Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean Winchester laying on the cool grass, staring up at the vast, cloudless sky. 

Who would have thought?! This was his heaven, he was expecting maybe he's baby or his memories playing on repeat, but this was nice too. 

Each breath he took was deep and measured, filling his lungs with the sweet scent of spring. 

It had been a long time since he felt this at ease. No looking over his shoulder or gun under his pillow. No demons, angels or supernaturals or responsibilities. 

His eyes traced the delicate dance of leaves on the nearby trees, swaying gently in the breeze. The chirping of birds and the rustle of the wind through the branches were the only sounds that filled the air.

The peace and quiet of the field had become a rare commodity in his life. With the constant buzz of the his and the weight of unspoken regrets, a moment like this was precious. 

He took a deep breath, letting the calm wash over him like a gentle wave. The wind hummed softly in the background, a rhythmic lullaby to the otherwise still afternoon.

His eyes drifted closed, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to let go of everything. 

The worries, the what-ifs, the could-have-beens. It was as if the lake itself was cradling him, whispering that it was okay to rest. And rest he did, his mind finally at ease. 

But his a Winchester, even in his afterlife, the serenity was shattered. 

The quietude of the field had given him clarity, and now, a second chance was calling. 

The story of his life was about to take an unexpected turn, and he was ready to face whatever lay ahead.

Dean Winchester stirred in the unfamiliar bed, the stale scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. 

His eyes shot open to reveal a dingy motel room with peeling wallpaper and a flickering neon sign outside the window. The room spun for a moment, the ceiling fan's lazy rotation casting eerie shadows across the floor. He groaned, his head pounding in protest of the harsh light that bled through the thin curtains.

With a grunt, he pushed himself into a sitting position, his feet dangling over the side of the mattress. The floor felt sticky against his bare soles. A pang of thirst clawed at his throat, and he squinted at the digital clock on the bedside table. 

It was 2:34 PM, a fact that did little to clarify the events of the previous night. He reached for his phone, but it was nowhere to be found. 

_'Why the fuck am I here? Where's Sam?'_

His gaze wandered to the nightstand, where a half-empty bottle of whiskey stood sentinel beside a plastic cup. 

The memory of the previous night's events trickled back, a series of foggy snapshots that grew clearer with each heartbeat. The room was a mess, clothes strewn about, a pile of fast food wrappers in the corner. 

He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the lingering sleep. 

Beside him, a figure lay still. He couldn't tell if it was a person or a mound of discarded clothes in the dim light. 

Dean's thoughts raced as he gripped the gun under his pillow. 

_'What was he doing here?'_

His mind felt like it was playing catch-up with reality. The last thing he remembered was leaving the bar, feeling a hand on his shoulder, and then... nothing. 

_'That's wrong, last time I remembered was the field and dying, before that was Sam!'_

Panic began to set in. He needed to get out of here, now. 

Slowly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cold, sticky floor beneath his bare feet. He took a deep breath and stood, the floorboards creaking under his weight. 

The figure beside him didn't stir. He took a step toward the bathroom, the gun in his hand leading the way. As he moved, he tried to piece together the events that had brought him to this moment. 

_'Why do I have overlapping memories? I remember my last moments with Sam, but I also remember going to the bar_ The more he searched his memory, the more it felt like trying to catch sand in a storm.

"What the...?" Dean murmured, squinting against the blinding sunlight that streamed through the motel room's dusty blinds. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the cobwebs of sleep. "Where the hell am I?"

The TV, a relic from the early 2000s, flickered with static, casting a gray glow over the threadbare carpet. 

He looked down, expecting to see the bruises and cuts from his hunts, but his skin was unblemished, No tattoos either!

He leaned against the wall, his knees threatening to give way. "This isn't possible," he breathed, his voice trembling. 

But looking at his overlapping memories, he's currently in September 8th 2002, dressed in his favorite jeans from back then in the past. 

