t exist in the first place.

He huffs under his breath and shifts on the mattress, which creaks in loud protest. The sheet’s half-twisted around his legs, the pillow shoved somewhere under his shoulder at an awkward angle. His fingers push back through his hair and make it worse, dirty blond tufts sticking up in every direction like he stuck his finger in a damn socket. 

It’s been like this for weeks now.

Ever since Salem.

Ever since you.

Same kind of dream. Same feeling. Same place, more or less. Bits and pieces shifting and morphing but always circling back to that house, that hill, that–

He cuts the thought off again because it just doesn’t make sense. None of it does. Dean Winchester does not have childhood memories of some random blue house in the middle of nowhere New Hampshire. He doesn’t have memories of running around with some girl in a field, playing house like everything’s normal and safe and–

His brain’s just screwing with him, cooking up whatever the hell that was, stitching things together that don’t fucking belong together. That’s all. 

He probably just picked something up in your apartment when they met you – something tiny and unimportant. Something he didn’t even consciously notice. Something small enough that it didn’t register at the time but still got stuck somewhere in the back of his head. Maybe a detail at your place. A book. A picture on the wall.

Yeah, that must be it. That’s what brains do, right? Take pieces, scraps, things picked up without noticing, and turn them into something bigger and personal, filling in non-existent blanks. Didn’t Freud write a whole-ass book about this?

It doesn’t mean those dreams are real in any way, shape, or form. 

Except–

Dean doesn’t remember seeing anything like that in your home. No pictures of a house. No hints. Nothing that should’ve given his brain that kind of material to work with. 

His jaw tightens slightly at that, something restless seeping under his skin. The timing alone is strange enough to irritate him. Apparently, his stupid brain has decided to latch onto you and just run with it in the most inconvenient way possible.

Maybe you’re a metaphor for something or a ghost of his Christmas past. Maybe you cursed him or hexed him or did whatever dumb, evil stuff witches do. Wouldn’t that be something? He gets on your bad side and threatens your life once and suddenly he’s stuck reliving some odd, fake childhood memories on a loop. Petty revenge does kind of fit your usual M.O., considering all the dicks you broke before him. 

Sure, the idea is slightly ridiculous, but it’s easier to digest than admitting to the fact that all this stupid and weird crap is coming directly from him.

Dean exhales another harsh breath through his nose and finally pushes himself upright. The bed creaks once more under his weight, old springs squeaking as he swings his legs over the side. The floorboards are cool under his feet when he rises. As he glances across the room, he finds Sam’s bed empty.

His little brother’s already up. Figures. 

Sam’s side is neat in that half-assed way whenever he’s in a hurry – blanket pushed back, pillow slightly indented, but otherwise abandoned. He’s probably downstairs already. Buried in books. Researching. Again.

Chasing ghosts that don’t wanna be caught. Chasing answers that don’t exist. Chasing that damn demon.

Sam doesn’t let things go. Not anymore, at least. God knows it was real easy for his little brother to let things go when he left everything behind for Stanford, including Dean. But somehow, Sam can’t do him the same courtesy now and let it go again. 

Now, after everything – after Jess, after Dad, after hunters like Gordon being immoral and wicked like monsters, after vampires and witches suddenly not fitting the mold anymore, and after psychic kids like Max and Andy – there’s no stopping Sam anymore. 

Nothing fits anymore. That’s the goddamn problem. The lines aren’t where they’re supposed to be. The rules don’t hold the way they used to. Monsters aren’t always monsters. Psychic kids aren’t always ticking time bombs waiting to go off. 

And maybe the last one isn’t the worst possible outcome. It’s that little shimmer of hope flickering in the distance that Dean’s been focusing on lately. Because maybe it means his father’s insane request doesn’t have to come true. Maybe it means he won’t have to kill the last member of his family with his own hands. 

Dean sighs as he trudges down the old stairs. When did his life get so damn complicated? How the hell did he end up here?

The smell of coffee then hits him halfway down the steps. Strong. Bitter. Bobby’s special brand of hospitality. 

As he rounds the corner to the kitchen, Sam’s already there. Of course he is. 

Sitting at the small table, hunched forward slightly, a mug of coffee in one hand and a book in the other, with about six more spread out around him like he’s building some kind of paper fortress.

Dean pauses in the doorway for a beat, watching him. Andy was just another reminder that Sam’s not normal. That none of this is going away. 

Sam then glances up briefly before focusing back on his book. “Morning.”

Dean pretends to stroll in without hesitation or having wasted a single thought on it, aiming for casualness as he heads straight for the coffee pot and grunts something that passes as a response. 

If he’s going to deal with this, any of this, he needs some caffeine first. And the thing is, he knows he will have to deal with it at some point. He knows there’s no outrunning this, even though most days he’d like to take his chances and still try. 

This particular day, however, doesn’t seem to be one of those. So, he pours himself a cup of the blackest coffee and leans against the counter as the bitter smell curls around him like all the other bitterness.

He winces at his first sip and decides to break the silence. “Bobby still makin’ this stuff strong enough to wake the dead, huh?”

Sam huffs a light chuckle in agreement but doesn’t look up, hazel eyes glued to the pages in front of him.

Dean watches him for another minute over the rim of his mug. God, he wants to ignore it. Wants to just drink his coffee, maybe make some joke, and then avoid the whole fucking thing. Because the last thing he truly wants to do is dive into demon lore first thing in the goddamn morning and psychic kids and destiny and all the bad ways this could end in blood and death and horror. 

But Sam’s already there and neck-deep in it, so alas, what other choice does Dean really have than be in it, too? 

“Found anything?” Dean asks finally, more out of obligation than genuine interest.

“Working on it.” 

He sighs quietly, pushing off the counter, pacing a few steps across the kitchen. “Sam–” he starts but doesn’t finish. Because what is he supposed to say? 

Stop? 

Yeah, right. Like that’s ever worked. The kid’s stubborn like that. 

But Dean doesn’t get really worried till Sam starts grinding his molars and biting the insides of his cheeks, his fingers playing with the edge of a page. That’s never a good sign. When his little brother’s chewing on something, Dean knows he gets the leftovers. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking–”

But Dean already shakes his head in warning. “Don’t even say it.”

Sam still does, though. Your name falls from his lips.

Dean freezes imperceptibly for a heartbeat, because the timing of this feels too deliberate to be a coincidence. Remnants of his latest dream flood back into his mind in the same breath, and he already hates where this conversation’s inevitably headed. 

“Don’t you think we should call her?” Sam finishes his delusion. 

Dean schools his expression quickly, taking another sip of coffee. “No, Sam, I don’t think that,” he replies dryly and keeps the annoyance locked behind his teeth.

Sam’s frown is already forming. “Dean–”

“I said no,” he snaps with more sharpness and watches Sam’s mouth close in frustration. 

He refuses to drag you into this. Because that’s what this is – dragging people into a mess they can’t get out of. He dragged Sam back into it and look what happened. Dean’s not doing that again. 

Sam then leans back in his chair, studying him, far from giving up, judging by the determination gleaming in his eyes. “She might have answers.” 

“Or she might be another problem,” Dean shoots back, although a small and annoying part of him knows Sam’s right. 

You probably would have answers. But Dean’s not sure he necessarily wants to hear them. 

Sam does, however. The obsession and urgency isn’t entirely new, but it’s definitely getting worse. Lately, it feels like Sam isn’t just looking for answers anymore but actually needs them like people need oxygen to live. This whole thing has become more intense and less… optional. 

Before Sam can push further, footsteps sound behind them. Bobby walks in, coffee already in hand, eyes flicking knowingly between them.

“What’re you two idjits arguin’ about this time, huh?” he prompts.

“Nothin’,” Dean mutters into his mug. But when his eyes find Sam in his periphery, he can already see the idea forming on his little brother’s face. He shoots Sam a warning look. 

“Actually, uhm–” Sam starts, gaze flicking briefly to Dean’s glare before he apparently decides to ignore it. “Hey, uh, Bobby, have you ever heard of the Berkano witches?”

Dean closes his eyes briefly to let the anger and frustration pass through his body without tearing the house down. Of course Sam can’t resist. Of course he fucking goes there. Of course he has to drag Bobby into it, too. 

Bobby halts his movements mid-pour on the counter and slowly turns around, raising a high brow. “Now, where the hell did you boys hear that name?”

“Dad’s journal,” Sam replies without missing a beat. 

Bobby lets out a scoff, shaking his head as he sets the mug down. “Yeah, you could say I’ve heard of ‘em,” he replies. “I was actually the one who sent your daddy up to New Hampshire in the first place.”

Dean’s brow knits. “Wait… You did?”

“So Dad really worked with them?” Sam checks curiously, leaning forward on the table. 

“Yup, he sure did,” Bobby confirms with a nod. “Figured they could help him with the demon, y’know? They’re kinda experts on all that stuff. Were at least…”

Sam shoots Dean a small I told you so glare that he fends off with an eye roll. 

Dean then focuses back on Bobby. “You know if he ever took us up there with him?”

The question clearly confuses Sam. Admittedly, it comes a little out of the blue, but Dean figures he can always excuse it with natural curiosity. He was a kid back then, too. What the hell did he truly know? And judging by Sam’s creased brow, his little brother clearly doesn’t have weird dreams about a place he’s never been to. 

A part of Dean is relieved about that because it means those dreams are really just that. Because even when Sam was younger than him, Dean knows his little brother would’ve never forgotten a beautiful place like that because he surely would’ve never forgotten it either if it truly existed, which means all of it is just some strange, surreal fantasy. Sam’s never been there. He’s never been there. It was never real. 

“Don’t know.” Bobby shakes his head slowly. “Your dad didn’t exactly always give me the play-by-play.”

Dean nods once, pretends to be satisfied, and considers the issue settled, even though it’s not. 

“How did you know about them?” Dean asks the older hunter then. 

“Met ‘em in the late ‘80s through another hunter who lived close to ‘em,” Bobby replies without elaborating the why of it all. “Mostly worked with Aine. She was the matriarch. Sometimes worked with her daughter, Freya, too. She had a little girl as well. Sweet kid. Couldn’t’ve been more than three or four when I met her.” He chuckles fondly before his expression turns more somber. “Too bad they’re all gone. Surely coulda helped you boys. ’S sad what happened to ‘em. Demons got ‘em in ’95. They were the last of their line.”  

Dean’s jaw tightens at that, locking eyes with Sam. So Bobby clearly doesn’t know about their father’s plan, either. Doesn’t know you’re still alive. Last one standing. 

For some reason, the thought curdles acid in Dean’s stomach. If he knows demons as well as he thinks he does, they surely wouldn’t like that. Maybe even take it as a challenge. 

Who can make a powerful witch bloodline go extinct first?

And for all Dean knows, he almost had. 

While Bobby doesn’t have a clue about John Winchester’s secrets, the old man’s at least perceptive enough to catch the silent conversation between the brothers. His eyes flick back and forth between them and narrow. 

“Alright, what’s going on here? One of you gonna tell me?” Bobby prompts, stance both challenging and somehow scolding. 

“They’re not all dead,” Dean says then. “The girl…” The word tastes strange on his tongue. The girl from his dreams. “She–, uh, she’s still alive.”

“Yeah, uhm, Dad got her out of that fire and hid her in Salem,” Sam adds. 

“Put her up with a cop,” Dean scoffs. 

Bobby exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, frustration with a hint of anger lacing his tone. Dean doesn’t entirely blame him. His father had a way of bringing that side out in people. “That stubborn bastard. Figures he’d keep somethin’ like that to himself.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean huffs in faint agreement. His father always had to keep his secrets.  

“Wait…” Bobby frowns then, tilting his head. “Was that why you boys went to Salem a couple of weeks ago?”

Both of them nod. 

“Dammit,” the old man grunts. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Bobby doesn’t wait for either of them to answer, though. He just spins on his heel and heads out of the kitchen. Dean can hear the basement door opening a second later and Bobby’s footsteps trudging down the stairs. He shares a quizzical look with Sam before the old man stomps back into the room with a giant, ancient book in his hands. He dusts it off before slapping it down on the small table in front of their noses. 

“Coulda given you boys this before,” is all he says before he opens it and flips through it till he finds the page he’s looking for. He taps his finger on the brittle parchment. “Here.”

Dean and Sam both lean closer, their eyes focusing on the hand-painted letters of the title. It almost looks like a fairytale in a storybook. 

The Legend of Eira

“Long before hunters had names for what they were doing,” Bobby begins, “before there were journals and rules and all that, people didn’t know what the hell they were up against. Humans still lived in tribes when the first demons began to walk the earth. They didn’t have the right names for ‘em yet, but crops started to fail, diseases spread, nights became unsafe…”

Dean’s eyes drop to the page in front of him, reading the first paragraphs. 

Before the old gods had names, before the world was carved into realms, there was a current that moved beneath all living things.

It had no voice, no will, no master.

It simply was.

It lived in the roots of trees and the pull of the tide, in the breath between heartbeats and the quiet spaces where light did not reach. It did not belong to heaven, nor to darkness. It existed beside them, as old as both, untouched by their designs.

For a long time, it remained undisturbed until something else began to walk the earth. 

They came without being born, without growing. They wore the shapes of men but moved like smoke trapped in skin, hollowed and hungry, leaving ruin in their wake. They whispered sickness into the land and twisted animals into frenzy.

“According to legend, Eira was the first witch known to mankind. Real one, at least,” Bobby says. “She was said to have had a special bond with nature. Could feel things others couldn’t. Nowadays, you’d probably call her a psychic.”

Dean feels Sam’s eyes burning a hole into the side of his face, but he keeps his gaze trained on Bobby and the book in front of him. 

The tribes did not understand what they were, only that they did not belong. They feared these creatures of the dark. 

Among them was a young woman named Eira. She was not the strongest, nor the loudest, nor the one others looked to for war. But born during a blood moon on spring equinox, the gods bestowed a special gift upon her, and she was given the ability to listen. 

She listened to the wind through the trees, to the silence beneath the soil, to the stream beneath the world that bound every living thing together.

“When demons came and killed half her tribe in one night, the goddess Freyja appeared to her in a dream,” Bobby continues. “Afterward, Eira wandered three days through the forest alone, claiming Freyja told her about a way to fight back. If you ask me, the girl might’ve just been high outta her mind on too much Henbane.” He chuckles lightly, scratching his beard. “But Freyja told her the power she was lookin’ for was already there. She just had to reach for it.”

“How?” Sam asks, fully swept up by Bobby’s storytelling skills.

Dean, on the other hand, can barely concentrate on the old man’s words. His green eyes are glued to the foxed page in front of him, eight little words sticking out like a sore thumb.

Born during a blood moon on spring equinox.

Can he still mindfully chalk that off as a mere coincidence?

Shit. As soon as Sam reads this, his ass will be on fire. Dean’s, too. 

“She performed a ritual. Tapped into it, took that power into herself, and then bound it,” Bobby replies. “After that, she returned to her tribe. But she didn’t just use that power to fight back. She taught the men in her camp how to kill demons, banish dark spirits.”

“Hunters,” Sam murmurs. Dean shoots him a sideways glance.

“First ones.” Bobby nods. “She passed it down her line. Kept protectin’ people. When they came over here with the first colonies, they did the same. Helped hunters – didn’t matter where they came from. But Christianity was high on the rise at this point as you can imagine. Didn’t take kindly to them. People got scared and started seein’ ‘em as the enemy. Puritans turned on ’em. Started huntin’ ’em instead, so they went into hiding. Built that place up north like a magical fortress.”

Dean huffs under his breath. Figures.

“Demons didn’t just sit back, either,” Bobby continues. “They twisted that magic. Found ways to corrupt it. That’s where the witches you’re used to come from. Deals. Blood magic. All that ugly crap.” 

Sam sits back slightly, head tilted in thought and a glimmer of hope twinkling in his hazel eyes. Meanwhile, Dean feels more off-balance than ever. 

Even Bobby is saying it – not all of them are bad.

“Sam.” Dean draws his little brother’s attention to him, his finger tapping the particular line on the page that caught his eyes earlier. 

Better he tells Sam now before he finds it out for himself later. Doesn’t really make a difference. At least this way, Dean can still pretend he’s helping and not actively obstructing Sam’s way to justice or revenge or whatever. 

Sam reads the words carefully for a moment before the creases in his brow begin to deepen. He then looks at Dean. 

“Dude.”

Dean rolls his eyes once more. “I know, Sam.”

Bobby’s gaze flicks between them, confused and surely partially frustrated. “What now?”

Dean licks his lips as he finds the old man’s eyes. “Looks like, uhm, our little fire survivor shares a birthday with this Eira chick.”

“Including the blood moon,” Sam adds. 

Bobby’s frown deepens. “Balls…”

“‘M guessing you didn’t know about that one, either,” Dean deduces by the older hunter’s darkened expression. 

“Bet Dad did,” Sam mutters under his breath, earning himself a glare from his brother. 

Dean looks up at Bobby. “Probably not a coincidence, right?”

“What d’you think, idjit? Do I really need to spell it out for ya?” Bobby snaps with a deadpan look. 

Dean purses his lips. 

Jesus. He was just asking a simple, clarifying question. Can’t even do that anymore around here without getting attacked. 

“Dean, maybe we should call her now,” Sam says, his earlier stern expression softened to a bleeding heart. 

“Still nope,” Dean shoots him down fast. 

“Dean, the demon could find her. She might not be safe where she is anymore,” Sam argues. 

Shit. Dean hasn’t thought of that. At least, he didn’t want to ruminate in that idea for too long, not liking the slight pang it always caused behind his ribs. But that probably was just heartburn, not care. 

“Tough luck,” Dean scoffs. 

“Dean–”

“Do you even understand the meaning of the word no?” he cuts in sharply. Then his jaw begins to grind with something close to guilt. He forces himself to calm with a slight sigh but doesn’t cave. “We don’t need her, alright?”

“Even Bobby says she can help us,” Sam says, still not budging either. 

“No, he said they could’ve. Not freakin’ Sabrina, the Teenage Witch,” Dean counters cleverly.

They both then look at Bobby for confirmation of either side. 

“No offense, but I’m stayin’ outta this one,” the old man murmurs, raising his hands in surrender. 

Dean sighs and turns back to his little brother. “Sammy, c’mon, the girl we met was a far cry from some powerful, demon-banishing witch, alright? She barely knew anything. You heard her. She never went back there after the fire and didn’t want anything to do with this crap.”

Sam at least considers this for a moment. 

“She done the ritual yet?” Bobby chimes in then. 

The brothers share a perplexed look before their heads swirl back to Bobby, speaking simultaneously, “What ritual?”

Salem, Massachusetts

Mia’s house never changes. 

As you step inside, your keys still warm in your palm from unlocking the door, the same creak of floorboards greets you beneath your feet, the old pipes humming somewhere deep in the walls as they always do. Even the air smells the same – lavender cleaner, old wood, and something sweet and cinnamon that always clings to Mia’s place.

This house used to be your home once, too. From eleven to eighteen, every corner of this place had known you. Every wall has watched you grow into the woman you are today.

“Hey, you’re home early,” Mia calls from the kitchen, her voice warm as she flips a page of the newspaper.

You shrug off your jacket, forcing something that resembles normalcy into your tone. “Slow day at work,” you sigh. “No exciting murders for me to poke at.”

“Give it time. This town never disappoints,” she mutters dryly, not even looking up. “You picked the right job for that.”

You huff a laugh and step closer, your eyes drifting to the paper in her hands more out of habit than interest. The headline catches your attention, though.

Sleepy Hollow Beheadings Continue: Third Victim Found

You furrow your brow, leaning slightly over her shoulder. “Beheadings? Seriously? What is this, 1692 again?”

Mia snorts lightly. “Right? That town’s living up to its brand too, I guess. Three victims in two weeks. All decapitated. No suspects. No weapons found.” She finally glances up at you, brows raised. “Your kind of nightmare.”

“Or dream.” You grin, already scanning the short article. Your brain starts cataloguing details on autopilot. Clean cuts? Jagged edges? Angle of severance? Man, you never get any cool cases like that around here. You’d kill to see a crime scene of someone who was decapitated. 

But then you force yourself to stop. You’re not here for work. Well, not that kind of work at least. 

You straighten and casually purse your lips. “You got any plans today?”

Mia eyes you for a second, suspicious in a way only someone who raised you half your life can be. “Why?”

You shrug again, entirely nonchalant. At least, you hope you pull it off. God knows it’s hard work to trick a cop, especially one as perceptive as your adoptive mother. “Just wondering. Thought I might hang out here for a bit.”

It’s not that uncommon as of late that you’re seeking out her company. Ever since those brothers barged into your life, you’ve been around her more. Somehow, being near someone who knows how to handle a gun brings you comfort, considering you stared down the barrel of one only a few weeks ago.

Mia studies you a moment longer, then sighs, her alarm bells luckily staying silent. “I’ve gotta run some errands. Grocery store, dry cleaning, the usual. You wanna come with me like old times? I’ll let you push the cart again,” she teases. 

“Nah,” you huff perfectly casual. “Kinda beat. Think I’m just gonna curl up on the couch and watch reruns of Buffy.”

“Alright.” She nods but then finds your eyes with a hint of worry in hers. “You’ll be okay here alone?”

She never says it out loud, but she’s been concerned about you for the past weeks. The fact someone threatened your life clearly doesn’t sit right with her either.

“I’ll be fine,” you assure her. “I’ve lived here before, you know.”

She huffs a laugh, rising from her stool by the island, folding the paper. “Alright, kid,” she sighs softly. “There’s still some leftover lasagna in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

You smile teasingly and arch a brow. “Did you put vitamins in it again?”

“That was one time.” Mia frowns. “You were a picky eater. I was worried you weren’t getting enough nutrients.”

“Nothing like vitamin C powder in hot chocolate,” you deadpan.

“Yes, and I apologized for that,” Mia huffs, chuckling. “It’s not always easy being a parent. You’ll see.”

“It tasted like feet.”

“You’re still alive. I call that a win,” Mia says as she puts on her jacket and grabs her purse and keys, heading for the door. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

“No promises.” You smirk.

And then, you wait.

Not just until the door closes, the noise of the lock clicking like a starting gun, but until the sound of her car fades all the way down the street and the house settles back into that serene, watchful stillness. 

Only then do you move.

You hesitate for half a second at the basement door, fingers hovering over the knob. It’s not fear, exactly. More like… awareness. You’re about to cross a line you’ve spent years carefully avoiding.

You never wanted to dig into this. Never needed to. Your life was fine. Good, even. You had a job you liked, friends and family you loved, and a boyfriend calling you whenever he could from whatever classified corner of the world he was stationed in. You had normal – or at least something damn close to it.

Then, the stupid Winchesters showed up on your doorstep and tore a hole straight through it. Now, nothing fits the way it used to anymore.

Upon your next deep breath for some courage, you finally twist the knob.

Now or never, you suppose.

The basement greets you with a soft flicker of light as you flip the switch, the bulb buzzing for a second before it steadies. The air is cooler and heavier down here, carrying a scent of dust motes and time. Cardboard boxes along the walls. Old furniture draped in sheets. Stacked memories. Forgotten pieces of a life packed away and left behind.

Your life. 

If there’s anything left of who you were before, it has to be here.

You wander around carefully at first, afraid something might jump out at you (which, honestly, isn’t even that ridiculous of a notion anymore). It’s not just demons and monsters, but spiders count, too. Then you pull your hair into a bun, slip on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, and get to work. But as minutes tick away on the clock and you keep coming up empty, finding less than nothing, your movements grow quicker and more impatient.

You open box after box, drawer after drawer.

Yearbooks. Report cards. Old school papers. Trophies from high school – track, debate, that one science fair you still think you shouldn’t have won. There are sketchbooks as well, filled with half-finished drawings and doodles you vaguely remember making during boring classes. There’s also a badly painted clay sculpture you made when you were fourteen.

Normal. All of it. Painfully, frustratingly normal.

There’s nothing here. No symbols. No books. No trace of anything even remotely… witchy. It’s just a life carefully curated to look ordinary.

You shove the lid back onto another box a little harder than necessary this time, irritation prickling under your skin. “Seriously?” you mutter under your breath. “That’s it? That’s what you hid from me? My stellar academic career?”

Nothing here answers anything. Nothing explains the things the Winchesters said – the demon, the fire, your family.

Your magic.

Your jaw tightens as you glance around the basement again, slower and more deliberate this time. If Mia hid something down here, it wouldn’t be obvious. She’s by far not that careless. She’d hide it somewhere safe, somewhere out of reach and out of sight.

Fine. You can work with that.

You reach into your bag and pull out your notebook, flipping it open to a blank page. The glitter pen follows in orange because orange is for practical magic – the general ‘make life run more smoothly’ category. It’s the one you seek out when you need to get stuff done. As a teen, you probably used the cleaning spell the most whenever Mia would tell you to get your room in order before going out. And hey, even when you’re breaking into your own past with magic, you’re still committed to the aesthetic.

You tap the pen against the page once, twice, thinking. Then you write.

What is hidden, lost from sight,Buried deep in shadowed night,Show your place and make it known,Call me to what’s mine alone.

Satisfied, you softly mutter the words and then wait. It doesn’t take long before you notice a subtle flicker in your periphery. Your head then turns slowly toward the far corner of the basement, drawn to it by an almost magnetic pull. 

There’s an old safe there. You’ve seen it a hundred times before and never thought twice about it. Now, though, it hums, a soft glow threading through its metal seams, light trying to breathe through steel.

“Well, that’s new,” you murmur, lips twitching slightly.

You push yourself to your feet and cross the room, crouching in front of it. Up close, the glow nearly dramatically screams here. 

Your heart hammers wildly against your ribs as you inspect the lock. Knowing Mia, it’s probably useless trying to guess the code. She’s too smart to use birthdays or any other important numbers. It’s probably some made-up combination she just forced herself to remember by heart. 

“Alright, round two,” you sigh, flipping your notebook open again.

Metal sealed and secrets kept,Guarded where the past has slept,By my will, reveal, undo,What is hidden, I claim true.

Once the words leave your mouth, the safe’s lock clicks just like that. No resistance. No fight. The door simply creaks open without theatrics. 

You stare at the crack for a second before letting out an incredulous breath. “Okay, that was way too easy.”

Man, you’d make an excellent bank robber. The world is truly lucky you’re a good person and not some homicidal maniac, considering the sheer damage you could do. Although, if you probably asked Dean Winchester, he’d still insist you were a homicidal maniac. 

As you then reach inside the safe, the first thing you pull out is a photograph. Your breath catches in the same second your eyes land on it and fully take it in. It’s been forever since you’ve seen it. Too long.

It’s the house you were born and grew up in. Your old family home. A blue, two-story Queen Anne perched on a hill like something out of a dream you never forgot – the white wrap-around porch, the octagonal tower, the stained-glass attic window still glowing even in the picture. 

Your fingers tighten around the edges. You remember this. Not in fragments, not distorted, but clearly. Completely.

The smell of the grass. The sound of your mom laughing somewhere behind you. Your grandma’s protective voice calling from the porch.

God, you’ve missed it. You miss them. It’s one of the reasons, probably even the biggest one, why you never had the urge to set a foot down here before and marinate in a past life you lost and could never get back. 

You swallow as you set the photo aside and reach deeper.

There are more documents like birth records but tons of family pictures as well. You, smaller and grinning with missing teeth. Your mother beside you, soft-eyed and radiant. Your grandmother, stern but warm, a steady presence at your other side.

You carefully look and sort through all of them, more and more memories flooding back into your mind. Every new picture forces a sad smile onto your face. Every good memory hurts like hell. 

You hate this. You don’t want to do this. Not because you don’t want to remember, but because you never forgot any of it in the first place. After all, how could you ever possibly forget a place like that?

Your childhood was magical, filled with days playing in the sun and nights spent chasing fireflies. 

You remember the weekly tea parties your grandma used to throw in the attic when your aunties came to visit. You would dress up in your mom’s old clothes and quietly play on the floor next to them as the sunlight shone through the stained glass, a colorful mosaic of a birch tree stretching along the boards. 

You can also recall all the afternoons you spent with your mom in the garden as she taught you how to take care of plants. You’d learned what each herb can do and knew the name of every flower by the time you were six years old. 

As you grow curiouser and curiouser, you soon find yourself in your own rabbit hole till you stumble upon a sealed envelope with your name on it. Your heart winces when you recognize the handwriting. It’s from your mother.

You’ve never seen this before. Mia never gave this to you. 

Slowly and carefully, you slide your finger under the seal and pry it open. The paper inside is aged but still intact. You unfold it with shaky hands that don’t quite feel like your own and then begin to read.

My dearest daughter,

If you are reading this, then time has carried you to a day I always dreamed of witnessing myself.

Your twenty-first birthday.

I wish I could be there with you. I wish I could see the woman you’ve become, hear your voice again, hold your hands and tell you how proud I am. There are no words for the ache of knowing I won’t be there for this moment, but there is comfort in knowing that you at least made it here.

That you lived.

That you are still standing.

My sweet girl, you were born beneath a blood moon on the spring equinox, a rare and sacred convergence. From the moment you came into this world, your grandmother and I knew you were special – not because of power, but because of the balance you carry within you. Light and shadow. Creation and destruction. You were never meant to be ordinary, my love.

And for that, I am so sorry.

Because today marks more than just your birthday. It is your awakening.

In our family, the twenty-first year is when a witch comes fully into her power. The magic you have touched until now – the small spells, the flickers, the instincts – that is only the beginning. There is more within you. So much more. And it has been waiting, patiently, for you to be ready.

But with power comes danger.

There are forces in this world that will seek you out, that will want to use what you are or destroy it entirely. Be careful. Trust your instincts, even when they lead you down paths you don't understand quite yet – especially then.

You come from a long line of protectors. Witches who stood beside people, who fought to keep balance in a world that constantly tries to tip toward darkness. That legacy lives in you now.

Please remember: you are never alone in this, even if it feels like you are. We’re always here to watch over you. And no matter what happens, no matter what choices you make or where your path leads, you are loved beyond measure.

Always, Mom

The silence in the basement suddenly feels suffocating as you lower the letter. For a long moment, you just sit there, the paper trembling in your hands, your thoughts moving too fast and somehow not at all.

Twenty-one. Awakening. More power.

You let out a slow breath, your grip tightening slightly on the letter.

Well, alright, that’s a lot to dump on someone. This is bigger than you thought. Bigger than a few weird conversations and vague warnings about demons.

This is something else entirely.

What does it all mean? Why is your mother giving you the Spider-Man speech from beyond the grave? And why the hell has Mia never shown this to you?

Deep down, you know she just wants to protect you and keep you safe. Before the night of the fire, she had never faced anything evil like this. Her natural instinct was to stay out of this world. She wanted you to have a normal childhood, a normal job, a normal life. 

But you? You’ve grown up with the knowledge that there is more out there than meets the eye. You have always walked the line between ordinary and weird and tiptoed carefully between both worlds. And you know if something is truly coming for you, you can’t just ignore it. 

You know you can’t simply turn your back and run away from this.

And for the first time since the Winchesters left, the fear you felt back then morphs into focus. Your gaze drifts toward the stairs, toward the world up there that suddenly feels too small for everything you’re holding now.

You need answers. 

Your hands are shaking as you reach for your purse and pull out your phone. You hesitate as your thumb hovers over the contact – a name you never thought you’d call. But then, you dial the number. 

Sam picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

You press your lips together for a second before speaking. “Is this Sam Winchester?” you check. “It’s–, uhm, it’s me. Salem witch you tried to kill?”

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again, his voice more alert than before. “Hey, uh, I’m surprised you called. Honestly didn’t expect it after the way we left.”

“Makes two of us,” you sigh. You still can’t believe you actually called him. It feels like you’re only following the white rabbit even deeper into the hole. 

“Yeah, uhm, I can’t blame you,” he chuckles lightly. “But I’m glad you called. Sorry again how things went down. That wasn’t our intention.”

“Yeah? Does your brother share that sentiment?” you retort. 

Sam’s silent for a moment, which is an answer in itself. 

“Dean’s, uh–… It’s complicated,” is all Sam says. “You–, uh, you okay?” 

“Define okay,” you huff under your breath, staring down at the letter in your lap again. 

“Did something happen?”

You shake your head, swallowing. “No, uh, nothing like that,” you assure him and can hear a small sigh of relief on the other line. Is he actually concerned about you? “I just–, uhm… I looked through some of my old stuff in Mia’s basement and might have found something. I honestly don’t know if it even is anything, I just–… well, you said I should call if I did, so…”

“No, uh, that’s fine. Anything helps. Big or small. We’re kinda desperate here,” Sam says, laughing a little, which makes you huff a laugh as well. 

What a weird fucking day…

“We found some things, too,” he adds. “There’s more going on than we thought.”

Great. Of course there is.

You close your eyes briefly and exhale a deep breath, steeling yourself. “What–, uh, what did you find?”

Sam hesitates for a moment, the line falling silent. “I’m not sure we should do this over the phone. Might not be safe.”

You swallow thickly. You haven’t thought about that. Do demons do wire-taps?

“You–, uhm, you wanna meet somewhere?” you ask reluctantly. You’re not sure you truly ever want to see either of them again in your life. The plan was to tell Sam what you know, so he could handle it and you could go back to your same old boredom. 

“Yeah, uhm, we’re in South Dakota right now, but we can drive to Salem to meet you there,” Sam suggests. 

Somehow, you don’t like that idea. Last time they came to town, you felt paranoid for an entire week, double-checking locks and dark corners, your skin prickling with terror that the brothers might come back to finish the job or maybe even send some other hunter your way. Their visit left you feeling like you had a red-painted target on your back, not to mention that you were sure his brother still didn’t take too kindly to you, judging by Sam’s own hesitation.

“You think you can come alone?” you ask then, chewing on your bottom lip. “I don’t wanna see your brother again. No offense.” 

Sam chuckles a little. “None taken. Trust me, I get it. Dean doesn’t need to know,” he says, which brings you some relief. “I can keep him occupied. Just need to find a case in your area. Would that work for you?”

You pause for a moment, contemplating his suggestion. Unlike his brother, Sam hasn’t tried to kill you. He hasn’t even said a single bad word to you. Hasn’t threatened you or even pulled a gun. But can you really trust him?

“Actually, I think I might have a case for you guys,” you say musingly. “You ever heard about Sleepy Hollow, New York?”

Sam barks an amused laugh at that. “Sleepy Hollow, huh?”

“Yeah, they had three beheadings over the last two weeks. It’s been on the news. I don’t know a lot about hunting, but that sounds like your area of expertise. It’s only a four-hour drive from Salem. I could meet you there,” you suggest.

“That actually sounds perfect,” Sam agrees. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Dean won’t pass that up. It’ll keep him busy.”

You nod slowly, even though he can’t see it. “Alright.”

“We’ll head out right away. Probably will be there by tomorrow,” he continues.

“Works for me,” you say, even though your nerves are exploding. “Guess I’ll see you there then.”

“Yeah, see you,” Sam replies warmly.

You then hang up and stare at your phone for a moment longer before storing it back in your purse. Then your gaze drifts back to the open safe. To the photographs. To the letter still resting in your lap.

Your life was simple once – or at least simpler. But now it feels like the ground has cracked open beneath your feet, revealing a depth you didn’t know was there.

All you can hope for now is that you don’t fall down too far.

Sleepy Hollow, New York

This town almost feels like home to you. Because, much like Salem, Sleepy Hollow leans heavily into its reputation.

The streets are lined with old colonial houses that look like they’ve survived three centuries out of sheer stubbornness, their crooked fences and deep porches casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. There are wrought-iron signs swinging above shop doors, carved pumpkins already appearing in windows despite it being still summer, and in the distance, an old church bell tolls ominously. You’re sure if you looked hard enough, you could even find a murder of ravens lurking around somewhere. 

As soon as you’d passed the town sign, you felt like you stepped into Edgar Allan Poe’s wet dream. 

Sam texted you this morning when they passed Cleveland, stating they’d be here in a couple of hours. And now, you’re standing on the sidewalk across from a small diner, sunglasses perched on your nose, the warmth of the sun settling against your skin, and it should feel pleasant. Casual. Normal.

But instead, your brain is busy running through worst-case scenarios. Because, really, what in the living hell are you doing here?

You’re not just about to have coffee with an old friend and catch up on life. You’re here to meet a hunter. Voluntarily. As in, not under duress, not with a gun pointed at you, not as part of some life-threatening interrogation. No, it’s just a normal Thursday afternoon (and maybe a deeply questionable life choice).

Your gaze drifts to the shop window of a small bookstore to your right and catches your reflection. You look ordinary, like everyone else around you, although your magic hums in your blood and you seriously contemplate walking straight back to your car and pretending this entire situation never escalated past mildly concerning.

You could still leave.

No consequences. No one chasing after you. No one would even know you came. 

You could just turn around, drive back to Salem, and go back to your job, your apartment, your very sane and evidence-based existence where magic is something you use to occasionally clean your kitchen faster – not to unlock family secrets or hunt evil. You could just let the Winchesters keep chasing their demons, literal and otherwise, while you go back to your lab and your carefully constructed version of normal.

Tempting. Very tempting.

But then your mind, traitorous thing that it is, conjures your mom’s letter again. The careful curve of her handwriting. The words that refuse to remain muted in the back of your head.

It is your awakening.

You make a face. Right. No pressure. But what if you don’t even want to awaken anything at all? What if you just want to stay at home, eat ice cream on the couch, and not deal with any of this?

You exhale a deep sigh and finally push off the curb to cross the street before you can overthink this whole meeting into oblivion. It doesn’t hurt to hear him out and find out what’s really going on. Whether you want to or not, a door has opened and you’re forced to step through it. Doesn’t mean you can’t always still bolt back out later on when you don’t like what’s inside, though. 

The bell above the diner door chimes as you stroll inside, a wave of cool air from the AC greeting you along with the rich scent of coffee, sugar, and grease. The place is busy but not too crowded, only a few locals lingering over iced drinks and tourists snapping photos like they’re expecting the Headless Horseman himself to ride past the window at any second. 

Of course tourists and reporters flooded this town as soon as the first victim dropped their head and turned it into a media circus. 

Your eyes then cautiously scan the room for a minute before you spot Sam Winchester. You feel the relief flooding your veins when you find him alone and without the company of his bloodthirsty, bull-headed brother. 

While Sam swore he’d come solo, you didn’t quite trust his word, considering he’s technically supposed to be your arch nemesis. That’s how the story goes, right? The hunter and the fox. 

Sam sits in a corner booth near the back, long legs tucked under a small table. The furniture in here clearly wasn’t designed with a guy over six foot four in mind. Two coffees are placed in front of him, steam still rising from the cups. He looks less intense than the night you met him, but not exactly relaxed either. However, he definitely seems just as out of place here as you feel. You recognize a nervous energy in his aura, the yellow more butterscotch than buttercup this time. 

His gaze lifts at the sound of the bell and then lands on you instantly. Recognition flashes on his face for a second before it softens, clearly relieved you decided to come. 

You still hesitate for half a heartbeat before you can convince your feet to finally move his way. 

“Hey,” he says, straightening slightly as you approach. There’s a tentative smile on his lips as if he’s not entirely sure how this meeting is supposed to go either. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Yeah, I almost didn’t,” you reply too honestly, sliding into the seat across from him.

It earns a small huff of amusement from him, and he nudges one of the drinks toward you. “Got you a coffee. Didn’t know how you like it, but I figured I can’t go wrong with black.”

You glance at it, then back at him. “Well, at least you have more manners than your brother.”

Whoops. That one slipped out before you could stop yourself.

Luckily, Sam only chuckles. “It’s kind of a low bar.”

You take the coffee, more for something to do with your hands than anything else before your gaze drifts toward the windows for a moment with a little hint of wariness in your eyes, maybe even a touch of lingering anger. You half-expect his brother to lurk in the bushes outside somewhere. He seems to be the type to do something like that. 

“So… where is your homicidal brother?” 

Again, Sam doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he looks at you like he expected that question (and that tone).

“Dean’s at the morgue, looking into the case,” he assures you quickly. “Don’t worry. He won’t show up. I made sure of that.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “And he’s just… fine with you meeting me here alone?”

Granted, you’ve only met the guy once, but that scenario seems highly unlikely by the controlling energy he was giving off. 

“Not exactly,” Sam admits and grimaces slightly. He leans back a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “He doesn’t know I’m here. Told him I was going to the library. To be honest with you, he’d probably kill me if he found out.”

You give him a dry look, taking a slow sip of your coffee. “You or me?” You arch an eyebrow. “Good to know your survival instincts are questionable. Happy to be a part of a potentially lethal secret.”

“Yeah, uh, I’m sorry,” he says with a sheepish smile. “I just figured this was worth the risk, you know? And Dean, well… he doesn’t need answers like I do. Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s terrified about finding out more.”

Good, you think. Let that guy be as terrified as you were when he pointed a gun at you. Is it wrong that little bit of information only motivates you more to dig deeper and find answers just to spite that asshole?

Admittedly, this whole situation is ridiculous. It’s strange to sit here like this – like you and Sam are suddenly allies. And yet, somehow, it’s a lot less hostile than the last time you saw him. Only three weeks ago, the two of you were still on opposite sides of a loaded gun.

Sure, it’s till weird. Still dangerous. It’s just less… immediately life-threatening. 

Sam shifts slightly in his seat and leans forward then, his expression turning more serious. “So… what did you find?”

Right. Straight to business. 

Your fingers tighten briefly around the mug before you reach into your bag and pull out the folded letter. The paper feels more fragile now than it did in the basement, as if it could disintegrate under too much scrutiny. 

For a heartbeat, you hesitate.

Because this is personal. Painfully so. And Sam, as nice and kind as he may seem, is still someone you met under less than ideal circumstances. He’s a complete stranger to you.

You study him for a second, weighing it. Trust versus instinct. Curiosity versus caution.

And then, slowly, you slide the letter across the table.

“It’s from my mom,” you share. “She wrote it for my twenty-first birthday. Mia never gave it to me, though. I found it in her safe in the basement. I–, uh, I may have broken into it.”

Sam shoots you a surprised look, a smile rising on his lips. “You know how to pick locks?”

“I know how to write spells,” you counter. 

Sam huffs a small laugh at that. “Got it.” He then focuses back on the letter in front of him but doesn’t touch it immediately. His eyes meet yours instead. “You sure you want me to read this?”

Nope, not at all, you want to respond but find yourself nodding despite of it. 

“Yeah, uhm… I think you should.”

He accepts that, picking it up carefully as if he understands it’s more than just paper. 

You watch him read, tracking every subtle shift on his face – the slight furrow of his brows and the way his focus sharpens when he reaches certain parts as his hazel eyes move steadily over the page. It feels oddly intimate – letting someone else into your life like this. There are only three people in the world you ever entrusted with your secrets: Paige, Cameron, and Mia. 

You even told Paige you were coming here to meet one of the fake FBI guys who tried to murder you not that long ago (and you both agree that sentence sounds insane). But you mostly told her so at least one person knows your whereabouts in case you go missing here (or someone has an itchy trigger finger again).

You obviously haven’t told Mia – not about the meeting or the letter. You’re kind of dreading that conversation, scared of answers. 

And Cameron… well, he doesn’t exactly know yet that someone tried to kill you in the first place, let alone that you’re willingly meeting them again to dig deeper into your witchy family history that possibly involves demons. That’s probably a face-to-face conversation and not something you share over Skype with fifteen other guys sitting around your boyfriend in a tent. 

When Sam then finally looks up, his whiskey-colored eyes are more piercing than before. There’s a razor-sharp glint in them now.

“The blood moon,” he says. “Spring equinox.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah, I have no idea what that means. The letter didn’t exactly explain it. You were the first person that told me about that.”

“Your mom never mentioned it before this?”

“No.” You shake your head sadly, but there’s a thread of anger underneath it. 

Sure, you were a kid and only eleven when they died, but your mom and grandma prepared you and taught you so many other things, and they couldn’t mention that? A little heads-up about being born into a magical nuclear disaster would’ve been appreciated.

Sam exhales, leaning back in the booth. “Well, uhm, according to the lore, it’s supposed to amplify your magic,” he says. “But we actually found another connection from a hunter who knew your family. He’s, uh, a family friend of ours, too.”

You tilt your head. “He knew my mom and grandma?”

“Yeah, uh, he worked with them,” Sam says. “Your grandmother mostly. Sometimes your mom. They helped him on hunts. He’s actually the one who sent our dad to them.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I didn’t know that. I mean, I knew they tried helping your dad, and sometimes other people would come by the house, too. But I didn’t know how far it went…”

As a kid, you caught glimpses here and there, but they mostly sent you away whenever a visitor would come around. You just never realized they’d been running an entire secret operation right under your nose. 

You recall the words in your mom’s letter again, what your grandma always taught you as well, remembering you’re supposed to help people. Hunters. It’s the family legacy. 

But honestly? You have no idea how to do that. Defeating monsters isn’t exactly in your wheelhouse. You’re not equipped for it. There’s nothing you can offer them in terms of demon hunting aside from a few party tricks. 

“He told us this story about the first witch,” Sam continues.

Your head snaps up, realization dawning on you. “The Legend of Eira,” you breathe.

“Yeah.” Sam blinks in surprise, then nods. “You know it?”

A small, nostalgic smile tugs at your lips. “My grandma used to tell it to me before bed almost every night,” you share and then tilt your head slightly. “Though I’m pretty sure I got the Disney version and not the Grimm one.” 

Sam huffs a chuckle. “Yeah, probably.” 

Your fingers tap lightly against the coffee cup as the pieces shift in your mind, rearranging themselves into something new. Something bigger. There’s a lot you don’t know about your own family. Too damn much. But there’s some things you still remember well. 

“At the foot of a birch tree, Frejya gave Eira a symbol, one not yet known to mankind. One of growth, of protection, of life that endures and begins again – Bjarkan. Eira carved it into her skin, just above her heart, and pressed her blood into the bark of the tree, binding flesh to root, life to life. She did not take the power but became a part of it.”

Your grandma’s voice floods your mind like it was yesterday and not more than a decade ago. Your hand automatically wanders to your collarbone on the left side, where a birthmark rests just above your heart, but it’s not just a random shape. It’s a symbol. A rune. 

ᛒ

Sam seems to notice the motion, his eyes flicking briefly to the spot where your fingers touch the fabric of your shirt, the symbol hidden just underneath it, but he refrains from commenting on it. 

“The demon you talked about, the one that killed my family,” you say with a clear of your throat to snap his focus back. “What do you actually know about it? I mean, was your dad hunting it?”

Sam nods slowly, his fingers tightening around the mug in his hands. “Yeah, uhm, he’d been hunting it for a long time,” he shares. “We’ve been tracking a pattern. It visited babies the night they turned six months old. Said it had plans for… special kids. Kids like me. Their mothers would usually die in a fire after.”

You swallow thickly, your stomach tightening. “Because of your abilities?”

Sam gives you another nod. “Yeah, all kids usually started developing abilities after their twenty-second birthday. At least, it did for me and the others we’ve met so far. It’s mostly psychic stuff. Visions, telekinesis, mind control… It’s been different for everyone.”

A quiet breath escapes your lips as you sink back into the booth’s worn leather. “Is that why you guys were asking so many questions about the fire in Sugar Hill? Because you believed I was one of those kids?”

“Yeah,” Sam admits, then chuckles lightly. “Clearly, we were wrong about that one.”

“Because I don’t fit the pattern?” you question. You’ve heard the brothers mention it when they were in your living room that night. It’s only now starting to make sense. 

“Yeah, but to be fair, there doesn’t seem to be a pattern, after all,” Sam says. “We recently discovered there might be kids out there whose mothers didn’t die in a fire. Could just be anyone at this point. We don’t know how many there are, either. You’re probably not one of them, but I still think you’re connected somehow. There’s a reason this thing came after your family. After you.”

You let the words sink in and study him for a second, something clicking into place. “Your mom,” you say carefully. “She died like that too, didn’t she? In a fire?”

Sam nods once, the blue in his aura expanding and overtaking the yellow. “Yeah, she did.”

Your head bobs softly. That explains a lot about both of these boys, actually. “I’m really sorry, Sam.”

Sam licks his lips contemplatively for a moment before leaning forward, the yellow glistening slightly. “Look, our dad thought you might be the key to killing this thing.”

Your brow shoots up, eyes widening. “I’m sorry, what?” A nervous laugh bubbles out of you. “You’re joking, right?”

Sam shakes his head, serious as ever. “We don’t exactly know how yet, but he seemed pretty sure.”

“Well, I’m not,” you protest. Can you close this goddamn door again?

Sam doesn’t even flinch, though, and stays focused. “The hunter who worked with your family – his name is Bobby Singer. He told us about a ritual, too.”

Your brow scrunches. “What kind of ritual?”

Sam chuckles a little. “Honestly? I was hoping you could tell me. We don’t know either. Your family never shared the details with him,” he explains. “But, uhm, your mom mentioned something about getting your full powers after your twenty-first birthday in the letter. You know anything about what she could mean?”

You shake your head slowly. “No clue,” you huff, frustration lacing your tone. Then a frown slowly starts to form. “They did tell me once my twenty-first birthday was special, but I don’t remember anything specifically. At least there was no mention of some big, magical fireworks moment. And I didn’t wake up differently that day either, if that’s what you were gonna ask next. It wasn’t like when I turned seven and first got my magic. It’s been the same ever since.”

“Probably because you haven’t done the ritual yet,” Sam muses, then finds your eyes. “You think there’s still anything at your old house in Sugar Hill?”

“There might be,” you admit, your jaw tightening slightly. “But just to be clear, I’m still not going back there. I don’t even know if I wanna do this. I’m kinda happy with my magic the way it is. I didn’t sign up for any of this, alright? I don’t want more power, I don’t want to kill some scary demon, and I definitely don’t want to perform some weird, ancient ritual that could go horribly wrong for all we know. I have a job. A life, okay? I was honestly doing just fine before you guys showed up.”

Sam doesn’t seem to be utterly fazed by your rant. “Look, I get it,” he levels with you. “Really, I do. Trust me.”

You hold his gaze patiently, waiting for the argument. Because judging by the determination in both his eyes and aura, you already know there’s one coming. 

“But it doesn’t matter if you want it or not,” he continues contrastingly gently to the meaning of his words. “If the demon’s connected to you… it’s not just gonna leave you alone. And if it comes for you, it won’t just be you at risk. It could go after people around you, too. Your family. Friends.”

You fall silent as his words seep under your skin and avert your eyes to the window, watching people stroll past it, none the wiser of your conversation in here. You see Mia, Paige, and Cameron in their faces. You’d very much like to keep them off a demon’s radar. 

What if it comes for them, and you’re not strong enough to protect them?

“It happened to me,” Sam adds, drawing your attention back to him. “I–, uh, I was at Stanford a year ago.”

You quirk a brow at that. “You went to Stanford?”

Sam smiles, chuckling a little at your bewilderment. “Yeah, pre-law. Had a girlfriend, too.”

You smile a little too before it fades again when you notice his use of the past tense. “What happened?”

Sam pauses for a moment, his eyes focused on the coffee in his hands. “The demon came and killed her,” he says quietly. “That’s when I hit the road and started hunting with Dean again.”

You swallow harshly. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m trying to warn you,” he says and meets your eyes again. “I tried running away from this thing once, too. Hell, I’m still planning on leaving all this behind as soon as that demon is dead. But as long as that thing’s alive, it’s gonna find you whether you wanna face it or not. Trust me.”

“Great,” you mutter under your breath, nodding. “So my options are ‘get involved’ or ‘get everyone I love potentially murdered.’ Love that.”

“Yeah, it sucks,” Sam agrees with a hint of sympathy in his voice.

You scoff a dry laugh, because that might be the understatement of the goddamn century.

The silence lingers for a moment before you finally dare to glance back at him. “So… what now?”

Sam exhales a long breath, leaning back in his seat. “I don’t know yet, but we keep digging. Together,” he replies. “I’ll look into the ritual. See if I can find out more about it. I can update you if I find anything. If that’s what you want…”

Oh, you’re not sure about any of this at all. It feels like Sam has just shown you a steep cliff and then told you to jump in the same breath. 

“I’ll think about it, okay? Not gonna promise anything, though,” you say. “But we can keep in touch.”

Sam’s jaw locks slightly, but he eventually gives you a nod. “Deal.”

Welp, it’s not vampires, Dean thinks as he puts the last victim’s head back into its plastic container. At least, that means crazy-ass Gordon is nowhere around. When Sam first told him about this case, Dean was almost sure they’d run into the nut job again. But as it turns out, it’s just regular people dying an irregular death.

No second set of teeth descending from their gums. No visible bite marks. And no one was drained of their blood either. 

Which, somehow, isn’t as comforting as it should be.

He exhales slowly through his nose, green eyes lingering on the headless body splayed out on the metal table in front of him. There’s a clean line where flesh meets absence – where something precise carved through bone and sinew, but it’s not surgical in the doctor-with-a-scalpel kind of way. It’s an efficient removal, but not jagged, not messy, and not the sort of hack job he expects from something feral or hungry.

Three bodies. Three heads. No real answers.

Dean straightens and pulls off the nitrile gloves with a practiced flick, tossing them into the trash nearby.

Sleepy Hollow of all places. The irony isn’t lost on him.

Town built on a ghost story about a headless horseman, and now the people here are actually losing theirs? Yeah, he’s sure Washington Irving is having a field day in his grave right about now. All that’s missing is a flaming pumpkin and a dramatic thunderstorm. There’s probably even a tour guide out there spinning this into a story already. 

The Horseman rides again, folks – buy your tickets, bring your kids!

Dean utters a light scoff and rubs a hand down his face. He didn’t find traces of sulfur, signs of possession, or any ritual markings either. But the EMF? That spiked. Which tells him at least that he’s either dealing with a ghost or maybe even a cursed object. 

The question of the who, when, where, what, and why remains, though. Awesome. Who doesn’t love a good mystery, right? 

Admittedly, not knowing wouldn’t bother him as much if his little brother hadn’t been acting weird as hell on top of it. That part, annoyingly, sticks with Dean the most. 

Something’s been off since yesterday. It’s subtle. It always is with Sam, but Dean knows his little brother better than anyone. He knows when that kid is being shifty and lying. Sam’s brain is clearly already ten steps ahead and not sharing the map. The question is about what. 

At first, Dean didn’t second-guess Sam’s strange insistence on taking this case. Why would he? Three headless bodies in a town famous for that sort of thing? That’s practically an invitation for hunters. It’s cool. It’s weird. It’s exactly their kind of thing.

Now, though, he smells something fishy. And Dean? Well, he ain’t stupid. It doesn’t take a genius to realize Sleepy Hollow is only a nice, neat four-hour drive away from Salem. But Sam wouldn’t go behind his back and seek you out after Dean explicitly told him not to. 

…Right?

Shit.

Dean should’ve clocked it sooner that something was up when Sam suggested to “divide and conquer” this morning, making Dean check out the morgue while Sam decided to hit the local library. It sounded logical. But that was code for I’m about to do something you won’t like, wasn’t it?

Divide and conquer my ass. 

He scoffs under his breath again, pacing a few steps across the cold tiles before he completely heads out of the morgue.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that a good ten minutes later, Dean’s storming the library on a mission, still willing to give his little brother the benefit of the doubt. His eyes scan the rows of books, the scattered tables, and the couple of locals minding their own business in one quick sweep. 

As expected, there’s no Sam. No flannel. No furrowed brow. No nothing. 

Dean doesn’t even bother asking the older librarian at the front desk if she’s seen a six-foot-four nerd hunched over a stack of lore books, practically absorbing ancient text through osmosis. He knows Sam’s not here and probably has never even set a foot inside this place. 

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, the irritation creeping in. 

Called it. 

Dean turns on his heel and stomps back out into the afternoon sun hitting him in the face to a blinding degree as he makes his way down the busy street, bustling with reporters and tourists already in town for the big show. 

And then, there it is – the sign he’s been looking for. In the corner of his eye, a flicker of Bimini-blue glints in the sunshine. 

He knows that color. And he knows that car. Your Aveo sticks out like a sore thumb, parked neatly by the curb among the others. Needless to say, he doesn’t need more proof than that to confirm his theory. 

Of course Sam wouldn’t let it go. Of course he’d sneak around, go behind Dean’s back, meet up with you like some damn teenager meeting his girlfriend after curfew instead of another potential disaster waiting to happen.

And for what? To chat? To compare fucking notes? To bond over witchy nonsense and goddamn demon bedtime stories?

The anger and frustration simmer under his skin as he heads further down the street in search of his little brother and the surely witchy companion. He follows the line of sight instinctively from your car to whatever place would set a good location for a meeting like that till his gaze lands on a small diner two blocks down. 

And sure enough, he spots Sam and you through the window, sitting and chatting in a booth like old goddamn friends. 

Dean’s going to kill him. It’s done. 

But Sam knows what he’s doing, or he wouldn’t have picked a public place in broad daylight. He knows Dean can’t very well pull out his gun here and start shootin’ even if he does catch them (which point for Dean for proving Sam wrong). 

Sam should also very well know, though, that Dean doesn’t really care about any of that – not the people, not the sunlight – if push comes to shove. And, well, it’s shoving pretty damn hard right now. 

However, Dean decides not to storm the diner right away, guns blazing. Instead, he watches, green eyes fixed on the window, and waits those two out. That’s what good hunters do, after all. 

They set traps for their foxes. 

Sam’s leaning forward on the table, focused and listening. Of course he is. He’s probably trying to score points, give you some sad stories and puppy dog eyes, and then boom – he’s got you hooked on whatever crazy plan he’s trying to talk you into.

Dean knows how that one goes. He’s been on the receiving end of it a few times now. 

You’re talking, hands moving as you explain something, your expression soft and yet animated in a way that’s… different from what he remembers when he last saw you. Not scared. Not defensive. Just… engaged.

Sam says something then, you respond, and then there’s a beat before you laugh – actually laugh, like his little brother suddenly is the funniest person on the planet. For the record, Dean knows for a fact that ain’t true. 

What the hell is this?

Is Sam… flirting with you? Is that what Sam’s flirting looks like? Is this what this whole thing is about? Sam wanting to get laid?

Honestly, Dean can’t tell for sure if that’s what’s happening or not. Because, while he knows his little brother pretty damn well, he doesn’t know that much about Sam’s skills in that department. Dean didn’t really see Sam date a lot in high school and then he went off to Stanford. And now, well, Sam’s not really been an outgoing person so far, so not a lot of references there either. 

Sure, Dean supposes his little brother landed Jess, and she was a damn ten, so Sammy’s gotta have some game, right? On the other hand, there was also Sarah not that long ago, a chick from a case, and that seemed admittedly a little… bumpy (and not in the way you want something like that to be bumpy). 

Jesus, is that what Dean’s witnessing right now? His little brother dipping a toe into the dating pool? And why the hell is he even thinking about Sam’s flirting attempts in the first place? It shouldn’t bother him.

It doesn’t. 

Awesome. Now he feels like a creep who’s watching something not meant for his eyes. It’s like there’s a piece of a puzzle here that’s not supposed to fit, except it does, and that’s the goddamn problem. 

Why does it have to be a witch? Why does it have to be you? 

Why are you laughing?

Why is Sam– 

Dean’s thoughts tangle, frustration spiking as something else sneaks in beneath it. It’s quiet but no less insistent. It’s familiar, almost like déjà-vu, although he’s sure he’s never felt this strange little tingle, this tiny prick in his chest, before in his life. 

And yeah, okay, he’s noticed it before – not the feeling but the cause of it. Hard not to. You’ve got that… thing, whatever the hell it is, that makes people look twice. He looked twice. He can admit as much. He’s gonna be a grown-up about it (not out loud to other people, though. Especially not you. No, no, that’s not–). 

But it’s not just that you’re pretty, not just attractive, though yeah, there’s that too, obviously. Again, he’s not blind, either. But it’s something else – something he can’t quite pin down or even put his little finger on (and the thought of you and his finger definitely shouldn’t give him, well… other thoughts). 

There’s something wrong with him, isn’t there? He just can’t figure out what, though. 

It’s probably just a you thing. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. It’s you. He’s blaming you. 

There’s an edge to you that doesn’t line up with anything he knows how to categorize. And that, God, that fucking bugs him.

Because he likes things that fit. Things that make sense. Things he can label and move on from.

You fucking don’t do any of these things. 

This whole scene in front of him reminds Dean of another one of those weird dreams he’s had a couple of nights ago. There have actually been a few of those with one common theme:

It’s always you and Sammy, both little and close in age, laughing and running around, unburdened and weightless, catching frogs and butterflies, whispering secrets in the tall grass… 

One gets the idea. 

And Dean? He’d be off somewhere, isolated, outcast, excluded and far away, but not out of reach. He’s very much reachable. But no one ever reaches for him. 

Maybe you put something in his drink. Date-raped him with some witchy love potion or sex potion and that’s causing all these bizarre feelings now. Hell, maybe that’s what you did to Sam, too. You probably snuck a few drops of something cursed into his vanilla soy latte or whatever the hell his little brother’s drinking in there. 

Dean shakes his head clear and rolls his shoulders. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t care if you’re getting along with Sam. He doesn’t care that you’re sitting there like you belong at that table, acting like you’re part of something you’re definitely not a part of. He doesn’t care that Sam looks… comfortable. Open. The way he hasn’t in a while.

That’s not the point.

The point is that Sam lied. The point is that you’re a wildcard. The point is that Dean told him not to call you.

And yet, here you fucking are.

A minute later, both you and Sammy then finally rise and head for the door. Still talking vividly. Still laughing like old buddies. Still wrapped up in whatever the fuck this is. 

And Dean? He steps out of the shadows before either of you can register what’s happening, irritation rushing through his blood when he sees the stupid smile on his brother’s face.

“Really, Sam?!”

Both of you freeze in your tracks. It’s like a switch flipped, and your smiles fall abruptly. Sam’s head snaps up, your eyes go wide, and the two of you look like two baby deers in headlights. But Dean doesn’t even give either of you a second to recover. 

“Lying? Meeting up with the enemy?” he snaps, deep voice raspy enough to grate on anyone. “I told you not to call her!”

Sam straightens, already having steeled himself for the inevitable lecture. “And I didn’t,” he argues. “She called me, alright?”

“A loophole, Sam? Really?” Dean raises his brows, then scowls. “That’s what you’re going with?”

You, on the other hand, are hiding halfway behind Sam’s broad back, deciding to use him as your shield. You blink between the brothers, caught in the crossfire. 

“You know what? I’m gonna go,” you mumble with a clear of your throat, already taking a tentative step back. “Let you guys figure this out–”

“Whoa, whoa–” Dean moves in an instant and blocks your path to freedom. “Not so fast, Sabrina.”

Your brow scrunches as you glance up at him. “Sabrina?” A beat passes before realization clicks, your expression darkening a smidge, clearly unimpressed with his nickname game. “Oh… Funny.”

A tiny smirk tugs on Dean’s lips. Antagonizing you is admittedly sort of fun. 

“Puritan,” you scoff under your breath and cross your arms. 

But Dean? Oh, he still heard that. 

“What did you just call me?”

“You heard me,” you grit, the defiance gleaming in your eyes. 

Now, Dean can take an insult. You’re not the first person that threw something at him and hoped it would stick. But puritan? He’s never gotten that one before. Everyone who knows him would probably agree that he’s the least strait-laced prude there is. There’s nothing pure about him. 

And just like that, his smirk morphs to a scowl. 

“Oh, you stay right there, Stevie Nicks Junior,” he warns, pointing a finger at you. “You’re not going anywhere.” 

You, however, aren’t scared of him this time or even backing down. Instead of flinching, you square your shoulders and meet his glare head-on. 

“Or what? You’re gonna shoot me in a busy street during daylight?” You tilt your head cockily, lips twitching. “You know that’s a red flag, right? I mean, Jesus, you’re every dating site’s worst nightmare. It’s like a full catfish situation.”

What the–

What the hell does that mean now?! 

Dean blinks, mouth agape, thrown just enough by the comment to be noticeable. Sam snorts in obvious amusement, earning himself a glare. Then Dean looks back at you, sterner than before as he tries (and fails) to fully track whatever the hell you just said. It sounded like a compliment wrapped in an insult. 

“Well, consider yourself catfished then,” he retorts with a huff and prays it makes sense. Your brow wrinkles, so it probably didn’t, but Dean ignores it skillfully. “You’re in this now.” His gaze then flicks expectantly between you and his little brother. “Well? Somebody gonna fill me in on what’s going on here?”

Sam exhales a long and deep breath. “Dean, look, I was just catching her up on what we know so far about the demon and what Bobby told us about her family.” 

“What?!” Dean snaps, shaking his head furiously. “You told her all of that?! First Ellen, now her? Why don’t you go ahead and put it out in an email newsletter next time, huh? Save us all some time, man.”

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. “Dean–”

“No!” Dean cuts him right off, voice rising. “You can’t trust her, Sam! You know that.” 

“Still standing right here,” you chime in dryly and wave your hand in mock. “You know, where you told me to stand…” 

Dean smacks his lips and shoots you a sharp look, then points a finger at you again. “You’re a bad influence on him.”

“Dude–” Sam starts, but this time you cut in first. 

“You know what? I don’t need this,” you announce with a tight smile. “You guys are on your own with this. I’m going. So if you plan on still shooting me in front of at least twenty witnesses, do it now because I’m walking away.” You turn on your heel, then throw a glimpse back at Sam over your shoulder. “Good luck with the case.”

Dean’s jaw clenches hard as soon as you take that first step.

“So what?” he throws after you. “You’re just gonna ditch while people are dying in this town? Real class act.”

Alright, sure, Dean doesn’t want you on this hunt. Doesn’t want you anywhere near him or Sam. But alas, you’re here already – no thanks to his little brother dragging you into their mess. Sam may as well have painted a blinking red target on your back. And now, well, you’re Dean’s fucking responsibility. 

Luckily, Dean’s good at finding buttons. And certainly, he’s found yours and knows where to push down. 

You stop in your tracks and spin on your heel, the irritation sparking your eyes like a wildfire. “I’m not a hunter. That’s your specialty,” you shoot back. “I’m gonna go home, watch Buffy slay some vampires, and then think of you in spirit, alright?” 

Dean studies you for a second, then sighs, forcing some of the heat out of his voice. “It’s not vampires,” he says, more grounded now, catching Sam’s attention as well. “Checked all three bodies. No second set of teeth, no bites, no feeding, nothing. Clean cuts.”

“So what are you thinking?” Sam asks, focusing immediately on the case. Maybe he’s just happy about the distraction. “Ghost? Cursed object?”

Dean shrugs lightly. “Would be my best guess.”

Sam nods slowly before his eyes drift toward you, the familiar look that Dean knows all too well already forming. He’s going full puppy on you. No one can resist that. It’s like his little brother’s superpower. 

“Which means we might need another perspective,” Sam muses, gaze flicking to you without hiding his intentions. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble, eyes narrowing. “It’s not my job.”

“People are still dying,” Dean repeats because he can read you well enough to know that’s your kryptonite. 

And yeah, he wasn’t a fan at first of the witchy disappearing act you pulled back in Salem, but he can admit that he might have overreacted back then and pulled the trigger a little too soon (metaphorically speaking). You’re doing a good thing there, helping people, even though Dean doesn’t really approve of the methods. He’s not going to admit that to your face, though. Can’t let you have that win. That probably would only go to your head. 

“People are dying everywhere every day,” you point out and throw your arms up. “What do you want me to do next? Perform open-heart surgery without a medical degree?”

Damn, that’s a good point. You’re admittedly quick on the draw and sharp as a tack. But Dean? He’s got some tricks up his sleeve, too. He’s used to that kind of argument from Sam, so he’s got some repartee of his own. Otherwise, God knows he’d never win a single fight. 

“Look, we could use your help,” Sam adds, pulling on the gentle kid gloves before Dean can interject. You hesitate, clearly torn, your gaze wandering back and forth between them. “We’re staying at a bed and breakfast down the road. We can get you a room. You don’t have to drive back tonight. Just sleep on it.”

“Whoa, no, that’s not gonna happen,” Dean cuts in sternly. “Not gonna risk her disappearing on us, man.” His eyes lock onto yours, unyielding. “You’re staying where we can see you in case you pull somethin’.”

“What? No!” you protest firmly. “I’m not playing summer camp with you two. Where would I even go? You know where I live. You know where I work. Hell, Sam has my number.”

“Yeah, and you also got a little disappearing spell in your repertoire. I haven’t forgotten about that one,” Dean counters cleverly. God, he has to bite back the rising smirk because he can see on your face that he’s got you with that one. 

You scowl and cross your arms. “How do I know you’re not gonna shoot me when I sleep?”

“Guess you don’t.”

“Dean,” Sam warns with a hint of frustration in his tone. “He’s not gonna shoot you,” he assures you gently, then glares back at Dean and grits, “Right?”

“Well–”

“Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes back and sighs. “Fine, whatever.” 

You stare at him for another second, then let out a short, incredulous laugh, lifting a brow. “Do you actually hate me that much?” 

Dean opens his mouth, already halfway to some snarky comeback. Something easy. Something cutting. But then he stops.

Because the answer that comes up first isn’t any of that. It’s something messier. More complicated. Something he doesn’t have a name for yet and doesn’t particularly want one.

So, he shoves it down. Deep, deep down. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he shoots back dryly instead. “You’re just easier to deal with when you’re not sneaking around.” 

Your eyes narrow to a glare, and for a minute, it seems like you’re going to walk away anyway, but then you exhale a deep sigh, shoulders dropping just a little bit. 

“Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m not doing this because you told me to.”

Dean scoffs, unimpressed. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Sabrina.” 

And just like that, the three of you stand there – tense, mismatched, and somehow stuck in the same mess whether any of you like it or not.

▶️ Chapter 4: Do You Hate Me? – June 19

Ready to storm the comments? I'm so excited to hear your best guesses and theories as to what the hell is going on here with that crazy, emotional, and possibly fake (?) childhood dream 👀🔮 (And yes, I did hurt my own heart writing this one, and there might be more in the next parts lol). Also don't ask me how long it took to craft those spells, letter, and ancient legend. I went full LOTR (and the rhyming for those spells is haaard) 😂

In other news, how did you like Sabrina and Sam's secret meeting and all the revelations in this part? Of course it's not that easy to trick Dean. Shame on them for trying lmao. How long do you think it will take till their bonding annoys him, though? A minute? 😝

🔮 Series Masterlist

Coming Up:

“Okay,” Sam sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “I think we should head to the library next. I mean, the whole hooves thing makes me think we might actually be dealing with the Headless Horseman. Maybe we can find out who it is, because this thing’s definitely mobile.”

Dean nods, still hung up on that whole red-green thing, but you shake your head slightly, brows creasing. Figures.

“Actually, I wanna process the evidence first. Might give us a clue about the weapon and where to find it,” you say.

Dean then finally dares to look at you again, brow furrowing lightly. “Thought you already did that with that whole horsey aura thing.”

“That’s not–… You know what? Never mind.” You press your lips together, biting back whatever comment you wanted to make, and simply turn to Sam. “Point is, I need a lab. Don’t exactly have one here. The rust, the hair… There’s more there.” Then you smack your lips, musingly looking between the brothers. “You guys do breaking and entering, right?”

Sam and Dean exchange a look.

Of course.

Dean sighs. “Yup, we do.”

“You guys go. I’ll hit the library,” Sam says, not even arguing (or volunteering).

“Fine. I’ll go with her.” Dean nods and rolls his eyes slightly.

But you? You immediately grimace and wrinkle your nose.

“Do you have to?” you question and then tone down the hostility a little by clearing your throat. “I mean, can’t Sam come to the lab with me, and you can go to the library?”

Dean’s lips rise to a smirk at that. “Not a chance in hell, Sabrina.”

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Judging by the fuzzy edges in his vision and the milky filter that makes everything glow slightly orange, he seems to be currently stuck in a dream.

Dean’s not exactly sure, though, where in the dream he is. But the air feels cleaner and softer around here. It hasn’t been scraped raw yet by exhaust fumes and motel bleach. It smells like forest and sun-warmed grass and lake water as the Impala drives along a winding dirt road, leading up a small hill. 

He’s not the one driving, though. His father is, while him and Sammy are cramped into the backseat. 

His shoulders dig into the worn leather as he stares out the window. He’s about twelve, maybe a little younger or older as the leg space in the back seems to be a tiny bit tighter than it used to. 

And then, a house comes into view. 

Faded blue in places where the sun’s kissed it too much and lived-in. Old but sturdy. It sits on a gentle rise, a green hill rolling up toward it, tucked between trees that stretch tall into the sky. He almost gasps at its beauty. It’s not polished in the perfect way of magazine homes, but in the way something real is beautiful. 

And it’s big – bigger than anything Dean’s used to calling home. 

It looks like something taken straight out of a storybook. There’s a wide wrap-around porch hugging the entire ground floor, railings painted white, steps worn smooth in the middle from years of use. One side of the house rises into an octagonal tower, tall and narrow, with windows glinting in the bright light. 

His gaze lingers on the attic without knowing why. 

There’s a window set into the peak of the roof, a colorful mosaic of stained glass. A birch tree delicately stretches across it, its branches protectively fanning outward. The glass glows, even from down here. 

Dean feels it then before he understands it. He’s been here before. 

He doesn’t know why, but he knows how the porch creaks under his weight and how the front door sticks just a little in the summer heat. 

A smile rises on his lips before he can stop it. Before he can question it. Before anything in this life can weigh it down again. 

He likes it here. 

The Impala rolls to a stop in front of the house. It doesn’t have a driveway or even a road. There’s just a small dirt path leading up to the porch. Otherwise, there’s only nature surrounding it, grass greener than he’s ever seen anywhere before and stretching out endlessly. No neighbors. Not a single roofline in sight.

The entire place feels like a magical secret in another realm. 

The driver’s door creaks open as his dad steps out, already all business, already moving toward the house like he’s got somewhere to be, already focused on whatever brought them here in the first place. Sammy scrambles after him, no more than eight, tripping over his own eagerness as usual. 

“Watch your brother,” his dad throws over his shoulder.

Dean rolls his eyes automatically and mutters a “yeah, yeah,” pushing the door open and stepping out into the blinding sun. The air is warm against his skin, and everything feels already lighter here. And for a second, just a second, there’s nothing sharp or dangerous about the world for once. No monsters. 

“Dean!”

He turns at the sound of his name and sees her running toward him. 

Small. Fast. All bright energy and wind-tangled hair. The way she’s storming at full speed feels like she’s already been waiting the whole damn day for this exact moment. Maybe even longer. It does something weird in his chest that he can’t name at twelve yet, but he decides he likes that feeling as well. 

There’s dirt on her knees and something wild and alive in the way she moves. It seems like she belongs more out here than inside any house. She doesn’t slow down until she’s right in front of him, practically bouncing where she stands.

And Dean? He grins.

It’s easy. Natural. This is what he’s supposed to do. 

She’s a little breathless and flushed, but her eyes are shining and there’s something bright and untamed in her grin. 

“You’re back!” she blurts, looking up at him like he painted the sky mesmerizingly blue just for her. 

She says it like it matters – like he matters. There’s something warm and familiar about that.

Important. 