His mind raced with questions, but the one that echoed loudest was: _'How did I survive?'_ The motel room looked eerily familiar, a snapshot from a past he had long ago left behind.

He staggered to the mirror, his reflection a ghostly figure from his early twenties, staring back at him with the same bewildered expression. His hand reached out, tentatively touching the cool glass. 

The person he saw was a stranger, yet undeniably himself. His hand passed through the reflection, and his heart skipped a beat. He was alive, but something was off, something was definitely not right.

The door to the bathroom squealed open, and the sight of the yellowed tile and peeling wallpaper sent a shiver down his spine. In the mirror, his reflection grew paler, his eyes wide with fear. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest as he took in the room, the memories of his past colliding with the reality of his present.

Dean took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He knew he couldn't just sit here. He had to figure out what was happening. He searched the room for any sign of his belongings, any clue that would explain this bizarre turn of events. 

The dresser drawers were empty, but in the corner, his duffel bag lay untouched, filled with his old hunting gear. A sense of déjà vu washed over him. It was all too real to be a dream. He's had a time traveling before, but usually he had been in his body, not this body! 

He rummaged through the bag, his hands shaking as he found his journal from that year. Flipping through the pages, his own handwriting stared back at him, detailing cases he hadn't even thought about in years. 

The motel room spun around him as the weight of his situation sank in. 

He had been given a second chance, but to what end? Was he supposed to change his fate, or was he doomed to repeat it? Either way, he knew he couldn't stay here, reliving his past. That's cruel even for Chuck! Was it even Chuck that brought his here or was it Jack? 

Dean took one last look at his younger self in the mirror, his expression grim. 

He knew he had to get out of this room, out of this motel, and back on the road. 

The past wasn't a safe place for him to be, but maybe it was his only shot at a future. 

He could stop what was coming. Maybe he could save his family, change his destiny.

The world around him looked the same, but everything had changed. He had a mission now, a second chance to set things right. And if he failed, well, he'd just have to deal with the consequences. But he wasn't going down without a fight. Not this time.

 _'Wait'_ 

The body on the bed stirred, it's definitely a person, a lot smaller than he initially thought. Almo-

"JACK!" His jaw dropped at the familiar pair of baby blue eyes, in a child's body! 

---

He opened his eyes to a world of darkness. The ground beneath him was solid, but it was a shade of grey that made it seem more like a cloud he was standing on. 

Castiel looked around, squinting to see any sign of life, any hint of color or movement. But there was nothing.

The void was silent, a stark contrast to the noisy world he was used to. No cars honking, no birds chirping, not even a gust of wind to break the stillness. It was like he was in a vacuum, cut off from everything he knew. He reached out his hand, trying to touch the horizon, but it remained frustratingly out of reach, no matter how far he stretched.

He tried to remember what had happened before he woke up here, but his thoughts were jumbled, like a puzzle with missing pieces. He took a step, and his foot sank into the grey substance, making a soft squelching sound. It felt like he was walking on wet sand, yet there was no beach, no ocean, just more of the endless darkness.

Castiel looked down at his feet, watching them disappear into the grey as he took another step. Each step brought him no closer to answers, only deeper into the abyss.

The void was unchanging, unyielding. It was as if time had stopped, or perhaps it had never started here. Castiel felt the weight of his solitude pressing down on him, a heavy blanket that muffled any hope of finding a way out.

He began to walk, not knowing where he was heading, but knowing that standing still was not an option. The grey stretched on forever, a never-ending sea of sameness that made his eyes ache for the sight of anything else. 

As he moved, he talked to himself, trying to piece together his memories. They floated in the back of his mind like mist, shifting and elusive.

"You know," Castiel mused, his eyes scanning the stark landscape, "This isn't what I expected, kinda anticlimactic." 

His voice echoed faintly in the vast emptiness around him, a solitary sound in a space that seemed to have forgotten the concept of time.