“Yeah,” he says and shrugs like it’s no big deal, even though it sort of is. A part of him has been looking forward to this without realizing it.

She steps closer then, lowering her voice like she’s about to share the greatest secret in the world. “I got it,” she whispers.

Dean’s brow furrows the slightest bit. “Got what?”

“My magic.”

The word drops between them and lands wrong, tilting everything on its axis.

It doesn’t fit with the sunlight or the trees or the way this place felt like something safe just a minute ago. It sits heavily in the air, sharp-edged now where everything else used to be so damn soft.

Something in Dean shifts then.

It’s small at first. Just a flicker. A hitch in his chest. A loss of warmth. Barely noticeable. But it spreads quickly, like a crack through glass.

Magic. Witch.

The smile fades before he can stop it because he doesn’t like that. Not one bit. Doesn’t like the way it sounds, the way it feels, the way it suddenly changes everything about her without actually changing the way she looks, or the way it instantly makes everything here… different. Off. 

Before, she was normal. There wasn’t anything weird about her. Nothing to worry about. Nothing that reminded him of the things that go bump in the dark. 

But now, the ground under his feet isn’t as steady as it was a moment ago. Now, she’s something else. Something closer to the things he’s been taught to hate.

He looks at her again and really looks this time. And something clicks into place in a way that doesn’t make sense – not for twelve-year-old Dean standing in the tall grass at least. But it makes sense for the version of him watching through older eyes as something else threads through the dream.

He knows that little girl. Not the way a kid knows another kid, though. It’s something deeper. Something that doesn’t belong to this moment alone.

That little girl is… you. 

The realization hits quiet but certain, settling under his skin like it’s always been there, just waiting to be noticed. And somehow, that only makes it worse. Makes the disappointment sink deeper and take root. 

Because now the word witch doesn’t just sit wrong – it twists.

You’re still talking, still glowing with excitement, completely unaware of the way his expression’s changed.

“I can show you,” you offer keenly, reaching for the sleeve of his jacket like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t anchor him there. “It’s really cool, I promise. I’ve been practicing and–”

Dean pulls back his arm. 

Not hard. Not enough to be obvious. But enough to draw a line. The space between the two of you expands to a canyon in a millisecond.

He shrugs it off, eyes already drifting past you, toward the trees, toward the edge of the hill where the land dips down toward the pond, toward anything that isn’t this.

“Maybe later,” he mutters.

Your face falters, confusion replacing the earlier joy. 

“You don’t wanna see?” you ask with a slight wobbling pout on your lips.

He exhales through his nose, like you’re asking something annoying instead of something that matters.

“I said maybe later,” he snaps and averts his eyes when you flinch. “Go play with Sammy or somethin’.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond this time. Doesn’t look at you again, either. He just turns, shoving his hands into his pockets as he heads down the slope toward the water glinting through the trees. Each step feels easier than the last because distance is the only thing that makes sense right now.

Behind him, your voice echoes for half a heartbeat before it fades into the silence. But Dean keeps walking and doesn’t stop.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Dean’s eyes crack open to the dim, familiar ceiling of Bobby’s guest room, the wood panels stained and slightly warped with age. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just lies there in the narrow twin bed, watching the soft morning light seep through the yellowed curtains. 

The room is quiet in that particular way old houses tend to be – never truly silent but filled with the creaks and cracks of wood that has seen too many years. Bobby’s place has always been like that. Warm. Chaotic. A little rundown. Grounded. Home. 

And yet, Dean feels… off.

A part of him hasn’t quite made it back to reality yet. Part of him is still somewhere else. Still standing in a field that shouldn’t exist. Still watching a blue house glow in the sunlight like something out of a story he doesn’t remember reading. Still hearing your damn voice – bright, excited, and too fucking real.

He exhales slowly and drags a hand down his face, the rough scrape of his palm against his skin anchoring him a little more firmly in the present. But the dream sticks, stubborn in a way most aren’t. It’s too coherent to be dismissed entirely, even as he tries his damn hardest to forget it. 

There’s no immediate adrenaline in his veins, no hand flying under his pillow for a gun, and no sharp inhale of air like he’s startling straight out of another nightmare. It’s not the usual gist when it comes to dreams. Resurfacing feels slower than that. Feels more like he’s wading through something thick, something that clings.

My magic.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut for another second before letting out a quiet, irritated breath. 

Yeah… nope. He’s not dealing with that. He’s already got enough on his plate as is. It’s just a dream. A stupid, stupid, meaningless dream. A weird, persistent, too-detailed dream, but still just that.

That’s the only explanation that makes any kind of sense. Because the alternative – that it’s something else, something real – isn’t even worth entertaining. He’s never been to that place. Never seen that house. Never–

Dean’s frown deepens slightly.

There’s a strange familiarity to it, though. Not the kind that comes from memory exactly, but something adjacent to it, like his mind is filling in details it shouldn’t have, smoothing over gaps that shouldn’t exist in the first place.

He huffs under his breath and shifts on the mattress, which creaks in loud protest. The sheet’s half-twisted around his legs, the pillow shoved somewhere under his shoulder at an awkward angle. His fingers push back through his hair and make it worse, dirty blond tufts sticking up in every direction like he stuck his finger in a damn socket. 

It’s been like this for weeks now.

Ever since Salem.

Ever since you.

Same kind of dream. Same feeling. Same place, more or less. Bits and pieces shifting and morphing but always circling back to that house, that hill, that–

He cuts the thought off again because it just doesn’t make sense. None of it does. Dean Winchester does not have childhood memories of some random blue house in the middle of nowhere New Hampshire. He doesn’t have memories of running around with some girl in a field, playing house like everything’s normal and safe and–

His brain’s just screwing with him, cooking up whatever the hell that was, stitching things together that don’t fucking belong together. That’s all. 

He probably just picked something up in your apartment when they met you – something tiny and unimportant. Something he didn’t even consciously notice. Something small enough that it didn’t register at the time but still got stuck somewhere in the back of his head. Maybe a detail at your place. A book. A picture on the wall.

Yeah, that must be it. That’s what brains do, right? Take pieces, scraps, things picked up without noticing, and turn them into something bigger and personal, filling in non-existent blanks. Didn’t Freud write a whole-ass book about this?

It doesn’t mean those dreams are real in any way, shape, or form. 

Except–

Dean doesn’t remember seeing anything like that in your home. No pictures of a house. No hints. Nothing that should’ve given his brain that kind of material to work with. 

His jaw tightens slightly at that, something restless seeping under his skin. The timing alone is strange enough to irritate him. Apparently, his stupid brain has decided to latch onto you and just run with it in the most inconvenient way possible.

Maybe you’re a metaphor for something or a ghost of his Christmas past. Maybe you cursed him or hexed him or did whatever dumb, evil stuff witches do. Wouldn’t that be something? He gets on your bad side and threatens your life once and suddenly he’s stuck reliving some odd, fake childhood memories on a loop. Petty revenge does kind of fit your usual M.O., considering all the dicks you broke before him. 

Sure, the idea is slightly ridiculous, but it’s easier to digest than admitting to the fact that all this stupid and weird crap is coming directly from him.

Dean exhales another harsh breath through his nose and finally pushes himself upright. The bed creaks once more under his weight, old springs squeaking as he swings his legs over the side. The floorboards are cool under his feet when he rises. As he glances across the room, he finds Sam’s bed empty.

His little brother’s already up. Figures. 

Sam’s side is neat in that half-assed way whenever he’s in a hurry – blanket pushed back, pillow slightly indented, but otherwise abandoned. He’s probably downstairs already. Buried in books. Researching. Again.

Chasing ghosts that don’t wanna be caught. Chasing answers that don’t exist. Chasing that damn demon.

Sam doesn’t let things go. Not anymore, at least. God knows it was real easy for his little brother to let things go when he left everything behind for Stanford, including Dean. But somehow, Sam can’t do him the same courtesy now and let it go again. 

Now, after everything – after Jess, after Dad, after hunters like Gordon being immoral and wicked like monsters, after vampires and witches suddenly not fitting the mold anymore, and after psychic kids like Max and Andy – there’s no stopping Sam anymore. 

Nothing fits anymore. That’s the goddamn problem. The lines aren’t where they’re supposed to be. The rules don’t hold the way they used to. Monsters aren’t always monsters. Psychic kids aren’t always ticking time bombs waiting to go off. 

And maybe the last one isn’t the worst possible outcome. It’s that little shimmer of hope flickering in the distance that Dean’s been focusing on lately. Because maybe it means his father’s insane request doesn’t have to come true. Maybe it means he won’t have to kill the last member of his family with his own hands. 

Dean sighs as he trudges down the old stairs. When did his life get so damn complicated? How the hell did he end up here?

The smell of coffee then hits him halfway down the steps. Strong. Bitter. Bobby’s special brand of hospitality. 

As he rounds the corner to the kitchen, Sam’s already there. Of course he is. 

Sitting at the small table, hunched forward slightly, a mug of coffee in one hand and a book in the other, with about six more spread out around him like he’s building some kind of paper fortress.

Dean pauses in the doorway for a beat, watching him. Andy was just another reminder that Sam’s not normal. That none of this is going away. 

Sam then glances up briefly before focusing back on his book. “Morning.”

Dean pretends to stroll in without hesitation or having wasted a single thought on it, aiming for casualness as he heads straight for the coffee pot and grunts something that passes as a response. 

If he’s going to deal with this, any of this, he needs some caffeine first. And the thing is, he knows he will have to deal with it at some point. He knows there’s no outrunning this, even though most days he’d like to take his chances and still try. 

This particular day, however, doesn’t seem to be one of those. So, he pours himself a cup of the blackest coffee and leans against the counter as the bitter smell curls around him like all the other bitterness.

He winces at his first sip and decides to break the silence. “Bobby still makin’ this stuff strong enough to wake the dead, huh?”

Sam huffs a light chuckle in agreement but doesn’t look up, hazel eyes glued to the pages in front of him.

Dean watches him for another minute over the rim of his mug. God, he wants to ignore it. Wants to just drink his coffee, maybe make some joke, and then avoid the whole fucking thing. Because the last thing he truly wants to do is dive into demon lore first thing in the goddamn morning and psychic kids and destiny and all the bad ways this could end in blood and death and horror. 

But Sam’s already there and neck-deep in it, so alas, what other choice does Dean really have than be in it, too? 

“Found anything?” Dean asks finally, more out of obligation than genuine interest.

“Working on it.” 

He sighs quietly, pushing off the counter, pacing a few steps across the kitchen. “Sam–” he starts but doesn’t finish. Because what is he supposed to say? 

Stop? 

Yeah, right. Like that’s ever worked. The kid’s stubborn like that. 

But Dean doesn’t get really worried till Sam starts grinding his molars and biting the insides of his cheeks, his fingers playing with the edge of a page. That’s never a good sign. When his little brother’s chewing on something, Dean knows he gets the leftovers. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking–”

But Dean already shakes his head in warning. “Don’t even say it.”

Sam still does, though. Your name falls from his lips.

Dean freezes imperceptibly for a heartbeat, because the timing of this feels too deliberate to be a coincidence. Remnants of his latest dream flood back into his mind in the same breath, and he already hates where this conversation’s inevitably headed. 

“Don’t you think we should call her?” Sam finishes his delusion. 

Dean schools his expression quickly, taking another sip of coffee. “No, Sam, I don’t think that,” he replies dryly and keeps the annoyance locked behind his teeth.

Sam’s frown is already forming. “Dean–”

“I said no,” he snaps with more sharpness and watches Sam’s mouth close in frustration. 

He refuses to drag you into this. Because that’s what this is – dragging people into a mess they can’t get out of. He dragged Sam back into it and look what happened. Dean’s not doing that again. 

Sam then leans back in his chair, studying him, far from giving up, judging by the determination gleaming in his eyes. “She might have answers.” 

“Or she might be another problem,” Dean shoots back, although a small and annoying part of him knows Sam’s right. 

You probably would have answers. But Dean’s not sure he necessarily wants to hear them. 

Sam does, however. The obsession and urgency isn’t entirely new, but it’s definitely getting worse. Lately, it feels like Sam isn’t just looking for answers anymore but actually needs them like people need oxygen to live. This whole thing has become more intense and less… optional. 

Before Sam can push further, footsteps sound behind them. Bobby walks in, coffee already in hand, eyes flicking knowingly between them.

“What’re you two idjits arguin’ about this time, huh?” he prompts.

“Nothin’,” Dean mutters into his mug. But when his eyes find Sam in his periphery, he can already see the idea forming on his little brother’s face. He shoots Sam a warning look. 

“Actually, uhm–” Sam starts, gaze flicking briefly to Dean’s glare before he apparently decides to ignore it. “Hey, uh, Bobby, have you ever heard of the Berkano witches?”

Dean closes his eyes briefly to let the anger and frustration pass through his body without tearing the house down. Of course Sam can’t resist. Of course he fucking goes there. Of course he has to drag Bobby into it, too. 

Bobby halts his movements mid-pour on the counter and slowly turns around, raising a high brow. “Now, where the hell did you boys hear that name?”

“Dad’s journal,” Sam replies without missing a beat. 

Bobby lets out a scoff, shaking his head as he sets the mug down. “Yeah, you could say I’ve heard of ‘em,” he replies. “I was actually the one who sent your daddy up to New Hampshire in the first place.”

Dean’s brow knits. “Wait… You did?”

“So Dad really worked with them?” Sam checks curiously, leaning forward on the table. 

“Yup, he sure did,” Bobby confirms with a nod. “Figured they could help him with the demon, y’know? They’re kinda experts on all that stuff. Were at least…”

Sam shoots Dean a small I told you so glare that he fends off with an eye roll. 

Dean then focuses back on Bobby. “You know if he ever took us up there with him?”

The question clearly confuses Sam. Admittedly, it comes a little out of the blue, but Dean figures he can always excuse it with natural curiosity. He was a kid back then, too. What the hell did he truly know? And judging by Sam’s creased brow, his little brother clearly doesn’t have weird dreams about a place he’s never been to. 

A part of Dean is relieved about that because it means those dreams are really just that. Because even when Sam was younger than him, Dean knows his little brother would’ve never forgotten a beautiful place like that because he surely would’ve never forgotten it either if it truly existed, which means all of it is just some strange, surreal fantasy. Sam’s never been there. He’s never been there. It was never real. 

“Don’t know.” Bobby shakes his head slowly. “Your dad didn’t exactly always give me the play-by-play.”

Dean nods once, pretends to be satisfied, and considers the issue settled, even though it’s not. 

“How did you know about them?” Dean asks the older hunter then. 

“Met ‘em in the late ‘80s through another hunter who lived close to ‘em,” Bobby replies without elaborating the why of it all. “Mostly worked with Aine. She was the matriarch. Sometimes worked with her daughter, Freya, too. She had a little girl as well. Sweet kid. Couldn’t’ve been more than three or four when I met her.” He chuckles fondly before his expression turns more somber. “Too bad they’re all gone. Surely coulda helped you boys. ’S sad what happened to ‘em. Demons got ‘em in ’95. They were the last of their line.”  

Dean’s jaw tightens at that, locking eyes with Sam. So Bobby clearly doesn’t know about their father’s plan, either. Doesn’t know you’re still alive. Last one standing. 

For some reason, the thought curdles acid in Dean’s stomach. If he knows demons as well as he thinks he does, they surely wouldn’t like that. Maybe even take it as a challenge. 

Who can make a powerful witch bloodline go extinct first?

And for all Dean knows, he almost had. 

While Bobby doesn’t have a clue about John Winchester’s secrets, the old man’s at least perceptive enough to catch the silent conversation between the brothers. His eyes flick back and forth between them and narrow. 

“Alright, what’s going on here? One of you gonna tell me?” Bobby prompts, stance both challenging and somehow scolding. 

“They’re not all dead,” Dean says then. “The girl…” The word tastes strange on his tongue. The girl from his dreams. “She–, uh, she’s still alive.”

“Yeah, uhm, Dad got her out of that fire and hid her in Salem,” Sam adds. 

“Put her up with a cop,” Dean scoffs. 

Bobby exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, frustration with a hint of anger lacing his tone. Dean doesn’t entirely blame him. His father had a way of bringing that side out in people. “That stubborn bastard. Figures he’d keep somethin’ like that to himself.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean huffs in faint agreement. His father always had to keep his secrets.  

“Wait…” Bobby frowns then, tilting his head. “Was that why you boys went to Salem a couple of weeks ago?”

Both of them nod. 

“Dammit,” the old man grunts. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Bobby doesn’t wait for either of them to answer, though. He just spins on his heel and heads out of the kitchen. Dean can hear the basement door opening a second later and Bobby’s footsteps trudging down the stairs. He shares a quizzical look with Sam before the old man stomps back into the room with a giant, ancient book in his hands. He dusts it off before slapping it down on the small table in front of their noses. 

“Coulda given you boys this before,” is all he says before he opens it and flips through it till he finds the page he’s looking for. He taps his finger on the brittle parchment. “Here.”

Dean and Sam both lean closer, their eyes focusing on the hand-painted letters of the title. It almost looks like a fairytale in a storybook. 

The Legend of Eira

“Long before hunters had names for what they were doing,” Bobby begins, “before there were journals and rules and all that, people didn’t know what the hell they were up against. Humans still lived in tribes when the first demons began to walk the earth. They didn’t have the right names for ‘em yet, but crops started to fail, diseases spread, nights became unsafe…”

Dean’s eyes drop to the page in front of him, reading the first paragraphs. 

Before the old gods had names, before the world was carved into realms, there was a current that moved beneath all living things.

It had no voice, no will, no master.

It simply was.

It lived in the roots of trees and the pull of the tide, in the breath between heartbeats and the quiet spaces where light did not reach. It did not belong to heaven, nor to darkness. It existed beside them, as old as both, untouched by their designs.

For a long time, it remained undisturbed until something else began to walk the earth. 

They came without being born, without growing. They wore the shapes of men but moved like smoke trapped in skin, hollowed and hungry, leaving ruin in their wake. They whispered sickness into the land and twisted animals into frenzy.

“According to legend, Eira was the first witch known to mankind. Real one, at least,” Bobby says. “She was said to have had a special bond with nature. Could feel things others couldn’t. Nowadays, you’d probably call her a psychic.”

Dean feels Sam’s eyes burning a hole into the side of his face, but he keeps his gaze trained on Bobby and the book in front of him. 

The tribes did not understand what they were, only that they did not belong. They feared these creatures of the dark. 

Among them was a young woman named Eira. She was not the strongest, nor the loudest, nor the one others looked to for war. But born during a blood moon on spring equinox, the gods bestowed a special gift upon her, and she was given the ability to listen. 

She listened to the wind through the trees, to the silence beneath the soil, to the stream beneath the world that bound every living thing together.

“When demons came and killed half her tribe in one night, the goddess Freyja appeared to her in a dream,” Bobby continues. “Afterward, Eira wandered three days through the forest alone, claiming Freyja told her about a way to fight back. If you ask me, the girl might’ve just been high outta her mind on too much Henbane.” He chuckles lightly, scratching his beard. “But Freyja told her the power she was lookin’ for was already there. She just had to reach for it.”

“How?” Sam asks, fully swept up by Bobby’s storytelling skills.

Dean, on the other hand, can barely concentrate on the old man’s words. His green eyes are glued to the foxed page in front of him, eight little words sticking out like a sore thumb.

Born during a blood moon on spring equinox.

Can he still mindfully chalk that off as a mere coincidence?

Shit. As soon as Sam reads this, his ass will be on fire. Dean’s, too. 

“She performed a ritual. Tapped into it, took that power into herself, and then bound it,” Bobby replies. “After that, she returned to her tribe. But she didn’t just use that power to fight back. She taught the men in her camp how to kill demons, banish dark spirits.”

“Hunters,” Sam murmurs. Dean shoots him a sideways glance.

“First ones.” Bobby nods. “She passed it down her line. Kept protectin’ people. When they came over here with the first colonies, they did the same. Helped hunters – didn’t matter where they came from. But Christianity was high on the rise at this point as you can imagine. Didn’t take kindly to them. People got scared and started seein’ ‘em as the enemy. Puritans turned on ’em. Started huntin’ ’em instead, so they went into hiding. Built that place up north like a magical fortress.”

Dean huffs under his breath. Figures.

“Demons didn’t just sit back, either,” Bobby continues. “They twisted that magic. Found ways to corrupt it. That’s where the witches you’re used to come from. Deals. Blood magic. All that ugly crap.” 

Sam sits back slightly, head tilted in thought and a glimmer of hope twinkling in his hazel eyes. Meanwhile, Dean feels more off-balance than ever. 

Even Bobby is saying it – not all of them are bad.

“Sam.” Dean draws his little brother’s attention to him, his finger tapping the particular line on the page that caught his eyes earlier. 

Better he tells Sam now before he finds it out for himself later. Doesn’t really make a difference. At least this way, Dean can still pretend he’s helping and not actively obstructing Sam’s way to justice or revenge or whatever. 

Sam reads the words carefully for a moment before the creases in his brow begin to deepen. He then looks at Dean. 

“Dude.”

Dean rolls his eyes once more. “I know, Sam.”

Bobby’s gaze flicks between them, confused and surely partially frustrated. “What now?”

Dean licks his lips as he finds the old man’s eyes. “Looks like, uhm, our little fire survivor shares a birthday with this Eira chick.”

“Including the blood moon,” Sam adds. 

Bobby’s frown deepens. “Balls…”

“‘M guessing you didn’t know about that one, either,” Dean deduces by the older hunter’s darkened expression. 

“Bet Dad did,” Sam mutters under his breath, earning himself a glare from his brother. 

Dean looks up at Bobby. “Probably not a coincidence, right?”

“What d’you think, idjit? Do I really need to spell it out for ya?” Bobby snaps with a deadpan look. 

Dean purses his lips. 

Jesus. He was just asking a simple, clarifying question. Can’t even do that anymore around here without getting attacked. 

“Dean, maybe we should call her now,” Sam says, his earlier stern expression softened to a bleeding heart. 

“Still nope,” Dean shoots him down fast. 

“Dean, the demon could find her. She might not be safe where she is anymore,” Sam argues. 

Shit. Dean hasn’t thought of that. At least, he didn’t want to ruminate in that idea for too long, not liking the slight pang it always caused behind his ribs. But that probably was just heartburn, not care. 

“Tough luck,” Dean scoffs. 

“Dean–”

“Do you even understand the meaning of the word no?” he cuts in sharply. Then his jaw begins to grind with something close to guilt. He forces himself to calm with a slight sigh but doesn’t cave. “We don’t need her, alright?”

“Even Bobby says she can help us,” Sam says, still not budging either. 

“No, he said they could’ve. Not freakin’ Sabrina, the Teenage Witch,” Dean counters cleverly.

They both then look at Bobby for confirmation of either side. 

“No offense, but I’m stayin’ outta this one,” the old man murmurs, raising his hands in surrender. 

Dean sighs and turns back to his little brother. “Sammy, c’mon, the girl we met was a far cry from some powerful, demon-banishing witch, alright? She barely knew anything. You heard her. She never went back there after the fire and didn’t want anything to do with this crap.”

Sam at least considers this for a moment. 

“She done the ritual yet?” Bobby chimes in then. 

The brothers share a perplexed look before their heads swirl back to Bobby, speaking simultaneously, “What ritual?”

Salem, Massachusetts

Mia’s house never changes. 

As you step inside, your keys still warm in your palm from unlocking the door, the same creak of floorboards greets you beneath your feet, the old pipes humming somewhere deep in the walls as they always do. Even the air smells the same – lavender cleaner, old wood, and something sweet and cinnamon that always clings to Mia’s place.

This house used to be your home once, too. From eleven to eighteen, every corner of this place had known you. Every wall has watched you grow into the woman you are today.

“Hey, you’re home early,” Mia calls from the kitchen, her voice warm as she flips a page of the newspaper.

You shrug off your jacket, forcing something that resembles normalcy into your tone. “Slow day at work,” you sigh. “No exciting murders for me to poke at.”

“Give it time. This town never disappoints,” she mutters dryly, not even looking up. “You picked the right job for that.”

You huff a laugh and step closer, your eyes drifting to the paper in her hands more out of habit than interest. The headline catches your attention, though.

Sleepy Hollow Beheadings Continue: Third Victim Found

You furrow your brow, leaning slightly over her shoulder. “Beheadings? Seriously? What is this, 1692 again?”

Mia snorts lightly. “Right? That town’s living up to its brand too, I guess. Three victims in two weeks. All decapitated. No suspects. No weapons found.” She finally glances up at you, brows raised. “Your kind of nightmare.”

“Or dream.” You grin, already scanning the short article. Your brain starts cataloguing details on autopilot. Clean cuts? Jagged edges? Angle of severance? Man, you never get any cool cases like that around here. You’d kill to see a crime scene of someone who was decapitated. 

But then you force yourself to stop. You’re not here for work. Well, not that kind of work at least. 

You straighten and casually purse your lips. “You got any plans today?”

Mia eyes you for a second, suspicious in a way only someone who raised you half your life can be. “Why?”

You shrug again, entirely nonchalant. At least, you hope you pull it off. God knows it’s hard work to trick a cop, especially one as perceptive as your adoptive mother. “Just wondering. Thought I might hang out here for a bit.”

It’s not that uncommon as of late that you’re seeking out her company. Ever since those brothers barged into your life, you’ve been around her more. Somehow, being near someone who knows how to handle a gun brings you comfort, considering you stared down the barrel of one only a few weeks ago.

Mia studies you a moment longer, then sighs, her alarm bells luckily staying silent. “I’ve gotta run some errands. Grocery store, dry cleaning, the usual. You wanna come with me like old times? I’ll let you push the cart again,” she teases. 

“Nah,” you huff perfectly casual. “Kinda beat. Think I’m just gonna curl up on the couch and watch reruns of Buffy.”

“Alright.” She nods but then finds your eyes with a hint of worry in hers. “You’ll be okay here alone?”

She never says it out loud, but she’s been concerned about you for the past weeks. The fact someone threatened your life clearly doesn’t sit right with her either.

“I’ll be fine,” you assure her. “I’ve lived here before, you know.”

She huffs a laugh, rising from her stool by the island, folding the paper. “Alright, kid,” she sighs softly. “There’s still some leftover lasagna in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

You smile teasingly and arch a brow. “Did you put vitamins in it again?”

“That was one time.” Mia frowns. “You were a picky eater. I was worried you weren’t getting enough nutrients.”

“Nothing like vitamin C powder in hot chocolate,” you deadpan.

“Yes, and I apologized for that,” Mia huffs, chuckling. “It’s not always easy being a parent. You’ll see.”

“It tasted like feet.”

“You’re still alive. I call that a win,” Mia says as she puts on her jacket and grabs her purse and keys, heading for the door. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

“No promises.” You smirk.

And then, you wait.

Not just until the door closes, the noise of the lock clicking like a starting gun, but until the sound of her car fades all the way down the street and the house settles back into that serene, watchful stillness. 

Only then do you move.

You hesitate for half a second at the basement door, fingers hovering over the knob. It’s not fear, exactly. More like… awareness. You’re about to cross a line you’ve spent years carefully avoiding.

You never wanted to dig into this. Never needed to. Your life was fine. Good, even. You had a job you liked, friends and family you loved, and a boyfriend calling you whenever he could from whatever classified corner of the world he was stationed in. You had normal – or at least something damn close to it.

Then, the stupid Winchesters showed up on your doorstep and tore a hole straight through it. Now, nothing fits the way it used to anymore.

Upon your next deep breath for some courage, you finally twist the knob.

Now or never, you suppose.

The basement greets you with a soft flicker of light as you flip the switch, the bulb buzzing for a second before it steadies. The air is cooler and heavier down here, carrying a scent of dust motes and time. Cardboard boxes along the walls. Old furniture draped in sheets. Stacked memories. Forgotten pieces of a life packed away and left behind.

Your life. 

If there’s anything left of who you were before, it has to be here.

You wander around carefully at first, afraid something might jump out at you (which, honestly, isn’t even that ridiculous of a notion anymore). It’s not just demons and monsters, but spiders count, too. Then you pull your hair into a bun, slip on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, and get to work. But as minutes tick away on the clock and you keep coming up empty, finding less than nothing, your movements grow quicker and more impatient.

You open box after box, drawer after drawer.

Yearbooks. Report cards. Old school papers. Trophies from high school – track, debate, that one science fair you still think you shouldn’t have won. There are sketchbooks as well, filled with half-finished drawings and doodles you vaguely remember making during boring classes. There’s also a badly painted clay sculpture you made when you were fourteen.

Normal. All of it. Painfully, frustratingly normal.

There’s nothing here. No symbols. No books. No trace of anything even remotely… witchy. It’s just a life carefully curated to look ordinary.

You shove the lid back onto another box a little harder than necessary this time, irritation prickling under your skin. “Seriously?” you mutter under your breath. “That’s it? That’s what you hid from me? My stellar academic career?”

Nothing here answers anything. Nothing explains the things the Winchesters said – the demon, the fire, your family.

Your magic.

Your jaw tightens as you glance around the basement again, slower and more deliberate this time. If Mia hid something down here, it wouldn’t be obvious. She’s by far not that careless. She’d hide it somewhere safe, somewhere out of reach and out of sight.

Fine. You can work with that.

You reach into your bag and pull out your notebook, flipping it open to a blank page. The glitter pen follows in orange because orange is for practical magic – the general ‘make life run more smoothly’ category. It’s the one you seek out when you need to get stuff done. As a teen, you probably used the cleaning spell the most whenever Mia would tell you to get your room in order before going out. And hey, even when you’re breaking into your own past with magic, you’re still committed to the aesthetic.

You tap the pen against the page once, twice, thinking. Then you write.

What is hidden, lost from sight,Buried deep in shadowed night,Show your place and make it known,Call me to what’s mine alone.

Satisfied, you softly mutter the words and then wait. It doesn’t take long before you notice a subtle flicker in your periphery. Your head then turns slowly toward the far corner of the basement, drawn to it by an almost magnetic pull. 

There’s an old safe there. You’ve seen it a hundred times before and never thought twice about it. Now, though, it hums, a soft glow threading through its metal seams, light trying to breathe through steel.

“Well, that’s new,” you murmur, lips twitching slightly.

You push yourself to your feet and cross the room, crouching in front of it. Up close, the glow nearly dramatically screams here. 

Your heart hammers wildly against your ribs as you inspect the lock. Knowing Mia, it’s probably useless trying to guess the code. She’s too smart to use birthdays or any other important numbers. It’s probably some made-up combination she just forced herself to remember by heart. 

“Alright, round two,” you sigh, flipping your notebook open again.

Metal sealed and secrets kept,Guarded where the past has slept,By my will, reveal, undo,What is hidden, I claim true.

Once the words leave your mouth, the safe’s lock clicks just like that. No resistance. No fight. The door simply creaks open without theatrics. 

You stare at the crack for a second before letting out an incredulous breath. “Okay, that was way too easy.”

Man, you’d make an excellent bank robber. The world is truly lucky you’re a good person and not some homicidal maniac, considering the sheer damage you could do. Although, if you probably asked Dean Winchester, he’d still insist you were a homicidal maniac. 

As you then reach inside the safe, the first thing you pull out is a photograph. Your breath catches in the same second your eyes land on it and fully take it in. It’s been forever since you’ve seen it. Too long.

It’s the house you were born and grew up in. Your old family home. A blue, two-story Queen Anne perched on a hill like something out of a dream you never forgot – the white wrap-around porch, the octagonal tower, the stained-glass attic window still glowing even in the picture. 

Your fingers tighten around the edges. You remember this. Not in fragments, not distorted, but clearly. Completely.

The smell of the grass. The sound of your mom laughing somewhere behind you. Your grandma’s protective voice calling from the porch.

God, you’ve missed it. You miss them. It’s one of the reasons, probably even the biggest one, why you never had the urge to set a foot down here before and marinate in a past life you lost and could never get back. 

You swallow as you set the photo aside and reach deeper.

There are more documents like birth records but tons of family pictures as well. You, smaller and grinning with missing teeth. Your mother beside you, soft-eyed and radiant. Your grandmother, stern but warm, a steady presence at your other side.

You carefully look and sort through all of them, more and more memories flooding back into your mind. Every new picture forces a sad smile onto your face. Every good memory hurts like hell. 

You hate this. You don’t want to do this. Not because you don’t want to remember, but because you never forgot any of it in the first place. After all, how could you ever possibly forget a place like that?

Your childhood was magical, filled with days playing in the sun and nights spent chasing fireflies. 

You remember the weekly tea parties your grandma used to throw in the attic when your aunties came to visit. You would dress up in your mom’s old clothes and quietly play on the floor next to them as the sunlight shone through the stained glass, a colorful mosaic of a birch tree stretching along the boards. 

You can also recall all the afternoons you spent with your mom in the garden as she taught you how to take care of plants. You’d learned what each herb can do and knew the name of every flower by the time you were six years old. 

As you grow curiouser and curiouser, you soon find yourself in your own rabbit hole till you stumble upon a sealed envelope with your name on it. Your heart winces when you recognize the handwriting. It’s from your mother.

You’ve never seen this before. Mia never gave this to you. 

Slowly and carefully, you slide your finger under the seal and pry it open. The paper inside is aged but still intact. You unfold it with shaky hands that don’t quite feel like your own and then begin to read.

My dearest daughter,

If you are reading this, then time has carried you to a day I always dreamed of witnessing myself.

Your twenty-first birthday.

I wish I could be there with you. I wish I could see the woman you’ve become, hear your voice again, hold your hands and tell you how proud I am. There are no words for the ache of knowing I won’t be there for this moment, but there is comfort in knowing that you at least made it here.

That you lived.

That you are still standing.

My sweet girl, you were born beneath a blood moon on the spring equinox, a rare and sacred convergence. From the moment you came into this world, your grandmother and I knew you were special – not because of power, but because of the balance you carry within you. Light and shadow. Creation and destruction. You were never meant to be ordinary, my love.

And for that, I am so sorry.

Because today marks more than just your birthday. It is your awakening.

In our family, the twenty-first year is when a witch comes fully into her power. The magic you have touched until now – the small spells, the flickers, the instincts – that is only the beginning. There is more within you. So much more. And it has been waiting, patiently, for you to be ready.

But with power comes danger.

There are forces in this world that will seek you out, that will want to use what you are or destroy it entirely. Be careful. Trust your instincts, even when they lead you down paths you don't understand quite yet – especially then.

You come from a long line of protectors. Witches who stood beside people, who fought to keep balance in a world that constantly tries to tip toward darkness. That legacy lives in you now.

Please remember: you are never alone in this, even if it feels like you are. We’re always here to watch over you. And no matter what happens, no matter what choices you make or where your path leads, you are loved beyond measure.

Always, Mom

The silence in the basement suddenly feels suffocating as you lower the letter. For a long moment, you just sit there, the paper trembling in your hands, your thoughts moving too fast and somehow not at all.

Twenty-one. Awakening. More power.

You let out a slow breath, your grip tightening slightly on the letter.

Well, alright, that’s a lot to dump on someone. This is bigger than you thought. Bigger than a few weird conversations and vague warnings about demons.

This is something else entirely.

What does it all mean? Why is your mother giving you the Spider-Man speech from beyond the grave? And why the hell has Mia never shown this to you?

Deep down, you know she just wants to protect you and keep you safe. Before the night of the fire, she had never faced anything evil like this. Her natural instinct was to stay out of this world. She wanted you to have a normal childhood, a normal job, a normal life. 

But you? You’ve grown up with the knowledge that there is more out there than meets the eye. You have always walked the line between ordinary and weird and tiptoed carefully between both worlds. And you know if something is truly coming for you, you can’t just ignore it. 

You know you can’t simply turn your back and run away from this.

And for the first time since the Winchesters left, the fear you felt back then morphs into focus. Your gaze drifts toward the stairs, toward the world up there that suddenly feels too small for everything you’re holding now.

You need answers. 

Your hands are shaking as you reach for your purse and pull out your phone. You hesitate as your thumb hovers over the contact – a name you never thought you’d call. But then, you dial the number. 

Sam picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

You press your lips together for a second before speaking. “Is this Sam Winchester?” you check. “It’s–, uhm, it’s me. Salem witch you tried to kill?”

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again, his voice more alert than before. “Hey, uh, I’m surprised you called. Honestly didn’t expect it after the way we left.”

“Makes two of us,” you sigh. You still can’t believe you actually called him. It feels like you’re only following the white rabbit even deeper into the hole. 

“Yeah, uhm, I can’t blame you,” he chuckles lightly. “But I’m glad you called. Sorry again how things went down. That wasn’t our intention.”

“Yeah? Does your brother share that sentiment?” you retort. 

Sam’s silent for a moment, which is an answer in itself. 

“Dean’s, uh–… It’s complicated,” is all Sam says. “You–, uh, you okay?” 

“Define okay,” you huff under your breath, staring down at the letter in your lap again. 

“Did something happen?”

You shake your head, swallowing. “No, uh, nothing like that,” you assure him and can hear a small sigh of relief on the other line. Is he actually concerned about you? “I just–, uhm… I looked through some of my old stuff in Mia’s basement and might have found something. I honestly don’t know if it even is anything, I just–… well, you said I should call if I did, so…”

“No, uh, that’s fine. Anything helps. Big or small. We’re kinda desperate here,” Sam says, laughing a little, which makes you huff a laugh as well. 

What a weird fucking day…

“We found some things, too,” he adds. “There’s more going on than we thought.”

Great. Of course there is.

You close your eyes briefly and exhale a deep breath, steeling yourself. “What–, uh, what did you find?”

Sam hesitates for a moment, the line falling silent. “I’m not sure we should do this over the phone. Might not be safe.”

You swallow thickly. You haven’t thought about that. Do demons do wire-taps?

“You–, uhm, you wanna meet somewhere?” you ask reluctantly. You’re not sure you truly ever want to see either of them again in your life. The plan was to tell Sam what you know, so he could handle it and you could go back to your same old boredom. 

“Yeah, uhm, we’re in South Dakota right now, but we can drive to Salem to meet you there,” Sam suggests. 

Somehow, you don’t like that idea. Last time they came to town, you felt paranoid for an entire week, double-checking locks and dark corners, your skin prickling with terror that the brothers might come back to finish the job or maybe even send some other hunter your way. Their visit left you feeling like you had a red-painted target on your back, not to mention that you were sure his brother still didn’t take too kindly to you, judging by Sam’s own hesitation.

“You think you can come alone?” you ask then, chewing on your bottom lip. “I don’t wanna see your brother again. No offense.” 

Sam chuckles a little. “None taken. Trust me, I get it. Dean doesn’t need to know,” he says, which brings you some relief. “I can keep him occupied. Just need to find a case in your area. Would that work for you?”

You pause for a moment, contemplating his suggestion. Unlike his brother, Sam hasn’t tried to kill you. He hasn’t even said a single bad word to you. Hasn’t threatened you or even pulled a gun. But can you really trust him?

“Actually, I think I might have a case for you guys,” you say musingly. “You ever heard about Sleepy Hollow, New York?”

Sam barks an amused laugh at that. “Sleepy Hollow, huh?”

“Yeah, they had three beheadings over the last two weeks. It’s been on the news. I don’t know a lot about hunting, but that sounds like your area of expertise. It’s only a four-hour drive from Salem. I could meet you there,” you suggest.

“That actually sounds perfect,” Sam agrees. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Dean won’t pass that up. It’ll keep him busy.”

You nod slowly, even though he can’t see it. “Alright.”

“We’ll head out right away. Probably will be there by tomorrow,” he continues.

“Works for me,” you say, even though your nerves are exploding. “Guess I’ll see you there then.”

“Yeah, see you,” Sam replies warmly.

You then hang up and stare at your phone for a moment longer before storing it back in your purse. Then your gaze drifts back to the open safe. To the photographs. To the letter still resting in your lap.

Your life was simple once – or at least simpler. But now it feels like the ground has cracked open beneath your feet, revealing a depth you didn’t know was there.

All you can hope for now is that you don’t fall down too far.

Sleepy Hollow, New York

This town almost feels like home to you. Because, much like Salem, Sleepy Hollow leans heavily into its reputation.

The streets are lined with old colonial houses that look like they’ve survived three centuries out of sheer stubbornness, their crooked fences and deep porches casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. There are wrought-iron signs swinging above shop doors, carved pumpkins already appearing in windows despite it being still summer, and in the distance, an old church bell tolls ominously. You’re sure if you looked hard enough, you could even find a murder of ravens lurking around somewhere. 

As soon as you’d passed the town sign, you felt like you stepped into Edgar Allan Poe’s wet dream. 

Sam texted you this morning when they passed Cleveland, stating they’d be here in a couple of hours. And now, you’re standing on the sidewalk across from a small diner, sunglasses perched on your nose, the warmth of the sun settling against your skin, and it should feel pleasant. Casual. Normal.

But instead, your brain is busy running through worst-case scenarios. Because, really, what in the living hell are you doing here?

You’re not just about to have coffee with an old friend and catch up on life. You’re here to meet a hunter. Voluntarily. As in, not under duress, not with a gun pointed at you, not as part of some life-threatening interrogation. No, it’s just a normal Thursday afternoon (and maybe a deeply questionable life choice).

Your gaze drifts to the shop window of a small bookstore to your right and catches your reflection. You look ordinary, like everyone else around you, although your magic hums in your blood and you seriously contemplate walking straight back to your car and pretending this entire situation never escalated past mildly concerning.

You could still leave.

No consequences. No one chasing after you. No one would even know you came. 

You could just turn around, drive back to Salem, and go back to your job, your apartment, your very sane and evidence-based existence where magic is something you use to occasionally clean your kitchen faster – not to unlock family secrets or hunt evil. You could just let the Winchesters keep chasing their demons, literal and otherwise, while you go back to your lab and your carefully constructed version of normal.

Tempting. Very tempting.

But then your mind, traitorous thing that it is, conjures your mom’s letter again. The careful curve of her handwriting. The words that refuse to remain muted in the back of your head.

It is your awakening.

You make a face. Right. No pressure. But what if you don’t even want to awaken anything at all? What if you just want to stay at home, eat ice cream on the couch, and not deal with any of this?

You exhale a deep sigh and finally push off the curb to cross the street before you can overthink this whole meeting into oblivion. It doesn’t hurt to hear him out and find out what’s really going on. Whether you want to or not, a door has opened and you’re forced to step through it. Doesn’t mean you can’t always still bolt back out later on when you don’t like what’s inside, though. 

The bell above the diner door chimes as you stroll inside, a wave of cool air from the AC greeting you along with the rich scent of coffee, sugar, and grease. The place is busy but not too crowded, only a few locals lingering over iced drinks and tourists snapping photos like they’re expecting the Headless Horseman himself to ride past the window at any second. 

Of course tourists and reporters flooded this town as soon as the first victim dropped their head and turned it into a media circus. 

Your eyes then cautiously scan the room for a minute before you spot Sam Winchester. You feel the relief flooding your veins when you find him alone and without the company of his bloodthirsty, bull-headed brother. 

While Sam swore he’d come solo, you didn’t quite trust his word, considering he’s technically supposed to be your arch nemesis. That’s how the story goes, right? The hunter and the fox. 

Sam sits in a corner booth near the back, long legs tucked under a small table. The furniture in here clearly wasn’t designed with a guy over six foot four in mind. Two coffees are placed in front of him, steam still rising from the cups. He looks less intense than the night you met him, but not exactly relaxed either. However, he definitely seems just as out of place here as you feel. You recognize a nervous energy in his aura, the yellow more butterscotch than buttercup this time. 

His gaze lifts at the sound of the bell and then lands on you instantly. Recognition flashes on his face for a second before it softens, clearly relieved you decided to come. 

You still hesitate for half a heartbeat before you can convince your feet to finally move his way. 

“Hey,” he says, straightening slightly as you approach. There’s a tentative smile on his lips as if he’s not entirely sure how this meeting is supposed to go either. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Yeah, I almost didn’t,” you reply too honestly, sliding into the seat across from him.

It earns a small huff of amusement from him, and he nudges one of the drinks toward you. “Got you a coffee. Didn’t know how you like it, but I figured I can’t go wrong with black.”

You glance at it, then back at him. “Well, at least you have more manners than your brother.”

Whoops. That one slipped out before you could stop yourself.

Luckily, Sam only chuckles. “It’s kind of a low bar.”

You take the coffee, more for something to do with your hands than anything else before your gaze drifts toward the windows for a moment with a little hint of wariness in your eyes, maybe even a touch of lingering anger. You half-expect his brother to lurk in the bushes outside somewhere. He seems to be the type to do something like that. 

“So… where is your homicidal brother?” 

Again, Sam doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he looks at you like he expected that question (and that tone).

“Dean’s at the morgue, looking into the case,” he assures you quickly. “Don’t worry. He won’t show up. I made sure of that.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “And he’s just… fine with you meeting me here alone?”

Granted, you’ve only met the guy once, but that scenario seems highly unlikely by the controlling energy he was giving off. 

“Not exactly,” Sam admits and grimaces slightly. He leans back a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “He doesn’t know I’m here. Told him I was going to the library. To be honest with you, he’d probably kill me if he found out.”

You give him a dry look, taking a slow sip of your coffee. “You or me?” You arch an eyebrow. “Good to know your survival instincts are questionable. Happy to be a part of a potentially lethal secret.”

“Yeah, uh, I’m sorry,” he says with a sheepish smile. “I just figured this was worth the risk, you know? And Dean, well… he doesn’t need answers like I do. Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s terrified about finding out more.”

Good, you think. Let that guy be as terrified as you were when he pointed a gun at you. Is it wrong that little bit of information only motivates you more to dig deeper and find answers just to spite that asshole?

Admittedly, this whole situation is ridiculous. It’s strange to sit here like this – like you and Sam are suddenly allies. And yet, somehow, it’s a lot less hostile than the last time you saw him. Only three weeks ago, the two of you were still on opposite sides of a loaded gun.

Sure, it’s till weird. Still dangerous. It’s just less… immediately life-threatening. 

Sam shifts slightly in his seat and leans forward then, his expression turning more serious. “So… what did you find?”

Right. Straight to business. 

Your fingers tighten briefly around the mug before you reach into your bag and pull out the folded letter. The paper feels more fragile now than it did in the basement, as if it could disintegrate under too much scrutiny. 

For a heartbeat, you hesitate.

Because this is personal. Painfully so. And Sam, as nice and kind as he may seem, is still someone you met under less than ideal circumstances. He’s a complete stranger to you.

You study him for a second, weighing it. Trust versus instinct. Curiosity versus caution.

And then, slowly, you slide the letter across the table.

“It’s from my mom,” you share. “She wrote it for my twenty-first birthday. Mia never gave it to me, though. I found it in her safe in the basement. I–, uh, I may have broken into it.”

Sam shoots you a surprised look, a smile rising on his lips. “You know how to pick locks?”

“I know how to write spells,” you counter. 

Sam huffs a small laugh at that. “Got it.” He then focuses back on the letter in front of him but doesn’t touch it immediately. His eyes meet yours instead. “You sure you want me to read this?”

Nope, not at all, you want to respond but find yourself nodding despite of it. 

“Yeah, uhm… I think you should.”

He accepts that, picking it up carefully as if he understands it’s more than just paper. 

You watch him read, tracking every subtle shift on his face – the slight furrow of his brows and the way his focus sharpens when he reaches certain parts as his hazel eyes move steadily over the page. It feels oddly intimate – letting someone else into your life like this. There are only three people in the world you ever entrusted with your secrets: Paige, Cameron, and Mia. 

You even told Paige you were coming here to meet one of the fake FBI guys who tried to murder you not that long ago (and you both agree that sentence sounds insane). But you mostly told her so at least one person knows your whereabouts in case you go missing here (or someone has an itchy trigger finger again).

You obviously haven’t told Mia – not about the meeting or the letter. You’re kind of dreading that conversation, scared of answers. 

And Cameron… well, he doesn’t exactly know yet that someone tried to kill you in the first place, let alone that you’re willingly meeting them again to dig deeper into your witchy family history that possibly involves demons. That’s probably a face-to-face conversation and not something you share over Skype with fifteen other guys sitting around your boyfriend in a tent. 

When Sam then finally looks up, his whiskey-colored eyes are more piercing than before. There’s a razor-sharp glint in them now.

“The blood moon,” he says. “Spring equinox.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah, I have no idea what that means. The letter didn’t exactly explain it. You were the first person that told me about that.”

“Your mom never mentioned it before this?”

“No.” You shake your head sadly, but there’s a thread of anger underneath it. 

Sure, you were a kid and only eleven when they died, but your mom and grandma prepared you and taught you so many other things, and they couldn’t mention that? A little heads-up about being born into a magical nuclear disaster would’ve been appreciated.

Sam exhales, leaning back in the booth. “Well, uhm, according to the lore, it’s supposed to amplify your magic,” he says. “But we actually found another connection from a hunter who knew your family. He’s, uh, a family friend of ours, too.”

You tilt your head. “He knew my mom and grandma?”

“Yeah, uh, he worked with them,” Sam says. “Your grandmother mostly. Sometimes your mom. They helped him on hunts. He’s actually the one who sent our dad to them.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I didn’t know that. I mean, I knew they tried helping your dad, and sometimes other people would come by the house, too. But I didn’t know how far it went…”

As a kid, you caught glimpses here and there, but they mostly sent you away whenever a visitor would come around. You just never realized they’d been running an entire secret operation right under your nose. 

You recall the words in your mom’s letter again, what your grandma always taught you as well, remembering you’re supposed to help people. Hunters. It’s the family legacy. 

But honestly? You have no idea how to do that. Defeating monsters isn’t exactly in your wheelhouse. You’re not equipped for it. There’s nothing you can offer them in terms of demon hunting aside from a few party tricks. 

“He told us this story about the first witch,” Sam continues.

Your head snaps up, realization dawning on you. “The Legend of Eira,” you breathe.

“Yeah.” Sam blinks in surprise, then nods. “You know it?”

A small, nostalgic smile tugs at your lips. “My grandma used to tell it to me before bed almost every night,” you share and then tilt your head slightly. “Though I’m pretty sure I got the Disney version and not the Grimm one.” 

Sam huffs a chuckle. “Yeah, probably.” 

Your fingers tap lightly against the coffee cup as the pieces shift in your mind, rearranging themselves into something new. Something bigger. There’s a lot you don’t know about your own family. Too damn much. But there’s some things you still remember well. 

“At the foot of a birch tree, Frejya gave Eira a symbol, one not yet known to mankind. One of growth, of protection, of life that endures and begins again – Bjarkan. Eira carved it into her skin, just above her heart, and pressed her blood into the bark of the tree, binding flesh to root, life to life. She did not take the power but became a part of it.”

Your grandma’s voice floods your mind like it was yesterday and not more than a decade ago. Your hand automatically wanders to your collarbone on the left side, where a birthmark rests just above your heart, but it’s not just a random shape. It’s a symbol. A rune. 

ᛒ

Sam seems to notice the motion, his eyes flicking briefly to the spot where your fingers touch the fabric of your shirt, the symbol hidden just underneath it, but he refrains from commenting on it. 

“The demon you talked about, the one that killed my family,” you say with a clear of your throat to snap his focus back. “What do you actually know about it? I mean, was your dad hunting it?”

Sam nods slowly, his fingers tightening around the mug in his hands. “Yeah, uhm, he’d been hunting it for a long time,” he shares. “We’ve been tracking a pattern. It visited babies the night they turned six months old. Said it had plans for… special kids. Kids like me. Their mothers would usually die in a fire after.”

You swallow thickly, your stomach tightening. “Because of your abilities?”

Sam gives you another nod. “Yeah, all kids usually started developing abilities after their twenty-second birthday. At least, it did for me and the others we’ve met so far. It’s mostly psychic stuff. Visions, telekinesis, mind control… It’s been different for everyone.”

A quiet breath escapes your lips as you sink back into the booth’s worn leather. “Is that why you guys were asking so many questions about the fire in Sugar Hill? Because you believed I was one of those kids?”

“Yeah,” Sam admits, then chuckles lightly. “Clearly, we were wrong about that one.”

“Because I don’t fit the pattern?” you question. You’ve heard the brothers mention it when they were in your living room that night. It’s only now starting to make sense. 

“Yeah, but to be fair, there doesn’t seem to be a pattern, after all,” Sam says. “We recently discovered there might be kids out there whose mothers didn’t die in a fire. Could just be anyone at this point. We don’t know how many there are, either. You’re probably not one of them, but I still think you’re connected somehow. There’s a reason this thing came after your family. After you.”

You let the words sink in and study him for a second, something clicking into place. “Your mom,” you say carefully. “She died like that too, didn’t she? In a fire?”

Sam nods once, the blue in his aura expanding and overtaking the yellow. “Yeah, she did.”

Your head bobs softly. That explains a lot about both of these boys, actually. “I’m really sorry, Sam.”

Sam licks his lips contemplatively for a moment before leaning forward, the yellow glistening slightly. “Look, our dad thought you might be the key to killing this thing.”

Your brow shoots up, eyes widening. “I’m sorry, what?” A nervous laugh bubbles out of you. “You’re joking, right?”

Sam shakes his head, serious as ever. “We don’t exactly know how yet, but he seemed pretty sure.”

“Well, I’m not,” you protest. Can you close this goddamn door again?

Sam doesn’t even flinch, though, and stays focused. “The hunter who worked with your family – his name is Bobby Singer. He told us about a ritual, too.”

Your brow scrunches. “What kind of ritual?”

Sam chuckles a little. “Honestly? I was hoping you could tell me. We don’t know either. Your family never shared the details with him,” he explains. “But, uhm, your mom mentioned something about getting your full powers after your twenty-first birthday in the letter. You know anything about what she could mean?”

You shake your head slowly. “No clue,” you huff, frustration lacing your tone. Then a frown slowly starts to form. “They did tell me once my twenty-first birthday was special, but I don’t remember anything specifically. At least there was no mention of some big, magical fireworks moment. And I didn’t wake up differently that day either, if that’s what you were gonna ask next. It wasn’t like when I turned seven and first got my magic. It’s been the same ever since.”

“Probably because you haven’t done the ritual yet,” Sam muses, then finds your eyes. “You think there’s still anything at your old house in Sugar Hill?”

“There might be,” you admit, your jaw tightening slightly. “But just to be clear, I’m still not going back there. I don’t even know if I wanna do this. I’m kinda happy with my magic the way it is. I didn’t sign up for any of this, alright? I don’t want more power, I don’t want to kill some scary demon, and I definitely don’t want to perform some weird, ancient ritual that could go horribly wrong for all we know. I have a job. A life, okay? I was honestly doing just fine before you guys showed up.”

Sam doesn’t seem to be utterly fazed by your rant. “Look, I get it,” he levels with you. “Really, I do. Trust me.”

You hold his gaze patiently, waiting for the argument. Because judging by the determination in both his eyes and aura, you already know there’s one coming. 

“But it doesn’t matter if you want it or not,” he continues contrastingly gently to the meaning of his words. “If the demon’s connected to you… it’s not just gonna leave you alone. And if it comes for you, it won’t just be you at risk. It could go after people around you, too. Your family. Friends.”

You fall silent as his words seep under your skin and avert your eyes to the window, watching people stroll past it, none the wiser of your conversation in here. You see Mia, Paige, and Cameron in their faces. You’d very much like to keep them off a demon’s radar. 

What if it comes for them, and you’re not strong enough to protect them?

“It happened to me,” Sam adds, drawing your attention back to him. “I–, uh, I was at Stanford a year ago.”

You quirk a brow at that. “You went to Stanford?”

Sam smiles, chuckling a little at your bewilderment. “Yeah, pre-law. Had a girlfriend, too.”

You smile a little too before it fades again when you notice his use of the past tense. “What happened?”

Sam pauses for a moment, his eyes focused on the coffee in his hands. “The demon came and killed her,” he says quietly. “That’s when I hit the road and started hunting with Dean again.”

You swallow harshly. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m trying to warn you,” he says and meets your eyes again. “I tried running away from this thing once, too. Hell, I’m still planning on leaving all this behind as soon as that demon is dead. But as long as that thing’s alive, it’s gonna find you whether you wanna face it or not. Trust me.”

“Great,” you mutter under your breath, nodding. “So my options are ‘get involved’ or ‘get everyone I love potentially murdered.’ Love that.”

“Yeah, it sucks,” Sam agrees with a hint of sympathy in his voice.

You scoff a dry laugh, because that might be the understatement of the goddamn century.

The silence lingers for a moment before you finally dare to glance back at him. “So… what now?”

Sam exhales a long breath, leaning back in his seat. “I don’t know yet, but we keep digging. Together,” he replies. “I’ll look into the ritual. See if I can find out more about it. I can update you if I find anything. If that’s what you want…”

Oh, you’re not sure about any of this at all. It feels like Sam has just shown you a steep cliff and then told you to jump in the same breath. 

“I’ll think about it, okay? Not gonna promise anything, though,” you say. “But we can keep in touch.”

Sam’s jaw locks slightly, but he eventually gives you a nod. “Deal.”

Welp, it’s not vampires, Dean thinks as he puts the last victim’s head back into its plastic container. At least, that means crazy-ass Gordon is nowhere around. When Sam first told him about this case, Dean was almost sure they’d run into the nut job again. But as it turns out, it’s just regular people dying an irregular death.

No second set of teeth descending from their gums. No visible bite marks. And no one was drained of their blood either. 

Which, somehow, isn’t as comforting as it should be.

He exhales slowly through his nose, green eyes lingering on the headless body splayed out on the metal table in front of him. There’s a clean line where flesh meets absence – where something precise carved through bone and sinew, but it’s not surgical in the doctor-with-a-scalpel kind of way. It’s an efficient removal, but not jagged, not messy, and not the sort of hack job he expects from something feral or hungry.

Three bodies. Three heads. No real answers.

Dean straightens and pulls off the nitrile gloves with a practiced flick, tossing them into the trash nearby.

Sleepy Hollow of all places. The irony isn’t lost on him.

Town built on a ghost story about a headless horseman, and now the people here are actually losing theirs? Yeah, he’s sure Washington Irving is having a field day in his grave right about now. All that’s missing is a flaming pumpkin and a dramatic thunderstorm. There’s probably even a tour guide out there spinning this into a story already. 

The Horseman rides again, folks – buy your tickets, bring your kids!

Dean utters a light scoff and rubs a hand down his face. He didn’t find traces of sulfur, signs of possession, or any ritual markings either. But the EMF? That spiked. Which tells him at least that he’s either dealing with a ghost or maybe even a cursed object. 

The question of the who, when, where, what, and why remains, though. Awesome. Who doesn’t love a good mystery, right? 

Admittedly, not knowing wouldn’t bother him as much if his little brother hadn’t been acting weird as hell on top of it. That part, annoyingly, sticks with Dean the most. 

Something’s been off since yesterday. It’s subtle. It always is with Sam, but Dean knows his little brother better than anyone. He knows when that kid is being shifty and lying. Sam’s brain is clearly already ten steps ahead and not sharing the map. The question is about what. 

At first, Dean didn’t second-guess Sam’s strange insistence on taking this case. Why would he? Three headless bodies in a town famous for that sort of thing? That’s practically an invitation for hunters. It’s cool. It’s weird. It’s exactly their kind of thing.

Now, though, he smells something fishy. And Dean? Well, he ain’t stupid. It doesn’t take a genius to realize Sleepy Hollow is only a nice, neat four-hour drive away from Salem. But Sam wouldn’t go behind his back and seek you out after Dean explicitly told him not to. 

…Right?

Shit.

Dean should’ve clocked it sooner that something was up when Sam suggested to “divide and conquer” this morning, making Dean check out the morgue while Sam decided to hit the local library. It sounded logical. But that was code for I’m about to do something you won’t like, wasn’t it?

Divide and conquer my ass. 

He scoffs under his breath again, pacing a few steps across the cold tiles before he completely heads out of the morgue.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that a good ten minutes later, Dean’s storming the library on a mission, still willing to give his little brother the benefit of the doubt. His eyes scan the rows of books, the scattered tables, and the couple of locals minding their own business in one quick sweep. 

As expected, there’s no Sam. No flannel. No furrowed brow. No nothing. 

Dean doesn’t even bother asking the older librarian at the front desk if she’s seen a six-foot-four nerd hunched over a stack of lore books, practically absorbing ancient text through osmosis. He knows Sam’s not here and probably has never even set a foot inside this place. 

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, the irritation creeping in. 

Called it. 

Dean turns on his heel and stomps back out into the afternoon sun hitting him in the face to a blinding degree as he makes his way down the busy street, bustling with reporters and tourists already in town for the big show. 

And then, there it is – the sign he’s been looking for. In the corner of his eye, a flicker of Bimini-blue glints in the sunshine. 

He knows that color. And he knows that car. Your Aveo sticks out like a sore thumb, parked neatly by the curb among the others. Needless to say, he doesn’t need more proof than that to confirm his theory. 

Of course Sam wouldn’t let it go. Of course he’d sneak around, go behind Dean’s back, meet up with you like some damn teenager meeting his girlfriend after curfew instead of another potential disaster waiting to happen.

And for what? To chat? To compare fucking notes? To bond over witchy nonsense and goddamn demon bedtime stories?

The anger and frustration simmer under his skin as he heads further down the street in search of his little brother and the surely witchy companion. He follows the line of sight instinctively from your car to whatever place would set a good location for a meeting like that till his gaze lands on a small diner two blocks down. 

And sure enough, he spots Sam and you through the window, sitting and chatting in a booth like old goddamn friends. 

Dean’s going to kill him. It’s done. 

But Sam knows what he’s doing, or he wouldn’t have picked a public place in broad daylight. He knows Dean can’t very well pull out his gun here and start shootin’ even if he does catch them (which point for Dean for proving Sam wrong). 

Sam should also very well know, though, that Dean doesn’t really care about any of that – not the people, not the sunlight – if push comes to shove. And, well, it’s shoving pretty damn hard right now. 

However, Dean decides not to storm the diner right away, guns blazing. Instead, he watches, green eyes fixed on the window, and waits those two out. That’s what good hunters do, after all. 

They set traps for their foxes. 

Sam’s leaning forward on the table, focused and listening. Of course he is. He’s probably trying to score points, give you some sad stories and puppy dog eyes, and then boom – he’s got you hooked on whatever crazy plan he’s trying to talk you into.

Dean knows how that one goes. He’s been on the receiving end of it a few times now. 

You’re talking, hands moving as you explain something, your expression soft and yet animated in a way that’s… different from what he remembers when he last saw you. Not scared. Not defensive. Just… engaged.

Sam says something then, you respond, and then there’s a beat before you laugh – actually laugh, like his little brother suddenly is the funniest person on the planet. For the record, Dean knows for a fact that ain’t true. 

What the hell is this?

Is Sam… flirting with you? Is that what Sam’s flirting looks like? Is this what this whole thing is about? Sam wanting to get laid?

Honestly, Dean can’t tell for sure if that’s what’s happening or not. Because, while he knows his little brother pretty damn well, he doesn’t know that much about Sam’s skills in that department. Dean didn’t really see Sam date a lot in high school and then he went off to Stanford. And now, well, Sam’s not really been an outgoing person so far, so not a lot of references there either. 

Sure, Dean supposes his little brother landed Jess, and she was a damn ten, so Sammy’s gotta have some game, right? On the other hand, there was also Sarah not that long ago, a chick from a case, and that seemed admittedly a little… bumpy (and not in the way you want something like that to be bumpy). 

Jesus, is that what Dean’s witnessing right now? His little brother dipping a toe into the dating pool? And why the hell is he even thinking about Sam’s flirting attempts in the first place? It shouldn’t bother him.

It doesn’t. 

Awesome. Now he feels like a creep who’s watching something not meant for his eyes. It’s like there’s a piece of a puzzle here that’s not supposed to fit, except it does, and that’s the goddamn problem. 

Why does it have to be a witch? Why does it have to be you? 

Why are you laughing?

Why is Sam– 

Dean’s thoughts tangle, frustration spiking as something else sneaks in beneath it. It’s quiet but no less insistent. It’s familiar, almost like déjà-vu, although he’s sure he’s never felt this strange little tingle, this tiny prick in his chest, before in his life. 

And yeah, okay, he’s noticed it before – not the feeling but the cause of it. Hard not to. You’ve got that… thing, whatever the hell it is, that makes people look twice. He looked twice. He can admit as much. He’s gonna be a grown-up about it (not out loud to other people, though. Especially not you. No, no, that’s not–). 

But it’s not just that you’re pretty, not just attractive, though yeah, there’s that too, obviously. Again, he’s not blind, either. But it’s something else – something he can’t quite pin down or even put his little finger on (and the thought of you and his finger definitely shouldn’t give him, well… other thoughts). 

There’s something wrong with him, isn’t there? He just can’t figure out what, though. 

It’s probably just a you thing. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. It’s you. He’s blaming you. 

There’s an edge to you that doesn’t line up with anything he knows how to categorize. And that, God, that fucking bugs him.

Because he likes things that fit. Things that make sense. Things he can label and move on from.

You fucking don’t do any of these things. 

This whole scene in front of him reminds Dean of another one of those weird dreams he’s had a couple of nights ago. There have actually been a few of those with one common theme:

It’s always you and Sammy, both little and close in age, laughing and running around, unburdened and weightless, catching frogs and butterflies, whispering secrets in the tall grass… 

One gets the idea. 

And Dean? He’d be off somewhere, isolated, outcast, excluded and far away, but not out of reach. He’s very much reachable. But no one ever reaches for him. 

Maybe you put something in his drink. Date-raped him with some witchy love potion or sex potion and that’s causing all these bizarre feelings now. Hell, maybe that’s what you did to Sam, too. You probably snuck a few drops of something cursed into his vanilla soy latte or whatever the hell his little brother’s drinking in there. 

Dean shakes his head clear and rolls his shoulders. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t care if you’re getting along with Sam. He doesn’t care that you’re sitting there like you belong at that table, acting like you’re part of something you’re definitely not a part of. He doesn’t care that Sam looks… comfortable. Open. The way he hasn’t in a while.

That’s not the point.

The point is that Sam lied. The point is that you’re a wildcard. The point is that Dean told him not to call you.

And yet, here you fucking are.

A minute later, both you and Sammy then finally rise and head for the door. Still talking vividly. Still laughing like old buddies. Still wrapped up in whatever the fuck this is. 

And Dean? He steps out of the shadows before either of you can register what’s happening, irritation rushing through his blood when he sees the stupid smile on his brother’s face.

“Really, Sam?!”

Both of you freeze in your tracks. It’s like a switch flipped, and your smiles fall abruptly. Sam’s head snaps up, your eyes go wide, and the two of you look like two baby deers in headlights. But Dean doesn’t even give either of you a second to recover. 

“Lying? Meeting up with the enemy?” he snaps, deep voice raspy enough to grate on anyone. “I told you not to call her!”

Sam straightens, already having steeled himself for the inevitable lecture. “And I didn’t,” he argues. “She called me, alright?”

“A loophole, Sam? Really?” Dean raises his brows, then scowls. “That’s what you’re going with?”

You, on the other hand, are hiding halfway behind Sam’s broad back, deciding to use him as your shield. You blink between the brothers, caught in the crossfire. 

“You know what? I’m gonna go,” you mumble with a clear of your throat, already taking a tentative step back. “Let you guys figure this out–”

“Whoa, whoa–” Dean moves in an instant and blocks your path to freedom. “Not so fast, Sabrina.”

Your brow scrunches as you glance up at him. “Sabrina?” A beat passes before realization clicks, your expression darkening a smidge, clearly unimpressed with his nickname game. “Oh… Funny.”

A tiny smirk tugs on Dean’s lips. Antagonizing you is admittedly sort of fun. 

“Puritan,” you scoff under your breath and cross your arms. 

But Dean? Oh, he still heard that. 

“What did you just call me?”

“You heard me,” you grit, the defiance gleaming in your eyes. 

Now, Dean can take an insult. You’re not the first person that threw something at him and hoped it would stick. But puritan? He’s never gotten that one before. Everyone who knows him would probably agree that he’s the least strait-laced prude there is. There’s nothing pure about him. 

And just like that, his smirk morphs to a scowl. 

“Oh, you stay right there, Stevie Nicks Junior,” he warns, pointing a finger at you. “You’re not going anywhere.” 

You, however, aren’t scared of him this time or even backing down. Instead of flinching, you square your shoulders and meet his glare head-on. 

“Or what? You’re gonna shoot me in a busy street during daylight?” You tilt your head cockily, lips twitching. “You know that’s a red flag, right? I mean, Jesus, you’re every dating site’s worst nightmare. It’s like a full catfish situation.”

What the–

What the hell does that mean now?! 

Dean blinks, mouth agape, thrown just enough by the comment to be noticeable. Sam snorts in obvious amusement, earning himself a glare. Then Dean looks back at you, sterner than before as he tries (and fails) to fully track whatever the hell you just said. It sounded like a compliment wrapped in an insult. 

“Well, consider yourself catfished then,” he retorts with a huff and prays it makes sense. Your brow wrinkles, so it probably didn’t, but Dean ignores it skillfully. “You’re in this now.” His gaze then flicks expectantly between you and his little brother. “Well? Somebody gonna fill me in on what’s going on here?”

Sam exhales a long and deep breath. “Dean, look, I was just catching her up on what we know so far about the demon and what Bobby told us about her family.” 

“What?!” Dean snaps, shaking his head furiously. “You told her all of that?! First Ellen, now her? Why don’t you go ahead and put it out in an email newsletter next time, huh? Save us all some time, man.”

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. “Dean–”

“No!” Dean cuts him right off, voice rising. “You can’t trust her, Sam! You know that.” 

“Still standing right here,” you chime in dryly and wave your hand in mock. “You know, where you told me to stand…” 

Dean smacks his lips and shoots you a sharp look, then points a finger at you again. “You’re a bad influence on him.”

“Dude–” Sam starts, but this time you cut in first. 

“You know what? I don’t need this,” you announce with a tight smile. “You guys are on your own with this. I’m going. So if you plan on still shooting me in front of at least twenty witnesses, do it now because I’m walking away.” You turn on your heel, then throw a glimpse back at Sam over your shoulder. “Good luck with the case.”

Dean’s jaw clenches hard as soon as you take that first step.

“So what?” he throws after you. “You’re just gonna ditch while people are dying in this town? Real class act.”

Alright, sure, Dean doesn’t want you on this hunt. Doesn’t want you anywhere near him or Sam. But alas, you’re here already – no thanks to his little brother dragging you into their mess. Sam may as well have painted a blinking red target on your back. And now, well, you’re Dean’s fucking responsibility. 

Luckily, Dean’s good at finding buttons. And certainly, he’s found yours and knows where to push down. 

You stop in your tracks and spin on your heel, the irritation sparking your eyes like a wildfire. “I’m not a hunter. That’s your specialty,” you shoot back. “I’m gonna go home, watch Buffy slay some vampires, and then think of you in spirit, alright?” 

Dean studies you for a second, then sighs, forcing some of the heat out of his voice. “It’s not vampires,” he says, more grounded now, catching Sam’s attention as well. “Checked all three bodies. No second set of teeth, no bites, no feeding, nothing. Clean cuts.”

“So what are you thinking?” Sam asks, focusing immediately on the case. Maybe he’s just happy about the distraction. “Ghost? Cursed object?”

Dean shrugs lightly. “Would be my best guess.”

Sam nods slowly before his eyes drift toward you, the familiar look that Dean knows all too well already forming. He’s going full puppy on you. No one can resist that. It’s like his little brother’s superpower. 

“Which means we might need another perspective,” Sam muses, gaze flicking to you without hiding his intentions. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble, eyes narrowing. “It’s not my job.”

“People are still dying,” Dean repeats because he can read you well enough to know that’s your kryptonite. 

And yeah, he wasn’t a fan at first of the witchy disappearing act you pulled back in Salem, but he can admit that he might have overreacted back then and pulled the trigger a little too soon (metaphorically speaking). You’re doing a good thing there, helping people, even though Dean doesn’t really approve of the methods. He’s not going to admit that to your face, though. Can’t let you have that win. That probably would only go to your head. 

“People are dying everywhere every day,” you point out and throw your arms up. “What do you want me to do next? Perform open-heart surgery without a medical degree?”

Damn, that’s a good point. You’re admittedly quick on the draw and sharp as a tack. But Dean? He’s got some tricks up his sleeve, too. He’s used to that kind of argument from Sam, so he’s got some repartee of his own. Otherwise, God knows he’d never win a single fight. 

“Look, we could use your help,” Sam adds, pulling on the gentle kid gloves before Dean can interject. You hesitate, clearly torn, your gaze wandering back and forth between them. “We’re staying at a bed and breakfast down the road. We can get you a room. You don’t have to drive back tonight. Just sleep on it.”

“Whoa, no, that’s not gonna happen,” Dean cuts in sternly. “Not gonna risk her disappearing on us, man.” His eyes lock onto yours, unyielding. “You’re staying where we can see you in case you pull somethin’.”

“What? No!” you protest firmly. “I’m not playing summer camp with you two. Where would I even go? You know where I live. You know where I work. Hell, Sam has my number.”

“Yeah, and you also got a little disappearing spell in your repertoire. I haven’t forgotten about that one,” Dean counters cleverly. God, he has to bite back the rising smirk because he can see on your face that he’s got you with that one. 

You scowl and cross your arms. “How do I know you’re not gonna shoot me when I sleep?”

“Guess you don’t.”

“Dean,” Sam warns with a hint of frustration in his tone. “He’s not gonna shoot you,” he assures you gently, then glares back at Dean and grits, “Right?”

“Well–”

“Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes back and sighs. “Fine, whatever.” 

You stare at him for another second, then let out a short, incredulous laugh, lifting a brow. “Do you actually hate me that much?” 

Dean opens his mouth, already halfway to some snarky comeback. Something easy. Something cutting. But then he stops.

Because the answer that comes up first isn’t any of that. It’s something messier. More complicated. Something he doesn’t have a name for yet and doesn’t particularly want one.

So, he shoves it down. Deep, deep down. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he shoots back dryly instead. “You’re just easier to deal with when you’re not sneaking around.” 

Your eyes narrow to a glare, and for a minute, it seems like you’re going to walk away anyway, but then you exhale a deep sigh, shoulders dropping just a little bit. 

“Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m not doing this because you told me to.”

Dean scoffs, unimpressed. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Sabrina.” 

And just like that, the three of you stand there – tense, mismatched, and somehow stuck in the same mess whether any of you like it or not.

▶️ Chapter 4: Do You Hate Me? – June 19

Ready to storm the comments? I'm so excited to hear your best guesses and theories as to what the hell is going on here with that crazy, emotional, and possibly fake (?) childhood dream 👀🔮 (And yes, I did hurt my own heart writing this one, and there might be more in the next parts lol). Also don't ask me how long it took to craft those spells, letter, and ancient legend. I went full LOTR (and the rhyming for those spells is haaard) 😂

In other news, how did you like Sabrina and Sam's secret meeting and all the revelations in this part? Of course it's not that easy to trick Dean. Shame on them for trying lmao. How long do you think it will take till their bonding annoys him, though? A minute? 😝

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“Okay,” Sam sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “I think we should head to the library next. I mean, the whole hooves thing makes me think we might actually be dealing with the Headless Horseman. Maybe we can find out who it is, because this thing’s definitely mobile.”