"What did you expect, Cas?" Dean's voice hung in the air, it's not really him, but it's comforting.

"I don't know," Castiel replied with a shrug. "Maybe something a bit more... dramatic."

Castiel, alone, stood in what appeared to be a realm devoid of light, a place where the absence of color was almost tangible. Yet, it was nothing like the uncomfortable dark he was once in. 

The place spoken of in hushed tones by angels and demons alike, a prison for the ancient being that had existed before the dawn of time. Back them he couldn't not move, think, talk or anything about them float endlessly as his memories played over and over and over. 

Castiel nodded thoughtfully. "It's... quiet."

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. The ground beneath them was a strange mix of cold stone and shifting shadow, unyielding yet somehow giving way to his steps. 

Castiel felt the weight of his own existence pressing down on him, a stark contrast to the usual buoyancy of his angelic grace. He was trapped, but not alone.

The air was thick with the scent of something ancient and unknowable, a fragrance that tickled the back of their throats and filled their nostrils. It was a smell that spoke of beginnings and endings, of creation and destruction, of the very fabric of existence.

"I can feel it," Castiel murmured, his hand coming up to rub at his chest where his grace should have been... 

"It's like it's trying to communicate."

"What's it saying?" Dean's voice played out. 

"I'm not sure," Castiel replied, his eyes narrowing in concentration. 

The words hung in the air, a stark revelation in the face of the void. His footsteps grew heavier as they moved deeper into the realm, the weight of the void pressing down on him with each step. The silence grew louder, a testament to his isolation.

"So, what do we do?" Dean's voice murmured. 

Castiel took a deep breath, his eyes gleaming with a determination that pierced the darkness. "We find a way out."

"Easier said then done, Cas."

The silence grew oppressive, a constant reminder of his isolation. 

The grey began to swirl around him, thickening like fog. Castiel felt a sense of unease as it grew denser. He quickened his pace, his heart pounding in his chest. 

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the mist, tall and cloaked in darkness, with eyes that gleamed like polished silver.

The figure didn't speak, but its presence was a question, a challenge. Castiel's eyes widened, and he took a step back, his heart racing. He didn't know if this was a friend or a foe, but he knew he needed to be ready for anything.

The figure began to advance, and Castiel's mind raced with thoughts of escape, of fighting, of survival. He braced himself, his hand reaching for his side where he usually kept his sword. But it wasn't there. He was unarmed, vulnerable.

The figure stopped a few feet away, and the silence grew heavier. Castiel could feel the weight of its gaze on him, probing, searching. 

Without warning, the figure reached out a hand, offering it to him. Castiel hesitated for a moment, then took it. The hand was cold, almost unnaturally so, but there was something comforting about the gesture. 

It felt like a lifeline in the sea of uncertainty.

---

The fluorescent lights flickered to life, casting a stark glow upon the rows of neatly arranged desks and filing cabinets. 

Castiel, the once-mighty angel of the Lord, blinked sleepily as he jolted upright in his chair. He rubbed his eyes and glanced around, his mind struggling to piece together the fragments of his reality. 

The sterile, almost cold, atmosphere of the heavenly office was a stark contrast to the tumultuous battles he had grown accustomed to in his time on Earth.

The room was eerily empty, save for the rhythmic hum of the occasional shuffle of paper. 

Castiel's eyes fell upon his nameplate, gleaming on the desk: Castiel, Commander of the 4th Garrison. 

_That's impossible_ He ran his fingers over the letters, the cool metal of his past. He hasn't seen this 

Castiel nodded slowly, his eyes still adjusting to the starkness of the -his- office. "Back at my post, it seems," he murmured. 

He glanced down at his attire, the standard issue white shirt and black tie, feeling a pang of loss for the coat he had worn so often in the mortal realm. 

"What's happening?" he finally asked, his voice a little too quiet for the echoing office.

He was, back in the place he had once called home.