Dean nods, still hung up on that whole red-green thing, but you shake your head slightly, brows creasing. Figures.

“Actually, I wanna process the evidence first. Might give us a clue about the weapon and where to find it,” you say.

Dean then finally dares to look at you again, brow furrowing lightly. “Thought you already did that with that whole horsey aura thing.”

“That’s not–… You know what? Never mind.” You press your lips together, biting back whatever comment you wanted to make, and simply turn to Sam. “Point is, I need a lab. Don’t exactly have one here. The rust, the hair… There’s more there.” Then you smack your lips, musingly looking between the brothers. “You guys do breaking and entering, right?”

Sam and Dean exchange a look.

Of course.

Dean sighs. “Yup, we do.”

“You guys go. I’ll hit the library,” Sam says, not even arguing (or volunteering).

“Fine. I’ll go with her.” Dean nods and rolls his eyes slightly.

But you? You immediately grimace and wrinkle your nose.

“Do you have to?” you question and then tone down the hostility a little by clearing your throat. “I mean, can’t Sam come to the lab with me, and you can go to the library?”

Dean’s lips rise to a smirk at that. “Not a chance in hell, Sabrina.”

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Judging by the fuzzy edges in his vision and the milky filter that makes everything glow slightly orange, he seems to be currently stuck in a dream.

Dean’s not exactly sure, though, where in the dream he is. But the air feels cleaner and softer around here. It hasn’t been scraped raw yet by exhaust fumes and motel bleach. It smells like forest and sun-warmed grass and lake water as the Impala drives along a winding dirt road, leading up a small hill. 

He’s not the one driving, though. His father is, while him and Sammy are cramped into the backseat. 

His shoulders dig into the worn leather as he stares out the window. He’s about twelve, maybe a little younger or older as the leg space in the back seems to be a tiny bit tighter than it used to. 

And then, a house comes into view. 

Faded blue in places where the sun’s kissed it too much and lived-in. Old but sturdy. It sits on a gentle rise, a green hill rolling up toward it, tucked between trees that stretch tall into the sky. He almost gasps at its beauty. It’s not polished in the perfect way of magazine homes, but in the way something real is beautiful. 

And it’s big – bigger than anything Dean’s used to calling home. 

It looks like something taken straight out of a storybook. There’s a wide wrap-around porch hugging the entire ground floor, railings painted white, steps worn smooth in the middle from years of use. One side of the house rises into an octagonal tower, tall and narrow, with windows glinting in the bright light. 

His gaze lingers on the attic without knowing why. 

There’s a window set into the peak of the roof, a colorful mosaic of stained glass. A birch tree delicately stretches across it, its branches protectively fanning outward. The glass glows, even from down here. 

Dean feels it then before he understands it. He’s been here before. 

He doesn’t know why, but he knows how the porch creaks under his weight and how the front door sticks just a little in the summer heat. 

A smile rises on his lips before he can stop it. Before he can question it. Before anything in this life can weigh it down again. 

He likes it here. 

The Impala rolls to a stop in front of the house. It doesn’t have a driveway or even a road. There’s just a small dirt path leading up to the porch. Otherwise, there’s only nature surrounding it, grass greener than he’s ever seen anywhere before and stretching out endlessly. No neighbors. Not a single roofline in sight.

The entire place feels like a magical secret in another realm. 

The driver’s door creaks open as his dad steps out, already all business, already moving toward the house like he’s got somewhere to be, already focused on whatever brought them here in the first place. Sammy scrambles after him, no more than eight, tripping over his own eagerness as usual. 

“Watch your brother,” his dad throws over his shoulder.

Dean rolls his eyes automatically and mutters a “yeah, yeah,” pushing the door open and stepping out into the blinding sun. The air is warm against his skin, and everything feels already lighter here. And for a second, just a second, there’s nothing sharp or dangerous about the world for once. No monsters. 

“Dean!”

He turns at the sound of his name and sees her running toward him. 

Small. Fast. All bright energy and wind-tangled hair. The way she’s storming at full speed feels like she’s already been waiting the whole damn day for this exact moment. Maybe even longer. It does something weird in his chest that he can’t name at twelve yet, but he decides he likes that feeling as well. 

There’s dirt on her knees and something wild and alive in the way she moves. It seems like she belongs more out here than inside any house. She doesn’t slow down until she’s right in front of him, practically bouncing where she stands.

And Dean? He grins.

It’s easy. Natural. This is what he’s supposed to do. 

She’s a little breathless and flushed, but her eyes are shining and there’s something bright and untamed in her grin. 

“You’re back!” she blurts, looking up at him like he painted the sky mesmerizingly blue just for her. 

She says it like it matters – like he matters. There’s something warm and familiar about that.

Important. 

“Yeah,” he says and shrugs like it’s no big deal, even though it sort of is. A part of him has been looking forward to this without realizing it.

She steps closer then, lowering her voice like she’s about to share the greatest secret in the world. “I got it,” she whispers.

Dean’s brow furrows the slightest bit. “Got what?”

“My magic.”

The word drops between them and lands wrong, tilting everything on its axis.

It doesn’t fit with the sunlight or the trees or the way this place felt like something safe just a minute ago. It sits heavily in the air, sharp-edged now where everything else used to be so damn soft.

Something in Dean shifts then.

It’s small at first. Just a flicker. A hitch in his chest. A loss of warmth. Barely noticeable. But it spreads quickly, like a crack through glass.

Magic. Witch.

The smile fades before he can stop it because he doesn’t like that. Not one bit. Doesn’t like the way it sounds, the way it feels, the way it suddenly changes everything about her without actually changing the way she looks, or the way it instantly makes everything here… different. Off. 

Before, she was normal. There wasn’t anything weird about her. Nothing to worry about. Nothing that reminded him of the things that go bump in the dark. 

But now, the ground under his feet isn’t as steady as it was a moment ago. Now, she’s something else. Something closer to the things he’s been taught to hate.

He looks at her again and really looks this time. And something clicks into place in a way that doesn’t make sense – not for twelve-year-old Dean standing in the tall grass at least. But it makes sense for the version of him watching through older eyes as something else threads through the dream.

He knows that little girl. Not the way a kid knows another kid, though. It’s something deeper. Something that doesn’t belong to this moment alone.

That little girl is… you. 

The realization hits quiet but certain, settling under his skin like it’s always been there, just waiting to be noticed. And somehow, that only makes it worse. Makes the disappointment sink deeper and take root. 

Because now the word witch doesn’t just sit wrong – it twists.

You’re still talking, still glowing with excitement, completely unaware of the way his expression’s changed.

“I can show you,” you offer keenly, reaching for the sleeve of his jacket like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t anchor him there. “It’s really cool, I promise. I’ve been practicing and–”

Dean pulls back his arm. 

Not hard. Not enough to be obvious. But enough to draw a line. The space between the two of you expands to a canyon in a millisecond.

He shrugs it off, eyes already drifting past you, toward the trees, toward the edge of the hill where the land dips down toward the pond, toward anything that isn’t this.

“Maybe later,” he mutters.

Your face falters, confusion replacing the earlier joy. 

“You don’t wanna see?” you ask with a slight wobbling pout on your lips.

He exhales through his nose, like you’re asking something annoying instead of something that matters.

“I said maybe later,” he snaps and averts his eyes when you flinch. “Go play with Sammy or somethin’.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond this time. Doesn’t look at you again, either. He just turns, shoving his hands into his pockets as he heads down the slope toward the water glinting through the trees. Each step feels easier than the last because distance is the only thing that makes sense right now.

Behind him, your voice echoes for half a heartbeat before it fades into the silence. But Dean keeps walking and doesn’t stop.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Dean’s eyes crack open to the dim, familiar ceiling of Bobby’s guest room, the wood panels stained and slightly warped with age. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just lies there in the narrow twin bed, watching the soft morning light seep through the yellowed curtains. 

The room is quiet in that particular way old houses tend to be – never truly silent but filled with the creaks and cracks of wood that has seen too many years. Bobby’s place has always been like that. Warm. Chaotic. A little rundown. Grounded. Home. 

And yet, Dean feels… off.

A part of him hasn’t quite made it back to reality yet. Part of him is still somewhere else. Still standing in a field that shouldn’t exist. Still watching a blue house glow in the sunlight like something out of a story he doesn’t remember reading. Still hearing your damn voice – bright, excited, and too fucking real.

He exhales slowly and drags a hand down his face, the rough scrape of his palm against his skin anchoring him a little more firmly in the present. But the dream sticks, stubborn in a way most aren’t. It’s too coherent to be dismissed entirely, even as he tries his damn hardest to forget it. 

There’s no immediate adrenaline in his veins, no hand flying under his pillow for a gun, and no sharp inhale of air like he’s startling straight out of another nightmare. It’s not the usual gist when it comes to dreams. Resurfacing feels slower than that. Feels more like he’s wading through something thick, something that clings.

My magic.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut for another second before letting out a quiet, irritated breath. 

Yeah… nope. He’s not dealing with that. He’s already got enough on his plate as is. It’s just a dream. A stupid, stupid, meaningless dream. A weird, persistent, too-detailed dream, but still just that.

That’s the only explanation that makes any kind of sense. Because the alternative – that it’s something else, something real – isn’t even worth entertaining. He’s never been to that place. Never seen that house. Never–

Dean’s frown deepens slightly.

There’s a strange familiarity to it, though. Not the kind that comes from memory exactly, but something adjacent to it, like his mind is filling in details it shouldn’t have, smoothing over gaps that shouldn’t exist in the first place.

He huffs under his breath and shifts on the mattress, which creaks in loud protest. The sheet’s half-twisted around his legs, the pillow shoved somewhere under his shoulder at an awkward angle. His fingers push back through his hair and make it worse, dirty blond tufts sticking up in every direction like he stuck his finger in a damn socket. 

It’s been like this for weeks now.

Ever since Salem.

Ever since you.

Same kind of dream. Same feeling. Same place, more or less. Bits and pieces shifting and morphing but always circling back to that house, that hill, that–

He cuts the thought off again because it just doesn’t make sense. None of it does. Dean Winchester does not have childhood memories of some random blue house in the middle of nowhere New Hampshire. He doesn’t have memories of running around with some girl in a field, playing house like everything’s normal and safe and–

His brain’s just screwing with him, cooking up whatever the hell that was, stitching things together that don’t fucking belong together. That’s all. 

He probably just picked something up in your apartment when they met you – something tiny and unimportant. Something he didn’t even consciously notice. Something small enough that it didn’t register at the time but still got stuck somewhere in the back of his head. Maybe a detail at your place. A book. A picture on the wall.

Yeah, that must be it. That’s what brains do, right? Take pieces, scraps, things picked up without noticing, and turn them into something bigger and personal, filling in non-existent blanks. Didn’t Freud write a whole-ass book about this?

It doesn’t mean those dreams are real in any way, shape, or form. 

Except–

Dean doesn’t remember seeing anything like that in your home. No pictures of a house. No hints. Nothing that should’ve given his brain that kind of material to work with. 

His jaw tightens slightly at that, something restless seeping under his skin. The timing alone is strange enough to irritate him. Apparently, his stupid brain has decided to latch onto you and just run with it in the most inconvenient way possible.

Maybe you’re a metaphor for something or a ghost of his Christmas past. Maybe you cursed him or hexed him or did whatever dumb, evil stuff witches do. Wouldn’t that be something? He gets on your bad side and threatens your life once and suddenly he’s stuck reliving some odd, fake childhood memories on a loop. Petty revenge does kind of fit your usual M.O., considering all the dicks you broke before him. 

Sure, the idea is slightly ridiculous, but it’s easier to digest than admitting to the fact that all this stupid and weird crap is coming directly from him.

Dean exhales another harsh breath through his nose and finally pushes himself upright. The bed creaks once more under his weight, old springs squeaking as he swings his legs over the side. The floorboards are cool under his feet when he rises. As he glances across the room, he finds Sam’s bed empty.

His little brother’s already up. Figures. 

Sam’s side is neat in that half-assed way whenever he’s in a hurry – blanket pushed back, pillow slightly indented, but otherwise abandoned. He’s probably downstairs already. Buried in books. Researching. Again.

Chasing ghosts that don’t wanna be caught. Chasing answers that don’t exist. Chasing that damn demon.

Sam doesn’t let things go. Not anymore, at least. God knows it was real easy for his little brother to let things go when he left everything behind for Stanford, including Dean. But somehow, Sam can’t do him the same courtesy now and let it go again. 

Now, after everything – after Jess, after Dad, after hunters like Gordon being immoral and wicked like monsters, after vampires and witches suddenly not fitting the mold anymore, and after psychic kids like Max and Andy – there’s no stopping Sam anymore. 

Nothing fits anymore. That’s the goddamn problem. The lines aren’t where they’re supposed to be. The rules don’t hold the way they used to. Monsters aren’t always monsters. Psychic kids aren’t always ticking time bombs waiting to go off. 

And maybe the last one isn’t the worst possible outcome. It’s that little shimmer of hope flickering in the distance that Dean’s been focusing on lately. Because maybe it means his father’s insane request doesn’t have to come true. Maybe it means he won’t have to kill the last member of his family with his own hands. 

Dean sighs as he trudges down the old stairs. When did his life get so damn complicated? How the hell did he end up here?

The smell of coffee then hits him halfway down the steps. Strong. Bitter. Bobby’s special brand of hospitality. 

As he rounds the corner to the kitchen, Sam’s already there. Of course he is. 

Sitting at the small table, hunched forward slightly, a mug of coffee in one hand and a book in the other, with about six more spread out around him like he’s building some kind of paper fortress.

Dean pauses in the doorway for a beat, watching him. Andy was just another reminder that Sam’s not normal. That none of this is going away. 

Sam then glances up briefly before focusing back on his book. “Morning.”

Dean pretends to stroll in without hesitation or having wasted a single thought on it, aiming for casualness as he heads straight for the coffee pot and grunts something that passes as a response. 

If he’s going to deal with this, any of this, he needs some caffeine first. And the thing is, he knows he will have to deal with it at some point. He knows there’s no outrunning this, even though most days he’d like to take his chances and still try. 

This particular day, however, doesn’t seem to be one of those. So, he pours himself a cup of the blackest coffee and leans against the counter as the bitter smell curls around him like all the other bitterness.

He winces at his first sip and decides to break the silence. “Bobby still makin’ this stuff strong enough to wake the dead, huh?”

Sam huffs a light chuckle in agreement but doesn’t look up, hazel eyes glued to the pages in front of him.

Dean watches him for another minute over the rim of his mug. God, he wants to ignore it. Wants to just drink his coffee, maybe make some joke, and then avoid the whole fucking thing. Because the last thing he truly wants to do is dive into demon lore first thing in the goddamn morning and psychic kids and destiny and all the bad ways this could end in blood and death and horror. 

But Sam’s already there and neck-deep in it, so alas, what other choice does Dean really have than be in it, too? 

“Found anything?” Dean asks finally, more out of obligation than genuine interest.

“Working on it.” 

He sighs quietly, pushing off the counter, pacing a few steps across the kitchen. “Sam–” he starts but doesn’t finish. Because what is he supposed to say? 

Stop? 

Yeah, right. Like that’s ever worked. The kid’s stubborn like that. 

But Dean doesn’t get really worried till Sam starts grinding his molars and biting the insides of his cheeks, his fingers playing with the edge of a page. That’s never a good sign. When his little brother’s chewing on something, Dean knows he gets the leftovers. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking–”

But Dean already shakes his head in warning. “Don’t even say it.”

Sam still does, though. Your name falls from his lips.

Dean freezes imperceptibly for a heartbeat, because the timing of this feels too deliberate to be a coincidence. Remnants of his latest dream flood back into his mind in the same breath, and he already hates where this conversation’s inevitably headed. 

“Don’t you think we should call her?” Sam finishes his delusion. 

Dean schools his expression quickly, taking another sip of coffee. “No, Sam, I don’t think that,” he replies dryly and keeps the annoyance locked behind his teeth.

Sam’s frown is already forming. “Dean–”

“I said no,” he snaps with more sharpness and watches Sam’s mouth close in frustration. 

He refuses to drag you into this. Because that’s what this is – dragging people into a mess they can’t get out of. He dragged Sam back into it and look what happened. Dean’s not doing that again. 

Sam then leans back in his chair, studying him, far from giving up, judging by the determination gleaming in his eyes. “She might have answers.” 

“Or she might be another problem,” Dean shoots back, although a small and annoying part of him knows Sam’s right. 

You probably would have answers. But Dean’s not sure he necessarily wants to hear them. 

Sam does, however. The obsession and urgency isn’t entirely new, but it’s definitely getting worse. Lately, it feels like Sam isn’t just looking for answers anymore but actually needs them like people need oxygen to live. This whole thing has become more intense and less… optional. 

Before Sam can push further, footsteps sound behind them. Bobby walks in, coffee already in hand, eyes flicking knowingly between them.

“What’re you two idjits arguin’ about this time, huh?” he prompts.

“Nothin’,” Dean mutters into his mug. But when his eyes find Sam in his periphery, he can already see the idea forming on his little brother’s face. He shoots Sam a warning look. 

“Actually, uhm–” Sam starts, gaze flicking briefly to Dean’s glare before he apparently decides to ignore it. “Hey, uh, Bobby, have you ever heard of the Berkano witches?”

Dean closes his eyes briefly to let the anger and frustration pass through his body without tearing the house down. Of course Sam can’t resist. Of course he fucking goes there. Of course he has to drag Bobby into it, too. 

Bobby halts his movements mid-pour on the counter and slowly turns around, raising a high brow. “Now, where the hell did you boys hear that name?”

“Dad’s journal,” Sam replies without missing a beat. 

Bobby lets out a scoff, shaking his head as he sets the mug down. “Yeah, you could say I’ve heard of ‘em,” he replies. “I was actually the one who sent your daddy up to New Hampshire in the first place.”

Dean’s brow knits. “Wait… You did?”

“So Dad really worked with them?” Sam checks curiously, leaning forward on the table. 

“Yup, he sure did,” Bobby confirms with a nod. “Figured they could help him with the demon, y’know? They’re kinda experts on all that stuff. Were at least…”

Sam shoots Dean a small I told you so glare that he fends off with an eye roll. 

Dean then focuses back on Bobby. “You know if he ever took us up there with him?”

The question clearly confuses Sam. Admittedly, it comes a little out of the blue, but Dean figures he can always excuse it with natural curiosity. He was a kid back then, too. What the hell did he truly know? And judging by Sam’s creased brow, his little brother clearly doesn’t have weird dreams about a place he’s never been to. 

A part of Dean is relieved about that because it means those dreams are really just that. Because even when Sam was younger than him, Dean knows his little brother would’ve never forgotten a beautiful place like that because he surely would’ve never forgotten it either if it truly existed, which means all of it is just some strange, surreal fantasy. Sam’s never been there. He’s never been there. It was never real. 

“Don’t know.” Bobby shakes his head slowly. “Your dad didn’t exactly always give me the play-by-play.”

Dean nods once, pretends to be satisfied, and considers the issue settled, even though it’s not. 

“How did you know about them?” Dean asks the older hunter then. 

“Met ‘em in the late ‘80s through another hunter who lived close to ‘em,” Bobby replies without elaborating the why of it all. “Mostly worked with Aine. She was the matriarch. Sometimes worked with her daughter, Freya, too. She had a little girl as well. Sweet kid. Couldn’t’ve been more than three or four when I met her.” He chuckles fondly before his expression turns more somber. “Too bad they’re all gone. Surely coulda helped you boys. ’S sad what happened to ‘em. Demons got ‘em in ’95. They were the last of their line.”  

Dean’s jaw tightens at that, locking eyes with Sam. So Bobby clearly doesn’t know about their father’s plan, either. Doesn’t know you’re still alive. Last one standing. 

For some reason, the thought curdles acid in Dean’s stomach. If he knows demons as well as he thinks he does, they surely wouldn’t like that. Maybe even take it as a challenge. 

Who can make a powerful witch bloodline go extinct first?

And for all Dean knows, he almost had. 

While Bobby doesn’t have a clue about John Winchester’s secrets, the old man’s at least perceptive enough to catch the silent conversation between the brothers. His eyes flick back and forth between them and narrow. 

“Alright, what’s going on here? One of you gonna tell me?” Bobby prompts, stance both challenging and somehow scolding. 

“They’re not all dead,” Dean says then. “The girl…” The word tastes strange on his tongue. The girl from his dreams. “She–, uh, she’s still alive.”

“Yeah, uhm, Dad got her out of that fire and hid her in Salem,” Sam adds. 

“Put her up with a cop,” Dean scoffs. 

Bobby exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, frustration with a hint of anger lacing his tone. Dean doesn’t entirely blame him. His father had a way of bringing that side out in people. “That stubborn bastard. Figures he’d keep somethin’ like that to himself.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean huffs in faint agreement. His father always had to keep his secrets.  

“Wait…” Bobby frowns then, tilting his head. “Was that why you boys went to Salem a couple of weeks ago?”

Both of them nod. 

“Dammit,” the old man grunts. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Bobby doesn’t wait for either of them to answer, though. He just spins on his heel and heads out of the kitchen. Dean can hear the basement door opening a second later and Bobby’s footsteps trudging down the stairs. He shares a quizzical look with Sam before the old man stomps back into the room with a giant, ancient book in his hands. He dusts it off before slapping it down on the small table in front of their noses. 

“Coulda given you boys this before,” is all he says before he opens it and flips through it till he finds the page he’s looking for. He taps his finger on the brittle parchment. “Here.”

Dean and Sam both lean closer, their eyes focusing on the hand-painted letters of the title. It almost looks like a fairytale in a storybook. 

The Legend of Eira

“Long before hunters had names for what they were doing,” Bobby begins, “before there were journals and rules and all that, people didn’t know what the hell they were up against. Humans still lived in tribes when the first demons began to walk the earth. They didn’t have the right names for ‘em yet, but crops started to fail, diseases spread, nights became unsafe…”

Dean’s eyes drop to the page in front of him, reading the first paragraphs. 

Before the old gods had names, before the world was carved into realms, there was a current that moved beneath all living things.

It had no voice, no will, no master.

It simply was.

It lived in the roots of trees and the pull of the tide, in the breath between heartbeats and the quiet spaces where light did not reach. It did not belong to heaven, nor to darkness. It existed beside them, as old as both, untouched by their designs.

For a long time, it remained undisturbed until something else began to walk the earth. 

They came without being born, without growing. They wore the shapes of men but moved like smoke trapped in skin, hollowed and hungry, leaving ruin in their wake. They whispered sickness into the land and twisted animals into frenzy.

“According to legend, Eira was the first witch known to mankind. Real one, at least,” Bobby says. “She was said to have had a special bond with nature. Could feel things others couldn’t. Nowadays, you’d probably call her a psychic.”

Dean feels Sam’s eyes burning a hole into the side of his face, but he keeps his gaze trained on Bobby and the book in front of him. 

The tribes did not understand what they were, only that they did not belong. They feared these creatures of the dark. 

Among them was a young woman named Eira. She was not the strongest, nor the loudest, nor the one others looked to for war. But born during a blood moon on spring equinox, the gods bestowed a special gift upon her, and she was given the ability to listen. 

She listened to the wind through the trees, to the silence beneath the soil, to the stream beneath the world that bound every living thing together.

“When demons came and killed half her tribe in one night, the goddess Freyja appeared to her in a dream,” Bobby continues. “Afterward, Eira wandered three days through the forest alone, claiming Freyja told her about a way to fight back. If you ask me, the girl might’ve just been high outta her mind on too much Henbane.” He chuckles lightly, scratching his beard. “But Freyja told her the power she was lookin’ for was already there. She just had to reach for it.”

“How?” Sam asks, fully swept up by Bobby’s storytelling skills.

Dean, on the other hand, can barely concentrate on the old man’s words. His green eyes are glued to the foxed page in front of him, eight little words sticking out like a sore thumb.

Born during a blood moon on spring equinox.

Can he still mindfully chalk that off as a mere coincidence?

Shit. As soon as Sam reads this, his ass will be on fire. Dean’s, too. 

“She performed a ritual. Tapped into it, took that power into herself, and then bound it,” Bobby replies. “After that, she returned to her tribe. But she didn’t just use that power to fight back. She taught the men in her camp how to kill demons, banish dark spirits.”

“Hunters,” Sam murmurs. Dean shoots him a sideways glance.

“First ones.” Bobby nods. “She passed it down her line. Kept protectin’ people. When they came over here with the first colonies, they did the same. Helped hunters – didn’t matter where they came from. But Christianity was high on the rise at this point as you can imagine. Didn’t take kindly to them. People got scared and started seein’ ‘em as the enemy. Puritans turned on ’em. Started huntin’ ’em instead, so they went into hiding. Built that place up north like a magical fortress.”

Dean huffs under his breath. Figures.

“Demons didn’t just sit back, either,” Bobby continues. “They twisted that magic. Found ways to corrupt it. That’s where the witches you’re used to come from. Deals. Blood magic. All that ugly crap.” 

Sam sits back slightly, head tilted in thought and a glimmer of hope twinkling in his hazel eyes. Meanwhile, Dean feels more off-balance than ever. 

Even Bobby is saying it – not all of them are bad.

“Sam.” Dean draws his little brother’s attention to him, his finger tapping the particular line on the page that caught his eyes earlier. 

Better he tells Sam now before he finds it out for himself later. Doesn’t really make a difference. At least this way, Dean can still pretend he’s helping and not actively obstructing Sam’s way to justice or revenge or whatever. 

Sam reads the words carefully for a moment before the creases in his brow begin to deepen. He then looks at Dean. 

“Dude.”

Dean rolls his eyes once more. “I know, Sam.”

Bobby’s gaze flicks between them, confused and surely partially frustrated. “What now?”

Dean licks his lips as he finds the old man’s eyes. “Looks like, uhm, our little fire survivor shares a birthday with this Eira chick.”

“Including the blood moon,” Sam adds. 

Bobby’s frown deepens. “Balls…”

“‘M guessing you didn’t know about that one, either,” Dean deduces by the older hunter’s darkened expression. 

“Bet Dad did,” Sam mutters under his breath, earning himself a glare from his brother. 

Dean looks up at Bobby. “Probably not a coincidence, right?”

“What d’you think, idjit? Do I really need to spell it out for ya?” Bobby snaps with a deadpan look. 

Dean purses his lips. 

Jesus. He was just asking a simple, clarifying question. Can’t even do that anymore around here without getting attacked. 

“Dean, maybe we should call her now,” Sam says, his earlier stern expression softened to a bleeding heart. 

“Still nope,” Dean shoots him down fast. 

“Dean, the demon could find her. She might not be safe where she is anymore,” Sam argues. 

Shit. Dean hasn’t thought of that. At least, he didn’t want to ruminate in that idea for too long, not liking the slight pang it always caused behind his ribs. But that probably was just heartburn, not care. 

“Tough luck,” Dean scoffs. 

“Dean–”

“Do you even understand the meaning of the word no?” he cuts in sharply. Then his jaw begins to grind with something close to guilt. He forces himself to calm with a slight sigh but doesn’t cave. “We don’t need her, alright?”

“Even Bobby says she can help us,” Sam says, still not budging either. 

“No, he said they could’ve. Not freakin’ Sabrina, the Teenage Witch,” Dean counters cleverly.

They both then look at Bobby for confirmation of either side. 

“No offense, but I’m stayin’ outta this one,” the old man murmurs, raising his hands in surrender. 

Dean sighs and turns back to his little brother. “Sammy, c’mon, the girl we met was a far cry from some powerful, demon-banishing witch, alright? She barely knew anything. You heard her. She never went back there after the fire and didn’t want anything to do with this crap.”

Sam at least considers this for a moment. 

“She done the ritual yet?” Bobby chimes in then. 

The brothers share a perplexed look before their heads swirl back to Bobby, speaking simultaneously, “What ritual?”

Salem, Massachusetts

Mia’s house never changes. 

As you step inside, your keys still warm in your palm from unlocking the door, the same creak of floorboards greets you beneath your feet, the old pipes humming somewhere deep in the walls as they always do. Even the air smells the same – lavender cleaner, old wood, and something sweet and cinnamon that always clings to Mia’s place.

This house used to be your home once, too. From eleven to eighteen, every corner of this place had known you. Every wall has watched you grow into the woman you are today.

“Hey, you’re home early,” Mia calls from the kitchen, her voice warm as she flips a page of the newspaper.

You shrug off your jacket, forcing something that resembles normalcy into your tone. “Slow day at work,” you sigh. “No exciting murders for me to poke at.”

“Give it time. This town never disappoints,” she mutters dryly, not even looking up. “You picked the right job for that.”

You huff a laugh and step closer, your eyes drifting to the paper in her hands more out of habit than interest. The headline catches your attention, though.

Sleepy Hollow Beheadings Continue: Third Victim Found

You furrow your brow, leaning slightly over her shoulder. “Beheadings? Seriously? What is this, 1692 again?”

Mia snorts lightly. “Right? That town’s living up to its brand too, I guess. Three victims in two weeks. All decapitated. No suspects. No weapons found.” She finally glances up at you, brows raised. “Your kind of nightmare.”

“Or dream.” You grin, already scanning the short article. Your brain starts cataloguing details on autopilot. Clean cuts? Jagged edges? Angle of severance? Man, you never get any cool cases like that around here. You’d kill to see a crime scene of someone who was decapitated. 

But then you force yourself to stop. You’re not here for work. Well, not that kind of work at least. 

You straighten and casually purse your lips. “You got any plans today?”

Mia eyes you for a second, suspicious in a way only someone who raised you half your life can be. “Why?”

You shrug again, entirely nonchalant. At least, you hope you pull it off. God knows it’s hard work to trick a cop, especially one as perceptive as your adoptive mother. “Just wondering. Thought I might hang out here for a bit.”

It’s not that uncommon as of late that you’re seeking out her company. Ever since those brothers barged into your life, you’ve been around her more. Somehow, being near someone who knows how to handle a gun brings you comfort, considering you stared down the barrel of one only a few weeks ago.

Mia studies you a moment longer, then sighs, her alarm bells luckily staying silent. “I’ve gotta run some errands. Grocery store, dry cleaning, the usual. You wanna come with me like old times? I’ll let you push the cart again,” she teases. 

“Nah,” you huff perfectly casual. “Kinda beat. Think I’m just gonna curl up on the couch and watch reruns of Buffy.”

“Alright.” She nods but then finds your eyes with a hint of worry in hers. “You’ll be okay here alone?”

She never says it out loud, but she’s been concerned about you for the past weeks. The fact someone threatened your life clearly doesn’t sit right with her either.

“I’ll be fine,” you assure her. “I’ve lived here before, you know.”

She huffs a laugh, rising from her stool by the island, folding the paper. “Alright, kid,” she sighs softly. “There’s still some leftover lasagna in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

You smile teasingly and arch a brow. “Did you put vitamins in it again?”

“That was one time.” Mia frowns. “You were a picky eater. I was worried you weren’t getting enough nutrients.”

“Nothing like vitamin C powder in hot chocolate,” you deadpan.

“Yes, and I apologized for that,” Mia huffs, chuckling. “It’s not always easy being a parent. You’ll see.”

“It tasted like feet.”

“You’re still alive. I call that a win,” Mia says as she puts on her jacket and grabs her purse and keys, heading for the door. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

“No promises.” You smirk.

And then, you wait.

Not just until the door closes, the noise of the lock clicking like a starting gun, but until the sound of her car fades all the way down the street and the house settles back into that serene, watchful stillness. 

Only then do you move.

You hesitate for half a second at the basement door, fingers hovering over the knob. It’s not fear, exactly. More like… awareness. You’re about to cross a line you’ve spent years carefully avoiding.

You never wanted to dig into this. Never needed to. Your life was fine. Good, even. You had a job you liked, friends and family you loved, and a boyfriend calling you whenever he could from whatever classified corner of the world he was stationed in. You had normal – or at least something damn close to it.

Then, the stupid Winchesters showed up on your doorstep and tore a hole straight through it. Now, nothing fits the way it used to anymore.

Upon your next deep breath for some courage, you finally twist the knob.

Now or never, you suppose.

The basement greets you with a soft flicker of light as you flip the switch, the bulb buzzing for a second before it steadies. The air is cooler and heavier down here, carrying a scent of dust motes and time. Cardboard boxes along the walls. Old furniture draped in sheets. Stacked memories. Forgotten pieces of a life packed away and left behind.

Your life. 

If there’s anything left of who you were before, it has to be here.

You wander around carefully at first, afraid something might jump out at you (which, honestly, isn’t even that ridiculous of a notion anymore). It’s not just demons and monsters, but spiders count, too. Then you pull your hair into a bun, slip on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, and get to work. But as minutes tick away on the clock and you keep coming up empty, finding less than nothing, your movements grow quicker and more impatient.

You open box after box, drawer after drawer.

Yearbooks. Report cards. Old school papers. Trophies from high school – track, debate, that one science fair you still think you shouldn’t have won. There are sketchbooks as well, filled with half-finished drawings and doodles you vaguely remember making during boring classes. There’s also a badly painted clay sculpture you made when you were fourteen.

Normal. All of it. Painfully, frustratingly normal.

There’s nothing here. No symbols. No books. No trace of anything even remotely… witchy. It’s just a life carefully curated to look ordinary.

You shove the lid back onto another box a little harder than necessary this time, irritation prickling under your skin. “Seriously?” you mutter under your breath. “That’s it? That’s what you hid from me? My stellar academic career?”

Nothing here answers anything. Nothing explains the things the Winchesters said – the demon, the fire, your family.

Your magic.

Your jaw tightens as you glance around the basement again, slower and more deliberate this time. If Mia hid something down here, it wouldn’t be obvious. She’s by far not that careless. She’d hide it somewhere safe, somewhere out of reach and out of sight.

Fine. You can work with that.

You reach into your bag and pull out your notebook, flipping it open to a blank page. The glitter pen follows in orange because orange is for practical magic – the general ‘make life run more smoothly’ category. It’s the one you seek out when you need to get stuff done. As a teen, you probably used the cleaning spell the most whenever Mia would tell you to get your room in order before going out. And hey, even when you’re breaking into your own past with magic, you’re still committed to the aesthetic.

You tap the pen against the page once, twice, thinking. Then you write.

What is hidden, lost from sight,Buried deep in shadowed night,Show your place and make it known,Call me to what’s mine alone.

Satisfied, you softly mutter the words and then wait. It doesn’t take long before you notice a subtle flicker in your periphery. Your head then turns slowly toward the far corner of the basement, drawn to it by an almost magnetic pull. 

There’s an old safe there. You’ve seen it a hundred times before and never thought twice about it. Now, though, it hums, a soft glow threading through its metal seams, light trying to breathe through steel.

“Well, that’s new,” you murmur, lips twitching slightly.

You push yourself to your feet and cross the room, crouching in front of it. Up close, the glow nearly dramatically screams here. 

Your heart hammers wildly against your ribs as you inspect the lock. Knowing Mia, it’s probably useless trying to guess the code. She’s too smart to use birthdays or any other important numbers. It’s probably some made-up combination she just forced herself to remember by heart. 

“Alright, round two,” you sigh, flipping your notebook open again.

Metal sealed and secrets kept,Guarded where the past has slept,By my will, reveal, undo,What is hidden, I claim true.

Once the words leave your mouth, the safe’s lock clicks just like that. No resistance. No fight. The door simply creaks open without theatrics. 

You stare at the crack for a second before letting out an incredulous breath. “Okay, that was way too easy.”

Man, you’d make an excellent bank robber. The world is truly lucky you’re a good person and not some homicidal maniac, considering the sheer damage you could do. Although, if you probably asked Dean Winchester, he’d still insist you were a homicidal maniac. 

As you then reach inside the safe, the first thing you pull out is a photograph. Your breath catches in the same second your eyes land on it and fully take it in. It’s been forever since you’ve seen it. Too long.

It’s the house you were born and grew up in. Your old family home. A blue, two-story Queen Anne perched on a hill like something out of a dream you never forgot – the white wrap-around porch, the octagonal tower, the stained-glass attic window still glowing even in the picture. 

Your fingers tighten around the edges. You remember this. Not in fragments, not distorted, but clearly. Completely.

The smell of the grass. The sound of your mom laughing somewhere behind you. Your grandma’s protective voice calling from the porch.

God, you’ve missed it. You miss them. It’s one of the reasons, probably even the biggest one, why you never had the urge to set a foot down here before and marinate in a past life you lost and could never get back. 

You swallow as you set the photo aside and reach deeper.

There are more documents like birth records but tons of family pictures as well. You, smaller and grinning with missing teeth. Your mother beside you, soft-eyed and radiant. Your grandmother, stern but warm, a steady presence at your other side.

You carefully look and sort through all of them, more and more memories flooding back into your mind. Every new picture forces a sad smile onto your face. Every good memory hurts like hell. 

You hate this. You don’t want to do this. Not because you don’t want to remember, but because you never forgot any of it in the first place. After all, how could you ever possibly forget a place like that?

Your childhood was magical, filled with days playing in the sun and nights spent chasing fireflies. 

You remember the weekly tea parties your grandma used to throw in the attic when your aunties came to visit. You would dress up in your mom’s old clothes and quietly play on the floor next to them as the sunlight shone through the stained glass, a colorful mosaic of a birch tree stretching along the boards. 

You can also recall all the afternoons you spent with your mom in the garden as she taught you how to take care of plants. You’d learned what each herb can do and knew the name of every flower by the time you were six years old. 

As you grow curiouser and curiouser, you soon find yourself in your own rabbit hole till you stumble upon a sealed envelope with your name on it. Your heart winces when you recognize the handwriting. It’s from your mother.

You’ve never seen this before. Mia never gave this to you. 

Slowly and carefully, you slide your finger under the seal and pry it open. The paper inside is aged but still intact. You unfold it with shaky hands that don’t quite feel like your own and then begin to read.

My dearest daughter,

If you are reading this, then time has carried you to a day I always dreamed of witnessing myself.

Your twenty-first birthday.

I wish I could be there with you. I wish I could see the woman you’ve become, hear your voice again, hold your hands and tell you how proud I am. There are no words for the ache of knowing I won’t be there for this moment, but there is comfort in knowing that you at least made it here.

That you lived.

That you are still standing.

My sweet girl, you were born beneath a blood moon on the spring equinox, a rare and sacred convergence. From the moment you came into this world, your grandmother and I knew you were special – not because of power, but because of the balance you carry within you. Light and shadow. Creation and destruction. You were never meant to be ordinary, my love.

And for that, I am so sorry.

Because today marks more than just your birthday. It is your awakening.

In our family, the twenty-first year is when a witch comes fully into her power. The magic you have touched until now – the small spells, the flickers, the instincts – that is only the beginning. There is more within you. So much more. And it has been waiting, patiently, for you to be ready.

But with power comes danger.

There are forces in this world that will seek you out, that will want to use what you are or destroy it entirely. Be careful. Trust your instincts, even when they lead you down paths you don't understand quite yet – especially then.

You come from a long line of protectors. Witches who stood beside people, who fought to keep balance in a world that constantly tries to tip toward darkness. That legacy lives in you now.

Please remember: you are never alone in this, even if it feels like you are. We’re always here to watch over you. And no matter what happens, no matter what choices you make or where your path leads, you are loved beyond measure.

Always, Mom

The silence in the basement suddenly feels suffocating as you lower the letter. For a long moment, you just sit there, the paper trembling in your hands, your thoughts moving too fast and somehow not at all.

Twenty-one. Awakening. More power.

You let out a slow breath, your grip tightening slightly on the letter.

Well, alright, that’s a lot to dump on someone. This is bigger than you thought. Bigger than a few weird conversations and vague warnings about demons.

This is something else entirely.

What does it all mean? Why is your mother giving you the Spider-Man speech from beyond the grave? And why the hell has Mia never shown this to you?

Deep down, you know she just wants to protect you and keep you safe. Before the night of the fire, she had never faced anything evil like this. Her natural instinct was to stay out of this world. She wanted you to have a normal childhood, a normal job, a normal life. 

But you? You’ve grown up with the knowledge that there is more out there than meets the eye. You have always walked the line between ordinary and weird and tiptoed carefully between both worlds. And you know if something is truly coming for you, you can’t just ignore it. 

You know you can’t simply turn your back and run away from this.

And for the first time since the Winchesters left, the fear you felt back then morphs into focus. Your gaze drifts toward the stairs, toward the world up there that suddenly feels too small for everything you’re holding now.

You need answers. 

Your hands are shaking as you reach for your purse and pull out your phone. You hesitate as your thumb hovers over the contact – a name you never thought you’d call. But then, you dial the number. 

Sam picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

You press your lips together for a second before speaking. “Is this Sam Winchester?” you check. “It’s–, uhm, it’s me. Salem witch you tried to kill?”

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again, his voice more alert than before. “Hey, uh, I’m surprised you called. Honestly didn’t expect it after the way we left.”

“Makes two of us,” you sigh. You still can’t believe you actually called him. It feels like you’re only following the white rabbit even deeper into the hole. 

“Yeah, uhm, I can’t blame you,” he chuckles lightly. “But I’m glad you called. Sorry again how things went down. That wasn’t our intention.”

“Yeah? Does your brother share that sentiment?” you retort. 

Sam’s silent for a moment, which is an answer in itself. 

“Dean’s, uh–… It’s complicated,” is all Sam says. “You–, uh, you okay?” 

“Define okay,” you huff under your breath, staring down at the letter in your lap again. 

“Did something happen?”

You shake your head, swallowing. “No, uh, nothing like that,” you assure him and can hear a small sigh of relief on the other line. Is he actually concerned about you? “I just–, uhm… I looked through some of my old stuff in Mia’s basement and might have found something. I honestly don’t know if it even is anything, I just–… well, you said I should call if I did, so…”

“No, uh, that’s fine. Anything helps. Big or small. We’re kinda desperate here,” Sam says, laughing a little, which makes you huff a laugh as well. 

What a weird fucking day…

“We found some things, too,” he adds. “There’s more going on than we thought.”

Great. Of course there is.

You close your eyes briefly and exhale a deep breath, steeling yourself. “What–, uh, what did you find?”

Sam hesitates for a moment, the line falling silent. “I’m not sure we should do this over the phone. Might not be safe.”

You swallow thickly. You haven’t thought about that. Do demons do wire-taps?

“You–, uhm, you wanna meet somewhere?” you ask reluctantly. You’re not sure you truly ever want to see either of them again in your life. The plan was to tell Sam what you know, so he could handle it and you could go back to your same old boredom. 

“Yeah, uhm, we’re in South Dakota right now, but we can drive to Salem to meet you there,” Sam suggests. 

Somehow, you don’t like that idea. Last time they came to town, you felt paranoid for an entire week, double-checking locks and dark corners, your skin prickling with terror that the brothers might come back to finish the job or maybe even send some other hunter your way. Their visit left you feeling like you had a red-painted target on your back, not to mention that you were sure his brother still didn’t take too kindly to you, judging by Sam’s own hesitation.

“You think you can come alone?” you ask then, chewing on your bottom lip. “I don’t wanna see your brother again. No offense.” 

Sam chuckles a little. “None taken. Trust me, I get it. Dean doesn’t need to know,” he says, which brings you some relief. “I can keep him occupied. Just need to find a case in your area. Would that work for you?”

You pause for a moment, contemplating his suggestion. Unlike his brother, Sam hasn’t tried to kill you. He hasn’t even said a single bad word to you. Hasn’t threatened you or even pulled a gun. But can you really trust him?

“Actually, I think I might have a case for you guys,” you say musingly. “You ever heard about Sleepy Hollow, New York?”

Sam barks an amused laugh at that. “Sleepy Hollow, huh?”

“Yeah, they had three beheadings over the last two weeks. It’s been on the news. I don’t know a lot about hunting, but that sounds like your area of expertise. It’s only a four-hour drive from Salem. I could meet you there,” you suggest.

“That actually sounds perfect,” Sam agrees. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Dean won’t pass that up. It’ll keep him busy.”

You nod slowly, even though he can’t see it. “Alright.”

“We’ll head out right away. Probably will be there by tomorrow,” he continues.

“Works for me,” you say, even though your nerves are exploding. “Guess I’ll see you there then.”

“Yeah, see you,” Sam replies warmly.

You then hang up and stare at your phone for a moment longer before storing it back in your purse. Then your gaze drifts back to the open safe. To the photographs. To the letter still resting in your lap.

Your life was simple once – or at least simpler. But now it feels like the ground has cracked open beneath your feet, revealing a depth you didn’t know was there.

All you can hope for now is that you don’t fall down too far.

Sleepy Hollow, New York

This town almost feels like home to you. Because, much like Salem, Sleepy Hollow leans heavily into its reputation.

The streets are lined with old colonial houses that look like they’ve survived three centuries out of sheer stubbornness, their crooked fences and deep porches casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. There are wrought-iron signs swinging above shop doors, carved pumpkins already appearing in windows despite it being still summer, and in the distance, an old church bell tolls ominously. You’re sure if you looked hard enough, you could even find a murder of ravens lurking around somewhere. 

As soon as you’d passed the town sign, you felt like you stepped into Edgar Allan Poe’s wet dream. 

Sam texted you this morning when they passed Cleveland, stating they’d be here in a couple of hours. And now, you’re standing on the sidewalk across from a small diner, sunglasses perched on your nose, the warmth of the sun settling against your skin, and it should feel pleasant. Casual. Normal.

But instead, your brain is busy running through worst-case scenarios. Because, really, what in the living hell are you doing here?

You’re not just about to have coffee with an old friend and catch up on life. You’re here to meet a hunter. Voluntarily. As in, not under duress, not with a gun pointed at you, not as part of some life-threatening interrogation. No, it’s just a normal Thursday afternoon (and maybe a deeply questionable life choice).

Your gaze drifts to the shop window of a small bookstore to your right and catches your reflection. You look ordinary, like everyone else around you, although your magic hums in your blood and you seriously contemplate walking straight back to your car and pretending this entire situation never escalated past mildly concerning.

You could still leave.

No consequences. No one chasing after you. No one would even know you came. 

You could just turn around, drive back to Salem, and go back to your job, your apartment, your very sane and evidence-based existence where magic is something you use to occasionally clean your kitchen faster – not to unlock family secrets or hunt evil. You could just let the Winchesters keep chasing their demons, literal and otherwise, while you go back to your lab and your carefully constructed version of normal.

Tempting. Very tempting.

But then your mind, traitorous thing that it is, conjures your mom’s letter again. The careful curve of her handwriting. The words that refuse to remain muted in the back of your head.

It is your awakening.

You make a face. Right. No pressure. But what if you don’t even want to awaken anything at all? What if you just want to stay at home, eat ice cream on the couch, and not deal with any of this?

You exhale a deep sigh and finally push off the curb to cross the street before you can overthink this whole meeting into oblivion. It doesn’t hurt to hear him out and find out what’s really going on. Whether you want to or not, a door has opened and you’re forced to step through it. Doesn’t mean you can’t always still bolt back out later on when you don’t like what’s inside, though. 

The bell above the diner door chimes as you stroll inside, a wave of cool air from the AC greeting you along with the rich scent of coffee, sugar, and grease. The place is busy but not too crowded, only a few locals lingering over iced drinks and tourists snapping photos like they’re expecting the Headless Horseman himself to ride past the window at any second. 

Of course tourists and reporters flooded this town as soon as the first victim dropped their head and turned it into a media circus. 

Your eyes then cautiously scan the room for a minute before you spot Sam Winchester. You feel the relief flooding your veins when you find him alone and without the company of his bloodthirsty, bull-headed brother. 

While Sam swore he’d come solo, you didn’t quite trust his word, considering he’s technically supposed to be your arch nemesis. That’s how the story goes, right? The hunter and the fox. 

Sam sits in a corner booth near the back, long legs tucked under a small table. The furniture in here clearly wasn’t designed with a guy over six foot four in mind. Two coffees are placed in front of him, steam still rising from the cups. He looks less intense than the night you met him, but not exactly relaxed either. However, he definitely seems just as out of place here as you feel. You recognize a nervous energy in his aura, the yellow more butterscotch than buttercup this time. 

His gaze lifts at the sound of the bell and then lands on you instantly. Recognition flashes on his face for a second before it softens, clearly relieved you decided to come. 

You still hesitate for half a heartbeat before you can convince your feet to finally move his way. 

“Hey,” he says, straightening slightly as you approach. There’s a tentative smile on his lips as if he’s not entirely sure how this meeting is supposed to go either. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Yeah, I almost didn’t,” you reply too honestly, sliding into the seat across from him.

It earns a small huff of amusement from him, and he nudges one of the drinks toward you. “Got you a coffee. Didn’t know how you like it, but I figured I can’t go wrong with black.”

You glance at it, then back at him. “Well, at least you have more manners than your brother.”

Whoops. That one slipped out before you could stop yourself.

Luckily, Sam only chuckles. “It’s kind of a low bar.”

You take the coffee, more for something to do with your hands than anything else before your gaze drifts toward the windows for a moment with a little hint of wariness in your eyes, maybe even a touch of lingering anger. You half-expect his brother to lurk in the bushes outside somewhere. He seems to be the type to do something like that. 

“So… where is your homicidal brother?” 

Again, Sam doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he looks at you like he expected that question (and that tone).

“Dean’s at the morgue, looking into the case,” he assures you quickly. “Don’t worry. He won’t show up. I made sure of that.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “And he’s just… fine with you meeting me here alone?”

Granted, you’ve only met the guy once, but that scenario seems highly unlikely by the controlling energy he was giving off. 

“Not exactly,” Sam admits and grimaces slightly. He leans back a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “He doesn’t know I’m here. Told him I was going to the library. To be honest with you, he’d probably kill me if he found out.”

You give him a dry look, taking a slow sip of your coffee. “You or me?” You arch an eyebrow. “Good to know your survival instincts are questionable. Happy to be a part of a potentially lethal secret.”

“Yeah, uh, I’m sorry,” he says with a sheepish smile. “I just figured this was worth the risk, you know? And Dean, well… he doesn’t need answers like I do. Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s terrified about finding out more.”

Good, you think. Let that guy be as terrified as you were when he pointed a gun at you. Is it wrong that little bit of information only motivates you more to dig deeper and find answers just to spite that asshole?

Admittedly, this whole situation is ridiculous. It’s strange to sit here like this – like you and Sam are suddenly allies. And yet, somehow, it’s a lot less hostile than the last time you saw him. Only three weeks ago, the two of you were still on opposite sides of a loaded gun.

Sure, it’s till weird. Still dangerous. It’s just less… immediately life-threatening. 

Sam shifts slightly in his seat and leans forward then, his expression turning more serious. “So… what did you find?”

Right. Straight to business. 

Your fingers tighten briefly around the mug before you reach into your bag and pull out the folded letter. The paper feels more fragile now than it did in the basement, as if it could disintegrate under too much scrutiny. 

For a heartbeat, you hesitate.

Because this is personal. Painfully so. And Sam, as nice and kind as he may seem, is still someone you met under less than ideal circumstances. He’s a complete stranger to you.

You study him for a second, weighing it. Trust versus instinct. Curiosity versus caution.

And then, slowly, you slide the letter across the table.

“It’s from my mom,” you share. “She wrote it for my twenty-first birthday. Mia never gave it to me, though. I found it in her safe in the basement. I–, uh, I may have broken into it.”

Sam shoots you a surprised look, a smile rising on his lips. “You know how to pick locks?”

“I know how to write spells,” you counter. 

Sam huffs a small laugh at that. “Got it.” He then focuses back on the letter in front of him but doesn’t touch it immediately. His eyes meet yours instead. “You sure you want me to read this?”

Nope, not at all, you want to respond but find yourself nodding despite of it. 

“Yeah, uhm… I think you should.”

He accepts that, picking it up carefully as if he understands it’s more than just paper. 

You watch him read, tracking every subtle shift on his face – the slight furrow of his brows and the way his focus sharpens when he reaches certain parts as his hazel eyes move steadily over the page. It feels oddly intimate – letting someone else into your life like this. There are only three people in the world you ever entrusted with your secrets: Paige, Cameron, and Mia. 

You even told Paige you were coming here to meet one of the fake FBI guys who tried to murder you not that long ago (and you both agree that sentence sounds insane). But you mostly told her so at least one person knows your whereabouts in case you go missing here (or someone has an itchy trigger finger again).

You obviously haven’t told Mia – not about the meeting or the letter. You’re kind of dreading that conversation, scared of answers. 

And Cameron… well, he doesn’t exactly know yet that someone tried to kill you in the first place, let alone that you’re willingly meeting them again to dig deeper into your witchy family history that possibly involves demons. That’s probably a face-to-face conversation and not something you share over Skype with fifteen other guys sitting around your boyfriend in a tent. 

When Sam then finally looks up, his whiskey-colored eyes are more piercing than before. There’s a razor-sharp glint in them now.

“The blood moon,” he says. “Spring equinox.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah, I have no idea what that means. The letter didn’t exactly explain it. You were the first person that told me about that.”

“Your mom never mentioned it before this?”

“No.” You shake your head sadly, but there’s a thread of anger underneath it. 

Sure, you were a kid and only eleven when they died, but your mom and grandma prepared you and taught you so many other things, and they couldn’t mention that? A little heads-up about being born into a magical nuclear disaster would’ve been appreciated.

Sam exhales, leaning back in the booth. “Well, uhm, according to the lore, it’s supposed to amplify your magic,” he says. “But we actually found another connection from a hunter who knew your family. He’s, uh, a family friend of ours, too.”

You tilt your head. “He knew my mom and grandma?”

“Yeah, uh, he worked with them,” Sam says. “Your grandmother mostly. Sometimes your mom. They helped him on hunts. He’s actually the one who sent our dad to them.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I didn’t know that. I mean, I knew they tried helping your dad, and sometimes other people would come by the house, too. But I didn’t know how far it went…”

As a kid, you caught glimpses here and there, but they mostly sent you away whenever a visitor would come around. You just never realized they’d been running an entire secret operation right under your nose. 

You recall the words in your mom’s letter again, what your grandma always taught you as well, remembering you’re supposed to help people. Hunters. It’s the family legacy. 

But honestly? You have no idea how to do that. Defeating monsters isn’t exactly in your wheelhouse. You’re not equipped for it. There’s nothing you can offer them in terms of demon hunting aside from a few party tricks. 

“He told us this story about the first witch,” Sam continues.

Your head snaps up, realization dawning on you. “The Legend of Eira,” you breathe.

“Yeah.” Sam blinks in surprise, then nods. “You know it?”

A small, nostalgic smile tugs at your lips. “My grandma used to tell it to me before bed almost every night,” you share and then tilt your head slightly. “Though I’m pretty sure I got the Disney version and not the Grimm one.” 

Sam huffs a chuckle. “Yeah, probably.” 

Your fingers tap lightly against the coffee cup as the pieces shift in your mind, rearranging themselves into something new. Something bigger. There’s a lot you don’t know about your own family. Too damn much. But there’s some things you still remember well. 

“At the foot of a birch tree, Frejya gave Eira a symbol, one not yet known to mankind. One of growth, of protection, of life that endures and begins again – Bjarkan. Eira carved it into her skin, just above her heart, and pressed her blood into the bark of the tree, binding flesh to root, life to life. She did not take the power but became a part of it.”

Your grandma’s voice floods your mind like it was yesterday and not more than a decade ago. Your hand automatically wanders to your collarbone on the left side, where a birthmark rests just above your heart, but it’s not just a random shape. It’s a symbol. A rune. 

ᛒ

Sam seems to notice the motion, his eyes flicking briefly to the spot where your fingers touch the fabric of your shirt, the symbol hidden just underneath it, but he refrains from commenting on it. 

“The demon you talked about, the one that killed my family,” you say with a clear of your throat to snap his focus back. “What do you actually know about it? I mean, was your dad hunting it?”

Sam nods slowly, his fingers tightening around the mug in his hands. “Yeah, uhm, he’d been hunting it for a long time,” he shares. “We’ve been tracking a pattern. It visited babies the night they turned six months old. Said it had plans for… special kids. Kids like me. Their mothers would usually die in a fire after.”

You swallow thickly, your stomach tightening. “Because of your abilities?”

Sam gives you another nod. “Yeah, all kids usually started developing abilities after their twenty-second birthday. At least, it did for me and the others we’ve met so far. It’s mostly psychic stuff. Visions, telekinesis, mind control… It’s been different for everyone.”

A quiet breath escapes your lips as you sink back into the booth’s worn leather. “Is that why you guys were asking so many questions about the fire in Sugar Hill? Because you believed I was one of those kids?”

“Yeah,” Sam admits, then chuckles lightly. “Clearly, we were wrong about that one.”

“Because I don’t fit the pattern?” you question. You’ve heard the brothers mention it when they were in your living room that night. It’s only now starting to make sense. 

“Yeah, but to be fair, there doesn’t seem to be a pattern, after all,” Sam says. “We recently discovered there might be kids out there whose mothers didn’t die in a fire. Could just be anyone at this point. We don’t know how many there are, either. You’re probably not one of them, but I still think you’re connected somehow. There’s a reason this thing came after your family. After you.”

You let the words sink in and study him for a second, something clicking into place. “Your mom,” you say carefully. “She died like that too, didn’t she? In a fire?”

Sam nods once, the blue in his aura expanding and overtaking the yellow. “Yeah, she did.”

Your head bobs softly. That explains a lot about both of these boys, actually. “I’m really sorry, Sam.”

Sam licks his lips contemplatively for a moment before leaning forward, the yellow glistening slightly. “Look, our dad thought you might be the key to killing this thing.”

Your brow shoots up, eyes widening. “I’m sorry, what?” A nervous laugh bubbles out of you. “You’re joking, right?”

Sam shakes his head, serious as ever. “We don’t exactly know how yet, but he seemed pretty sure.”

“Well, I’m not,” you protest. Can you close this goddamn door again?

Sam doesn’t even flinch, though, and stays focused. “The hunter who worked with your family – his name is Bobby Singer. He told us about a ritual, too.”

Your brow scrunches. “What kind of ritual?”

Sam chuckles a little. “Honestly? I was hoping you could tell me. We don’t know either. Your family never shared the details with him,” he explains. “But, uhm, your mom mentioned something about getting your full powers after your twenty-first birthday in the letter. You know anything about what she could mean?”

You shake your head slowly. “No clue,” you huff, frustration lacing your tone. Then a frown slowly starts to form. “They did tell me once my twenty-first birthday was special, but I don’t remember anything specifically. At least there was no mention of some big, magical fireworks moment. And I didn’t wake up differently that day either, if that’s what you were gonna ask next. It wasn’t like when I turned seven and first got my magic. It’s been the same ever since.”

“Probably because you haven’t done the ritual yet,” Sam muses, then finds your eyes. “You think there’s still anything at your old house in Sugar Hill?”

“There might be,” you admit, your jaw tightening slightly. “But just to be clear, I’m still not going back there. I don’t even know if I wanna do this. I’m kinda happy with my magic the way it is. I didn’t sign up for any of this, alright? I don’t want more power, I don’t want to kill some scary demon, and I definitely don’t want to perform some weird, ancient ritual that could go horribly wrong for all we know. I have a job. A life, okay? I was honestly doing just fine before you guys showed up.”

Sam doesn’t seem to be utterly fazed by your rant. “Look, I get it,” he levels with you. “Really, I do. Trust me.”

You hold his gaze patiently, waiting for the argument. Because judging by the determination in both his eyes and aura, you already know there’s one coming. 

“But it doesn’t matter if you want it or not,” he continues contrastingly gently to the meaning of his words. “If the demon’s connected to you… it’s not just gonna leave you alone. And if it comes for you, it won’t just be you at risk. It could go after people around you, too. Your family. Friends.”

You fall silent as his words seep under your skin and avert your eyes to the window, watching people stroll past it, none the wiser of your conversation in here. You see Mia, Paige, and Cameron in their faces. You’d very much like to keep them off a demon’s radar. 

What if it comes for them, and you’re not strong enough to protect them?

“It happened to me,” Sam adds, drawing your attention back to him. “I–, uh, I was at Stanford a year ago.”

You quirk a brow at that. “You went to Stanford?”

Sam smiles, chuckling a little at your bewilderment. “Yeah, pre-law. Had a girlfriend, too.”

You smile a little too before it fades again when you notice his use of the past tense. “What happened?”

Sam pauses for a moment, his eyes focused on the coffee in his hands. “The demon came and killed her,” he says quietly. “That’s when I hit the road and started hunting with Dean again.”

You swallow harshly. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m trying to warn you,” he says and meets your eyes again. “I tried running away from this thing once, too. Hell, I’m still planning on leaving all this behind as soon as that demon is dead. But as long as that thing’s alive, it’s gonna find you whether you wanna face it or not. Trust me.”

“Great,” you mutter under your breath, nodding. “So my options are ‘get involved’ or ‘get everyone I love potentially murdered.’ Love that.”

“Yeah, it sucks,” Sam agrees with a hint of sympathy in his voice.

You scoff a dry laugh, because that might be the understatement of the goddamn century.

The silence lingers for a moment before you finally dare to glance back at him. “So… what now?”

Sam exhales a long breath, leaning back in his seat. “I don’t know yet, but we keep digging. Together,” he replies. “I’ll look into the ritual. See if I can find out more about it. I can update you if I find anything. If that’s what you want…”

Oh, you’re not sure about any of this at all. It feels like Sam has just shown you a steep cliff and then told you to jump in the same breath. 

“I’ll think about it, okay? Not gonna promise anything, though,” you say. “But we can keep in touch.”

Sam’s jaw locks slightly, but he eventually gives you a nod. “Deal.”

Welp, it’s not vampires, Dean thinks as he puts the last victim’s head back into its plastic container. At least, that means crazy-ass Gordon is nowhere around. When Sam first told him about this case, Dean was almost sure they’d run into the nut job again. But as it turns out, it’s just regular people dying an irregular death.

No second set of teeth descending from their gums. No visible bite marks. And no one was drained of their blood either. 

Which, somehow, isn’t as comforting as it should be.

He exhales slowly through his nose, green eyes lingering on the headless body splayed out on the metal table in front of him. There’s a clean line where flesh meets absence – where something precise carved through bone and sinew, but it’s not surgical in the doctor-with-a-scalpel kind of way. It’s an efficient removal, but not jagged, not messy, and not the sort of hack job he expects from something feral or hungry.

Three bodies. Three heads. No real answers.

Dean straightens and pulls off the nitrile gloves with a practiced flick, tossing them into the trash nearby.

Sleepy Hollow of all places. The irony isn’t lost on him.

Town built on a ghost story about a headless horseman, and now the people here are actually losing theirs? Yeah, he’s sure Washington Irving is having a field day in his grave right about now. All that’s missing is a flaming pumpkin and a dramatic thunderstorm. There’s probably even a tour guide out there spinning this into a story already. 

The Horseman rides again, folks – buy your tickets, bring your kids!

Dean utters a light scoff and rubs a hand down his face. He didn’t find traces of sulfur, signs of possession, or any ritual markings either. But the EMF? That spiked. Which tells him at least that he’s either dealing with a ghost or maybe even a cursed object. 

The question of the who, when, where, what, and why remains, though. Awesome. Who doesn’t love a good mystery, right? 

Admittedly, not knowing wouldn’t bother him as much if his little brother hadn’t been acting weird as hell on top of it. That part, annoyingly, sticks with Dean the most. 

Something’s been off since yesterday. It’s subtle. It always is with Sam, but Dean knows his little brother better than anyone. He knows when that kid is being shifty and lying. Sam’s brain is clearly already ten steps ahead and not sharing the map. The question is about what. 

At first, Dean didn’t second-guess Sam’s strange insistence on taking this case. Why would he? Three headless bodies in a town famous for that sort of thing? That’s practically an invitation for hunters. It’s cool. It’s weird. It’s exactly their kind of thing.

Now, though, he smells something fishy. And Dean? Well, he ain’t stupid. It doesn’t take a genius to realize Sleepy Hollow is only a nice, neat four-hour drive away from Salem. But Sam wouldn’t go behind his back and seek you out after Dean explicitly told him not to. 

…Right?

Shit.

Dean should’ve clocked it sooner that something was up when Sam suggested to “divide and conquer” this morning, making Dean check out the morgue while Sam decided to hit the local library. It sounded logical. But that was code for I’m about to do something you won’t like, wasn’t it?

Divide and conquer my ass. 

He scoffs under his breath again, pacing a few steps across the cold tiles before he completely heads out of the morgue.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that a good ten minutes later, Dean’s storming the library on a mission, still willing to give his little brother the benefit of the doubt. His eyes scan the rows of books, the scattered tables, and the couple of locals minding their own business in one quick sweep. 

As expected, there’s no Sam. No flannel. No furrowed brow. No nothing. 

Dean doesn’t even bother asking the older librarian at the front desk if she’s seen a six-foot-four nerd hunched over a stack of lore books, practically absorbing ancient text through osmosis. He knows Sam’s not here and probably has never even set a foot inside this place. 

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, the irritation creeping in. 

Called it. 

Dean turns on his heel and stomps back out into the afternoon sun hitting him in the face to a blinding degree as he makes his way down the busy street, bustling with reporters and tourists already in town for the big show. 

And then, there it is – the sign he’s been looking for. In the corner of his eye, a flicker of Bimini-blue glints in the sunshine. 

He knows that color. And he knows that car. Your Aveo sticks out like a sore thumb, parked neatly by the curb among the others. Needless to say, he doesn’t need more proof than that to confirm his theory. 

Of course Sam wouldn’t let it go. Of course he’d sneak around, go behind Dean’s back, meet up with you like some damn teenager meeting his girlfriend after curfew instead of another potential disaster waiting to happen.

And for what? To chat? To compare fucking notes? To bond over witchy nonsense and goddamn demon bedtime stories?

The anger and frustration simmer under his skin as he heads further down the street in search of his little brother and the surely witchy companion. He follows the line of sight instinctively from your car to whatever place would set a good location for a meeting like that till his gaze lands on a small diner two blocks down. 

And sure enough, he spots Sam and you through the window, sitting and chatting in a booth like old goddamn friends. 

Dean’s going to kill him. It’s done. 

But Sam knows what he’s doing, or he wouldn’t have picked a public place in broad daylight. He knows Dean can’t very well pull out his gun here and start shootin’ even if he does catch them (which point for Dean for proving Sam wrong). 

Sam should also very well know, though, that Dean doesn’t really care about any of that – not the people, not the sunlight – if push comes to shove. And, well, it’s shoving pretty damn hard right now. 

However, Dean decides not to storm the diner right away, guns blazing. Instead, he watches, green eyes fixed on the window, and waits those two out. That’s what good hunters do, after all. 

They set traps for their foxes. 

Sam’s leaning forward on the table, focused and listening. Of course he is. He’s probably trying to score points, give you some sad stories and puppy dog eyes, and then boom – he’s got you hooked on whatever crazy plan he’s trying to talk you into.

Dean knows how that one goes. He’s been on the receiving end of it a few times now. 

You’re talking, hands moving as you explain something, your expression soft and yet animated in a way that’s… different from what he remembers when he last saw you. Not scared. Not defensive. Just… engaged.

Sam says something then, you respond, and then there’s a beat before you laugh – actually laugh, like his little brother suddenly is the funniest person on the planet. For the record, Dean knows for a fact that ain’t true. 

What the hell is this?

Is Sam… flirting with you? Is that what Sam’s flirting looks like? Is this what this whole thing is about? Sam wanting to get laid?

Honestly, Dean can’t tell for sure if that’s what’s happening or not. Because, while he knows his little brother pretty damn well, he doesn’t know that much about Sam’s skills in that department. Dean didn’t really see Sam date a lot in high school and then he went off to Stanford. And now, well, Sam’s not really been an outgoing person so far, so not a lot of references there either. 

Sure, Dean supposes his little brother landed Jess, and she was a damn ten, so Sammy’s gotta have some game, right? On the other hand, there was also Sarah not that long ago, a chick from a case, and that seemed admittedly a little… bumpy (and not in the way you want something like that to be bumpy). 

Jesus, is that what Dean’s witnessing right now? His little brother dipping a toe into the dating pool? And why the hell is he even thinking about Sam’s flirting attempts in the first place? It shouldn’t bother him.

It doesn’t. 

Awesome. Now he feels like a creep who’s watching something not meant for his eyes. It’s like there’s a piece of a puzzle here that’s not supposed to fit, except it does, and that’s the goddamn problem. 

Why does it have to be a witch? Why does it have to be you? 

Why are you laughing?

Why is Sam– 

Dean’s thoughts tangle, frustration spiking as something else sneaks in beneath it. It’s quiet but no less insistent. It’s familiar, almost like déjà-vu, although he’s sure he’s never felt this strange little tingle, this tiny prick in his chest, before in his life. 

And yeah, okay, he’s noticed it before – not the feeling but the cause of it. Hard not to. You’ve got that… thing, whatever the hell it is, that makes people look twice. He looked twice. He can admit as much. He’s gonna be a grown-up about it (not out loud to other people, though. Especially not you. No, no, that’s not–). 

But it’s not just that you’re pretty, not just attractive, though yeah, there’s that too, obviously. Again, he’s not blind, either. But it’s something else – something he can’t quite pin down or even put his little finger on (and the thought of you and his finger definitely shouldn’t give him, well… other thoughts). 

There’s something wrong with him, isn’t there? He just can’t figure out what, though. 

It’s probably just a you thing. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. It’s you. He’s blaming you. 

There’s an edge to you that doesn’t line up with anything he knows how to categorize. And that, God, that fucking bugs him.

Because he likes things that fit. Things that make sense. Things he can label and move on from.

You fucking don’t do any of these things. 

This whole scene in front of him reminds Dean of another one of those weird dreams he’s had a couple of nights ago. There have actually been a few of those with one common theme:

It’s always you and Sammy, both little and close in age, laughing and running around, unburdened and weightless, catching frogs and butterflies, whispering secrets in the tall grass… 

One gets the idea. 

And Dean? He’d be off somewhere, isolated, outcast, excluded and far away, but not out of reach. He’s very much reachable. But no one ever reaches for him. 

Maybe you put something in his drink. Date-raped him with some witchy love potion or sex potion and that’s causing all these bizarre feelings now. Hell, maybe that’s what you did to Sam, too. You probably snuck a few drops of something cursed into his vanilla soy latte or whatever the hell his little brother’s drinking in there. 

Dean shakes his head clear and rolls his shoulders. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t care if you’re getting along with Sam. He doesn’t care that you’re sitting there like you belong at that table, acting like you’re part of something you’re definitely not a part of. He doesn’t care that Sam looks… comfortable. Open. The way he hasn’t in a while.

That’s not the point.

The point is that Sam lied. The point is that you’re a wildcard. The point is that Dean told him not to call you.

And yet, here you fucking are.

A minute later, both you and Sammy then finally rise and head for the door. Still talking vividly. Still laughing like old buddies. Still wrapped up in whatever the fuck this is. 

And Dean? He steps out of the shadows before either of you can register what’s happening, irritation rushing through his blood when he sees the stupid smile on his brother’s face.

“Really, Sam?!”

Both of you freeze in your tracks. It’s like a switch flipped, and your smiles fall abruptly. Sam’s head snaps up, your eyes go wide, and the two of you look like two baby deers in headlights. But Dean doesn’t even give either of you a second to recover. 

“Lying? Meeting up with the enemy?” he snaps, deep voice raspy enough to grate on anyone. “I told you not to call her!”

Sam straightens, already having steeled himself for the inevitable lecture. “And I didn’t,” he argues. “She called me, alright?”

“A loophole, Sam? Really?” Dean raises his brows, then scowls. “That’s what you’re going with?”

You, on the other hand, are hiding halfway behind Sam’s broad back, deciding to use him as your shield. You blink between the brothers, caught in the crossfire. 

“You know what? I’m gonna go,” you mumble with a clear of your throat, already taking a tentative step back. “Let you guys figure this out–”

“Whoa, whoa–” Dean moves in an instant and blocks your path to freedom. “Not so fast, Sabrina.”

Your brow scrunches as you glance up at him. “Sabrina?” A beat passes before realization clicks, your expression darkening a smidge, clearly unimpressed with his nickname game. “Oh… Funny.”

A tiny smirk tugs on Dean’s lips. Antagonizing you is admittedly sort of fun. 

“Puritan,” you scoff under your breath and cross your arms. 

But Dean? Oh, he still heard that. 

“What did you just call me?”

“You heard me,” you grit, the defiance gleaming in your eyes. 

Now, Dean can take an insult. You’re not the first person that threw something at him and hoped it would stick. But puritan? He’s never gotten that one before. Everyone who knows him would probably agree that he’s the least strait-laced prude there is. There’s nothing pure about him. 

And just like that, his smirk morphs to a scowl. 

“Oh, you stay right there, Stevie Nicks Junior,” he warns, pointing a finger at you. “You’re not going anywhere.” 

You, however, aren’t scared of him this time or even backing down. Instead of flinching, you square your shoulders and meet his glare head-on. 

“Or what? You’re gonna shoot me in a busy street during daylight?” You tilt your head cockily, lips twitching. “You know that’s a red flag, right? I mean, Jesus, you’re every dating site’s worst nightmare. It’s like a full catfish situation.”

What the–

What the hell does that mean now?! 

Dean blinks, mouth agape, thrown just enough by the comment to be noticeable. Sam snorts in obvious amusement, earning himself a glare. Then Dean looks back at you, sterner than before as he tries (and fails) to fully track whatever the hell you just said. It sounded like a compliment wrapped in an insult. 

“Well, consider yourself catfished then,” he retorts with a huff and prays it makes sense. Your brow wrinkles, so it probably didn’t, but Dean ignores it skillfully. “You’re in this now.” His gaze then flicks expectantly between you and his little brother. “Well? Somebody gonna fill me in on what’s going on here?”

Sam exhales a long and deep breath. “Dean, look, I was just catching her up on what we know so far about the demon and what Bobby told us about her family.” 

“What?!” Dean snaps, shaking his head furiously. “You told her all of that?! First Ellen, now her? Why don’t you go ahead and put it out in an email newsletter next time, huh? Save us all some time, man.”

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. “Dean–”

“No!” Dean cuts him right off, voice rising. “You can’t trust her, Sam! You know that.” 

“Still standing right here,” you chime in dryly and wave your hand in mock. “You know, where you told me to stand…” 

Dean smacks his lips and shoots you a sharp look, then points a finger at you again. “You’re a bad influence on him.”

“Dude–” Sam starts, but this time you cut in first. 

“You know what? I don’t need this,” you announce with a tight smile. “You guys are on your own with this. I’m going. So if you plan on still shooting me in front of at least twenty witnesses, do it now because I’m walking away.” You turn on your heel, then throw a glimpse back at Sam over your shoulder. “Good luck with the case.”

Dean’s jaw clenches hard as soon as you take that first step.

“So what?” he throws after you. “You’re just gonna ditch while people are dying in this town? Real class act.”

Alright, sure, Dean doesn’t want you on this hunt. Doesn’t want you anywhere near him or Sam. But alas, you’re here already – no thanks to his little brother dragging you into their mess. Sam may as well have painted a blinking red target on your back. And now, well, you’re Dean’s fucking responsibility. 