Castiel stared at the endless pile of files and forms that awaited him, he couldn't help but wonder what lay in store beyond these four walls of order and duty. 

What was the price for his actions, and when would it come due?

The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, each one a tiny hammer strike on the anvil of his fate, reminding him that even in the realm of the divine, there was no escaping the grind of the nine-to-five. 

Chapter Text

_

September 8th, 2002.

Omaha, Nebraska 

Downtown

Joe's 24/7 Stay Motel 

Room 25

Jack Kline

The Nephilim born in 2017! Not suppose to exist in 2002!

Dean immediately asks the kid a couple of questions, mostly demands an explanation as to what's going on.

The poor fledgling is clueless of course.

The kid is as clueless and adorable as Cas, when he's in an unfamiliar environment.

Dean toned it down, since clearly it was out of either of their control.

He still had a whole lot of questions though. He desperately wanted to shake someone and get some answers but that would give him more frustration and no answers. 

So he did the logical thing... 

Wash, change and pack!

He was getting uses to his body. His present and future instincts were merging, he could tell. He moved with his future efficency but his present habits were in the driver's seat. 

It was baffling and interesting at the same time... 

Dean returns from the Car, _Baby is fine and intact, small victories!_ He looks at the kid

Jack Kline the boy was roughly around five if Dean estimates right. A kid Nephilim, that's not supposed to exist, yet. 

He's still got his intriguing blend of innocence and otherworldly power, just like Cas. His stiff demeanor and boundless curiosity are complemented by moments of profound insight, it makes him a whole lot interesting. 

The boy has been still upright, still on the couch. He's wears Dean's shirt, because Dean has no clothes for kids. He's going to have to buy some and a couple of more things, food is definitely another thing he-they need. 

Whether it's from his last night drinking or the time travel, Dean was starving and he'd kill for some pie. Plus he can't starve a kid... 

----

Buying clothes for the kid did hit him with some nostalgia. Overlapping memories of him stealing clothes for Sam and him. Him buying clothes for the first time with Bobby -Fuck the old goat is alive!-. Then there are memories from the future of his buying stuff for kids he's met on a case mission or his time with Ben. 

He tried not to be bais when buying the kid clothes; at least the kid should had one rock band t-shirt, leather jacket and jeans, like him. Then the rest of his clothes varied, he remembered Jack was very Castiel with what he wears. 

Dean maxed out four credit cards, that's when he realized he went overboard with the clothes!  

After Jack changed, they went to a dinner to eat. He ordered a lot of food, too much for a regular man and child, but no worries, neither of them are regular. 

Jack still ate like he was in a restaurant. Like Cas did. They are so alike. 

_'I can already hear Cas's opinions on food'_

Dean wipes Jack's messy cheeks. "Any advice Buddy?" He teases.

For a moment the innocent eyes made a flash of omniscience in them, "Friends." Jack said as hike began drinking his juice. 

Dean chuckled, _'I'd rather eat my foot than ask for help, but it won't hurt to have allies_

So he went to another page, made another list: 

ALLIES 

-Cas? If a way to communicate if he remembers. If not, find a way to convert to his side. **CAS IS A NEED!**

-Sam? If it's Pre-law Sam, don't drag him back to this world for as long as possible... Gotta send him protection for his dorm... Also some presents... Also get rid of his demon possesed friend, if is currently possessed. 

-Bobby? He's alive. Get ready for that emotional backlash. Should I tell him??? Maybe, two heads are a hell lot better than his. 

-~~John~~ Dad is alive. Kinda still pissed at what he ordered him to do to Sam. Don't tell him anything. Keep him guessing as punishment.  

-Jo and Ellen? Jo's not experienced enough. Ellen, shakey. _Tread carefully_ Prevent deaths! 

-Ash! Hell yeah! 

-Eileen Leahy? Maybe 

-Charlie Bradbury (Celeste Middleton), definitely. Selfish? Yes, but she's valuable... 