Luckily, Dean’s good at finding buttons. And certainly, he’s found yours and knows where to push down. 

You stop in your tracks and spin on your heel, the irritation sparking your eyes like a wildfire. “I’m not a hunter. That’s your specialty,” you shoot back. “I’m gonna go home, watch Buffy slay some vampires, and then think of you in spirit, alright?” 

Dean studies you for a second, then sighs, forcing some of the heat out of his voice. “It’s not vampires,” he says, more grounded now, catching Sam’s attention as well. “Checked all three bodies. No second set of teeth, no bites, no feeding, nothing. Clean cuts.”

“So what are you thinking?” Sam asks, focusing immediately on the case. Maybe he’s just happy about the distraction. “Ghost? Cursed object?”

Dean shrugs lightly. “Would be my best guess.”

Sam nods slowly before his eyes drift toward you, the familiar look that Dean knows all too well already forming. He’s going full puppy on you. No one can resist that. It’s like his little brother’s superpower. 

“Which means we might need another perspective,” Sam muses, gaze flicking to you without hiding his intentions. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble, eyes narrowing. “It’s not my job.”

“People are still dying,” Dean repeats because he can read you well enough to know that’s your kryptonite. 

And yeah, he wasn’t a fan at first of the witchy disappearing act you pulled back in Salem, but he can admit that he might have overreacted back then and pulled the trigger a little too soon (metaphorically speaking). You’re doing a good thing there, helping people, even though Dean doesn’t really approve of the methods. He’s not going to admit that to your face, though. Can’t let you have that win. That probably would only go to your head. 

“People are dying everywhere every day,” you point out and throw your arms up. “What do you want me to do next? Perform open-heart surgery without a medical degree?”

Damn, that’s a good point. You’re admittedly quick on the draw and sharp as a tack. But Dean? He’s got some tricks up his sleeve, too. He’s used to that kind of argument from Sam, so he’s got some repartee of his own. Otherwise, God knows he’d never win a single fight. 

“Look, we could use your help,” Sam adds, pulling on the gentle kid gloves before Dean can interject. You hesitate, clearly torn, your gaze wandering back and forth between them. “We’re staying at a bed and breakfast down the road. We can get you a room. You don’t have to drive back tonight. Just sleep on it.”

“Whoa, no, that’s not gonna happen,” Dean cuts in sternly. “Not gonna risk her disappearing on us, man.” His eyes lock onto yours, unyielding. “You’re staying where we can see you in case you pull somethin’.”

“What? No!” you protest firmly. “I’m not playing summer camp with you two. Where would I even go? You know where I live. You know where I work. Hell, Sam has my number.”

“Yeah, and you also got a little disappearing spell in your repertoire. I haven’t forgotten about that one,” Dean counters cleverly. God, he has to bite back the rising smirk because he can see on your face that he’s got you with that one. 

You scowl and cross your arms. “How do I know you’re not gonna shoot me when I sleep?”

“Guess you don’t.”

“Dean,” Sam warns with a hint of frustration in his tone. “He’s not gonna shoot you,” he assures you gently, then glares back at Dean and grits, “Right?”

“Well–”

“Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes back and sighs. “Fine, whatever.” 

You stare at him for another second, then let out a short, incredulous laugh, lifting a brow. “Do you actually hate me that much?” 

Dean opens his mouth, already halfway to some snarky comeback. Something easy. Something cutting. But then he stops.

Because the answer that comes up first isn’t any of that. It’s something messier. More complicated. Something he doesn’t have a name for yet and doesn’t particularly want one.

So, he shoves it down. Deep, deep down. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he shoots back dryly instead. “You’re just easier to deal with when you’re not sneaking around.” 

Your eyes narrow to a glare, and for a minute, it seems like you’re going to walk away anyway, but then you exhale a deep sigh, shoulders dropping just a little bit. 

“Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m not doing this because you told me to.”

Dean scoffs, unimpressed. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Sabrina.” 

And just like that, the three of you stand there – tense, mismatched, and somehow stuck in the same mess whether any of you like it or not.

▶️ Chapter 4: Do You Hate Me? – June 19

Ready to storm the comments? I'm so excited to hear your best guesses and theories as to what the hell is going on here with that crazy, emotional, and possibly fake (?) childhood dream 👀🔮 (And yes, I did hurt my own heart writing this one, and there might be more in the next parts lol). Also don't ask me how long it took to craft those spells, letter, and ancient legend. I went full LOTR (and the rhyming for those spells is haaard) 😂

In other news, how did you like Sabrina and Sam's secret meeting and all the revelations in this part? Of course it's not that easy to trick Dean. Shame on them for trying lmao. How long do you think it will take till their bonding annoys him, though? A minute? 😝

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“Okay,” Sam sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “I think we should head to the library next. I mean, the whole hooves thing makes me think we might actually be dealing with the Headless Horseman. Maybe we can find out who it is, because this thing’s definitely mobile.”

Dean nods, still hung up on that whole red-green thing, but you shake your head slightly, brows creasing. Figures.

“Actually, I wanna process the evidence first. Might give us a clue about the weapon and where to find it,” you say.

Dean then finally dares to look at you again, brow furrowing lightly. “Thought you already did that with that whole horsey aura thing.”

“That’s not–… You know what? Never mind.” You press your lips together, biting back whatever comment you wanted to make, and simply turn to Sam. “Point is, I need a lab. Don’t exactly have one here. The rust, the hair… There’s more there.” Then you smack your lips, musingly looking between the brothers. “You guys do breaking and entering, right?”

Sam and Dean exchange a look.

Of course.

Dean sighs. “Yup, we do.”

“You guys go. I’ll hit the library,” Sam says, not even arguing (or volunteering).

“Fine. I’ll go with her.” Dean nods and rolls his eyes slightly.

But you? You immediately grimace and wrinkle your nose.

“Do you have to?” you question and then tone down the hostility a little by clearing your throat. “I mean, can’t Sam come to the lab with me, and you can go to the library?”

Dean’s lips rise to a smirk at that. “Not a chance in hell, Sabrina.”

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“Holy shit,” she says as she catches up with you. “You demolished that guy.” 

“Please,” you snort, fishing your keys out of your bag. There’s a satisfaction in your eyes you don’t even bother hiding. “He practically did it to himself. He was laying it on a little thick in there.” 

“A little?” Paige laughs, arching an eyebrow. “He was two seconds away from offering to carry you home.”

You unlock your Bimini-blue Aveo and climb into the driver’s seat, Paige dropping into the passenger side at the same time, still buzzing with adrenaline. She always gets a little too excited whenever you involve her in your magical extracurricular activities ever since the day you told her you were a witch. 

You were twelve, and back then, you didn’t do it with the intention of involving her in anything, especially in anything dangerous. You did it like a middle-schooler sharing secrets with her best friend – in a treehouse while playing pretend, completely innocent. You definitely never imagined the two of you would trick a hunter one day and build an entire underground network that helps victims of abuse. 

“He was cute, though,” she adds as an afterthought, slumping back in the seat. 

You start the engine and hum. “Mm.” 

“Don’t ‘mm’ me. He was.” 

You shrug your shoulders, pulling away from the curb. “If you say so.” 

Paige narrows her eyes at you. “That is not an answer.”

“It is an answer.”

“It’s a dodge.” Paige raises a brow. “It’s the least committal answer I’ve ever heard in my life. I saw you flirting back.” 

“I wasn’t flirting,” you say, although the corner of your mouth betrays you. “I was gathering information.” 

Paige lets out a short laugh. “Oh, right. Very professional. Very subtle, too. I especially liked the part where you leaned in to–, what was it… ‘hear him better’?” 

“He was mumbling,” you shoot back, shifting gears smoothly as you merge onto the road, Clancy’s disappearing in your rearview. “Not my fault.”

“Mhm.” She watches you with that look she gets whenever she thinks she’s caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. “And the giggling and pushing your boobs out? Also part of the investigation?”

You shrug again, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift as you hide a smirk. “It worked, didn’t it?”

It did. 

You replay the whole encounter without really meaning to – the ease and rhythm of it. The way he held eye contact just a smidge longer than necessary, measuring, weighing, and deciding where to push next. The way he wielded the deepness and rough edges of his voice as if he knew exactly what it did to people. And the way he’d leaned in, confident in that effortless and charming way of his, like he’d done this a hundred times before and never once been wrong about the outcome. 

Till now, till you, that is.

And you? You let him. 

Let him think he was in control when he really wasn’t. Let him steer the conversation just enough that it felt natural when you nudged it somewhere else. A question here, a detail there. Soft enough to pass as curiosity, but harmless enough to ignore. You carefully crafted the version of yourself he wanted to see and neatly stepped into it.

Your high school drama teacher surely would’ve been proud of you for bringing so much authenticity to the role. 

Paige then nudges your arm lightly, hauling you from your thoughts. “Okay, but seriously. He was cute.”

You roll your eyes and exhale through your nose. “I have a boyfriend. Remember Cam? You like him.”

Paige, however, doesn’t even miss a beat. “You can have a boyfriend and still have eyes, dude.” 

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You shake your head, laughing a little. “Oh, Cam would love this conversation right now.”

“Oh please. It’s just me you’re talking to,” Paige counters, waving it off. “Our sweet Cameron’s halfway across the world right now, not sitting in your passenger seat.”

For a second, your grip tightens just slightly on the wheel, your thoughts wandering to somewhere far beyond Salem – to dry heat and desert dust, to your boyfriend stuck somewhere in the middle of it.

You miss him. God, you do. But the two of you knew what you signed up for with each other when you met three years ago in college. 

“I’m just saying. You didn’t exactly look like someone suffering through that conversation tonight,” Paige teases you. 

You huff another laugh. “Because I wasn’t. I was handling it.”

“Handling it,” she parrots, lips twitching in amusement. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Tall, green eyes, voice like he drinks whiskey for breakfast and smokes a pack a day, but not flirting. Handling.”

You toss her a grin. “Now you’re catching on.”

Paige grins as well, clearly unconvinced, but lets it go. For now, at least. You know her well enough to anticipate her throwing it back like a boomerang at some point in the near future and hitting you in the face with it at probably the most inappropriate moment possible. 

You focus on the road then and on the glow of streetlights stretching ahead. “He tried too hard for my taste.”

Paige shoots you a raised look at that. “Or,” she counters, “you’re just allergic to fun.”

“I’m not allergic to fun,” you defend, chuckling. “I just don’t like being read.”

Paige snorts. “Ironic coming from you.”

“Fine,” you scoff, rolling your eyes back. “Maybe I just don’t like being hunted, then.”

Your mind drifts back to the bar, the slight sting in your gut seeping through the triumph in your veins. You played it perfectly tonight – calm, sweet, a little vulnerable. You gave him just enough truths to make the lies stick. No tells. No slips. Nothing he could latch onto. You watched him carefully the entire time. Every shift, every glance, every subtle change in posture. You waited for the moment something didn’t line up, but the other shoe never dropped.

Still.

“You think he bought it?”

Paige doesn’t hesitate with her answer. “Oh, 100%,” she assures you. “The sad backstory? The whole ‘I’m just a normal girl with a stressful job’ thing? He was eating out of your hand. Complete goner. You could’ve probably told him the moon was made of cheese, and he would’ve believed you.” 

Your mouth curves, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I don’t know,” you muse, biting the inside of your cheek. “At the end there, something felt… off.”

Paige furrows her brow. “Off how?” 

You hesitate a beat, trying to pin it down, but it stays on the tip of your tongue. “I don’t know. His aura just–” You frown slightly. “It didn’t match. Not completely.” 

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he was all smooth and relaxed on the surface, sure,” you say slowly, replaying it in your head, “but underneath there was this… sharpness. A little anger, maybe.” 

Paige considers your hunch for a second before brushing it off. “Yeah, well, he was probably just annoyed you didn’t go home with him. Poor guy put a lot of effort in. I mean, dude spends all night flirting his ass off, thinks he’s closing the sweetest deal of his lifetime, and then you just leave? I’d be a little off, too.”

A soft laugh escapes you at her unhinged theory. “What a devastating loss.”

“Yeah, I’d say,” Paige snorts and shoots you a grin. “Tragic, really. My thoughts and prayers go out to him. Rest in peace, G-Man.” 

You shake your head at her, but the smile lingers as you turn into the small parking lot beside your apartment building, headlights sweeping over the second car parked next to your spot. It’s exactly what you expected. Old, beige, and forgettable. Mia never does anything halfway. 

You pull in beside it and cut the engine, the lightness and banter from the drive slowly fading and being replaced by focus and professionalism. 

Paige leans forward, peering through the windshield. “Wow. Where the hell does Mia always find these cars?”

“No clue. I think she gets them from the junkyard across town,” you reply, reaching for the door. “What matters is that nobody’s gonna miss it.”

The cracked asphalt scuffs softly under your sneakers as you spot Amy already waiting underneath one of the streetlights at the edge of the courtyard, her young son tucked against her side like he might vanish if she lets go of him. She looks like she’s holding their whole world together with sheer willpower. But even in the dim glow of the lamp, the fading purple and blue bruise along her cheekbone is impossible to ignore. It’s the ugly reminder of why she’s here in the first place. 

“Hey,” you greet them with a warm smile as you approach. “You made it.” 

She nods quickly, relief flickering across her face the moment she sees you. “Yeah, uh, I’m sorry for calling you tonight. I just–… We didn’t wanna wait any longer. I couldn’t stay another night. Not after today.”

“It’s okay. I told you to call me whenever you’re ready,” you reassure her gently and gesture toward the beige car. “Everything’s already in there. Papers, IDs, and enough money to get you started somewhere else. Don’t worry. Mia made sure it all checks out.”

“I even packed you guys some snacks for the road,” Paige adds with a smile. 

Amy just stares at you like you’ve handed her something impossible. “I don’t understand how you–”

“You don’t have to,” you cut in, smiling. “That’s kind of the whole point.” 

Her son Ethan, seven, then peeks out at you behind his mother’s legs, clutching the same worn stuffed fox you saw him with at the hospital earlier. You soften instinctively and drop to one knee in front of him.

“Hey, champ,” you say warmly. “Your fox looks ready for an adventure. Got a name?”

“Rusty,” the boy mumbles shyly, the limbs of his stuffy flopping over his fists like he’s trying to hide behind it. 

“Rusty,” you repeat, smiling. “Solid name, buddy. Rusty’s gonna keep you company the whole drive, okay? And when you get to the new place, he gets first pick of the bed.” 

A tiny smile flickers across Ethan’s face at that before you rise to your feet again.

“Thank you,” Amy says, looking at you and Paige. “Both of you.”

“You don’t have to thank us. We’re happy to help. Just take care of yourself, okay?” you tell her. “The next part’s easy. Trust me.”

Amy’s grip tightens slightly on her son. “How does it work exactly?” 

“It’s like a glamour. It means the wrong people will look right at you but not really see you,” you explain, tilting your head as you search for the right words. “Like their brain just… skips over you. You won’t stand out. You won’t stick. Anyone trying to find you will just… slide right past. You understand?”

“I call it ‘weaponized invisibility,’” Paige chimes in with a grin. 

“Basically,” you agree, a small smile tugging at your mouth before you glance back at Amy. “You’re still there. You’re just not interesting enough to anyone that’s actively looking for you to ever remember.” 

Amy exhales a small breath of relief, some of the tension falling from her shoulders, though it doesn’t disappear completely. “And is it… safe?” 

You nod without hesitation. “Yeah, it’s completely safe. I promise. It’ll hold as long as you need it to. The only one who can lift it is me. If, at some point, you decide you don’t need it any longer, you can give me a call, and I can break the spell again. Until then, it keeps you both off the radar.” 

There’s a pause as she takes in all the information you’ve given her today, weighing and measuring it against everything she’s trying to leave behind – a home, a husband, a life. 

And then, Amy gives you one decisive nod. “Do it.”

“Dude, we gotta talk,” Dean says as soon as he barrels into the motel room, shoving the door open so hard it slams into the wall and chips the paint. 

Sam, however, doesn’t look up at first or even seem mildly rattled by the entrance. He’s comfortably spread out on the cheap bed, one knee propped up, a bunch of research papers scattered across the mattress beside him. 

“You strike out already?” he asks, distracted, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “What happened to not coming back tonight?”

“Yeah,” Dean scoffs humorlessly and doesn’t slow down as he crosses the room. There’s a restless type of energy surging through his blood that he’s been holding onto the entire drive back from the bar. “That was before I found out she’s a freaking witch.”

Sam’s attention finally piques, straightening on the bed, brow already knitted when his head snaps up. “What?”

Dean lets out a breath, caught somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, still pacing the stained motel carpet. 

“Yeah, you were right, man,” he admits. “Hot CSI? Definitely not Little Miss Innocent. I can tell you that much.” He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Her bag fell open at the bar, and I got a nice, clear look at the full witch starter pack inside. Tarot cards, herbs, spell book… Even had the rune thing on the cover.”

Sam’s expression morphs from confusion to something more focused and analytical as he rises from the bed. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure, man,” Dean confirms. “The whole thing smelled like a New Age gift shop exploded in there.”

“Huh. Witch,” Sam mumbles to himself, moving over to the small table where more of his research litters the surface. “That actually makes sense.”

“What makes sense?” Dean slows on the carpet, frowning. Why can that kid never finish a damn thought?

Sam drops into the rickety chair, shuffling scattered notes around and flipping pages till he finds what he’s looking for. “I dug more into her background while you were, uh… busy,” he says, clearing his throat subtly of judgment as Dean shoots him a little glare. “She was born on spring equinox 1984, which just so happened to coincide with a full lunar eclipse, also called a blood moon.”

Dean crosses his arms, shooting his little brother a flat look. “…So?”

Sam huffs a chuckle, clearly expecting that reaction. “It’s not just any date, Dean. See, to witches, pagans, and a bunch of old traditions from Europe, the spring equinox is a big deal,” he explains. “It’s basically their New Year. A balance point. Day and night are equal, light and dark are even… That day’s practically all about transitions – winter to spring, death to life, dark to light. It’s a threshold.”

The creases on Dean’s brow deepen slightly. “A threshold for what?”

“It means nothing’s fully one thing or the other,” Sam replies rather unhelpfully, because it certainly doesn’t make things clearer for Dean. “Point is, it’s tied to change. Renewal. Cycles resetting. In a lot of folklore, it’s when the wheel turns – old things end, new things start.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, lips pursed, nodding along. “Still not seeing why I should care.”

“Well,” Sam continues, leaning forward slightly, “add a lunar eclipse on top of that, according to the lore, a blood moon causes boundaries between things to get even thinner. Normal rules don’t apply the same way anymore. Things get unstable. Stuff that’s supposed to stay separate doesn’t – at least not completely.”

Dean’s brow twitches slightly, but he stays silent, listening. He can already guess where Sam is leading with this and doesn’t like it one bit. 

“And get this,” Sam adds, even more eager now. “There’s this idea out there that eclipses don’t just mark change, but they force it. They break patterns. Interrupt cycles that are supposed to keep repeating.”

Dean huffs a breath, unimpressed. “Yeah? And?”

Sam glances back up at him. “Well, if you stack those two things together, you get a rare alignment. I mean, it’s practically impossible. Only occurs maybe every couple millennia. And some folks believe that a child born under these circumstances isn’t tied to the same rules as everyone else.”

Dean’s expression hardens a smidge. “Meaning what?” 

“Meaning they don’t fit cleanly on one side,” Sam explains. “Not fully light, not fully dark. More like… in between. Boundary-walkers. People who can move across lines that most of us can’t.” 

Dean exhales through his nose, still rather skeptical. “So you’re telling me this chick hit the supernatural jackpot.” 

“I’m telling you that in a lot of these same stories, these people are tied to breaking things. Not as in destroying everything, but more like ending something that’s been going on too long. Breaking a cycle that shouldn’t keep going.” 

Dean doesn’t say anything, but his mind automatically fills in the blanks – the things Sam doesn’t state outright. Yellow Eyes. Psychic kids. Their father’s notes. 

Anomaly. Asset. Key.

“So what?” Dean prompts, leaning against the dresser, arms still crossed. “She’s some kind of cosmic loophole? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Sam shakes his head. “No, it’s supposed to explain why it amplifies things. Power, potential… whatever you wanna call it.”

“So you’re saying she’s a powerful witch?” Dean checks, then smirks and shrugs it off before Sam can answer. “I mean, guess that’s helpful when we gank her. Better pack the whole arsenal.”

He pushes off the dresser and moves to the duffel on his bed, beginning to sort through weapons – iron cuffs, guns, knives, maybe even a machete if everything else fails. But Sam grows suspiciously silent behind his back, which can only mean one thing: he doesn’t agree with Dean’s assessment. 

“Dean, I don’t think we should kill her.”

Dean snorts a chuckle, although he doesn’t feel like laughing. “Knew this was coming…”

“Just listen, alright?” Sam pleads. 

Dean spins around to face him and sighs loud enough for his little brother to hear the annoyance in it. Sam exhales a frustrated breath, too. 

“Look, if she’s really a witch, I don’t think she got her magic from some demon or even a grimoire,” Sam muses. “And Dad didn’t think so either. In his notes, he talked about tracing her family’s lineage and mentioned a historical cooperation. I think her mother and grandmother were witches too, which would mean she’s a natural. She might not even know how to use her powers fully yet.”

“Oh, and you want her to?” Dean cocks a brow. “‘Cause from what I’ve seen so far, she knows how to use ‘em enough, Sam. Pretty sure she’s involved in all those missing women cases. She was the CSI on scene for most of them. Pretty easy access.”

“Yeah, but from what you’ve been telling me, she never actually killed someone, right? I mean, it even looks like she’s helping these women,” Sam points out. 

“We don’t know that yet,” Dean huffs. 

“We also don’t know yet if it’s not true, which is why we should talk to her first before you pull out the gun,” Sam states all too cleverly. “You know witches are human, right? And some of them are good and only use white magic, Dean. Not to mention, she’s also the only person we’ve come across in weeks who might have any kind of connection to what we’re actually looking for. You really wanna take her out before finding out why Dad kept her around in the first place?”

Dean rolls his eyes back, letting out another sigh. He absolutely hates when his little brother is being reasonable.

One thing both Sam and their father have in common is judging people by their usefulness. It’s not like Sam actually sees you as some innocent girl or even human. He sees a potential weapon. And Dean’s sure their dad once saw the same damn thing. 

But Dean? He sees a weapon, too – one neither of them knows how to handle. 

“Look, if she’s really hurting innocent people out there, we take care of it. We always do. No questions asked,” Sam adds. “I’m just saying. Maybe hold off till we have some answers.” 

“Fine, alright,” Dean caves at last, practically forcing the words out. The bile already rises in his mouth. “We talk to her first. But if this thing goes sideways, I’m putting a bullet in her.”

“Sure. Understood.” Sam nods a little too keenly. “You know where she went after the bar?”

Dean snorts a chuckle. “Told me there was a lab emergency. But unless someone mislabeled evidence or spilled a vial of blood, I doubt there’s a reason for a CSI to run to work after midnight.”

The corners of Sam’s mouth quirk in amusement. “So you’re saying you did strike out.”

Dean fixes his little brother with a glare, then scoffs, somewhat defensive. “I wasn’t seriously pursuing her, alright? Was just doing my due diligence, man. Working the case. Making sure she’s really clean before we head out, you know? And turns out she wasn’t.”

“Sure, yeah,” Sam says, but his wry tone of voice already suggests he doesn’t mean it one bit. There’s also the annoying smile that gives it away. 

“Shut up,” Dean huffs and shakes it off, but his mind doesn’t stay on Sam for long and drifts back to the bar. 

Back to you. 

You carried yourself like you weren’t hiding anything, although you clearly were. Your smile came so easy, but your eyes never quite followed as if there was always a second layer running underneath the surface. You watched him just as much as he watched you, even when you were pretending not to. The way you held his gaze made it seem like you weren’t afraid of anything.

You didn’t look like a weapon. Didn’t feel like one either. But maybe that just makes you all the more dangerous.

“You got her home address?” he prompts then, looking at Sam. 

“Yup, right here.”

Dean nods, grabs his keys and jacket, and slings the duffel full of weapons over his shoulder. “Alright, let’s roll.”

Dean knows something’s off the second the Impala rolls to a stop and the engine dies a block away from your home. His hunter instincts are already tingling as Sam and him sneak through backyards and side alleys till they land at your apartment building. 

It’s one of those old New England brick jobs – a deep red façade that reaches over four stories, adorned with black-framed windows and a white stone trim, cracked and patched in certain places and slightly weathered over the centuries. The entrance is modest, slightly recessed, with a simple arch and a set of worn steps leading up from the cobblestone sidewalk lined with trees, their branches stretching out and partially obscuring the upper floors, leaves eerily brushing the windows as the wind picks up.

Tucked just behind the building is a small parking lot then, the asphalt cracked from weeds breaking through. It only holds a handful of cars, a narrow and quiet courtyard adjoining it that offers a little pocket of green among bricks. The low iron fence along one side of it is almost hidden by overgrown shrubs. 

The whole scene looks ordinary, but as Dean’s learned a long time ago, ordinary is usually where the worst things hide best. It’s perfect for conversations no one’s supposed to overhear. 

That’s probably what you thought as well because, as the brothers round the corner, Dean spots you under a streetlamp in the courtyard chatting with a woman and small boy, probably no older than ten. To his surprise, your friend Paige is with you too, which wasn’t exactly the plan. 

There were only two options when the brothers left the motel: either you’re home and they would’ve forced themselves inside, or if you weren’t home, they would’ve broken in and ambushed you once you arrived. Finding you outside and in the wide open wasn’t exactly on Dean’s bingo card, but he’s luckily excellent at improvising. 

Your posture is steady and focused, one hand lifted slightly between you and the woman and kid, fingers poised in a way that doesn’t belong to anything normal.

And Dean? He doesn’t wait for it to make a lick of sense.

He charges forth in quick, decisive strides, gun already in his hand before he even registers reaching for it. It’s muscle memory, the same senses kicking in that have kept him alive for at least this long. 

“Don’t move.” His deep voice carries across the courtyard like a blade, the barrel of his gun smoothly trained on your back. 

The familiar click that follows is loud in the quiet night, clean and unmistakable. You spin around so fast it almost makes him flinch, eyes going wide the second you see the weapon in his hands. 

“It’s not what it looks like!” 

Dean huffs out something that might’ve been a laugh in a different situation and steps closer. “Yeah? ‘Cause to me, it looks like you found your next victim.”

“Dean–” Sam already hisses behind him, but Dean skillfully ignores the protest. 

“I got it,” he mutters under his breath and doesn’t lower the gun even for a second, dark green eyes fixed on you. “Step away from them. Now.”

But instead of following his order, you do the opposite and step right in front of them, shielding both mother and son behind your back. The woman lets out a startled sound, pulling her son with her as they tuck tighter behind you. The boy whimpers once, muffled against his mother’s thigh as he clutches a stuffed fox to his body. His eyes are wide and fixed on Dean, but he’s not curious or confused. He’s scared. 

Scared of him.

For a moment, that throws Dean off his game because that’s not usually how it goes. Usually, fear is pointed in the right direction. Usually, it tells him exactly who the monster is. 

Not in this case, though. 

That same fear also gleams in your eyes, but it doesn’t make you fall apart. Instead, you lift your chin bravely despite of what’s flickering underneath the surface, and Dean can tell you’re already trying to think your way out of this situation. 

“They’re not in danger, alright? I’m not hurting them,” you offer quickly, hands slightly raised in defense. “I’m helping them leave. That’s all.”

His eyes briefly drift back to the woman and child behind you, and Dean recognizes her face from a photo in a police report he read earlier. Amy Reznik, the latest victim from the crime scene the brothers just visited this morning. He’s here to save her, to stop whatever dark crap you’re doing to her and the kid, but the fear in her eyes still isn’t aimed at you.

It’s aimed at him. 

His grip tightens on the gun, knuckles whitening, but the barrel instinctively dips half an inch at the realization. 

“Helping,” he repeats, cocking a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m calling it, dickhead,” you snap back and then catch yourself, shoulders pulling in just slightly. 

Dickhead?

Granted, he hasn’t exactly expected that pushback. You seemed so sweet and innocent back at the bar he wasn’t even sure you knew a single curse word. He knows because he kept thinking about how he’d draw them out of you later in the night. But whatever fire is roaring inside of you now, you definitely kept those fierce flames burning low at Clancy’s. 

You really have been playing him the entire time, haven’t you?

“Then explain it to me,” Dean prompts, closing the distance, the gun in his hand not wavering. “‘Cause from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like the same crap you’ve been pulling all over this town for a year now.”

“I promise I’m not hurting them,” you insist once more, eyes locked on him, pleading. 

“Dean, just look at them,” Sam chimes in then. “I think she’s telling the truth. She’s not hurting anyone. They’re scared of us… of you.”

“See? Listen to your partner. He seems to have his head screwed on right,” you say and raise a brow. “Can you lower the gun now? Please? This is a family-friendly neighborhood.”

But Dean only shakes his head, gaze stern. “Not gonna happen, sweetheart. Sorry.” 

Your mouth presses into a thin line at that, irritation threading through the fear. “I told you I don’t hurt people. I swear I would never–” 

“Oh yeah?” Dean cuts in, brows lifting. “Then what about the husbands, huh? If you’re so harmless, how come they all end up in the ER?”

You freeze for a heartbeat, enough for Dean to notice, and shift on your weight. Then you guiltily purse your lips, and Dean knows he’s got you. 

“‘Cause it’s… funny?”

As soon as those words leave your lips, silence drops like an anvil. Dean’s gaze slowly drifts to Sam, head tilting with a silent You hearing this? I told you so when he meets his little brother’s eyes. Sam, on the other hand, is trying very hard not to react and presses his lips together, which somehow makes it all the more worse. To his credit, though, at least he doesn’t outwardly smile. 

Dean then looks back at you, arching a brow. “You think this is funny?” 

You wince slightly and bite your lips, but against all better judgment, you give him a small shrug of your shoulders. “…Kinda?”

Upon Dean’s intensifying glare, however, you immediately backtrack, hands lifting in surrender again. 

“Okay, look, it’s not like they didn’t deserve it, alright? You ever heard of karma?”

“You broke their dicks,” Dean grits bluntly, jaw flexing. 

“Oh my God,” you groan and roll your eyes, exasperation finally snapping fully through your fear. “Get off that high horse, alright? They’re not dead. I didn’t kill anyone. They just had an itchy cast for a few weeks. They’re fine.” 

“Fine?” Dean echoes incredulously. “One guy thinks he’s got permanent damage.” 

“Only because he didn’t go to the ER,” you shoot back, throwing your hands up. “Not my fault men notoriously avoid doctors, apparently even when their dicks turn purple,” you mutter before meeting his stare. “C’mon, man, it’s not like it turned black and fell off now, did it?” 

Sam makes a quiet choking sound behind him, stifling a snort. Dean frowns but otherwise ignores it. 

“Besides,” you add, chin lifting defiantly despite the gun still pointed at you, “you really wanna pick the side of some drunk, abusive loser in a wife-beater? Think about it.” 

Son of a bitch. 

Something inside of Dean drops at that, his guard crumbling the slightest bit. He rolls his shoulders when he feels them slumping, trying not to let it show that you got to him there. 

And no, obviously, he doesn’t want to defend some asshole who takes his anger out on his family. He’s seen enough of that to know exactly what kind of men you’re talking about. Hell, when he spoke to some of them this morning, even he wanted to dent a few teeth in after the bullshit they were spewing. Admittedly, he thought they deserved what happened to them a little. 

A little.

Still, he can’t just let some witch run around town doing vigilante shit. It’s not about right or wrong, fair or unfair, karma or justice. It’s about fucking principle. 

“That’s not the point,” Dean snaps.

“Then what is the point? Enlighten me,” you challenge. Dean’s at a loss for words, not really able to come up with a good enough argument, and when he doesn’t respond, you continue, “Look, I don’t force anyone. I just give the wives the option. They make the decision, not me. It’s hardly my fault their husbands were such big dicks, every single woman I’ve helped so far has made that choice.”

“I did,” Amy suddenly pipes up behind you and positions herself slightly beside you, braver now than before. 

Dean’s bewildered momentarily but reins it in quickly. He doesn’t move, doesn’t lower the gun, and doesn’t give you the satisfaction of shifting his focus. Even Sam shuffles behind him, his presence a reminder of the conversation they had back at the motel. Talk first. But Dean’s not ready to budge quite yet. To be fair, though, he is talking to you and hasn’t pulled the trigger so far.

“Look, I don’t care about your twisted little moral code,” Dean huffs, raising his gun an inch higher again, aiming straight for your heart. “All this crap stops now, or I’m putting a bullet in your head. Understand?”

Honestly, it’s the best he can offer. He’s giving you a clear out, a fair warning shot, and that’s way more than he usually grants people. 

“No, please, you can’t do this,” Amy throws in, her voice breaking as she steps forward, pulling her son with her.

Up close, the bruising on her cheek looks worse than from a distance. It’s too fresh, too angry, and a little too real for Dean’s taste. Her eyes are pleading as she looks at him. 

“You have to let her do the spell,” she continues, desperation bleeding into every syllable. “You don’t know what my husband’s like, okay? We can’t go back there. If we stay, he’s going to–… he’s going to kill me. Or him.” She swallows harshly, her hand tightening around her son’s shoulder. “This is our only chance.” 

The kid glances at Dean again, and the fear’s still palpable in his eyes. Not of you but still of him, though. Nothing lines up the way it’s supposed to. You don’t look like a monster. They don’t look like victims. And he’s standing here with a gun pointed at the only person they trust, which makes this entire situation a little more complicated than he likes. 

Dean finds himself in a moral deadlock, unable to give the woman a satisfying answer, and that’s when Sam steps forward and provides one, hazel eyes locking on you. 

“How exactly does it work?” 

You seem to be grateful for the attempt to understand, exhaling a small breath of relief. “It’s like a glamour,” you reply. “It doesn’t make them invisible or change their appearance. It just makes them harder to notice. Harder to find.”

Dean glances back at Amy and her son, thinks back to the seemingly innocent home he visited this morning and the bad feeling he got when he walked through it that manifested in a prickle down his spine. She looks at him now like he’s the guy that stands between her freedom and her prison. And she looks at you like you’re her savior. 

Whatever happened to things being fucking black and white, huh? Amy and her son certainly aren’t siding with him. Your friend obviously doesn’t either. And even Sam seems to crumble and fall for your little act. Is Dean the only one who still sees things clearly here?

He knows when things are good. Knows when they’re evil. There’s no in-between. But you seem to be one giant ass gray zone. 

Then he remembers what Sam told him back at the motel – boundary-walker. 

Dean thinks that surely fits you. If nothing’s really one thing or the other, then you certainly don’t fall cleanly on either side. Most importantly, you break cycles that shouldn’t keep going. 

So far, the lore seems to check out. But Dean’s getting the feeling you wouldn’t even know what that means yet. 

He tilts his head at you, studies you a little closer. His brow is creased so hard he feels the migraine coming on. The entire time that he’s been pointing a gun at you, you haven’t even tried to defend yourself once with something other than words. No spells. No hex bags thrown his way. No lift of a finger that would fling him into the next car. 

Dean takes that into account. 

“Alright, fine,” he relents and lets out small sigh. “Go ahead. Do it.”

“For real?” Your brow pinches – surprised, confused, maybe even shocked. “You… sure? This isn’t some trick where I turn around and you shoot me in the back, is it?”

Dean stares at you without blinking, sighs once more internally, and then removes the magazine from his gun. He holds it up for proof (or as a sign of good faith or whatever) and then pockets it in his leather jacket. 

“Happy now?”

You hesitate a moment, then toss him a glare of all things before turning to your friend, clearly unconvinced. 

Well, he tried. 

“Paige, watch him.” 

She nods, crosses her arms, and then stares daggers at him, too. Even Amy still looks at him disapprovingly. 

What the hell do these women want from him? He’s given them everything they wanted, and they still ask for fucking more. 

You turn to Amy and her son, shooting him one last little glare over your shoulder before crouching down to the kid’s level. The boy actually smiles at you, which irks Dean slightly. Where was his smile when he came to save everyone?

“You and Rusty ready?” you ask the boy. 

He nods, then bites his lip, looking at you with big eyes. “Does it hurt?”

You shake your head softly. “Not even a little. Pinky swear,” you assure him and offer him your little finger. He takes you up on the offer with a shy smile. 

“Is it like the Cloak of Invisibility?” 

You smile at that. “Already reading Harry Potter, huh?” 

The boy nods eagerly. 

You laugh softly. “Well, it’s kinda like that. But you’re always gonna be visible to your mom, so no playing pranks on her like Fred and George, okay? But bad people won’t be able to see you.”

The boy looks up from his stuffy at that. “Like my dad?”

You exhale a small breath. “Yeah, like your dad.”

“Good.” The boy gives another decisive nod. “He hurts my mommy.”

“I know,” you say quietly as Amy’s grip tightens the tiniest bit on her son’s shoulder. Dean can see it. “But he won’t be able to anymore from now on, okay?” You then hold out both your palms. “Just gotta take my hand. Your mom, too,” you explain and glance up at Amy. 

Both of them then place a hand in yours. Dean watches carefully, ready to reach for any weapon at his disposal if things turn sour. But you only close your eyes, take a deep inhale, and then mumble something incoherent under your breath. 

A few seconds later, you let go of them again and rise to your feet. “Alright, you guys are good to go.”

“That’s it?” Dean cocks an eyebrow. 

You glance back over your shoulder at him, amused. “Did you expect fireworks?”

Honestly, he doesn’t know what he expected. Maybe showmanship. Maybe theatrics. Maybe even a blinding light like an alien abduction. But this felt calmer than any of that. Not like a spell but like a blessing. Protection. Maternal, even. 

That’s what the rune said too, isn’t it?

“You’re like Hermione,” the little boy tells you with a big smile. 

You match his expression. “I guess I am,” you say with enough pride to make your chest swell and then toss Dean a smug grin. “You heard that?”

“I have no idea what the hell that even means,” he retorts, which earns him not only a frown from you but from Sam as well. Dean can see the bitchface in his periphery. 

And just for the record, he knows exactly what that meant. Still doesn’t care all that much, however. 

“No more breaking things of husbands, though. We clear on that?” he adds sternly and feels like a father scolding a child. He sounds a million years old. What the fuck is happening to him?

You roll your eyes back like a teenager and sigh loudly. “Fine.”

Paige then timidly raises her hand.

Dean snaps his attention to her. “Yeah?”

“Can I still slash his tires?”

He scowls, exhaling a deep sigh. “Is there magic involved?”

She shakes her head vividly. 

“Then fine.”

“What?!” you gasp in disbelief. “Oh, so that’s allowed? What if I break a guy’s dick manually? Still gonna shoot me then?”

He scratches the back of his neck, then gives a shrug. “Don’t see a problem with that.”

“Unbelievable,” you scoff. “So this is just about you not liking magic.”

He smirks slightly. “Guilty as charged.”

That earns him another glare from you. 

“Go for the car,” Amy tells you then with a newfound casualness. “God knows he always loved that stupid thing more than us.”

“Ugh,” Paige groans and rolls her eyes. “Guys who are obsessed with their cars are always a red flag.”

You and Amy hum in agreement.

“What? That’s not–” Dean starts to argue, but as the first words tumble out of his mouth, the three women are already staring at him with judgmental looks. 

Sam snorts audibly behind him while Paige and Amy only look slightly amused. You, on the other hand, are enjoying this a little too much, judging by your knowing grin, and Dean tries to think hard how you could even possibly know that about him before he remembers that he told you about Baby back at the bar. 

Dammit. 

You then bid your goodbyes to Amy and her son, watching them drive off into the literal sunset, and Dean’s chest oddly fills with warmth as he watches them take off into a hopefully better life. A mother and her son are finally safe. This is a good thing, right? 

But it’s not over yet. 

While you’re still busy, Dean busies himself as well, mostly with putting the magazine back where it belongs. And as soon as Amy is out of sight and you turn back around, the familiar click of his gun echoes through the nightly silence once more. 

“Seriously?” You gape incredulously as you stare down the barrel again.

“Sorry, but we ain’t done yet,” he tells you without meaning the apology in it. “Let’s take this inside. Have a chat.” He slightly waves the gun in the direction of your apartment building and then looks at Paige still standing there. “You too, sweetheart.”

But as soon as his weapon only remotely aims at your friend, you bristle and charge forward. 

“Do not point that gun at her,” you growl warningly. “If you so much as hurt a single hair on her head, I swear to God I will break your dick next. Permanently.” 

Dean snorts a chuckle, his gun coming up a fraction higher, aim sharpening at you. “Oh, you’re dead before you can even pull out the hex bag, bitch.”

You grimace, face twisting with immediate disgust. “Ew, I don’t do hex bags,” you scoff. “It’s a spell, idiot. And I don’t even have to say it out loud. I can do it in my head.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “You’re bluffing.”

But you don’t budge, crossing your arms. “Try me.”

His eyes narrow at you, weighing the threat. Admittedly, even if you are bluffing, you’ve got a damn good pokerface. 

“Just let her go, please,” you add, more sincere and pleading to the goodness in him this time. “It’s not a coven thing or whatever you’re thinking. She’s not a witch. Your beef’s with me, alright?”

Dean scratches his temple with the handle of his gun, hoping the stupid headache will pass soon, and then shares a look with Sam, who only shrugs his broad shoulders in response.

Awesome. 

He licks his lips, contemplates for another second, and then gives a nod. “Alright, go. Don’t make me regret it,” he caves, jerking his head toward Paige. 

She doesn’t wait for a second invitation. “Okay, yep, great, love that for me–” she babbles, already backing toward your car.

You toss her the keys and give her a nod that signals you’re okay. She returns it, swallows hard, and then starts the car, peeling out of the parking lot. 

Dean then steps forward slowly, closing the distance between you, the gun never wavering. Whatever this is, whatever you are, he’s far from done yet. 

“Alright, fun’s over, sweetheart,” he announces and doesn’t leave room for argument. “Inside. Now. We’re gonna have a nice, long talk.”

The key in your hand jitters as you try to fumble it into the small hole of your front door, the click of the lock ringing too loudly in the silent death of night.

That’s the first thing you’ve learned ever since you’ve been confronted with the wrong end of a gun about an hour ago – everything just feels awfully louder when there’s a bullet carved with your name in it involved.  

You can feel him behind you without turning. He’s close enough that the heat of his presence bleeds through your shirt, close enough that if you moved back even an inch, you’d probably bump right into him. The awareness of it sits under your skin. It’s a constant, buzzing feeling that’s impossible to ignore.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the gun. Don’t think about how fast this could go wrong. 

Don’t think about how you almost died ten minutes ago on your own doorstep like some kind of cosmic joke. 

The weight of the gun feels almost physical even when you’re not looking at it. Your body just knows where it is, where it’s pointed, and what it can do. It presses between your shoulder blades as you push the door open. It’s a phantom touch that makes your breath come just a little too shallow and your pulse just a little too loud in your ears.

Your apartment then greets you in familiar chaos, and for one stupid, disorienting second, it feels like stepping into a different life entirely. All of it – the gun at your back, the two strange men in your home – fades away for a second, and it grounds you enough to catch your breath momentarily. 

For a heartbeat, it’s just warm light and hanging plants swaying gently from the ceiling. The smell of rosemary, sage, and lavender drifts in from the kitchen windowsill where your little herb garden thrives in mismatched pots. The crystals and trinkets scattered across your shelves are decorative clutter and not anything meaningful or even dangerous. 

It’s all carefully curated in a way that makes Paige roll her eyes every time and label it witchcore as if it’s solely an aesthetic and not your entire personality. 

It looks like a twenty-two-year-old girl lives here. It looks like you.

Not a witch. Not a threat. Not a weapon. Not whatever the hell he thinks you are.

“Inside. Move,” Metallica orders behind you, the sharpness of his baritone voice cutting cleanly through the air.

You tentatively step forward because survival instinct overrides pride. After all, you’re pretty sure the alternative would be a bullet. 

You barely make it three steps in before you feel him push past you. He’s all sharp edges and efficiency as he sweeps your place with a precision that makes your stomach twist. His boots are heavy against your wooden floorboards as he checks corners, sightlines, and shadows as if he expects something to jump out at him. It’s clear he’s done this exact same thing probably a million times before in his life. 

Bon Jovi, on the other hand, stays near the door. He’s quieter, watching everything and everyone at once, his presence softer but no less aware. His aura flickers in your periphery when you dare to steal a sideways glimpse at him – blue and yellow and that unmistakable thread of violet woven through it like a secret he doesn’t fully understand himself.

You hover near the entryway for half a second before–

“Sit,” Metallica orders, gesturing his chin toward your old couch without ever taking his eyes off the metaphorical dragon in the room. 

God, you wish there was a spell for turning yourself into an actual dragon. That’d be kind of neat right now. 

His aura is spewing fire as well and feels almost overwhelming, swallowing everything in the room in a ball of flames. It’s coiled tightly like a spring ready to snap, which doesn’t really soothe your worries in the slightest. 

Yeah, he’s definitely the knight with a sword. 

You slowly and carefully lower yourself into the soft cushions, the plush underground only bringing you little comfort for once. Every step and every breath you take feels like you’re walking a tightrope strung between cooperating and getting shot. Every sudden movement might get you killed. 

Which, truthfully, doesn’t feel that far off from reality. It’s a pretty solid assumption at this point.

You keep your hands instinctively visible, gripping the edge of the couch just enough to ground you, but you want to stay as non-threatening and harmless as possible.

Very harmless. So harmless. The most harmless.

Metallica, however, still doesn’t lower the gun. Doesn’t even seem to consider it. Of course he doesn’t.

Stupid knight.

Your bag barely leaves your shoulder before Metallica snatches it from you, fingers brushing yours for half a heartbeat. The touch is so brief and accidental it barely registers or even counts as contact, but it still sends a strange little jolt up your arm, something electric and unwelcome that you shove down immediately.

Focus.

He tosses the bag to Bon Jovi. “Check it. She’s had it at the bar. Got her little spell book in there.”

So that was your downfall, the reason he caught your scent and hunted you down – he peeked inside your bag back at Clancy’s. 

Shit. 

You knew he was off at the end there before you left. You should’ve caught onto it. You should’ve trusted your gut and made a run for it as soon as you were in the clear. You could already be at the damn border to Canada if you’d done that instead of being held at gunpoint in your own home now.  

His partner catches your bag, but there’s more hesitation and less aggression gleaming in his hazel eyes. He drops it on the coffee table instead of dumping it out, fingers lingering on the zipper for a second like he’s aware this is still… you. 

Your stuff. Your home. Your life. 

You can tell he’s trying to preserve some illusion of normalcy for your sake, even though that’s already long gone. But you admittedly like him. He feels like someone who thinks before he acts.

Metallica, on the other hand, feels like someone who acts and deals with the thinking later. 

If at all.

Which, granted, is super unfortunate for you, considering he’s the one holding the gun.

As Bon Jovi then reaches into your bag and pulls out your notebook, your stomach dips the slightest bit. Not because it’s dangerous or cursed or whatever other nonsense they might think. God, no. But because it’s soft-edged and worn and cute. There’s a literal pressed daisy peeking out from the back pages like you’re about to write poetry in it instead of spells that occasionally ruin men’s lives. 

Speaking of, you’re also pretty sure there’s still the I <3 Jared & Heath inscription on the back cover you scribbled in tenth grade. Leto and Ledger, that is. 

But as Metallica steps closer and takes a look at it, it’s the symbol on the cover that catches both their attention.

ᛒ

You catch the look that passes between them – recognition. It’s your family rune, really only meaningful to you, so you wonder what it is to them. How the hell do they know about it? And most importantly, why are they interested in it?

Your heart hammers a little faster when Bon Jovi flips the notebook open. Then he pauses before a full frown forms.

“Uh… Dean?”

Metallica doesn’t even look up at first, eyes sternly locked on you the entire time, except for when they still occasionally scan the room like he expects to find a damn demon hiding behind your Swiss cheese plant. 

“What?” he snaps, agitation rolling off him in feet-high tidal waves.

Bon Jovi tilts the notebook slightly, like maybe the angle will change what he’s seeing. He glances down at the pages again, brows knitting together. “This is written in, uh… glitter gel pens.”

There’s a beat of silence. Metallica’s head lifts.

And then, he turns and marches over, yanking the notebook out of his partner’s hands like he doesn’t quite believe Bon Jovi. He begins to flip through it himself with all the subtlety of a goddamn hurricane. Fast. Rough. The deeper he gets, the more his expression shifts from certainty to… confusion. His brows crease more and more with every page – color-coded sections, little stars and stickers in the margins, and the occasional doodle you did while bored. 

Your heart pounds harder with every second that passes, your mind racing through possibilities, escape routes, spells you could cast if you had to, but you don’t move a single muscle. Because for now, you’re still alive – and you’d like to keep it that way.

“What the hell is this?” Metallica demands to know at last, holding up your spell book like it’s a personal betrayal in his rigid belief system. 

“I like to color-code my spells.” You shrug, because honestly, what else are you supposed to say? 

It doesn’t feel like he’s still judging you based on witchcraft anymore. Now you suddenly have to justify your choices in stationary. Of all the ways you thought this night could go, that certainly wasn’t high on the list.

And who is he to judge your pen choices anyway? You started that book when you were seven. What were you supposed to do? Change to normal pens midway through? Who does that? You’re not a psycho.

Bon Jovi blinks at you, curiosity bleeding through the tension for a second. “You wrote these yourself?”

“My grandma gave me that book. I write all of my spells myself,” you confirm. There’s a flicker of pride there despite the gun pointed at your face. You fucking worked for those. Trial and error – with emphasis on lots of error. 

Metallica narrows his eyes at you – unamused, unimpressed, and completely unfazed. “Oh, so if I have a look around here, I won’t find any ancient spell books, grimoires, maybe a cat skull or two…?” he asks, the rasp in his voice dripping skepticism.

You gesture loosely around the apartment. “Go on and look, but you won’t find anything here,” you tell him. He might find a lot of embarrassing stuff, especially under your bed, but if that means you get to live, you don’t really care. “Look, yes, occasionally I use my magic to teach someone a lesson. I once made my high school bully puke for twenty-four hours straight,” you admit, because honesty seems like the safer route when there’s a gun involved. “But I mostly just try to help people, okay? I never seriously harmed someone. I wouldn’t do that.”

“It’s okay,” Bon Jovi says gently. “We believe you.”

“No, we don’t!” Metallica snaps immediately, the betrayal in his green eyes landing on his partner now.

“Yes, we do,” Bon Jovi counters, firmer this time, and then turns back to you with a newfound softness in his eyes. “We just need some answers, alright?”

But Metallica cuts in again with the bluntness of a hammer before you can respond. “You get your powers from demons?”

“What? No!” Your brow furrows wildly, affronted. “I don’t use dark magic or hoodoo or voodoo or any other crap you come across. Hell, I’m not even Wiccan. My grandma always said these bitches stole from us.”

Bon Jovi huffs a chuckle under his breath. He’s clearly trying to redirect before his hothead partner escalates again. “You’re a natural witch, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve had my powers since I was seven. That’s usually when they unlock in my family.”

Metallica’s gaze only sharpens. “So your mom and grandma were witches, too?”

“Every woman in my family was as far as I know. Probably going back centuries,” you reply. “But my grandma always taught me to help people. Hunters specifically.”

That causes Metallica to pause his nervous pacing for a moment. 

His head tilts slightly. “What d’you mean?”

You huff softly, running a hand through your hair. “Honestly? I don’t really know myself.” Your shoulders lift in a small shrug. “Look, I can tell you what you want to know, but I didn’t lie back at the lab. I was eleven when they died. I really don’t remember all that much. I remember the house and the fire, and I remember some of the stuff they taught me, bedtime stories… But that’s it. I’ve never gone back there since then.”

Metallica studies you intensely. “So you do remember the fire? Wasn’t really faulty wiring, was it?”

“No,” you say quietly. “It was a demon.”

“A demon?” he repeats, putting emphasis on the singularity.

“What color were his eyes?” his partner asks immediately.

“Black?” Metallica throws in.

“No.” You shake your head and look at them. “Yellow.”

The word drops like you just threw a grenade into the room and then ran away.

You don’t need to read auras to feel the shift in them. Bon Jovi’s yellow is flaring, the blue tightening, and the mulberry purple pulses harder. In contrast, Metallica’s red spikes, the hunter green goes razor-sharp, and the gray thickens like storm clouds rolling in.

Yeah, that most definitely meant something to them.

“And you said you had your powers since you were seven?” Bon Jovi continues carefully. “It didn’t start in the last year or so?”

“No, I’m pretty sure,” you huff a small laugh, not following his line of questioning. “Magic’s always been a part of me.”

There’s another look between them.

“Means she’s not one of them,” Bon Jovi murmurs under his breath, leaning closer to his partner.

“Doesn’t fit the pattern,” the other mutters back.

You frown, leaning forward, eyes flicking between them. “What pattern?”

The tall one hesitates. You can even see it in his aura as it pulls in two directions – logic versus instinct.

“Look, uhm–”

“Sam, don’t tell her anything,” Metallica warns.

“Dean, she might be able to help.”

“You heard her. She doesn’t know anything.”

“She might know enough.”

“Help with what?” you press. At this point, you are deeply fucking invested in not being the only confused person in this room. You’re either getting answers, or you’ll die trying.

Bon Jovi exhales a long breath and then seems to come to a decision. He drops into the armchair opposite you. “I–, uh, I have–”

“Sam!”

“–I have abilities, too,” he finishes, undeterred by his partner’s protests. 

“What kinda abilities?” you ask, genuinely curious now.

“I get these, uh… premonitions,” he explains. “I can see how people die. At least most times.”

You grimace slightly. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” he huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, it does.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Explains the purple.”

“Purple?” Metallica’s head snaps up, unfortunately giving you his undivided attention again.

“His aura,” you explain. “Yellow, blue, and purple. Violet shades usually point to psychic abilities – or at least strong intuition. Mine’s purple, too. Lupine, actually.”

But your little grin is only met with more of Metallica’s stoicism. 

“What?”

“You know, like the flower?” you clarify, but he just keeps staring at you till you sigh in defeat. “Never mind.”

“You can read auras?” Bon Jovi asks then.

You nod softly.

Metallica crosses his arms at that, observing you like you’re a puzzle he can’t solve and it’s starting to annoy him. “What else can you do?”

You decide not to answer with words. Seeing is believing after all, right? 

So, you don’t move. You don’t speak. You just let them see.

The candles on your shelves then ignite one by one, filling the room with soft flames and a warm glow. The fireplace then follows and catches next, a low and soothing crackle filling the space. And then, every one of your plants begin to bloom and blossom all around them.

“My abilities are mostly tied to the natural elements – fire, water, earth…” you say. “I read tarot and auras. My grandma taught me when I was a kid. Otherwise, I guess I’m just… winging it.” You shrug lightly. “After they died, I never had anyone to teach me any of this stuff. And Mia didn’t want me to use my abilities for a long time.”

Bon Jovi turns to his partner. “Dean, we should just tell her. Maybe she knows what Dad did there that night.”

“No, we’re not gonna share all our secrets with some witch, Sam,” Metallica shoots back. “We can’t trust her, man. You know that.”

Bon Jovi lets out a frustrated sigh, his gaze flicking between you and his partner. He stares at you for a second longer and then decides to take a chance and go for it, ignoring Metallica’s warnings. “Look, our names are Sam and Dean Winchester, alright?”

“Dude.” Metallica throws his arms up and starts to pace again.

But you can’t really focus on him. Your attention stays with Bon Jovi – Sam.

Brothers. Sons.

“Winchester?” you repeat slowly. “As in… John Winchester?”

Dean spins around at that, brow raised. “Oh, so you do know him. Guess that was another lie, huh?”

“He’s our dad… was our dad,” Sam adds.

“He was your dad?” You swallow lightly. “And he died?”

“Demon killed him,” Dean says without an ounce of emotion in his voice. He presents it as a simple fact, but his aura is on the fritz, so you know he’s got tons of ugly stuff buried deep down there. 

“The same one?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah, couple weeks ago. That’s why we’re here,” Sam explains. “He had some notes on your family. On you, specifically. We’re just trying to find answers so we can finally kill this thing.”

You swallow, gaze drifting back and forth between them. “What kinda answers?”

Dean takes a step closer, shoulders squared. The weapon is lowered in his hand, but it’s by far forgotten. “What was he doing there that night?”

“He was there for a visit,” you reply. “I think the demon surprised them.”

“Visit?” The word seems to rub him the wrong way.

“This wasn’t the first time he was there?” Sam asks then.

“No.” You shake your head. “He’s been to Sugar Hill a few times. Earliest I remember was before I even had my powers.”

They share another look.

“What was he doing there?” Dean asks.

“Seeing my mom and grandma.”

“For what?”

“He wanted their help with the demon.”

“Do you know what they maybe talked about?” Sam asks this time.

“I really don’t know.” You shrug helplessly. “I was just a kid. They would send me to my room or outside to play. I only ever overheard bits and pieces.”

“Anything specific you can remember?”

“No, sorry. All I remember is that he said he needed help with a demon, and then they would whisper a lot and go up to the attic.”

“The attic?” Dean echoes, cocking a brow.

“That’s where my grandma kept all her spell books and would perform rituals,” you share. You can still remember that place, how the sunlight slanted through the stained-glass windows across the creaking floorboards. 

Dean glances at his brother. “Maybe we’ll find something there?” Then his pine green eyes swerve back to you. “What else is up there?”

“Like I said, I don’t know,” you reiterate, gritting your teeth slightly. “I’ve never been back there since, and I don’t plan on going back ever again,” you state firmly. “Look, I like my life and I’ve been trying to stay away from all this crap for as long as possible. No demons, no ghosts, no monsters. All it’s ever done is kill everyone in my family. I’m not gonna be next on that list.”

“Don’t you wanna find out what happened to them?” Sam asks softly.

“Not really, no,” you reply bluntly. “I’ve made peace with what I know. I don’t need the nitty-gritty details.”

“Hate to break it to you, but this thing might still be after you,” Dean throws in.

“There’s a reason our dad hid you and faked your death. That was him, right?” Sam adds.

You give them a nod. “He told Mia to get me out and make sure I stay hidden. Never saw him again after that. But I remember he was nice.”

“Nice?” Dean scoffs. “We talking about the same guy?”

“I remember once sitting in the backseat of that car you drive,” you state and smile weakly, which seems to catch him by surprise. You finally realized where you’d seen it before. You should’ve recognized it sooner, but you’d shoved all those memories down deep a long time ago. “It was on the night of the fire, actually. But that’s it. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“Did you know you were born during a blood moon?” Sam asks then, stumping you this time for a second.

“Uhm… no?” You blink a few times, tilting your head. “Didn’t exactly check the sky when I was born. But I do find it creepy you know that.”

Dean snorts. “She’s got you there, man.”

Sam looks up at his brother. “She still might be a target if they find out she’s alive.”

“So? How’s that our problem?” Dean shoots back.

You quirk a brow at that. “You wanna share that with the class maybe?”

Somehow, you’re getting the feeling your life might be in danger, and it’s not just because of the maniac with a loaded gun in your living room. 

“Look,” Dean snaps, weapon aiming for you again, “maybe my brother here buys your little act of innocence, but I don’t, alright? There’s no way our dad would’ve worked with freaking witches. You’re clearly lying to save your ass, and I’ve had enough of it.”

The click of the gun is deafening.

But his aura? The brick-red is becoming unstable and exploding, ready to burn down everything in its way. You’ve never witnessed someone going nuclear before, but your body reacts instantly. You push off the couch, backing up step by step until your spine hits the cold wall behind you. There’s nowhere else to go. Nowhere to run.

“I’m not lying,” you say, forcing the words out past the fear clawing up your throat.

“Dean–”

“No, I’m done, alright?” he cuts Sam off, but his eyes stay fixed on you. “She doesn’t know anything, and even if she does, we can’t trust her, man. Safer to kill her now than wait for her to strike a deal with a demon and sell us out down the road.”

“You wanna kill me so badly? Fine. Go ahead, big guy,” you grit and straighten your shoulders. Your voice feels unsteady, but it doesn’t waver, which surprises even you, considering how hard your heart is pounding, feeling each beat in your ears. “But it won’t change anything. And it for sure as hell won’t make you feel better about yourself.”

You push off the wall and take a step forward. Then another. He doesn’t back up, but he doesn’t lower the weapon either.

“You really think I’m the monster here?” you scoff and lock eyes with him. “Because I’m not the one pointing a gun at someone. You are.”

The barrel presses to your forehead, cold, unforgiving, and final. But you don’t even see the gun anymore. All you see is him, and all he sees is you.

That’s the breaking point.

His fingers tighten imperceptibly around the weapon. His breath hitches. There’s a tick in his tense jaw that feels like a countdown. Every emotion he keeps chained up inside of him collides right then and there. 

You can see the cracks clearly now in his armor. All you have to do right now is get in there and rip them wide open till the wounds are bleeding. 

“The sad part is you’re so broken you can’t even see it,” you say. “But I can. You barge in here all righteous and wave a gun around, but you never look in the mirror, do you? So, go on. Do it. Kill me if you think it makes you feel any better. Prove you’re just like the things you claim to hunt. But I promise you it won’t work. You’re just gonna feel like a bigger monster after.”

For a moment, everything stills. But his aura is flickering, the red dimming just enough for something human to break through the cracks.

He exhales sharply, breaths ragged and uneven. The hand with the gun drops to his side, shaking slightly. And then, he just storms off.

The door slams behind him with a force that causes the walls to thunder.

In his wake, there’s only silence. You don’t move. You don’t even breathe. Every nerve in your body is trembling. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam’s voice rips you out of your daze.

You flinch, having forgotten for a second that he was still there. As you dare to glance at him, he looks at you with apology written all over his face.

“He’s–, uhm… he’s going through some stuff,” he offers as an excuse – or maybe it’s just an explanation.

Either way, you don’t really give a shit.

“Get out,” you snap, the terror in your veins finally spilling over into anger.

“I just–…” His mouth opens and closes a few times, hesitating. “Look, if you ever remember anything, or change your mind–” He scribbles something down on a note and places it carefully on the coffee table in front of you, mindful of keeping his distance. “Call me, alright?”

“Out.”

“Yeah, okay, alright.” He nods quickly, palms raised in surrender as he backs away. “I’m really sorry. Again.”

And then he’s finally gone, too.

The door clicks shut softly this time, but the silence that follows is anything but. 

Then, your legs give out.

You slide down the wall, hands shaking, breath coming in sharp, labored bursts as the adrenaline finally crashes fully and rushes out of your blood.

You’re alive. Somehow. Barely.

And as you sit there on your floor, staring at nothing, all the things they said and unloaded on you tonight still swirling through your mind, you only hold onto one thing:

If you never have to see those two again in your life, you surely know it will be a good one.

Dean doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t want to. Because if he does, he might see your face again. Might hear your voice again. Might start thinking.

And that’s the last thing he fucking needs right now.

The cold night air burns his lungs on the way in and does nothing to cool the heat simmering under his skin. His boots carry him forward on instinct alone, gravel crunching too loudly beneath each step, and it feels like the world’s turned the volume up solely to piss him off.

By the time he reaches Baby, his pulse is still hammering, breath coming fast and uneven as if he just ran a mile instead of a couple dozen yards. His hands feel unsteady as he yanks the door open, the metal groaning in protest. He drops into the driver’s seat and slams the door shut behind him with more force than necessary, the sound reverberating down the quiet street.

For a long moment, he just sits there. Hands on the wheel. Jaw clenched. Chest rising and falling too damn fast.

The familiar smell of leather and gun oil wraps around him and grounds him a little in a way nothing else ever can. 

This – this he understands. This makes sense. The car, the hunt, the rules. Monsters are bad. He kills them. End of story.

Simple.

Except nothing’s fucking simple anymore, is it?

Dean exhales sharply through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face as he leans back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut for half a second.

Prove you’re just like the things you claim to hunt.

His jaw tightens. He shakes his head as if he can physically dislodge the echo of your voice.

But this ain’t how it works – not how any of it fucking works. You don’t get to flip it on him just like that. You don’t get to stand there with your soft voice and your shaking hands and look like you belong anywhere but in the middle of this goddamn mess, acting like he’s the fucking problem all of a sudden.

You’re a witch. That should be enough. It’s always been enough.

Except–

Dean’s grip tightens on the wheel, knuckles whitening as he tries to push the thought down. But the memory replays whether he wants it to or not.

You, standing in front of that woman and her kid like a damn shield. The boy looking at him like he’s the thing to be afraid of.

But it doesn’t mean anything, right? Doesn’t prove jack. Because he’s seen monsters play nice before. Seen them smile, talk, pretend. That’s how they fucking get you.

That’s how they win.

And you? You’re just better at it than most. He gives you that. But that’s all there is to it.

Dean exhales again, slower this time, forcing the oxygen out of his lungs like he’s trying to push every doubt out with it. His head’s pounding at this point. It started back at the apartment. It’s a dull but persistent ache, sitting right behind his eyes and building with every thought he doesn’t want to think.

Witches.

His dad worked with freaking witches. The idea alone sits wrong in his gut and tastes sour on his tongue. John Winchester surely didn’t work with things like that. Didn’t make deals, didn’t play nice, didn’t fucking trust anything that wasn’t human. And even then, that was pushing it most times.

Except, apparently, that’s not the whole damn story now, is it? It never seems to be these days. Because, apparently, there’s a whole list of things John Winchester did that Dean never fucking knew about.

His grip tightens again.

First, it was the hospital, the last conversation they shared seared into his goddamn brain like his father personally carved it there with his hunting knife.

Then came Ellen – a whole damn network of hunters. Family once, according to her. And somehow, the brothers still never heard a damn word about any of them growing up.

And now this – you. Another secret. 

New Hampshire. Witches. Visits Dean doesn’t remember. Conversations he was never part of.

Secrets on top of secrets on top of more fucking secrets, stacking higher the longer he goddamn sits here. They’re threatening to bury him under the weight of all the things his father never said. 

When the hell does it ever goddamn end?

He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, staring down at the floorboard like it might have answers written into the worn metal.

He tries to think back, really think, and dig deep.

Motels. Highways. Cheap diners and long drives and nights spent waiting for his dad to come back from a hunt.

New Hampshire – it still doesn’t ring a single bell.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. There were a ton of places and a lot of nights where their dad would drop them somewhere “safe” and disappear for days at a time, coming back with blood on his knuckles and a stupid story that never quite added up.

Dean always figured that was just the job. But now? He’s not so damn sure anymore.

A sharp sting then suddenly cuts through the dull ache in his head, quick and sudden enough to make him hiss under his breath. His hand comes up instinctively, pressing against his temple as the pain spikes before it subsides again.

Dean blinks, frowning slightly as he straightens in his seat. He leans back, brow creased, and that’s when he remembers it.

The symbol. Your family rune.

He suddenly knows where he’s seen it before. He shifts in his seat and pulls out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. There’s a faint indentation in the worn leather. His thumb brushes over it till he feels the shape beneath it – small, round, and familiar in a way he can’t quite place. 

Dean frowns deeper and flips it open, fingers sliding into the slot and pulling out a small bronze charm about the size of a coin. It catches the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through the windshield, the dulled metal still glinting as he turns it between his fingers. And then, he sees the symbol etched into it.

ᛒ

For a second, everything just… clicks. He’s seen this before. Not just tonight, not just on that torn page from his dad’s journal, and not just on the cover of your little glitter-pen notebook.

Before that – way before that.

A vague memory resurfaces, hazy and blurry around the edges. He can barely hang onto it and shape it into focus. He might have been nine, maybe ten, and he was sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala. His dad then handed him something small and cold, telling him to keep it close.

“For protection,” his father had said.

And Dean? He never questioned it. He just shoved it into his wallet and moved on – like he always did. And then, he just… forgot about it. For more than a decade, that thing sat in his back pocket like it didn’t mean a damn thing.

But now it does, doesn’t it?

Dean turns the charm over in his fingers again, staring at the rune like it might explain itself if he looks hard enough.

What if you were telling the truth? What if his dad really did work with your family? What if this, this little piece of harmless metal sitting in his palm, came from them?

Dean lets out a frustrated breath, shaking his head as if that alone can knock the stupid idea loose.

God, he fucking hates that it makes sense. 

The sound of the passenger door creaking open then snaps him out of his convoluted thoughts.

Dean’s head jerks up, and in one smooth motion, the charm disappears into his jacket pocket, fingers curling around it for half a second before he lets it go again.

Sam slides into the seat beside him, the door shutting with a quieter, more controlled thud than Dean’s earlier, but the peace doesn’t last for too long. 

“Dean, what the hell was that?”

Dean doesn’t look at his little brother. He just stares straight ahead out the windshield, expression hardening back into solid walls of steel.

“What did it look like, Sam? I handled it,” he scoffs flatly.

Sam lets out a disbelieving huff at that. “Handled it? You call that handling it?” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration lacing his voice. “Dean, you almost shot her.”

“Yeah, well, she gave me a reason.”

“No, she didn’t!” Sam shoots back, turning toward him fully now. “She was helping those people. You saw that.”

Dean’s jaw locks. “I saw a witch messing with people’s lives, Sammy.”

“She was saving them.”

“She was lying to us the whole time, man. Open your eyes,” Dean insists, sharper this time. If he says it enough, it’ll stick, right?

Sam stares at him for another second, trying to figure out if Dean actually believes that or if he’s just being stubborn for the hell of it.

“She could’ve helped us,” Sam says finally, quieter but no less firm. “You heard her. She knew Dad. Her family knew Dad. That’s not nothing.”

Dean’s grip on the wheel tightens again. “We don’t need her help.”

“Dean–”

“I said we don’t need it,” he snaps, cutting him off. His voice is low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it that makes it clear this conversation’s already halfway to being over.

Sam exhales an irritated breath, leaning back in his seat, shaking his head. “You’re being an idiot.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I’m serious,” Sam says, glancing out the windshield before looking back at him. “She’s not what you think she is.”

Dean scoffs a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah? So what? You got that from the whole five minutes you spent playing nice upstairs?”

“I got that from actually paying attention,” Sam fires back. “From watching her. From listening. She’s not hurting anyone, Dean. She might be the key Dad talked about.”

“She can light candles and let flowers bloom,” Dean counters. “Wouldn’t exactly classify those as demon-slaying powers, Sam.”

“Yeah, but you heard her. She might not even know what she’s capable of. No one ever taught her,” Sam argues. 

“I don’t care,” Dean barks, fixing Sam with a deadly look. “We’re done with her.”

“Dean–”

“I mean it, Sam,” he warns. “We don’t call her. We don’t come back here. Am I making myself clear?”

Before Sam can argue again – because Dean can already see that his little brother wants to – he reaches over and cranks up the music, the sound blasting through the car, filling every inch of space until there’s no room left for words. He turns the key, and the engine roars to life, familiar and steady and thankfully loud enough to fucking drown out everything else.

Sam slumps back in his seat with a frustrated sigh, but he doesn’t try again. He knows better than that, just as Dean knows he bought himself a few hours of silence now. 

He keeps his eyes on the road as he pulls away from the curb, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near his jacket pocket where the small metal charm sits hidden.

He doesn’t take it out again. Doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t even think about what it might mean. Nevertheless, he feels its presence there with a heaviness he can’t quite shake.

Sam believes Dean wants nothing to do with you because you singlehandedly stand for everything he’s ever hated in his life. Because he can’t understand you. Because he can’t trust you.

But that’s not entirely true. 

Sure, there’s all of that crap, but Dean’s also heard you loud and crystal fucking clear upstairs: 

You don’t want to be a part of this. 

And Dean? He actually gets that. Hell, he’s not sure he’d give up a sweet life like that either. 

It’s not that you’re too witchy. You’re too goddamn normal. That’s the real problem.

You don’t belong in this world full of monsters, demons, and blood. You’re not like the rest of it. Your place smelled like warmth and home instead of death and rot. 

You looked at him like he was the bad guy. And hell, for a second there, he didn’t even have a good argument against it.

You have a life here. A stupidly normal one – as normal as it damn well gets for a witch, anyways. And this thing with demons and death and his dad’s secrets?

It always ruins everything it fucking touches.

▶️ Chapter 3: All of Those Best Laid Plans – June 12

Phew, looks like we survived our first not-so-friendly meeting with the Winchesters, especially Dean 😮‍💨😅 Something tells me she won't get over Dean pulling a gun on her anytime soon lol. Where will all three of them go from here, and will reader dig deeper into her own family before Sam does? 👀

I'm so curious to read all your guesses, especially concerning Dean's little memory blurbs and strange feelings. There might be a little more to it than meets the eye 😉

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Coming Up:

You need answers. 

Your hands are shaking as you reach for your purse and pull out your phone. You hesitate as your thumb hovers over the contact – a name you never thought you’d call. But then, you dial the number. 

Sam picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

You press your lips together for a second before speaking. “Is this Sam Winchester?” you check. “It’s–, uhm, it’s me. Salem witch you tried to kill?”

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again, his voice more alert than before. “Hey, uh, I’m surprised you called. Honestly didn’t expect it after the way we left.”

“Makes two of us,” you sigh. You still can’t believe you actually called him. It feels like you’re only following the white rabbit even deeper into the hole. 

“Yeah, uhm, I can’t blame you,” he chuckles lightly. “But I’m glad you called. Sorry again how things went down. That wasn’t our intention.”

“Yeah? Does your brother share that sentiment?” you retort. 

Sam’s silent for a moment, which is an answer in itself. 

“Dean’s, uh–… It’s complicated,” is all Sam says. “You–, uh, you okay?” 

“Define okay,” you huff under your breath, staring down at the letter in your lap again. 

“Did something happen?”

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I, for one, would not want to be on the wrong end of Dean's gun at this point in his life. He was so close to spinning completely out of control.

Yep! Dean was definitely a bit unhinged in the beginning of this season (but perfect setup for enemies to lovers 😝). Poor boy was really going through it 🥲

And the confusion he must have felt - she was helping someone, those people were afraid of him, not her. His whole world has been turned inside out.

I loved writing this part because it put it into such a different perspective for him. He was the knight charging in, trying to save the poor villagers only to discover they don't need saving (and that he might be the true dragon). I wanted to mirror 2x03 a little here. The "vegan" vamps and Gordon were the next eye-opener.

I loved the bit about her notebook! The glitter pens, the 'Jared & Heath' doodle - perfect! The part about Dean looking around like a demon is going to appear behind the swiss cheese plant LOL - all those little tidbits are gold.

Hahaha thank you! I love reader's pov in this series and how she's analyzing them. I always had to remind myself that she doesn't know those brothers the way we do after 15 seasons, so figuring out how a complete stranger views them and their actions from the outside was really fun! 🤓 (And I can just imagine Dean's little face of confusion over the glitter gel pens lol)

So curious about the charm and what it means!! The history and reason behind it - if this was a book, I'd be binging through it right now! lol

We're definitely getting more into the mystery of that in the next few chapters! 😉

AND I LOVE that - even though he'd NEVER admit it to Sam, that he's leaving not only for the reasons he's been going off about this whole time, but because he doesn't want to pull you into something that will ruin your life. Because 'You're too goddamn normal.'