-Jody Mills? No, keep her away and save Owen if possible? 

-Asa Fox? Meet The Legend! Hell yeah, if he's not retired yet? 

-Benny Lafitte? Purgatory, shit. 

-Garth Fitzgerald IV? Too young, for now.

-Bela Talbot? Possible still human? 

-Crowley? Maybe, to have some ears in hell?

-Gabriel? Maybe after he gets off his high halo and pulls out the holy stick out of his ass...but mostly depends on Cas's alliance, (Substitute angel, unfortunately). 

-Anna Milton, in the crazy house. 

-~~Rowena?~~ Rowena. Fine, Reluctantly! Not yet though, try to find other witches first.  

Looking at the list, he needs a couple of really trust worth hunters and supernaturals, there's no black and white. Definitely could use so-

Dean immediately made another list: 

**Y.E.D.'s Special Children**

*Andy Gallagher – Mind control, telepathy (Good) 

*Ansem Weems / Weber – Mind control (Bad) 

*Ava Wilson – Premonitions, Demon control (Unknown) 

*Jake Talley – Superhuman strength, mind control (Unknown) 

*Lily Baker – Necrokinesis (Scared) 

*Max Miller – Telekinesis (Good going Bad) 

*Scott Carey – Electrokinesis (Good) 

<POSSIBLY MORE OF THEM>

Dean sighs a lot harder and orders a slice of pie. "I hate time travel" He mutters.

He looks at his notebook, and decides he's going to need another place to keep this information. He wants to write down the timeline or at least what he can remember. There's a bunch of stuff he's definitely repressed that's going to be helpful if he remembers. 

He looks at Jack, the kid was looking outside, but he's obviously he could feel Dean's eyes on him, also, _'What am I going to do with a kid?'_

A nasty thought creeped in, _'Is this how Dad felt with Sam and I?_ clearly that's his present mind talking, future Dean has long accepted and moved on from his dad... 

Speaking of that, as Dean looks at the timeline, he picks his brain apart, Where the hell is John Winchester?! 

Present memories suggest they are still hunting together, but the man took off without a word, after getting a phone call from a woman wh-

**“When I was twelve. My mom had one of his old numbers, and—and after I begged her—God, twenty-four-seven—she finally called him. God, when John heard he had a son, he raced to town. I mean, he dropped everything. He drove all night.”**

Bloody Mary! 

Adam and his mom are alive! 

That fuckin' Basta-

Dean has long accepted and moved on from his father, he forces himself to calm down. 

First things first. He's breaking off from his Dad. 

He can't explain Jack and even if he manages to spine some story, Jack is an half angel, Dean's is not sure when his powers will start showing up and John Winchester, currently isn't the most flexible person. 

Dean immediately picks up his phone, calls his dad. It goes to voicemail as always, but Dean conveys his message, he's present instincts are fighting against this plan. 

Leaving Dad's side? 2002 Dean would never! Good thing I would!

Chapter Text

_

September 8th, 2002.

Omaha, Nebraska 

Downtown 

29th Del street. 

Ivy's Ink ʼn Pierce

Dean felt a hell lot better now. All protected and inked, but those hours in that chair was brain numbing. 

___

He was here for an investment in his future.

The artist, a young woman with piercings lining her ears and a sleeve of intricate tattoos climbing up her arm, studied a piece of paper. 

The design was a complex web of ancient symbols, each line carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken incantations. 

She glanced up at Dean, a hint of skepticism in her gaze. "Are you sure about this?" 

Clearly she's seen a hell lot of bad decisions in her time, and the fact he looks like he's in his early twenties and he's traveling alone with a four year old, did not assure her. 

Dean nodded, and winked. "Of course." 

The artist took a deep breath and began to set up her equipment, the metallic clank of needles and the hum of the machine momentarily drowning out the distant sound of the rain. "Tattoos are serious business," she warned. "Once they're on you, they're a part of you. Forever."

Dean's hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles white. He had seen what happened when those bad guys weren't kept at bay. He had felt the cold embrace of the grave, the searing heat of hellfire. 

He had lost so much, but he wasn't about to lose any more. "I'm ready," he said, his voice steady. "Let's get started."

The artist nodded solemnly, dipped the needle into the ink, and began to sketch the first symbol onto his skin. The buzz grew louder as the needle danced over his flesh, a strange harmony of pain and protection. 

With every line drawn, Dean felt a new part of himself coming alive, a piece of ancient wisdom etched into his very being. He winced, but he didn't flinch. The sting was nothing compared to the battles he had faced, the lives he had lost, and the demons he had sent back to the pit. This was an investment to his future.

___

Coming out of the palour, maybe he shouldn't gotten the protection tattoo on his spine. Then again it looks hella amazing and he's sure the babs will love it. 

Wow, did his 2002 thoughts surprise him, _Nows not the time little Dean!_ Time to get to business... 

The bell above the door jingled, and a gust of cold air swirled around Dean as he stepped into the shop. 

Dean's eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light, and when they did, he couldn't help but blink in amazement. Every shelf and surface was crammed with strange and wonderful objects.

"Welcome," called a warm, gravelly voice from somewhere in the back. "Take your time. Everything's got a story here."

Jack felt his curiosity piqued. He'd been wandering for what felt like hours, ever since he'd woken up that morning feeling restless and aimless. He didn't know what he was looking for, but maybe this place had it.

Dean had knew these types of shops has all he needed during this time, it's a shame it's a cash only shop. 

A man with a wild beard and even wilder eyes appeared from behind a curtain, his smile showing a row of slightly crooked teeth. "You're young for this sort of place, aren't you?" he teased, his eyes twinkling at Jack. 

Dean kept Jack close to him, as much as he needed sometimes in here, leaving Jack in the car wasn't an option. 

"What brings you in on a day like today?" the man asked. 

Dean shrugged. "Just passing through," he replied, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "How much are a Deck of Cards?" he slide a picture of Jack and him, along with the information their identies need. 

The man chuckled, his belly jiggling under his threadbare sweater. "Well, you've come to the right place..." the man went to the back room with the pictures. 

Jack wandered through the aisles, his fingers brushing over ancient books with crumbling pages, shiny metal instruments that hummed faintly, and bottles filled with swirling colors that seemed to dance in the weak light. 

Jack picked up a peculiar metal key, the size of his palm, with intricate carvings that seemed to shift and change as he turned it over. 

_The bunker keys?!_

Jack couldn't help but smile at the whimsy of this. They still don't know how or who got them here, this was just the sort of mystery that would catch his eye.

As he continued to explore, the men spoke in hushed tones, the whispers of the man's pleas and Dean's obvious threats mingling with the creaks of the floorboards. 

Jack knew he could erase the man's memories, he may not remember his memories, but he has an omniscient instinct. Plus it's always nice to see Dean protect him in his own rough and tough manner. He'll erase their tracks as soon as they leave the shop. 

Dean's voice broke through the haze of wonder, calling from the doorway. "Jack, we need to move."

Jack turned to see Dean, his expression a mix of impatience and concern. 

The man behind the counter was avoiding eye contact with both of them. 

"Coming," he called out, dropping the key into his pocket and hurrying over to his guardian.

Dean's eyes searched his, a silent question lingering there. Jack nodded reassurance. "It's a surprise," he said. "Just a cool shop."

They stepped out into the bright afternoon sun, they climbed into the Impala, he couldn't help but glance back at the shop, making sure not to forget to erase their tracks. 

Dean clips on his safety belt, "Now what was that in your pocket?" he asked, he didn't forget. 

Chapter Text

 September 9th, 2002.
 Alliance, Nebraska

Town outskirts

<_Back in Black by AC/DC_>

His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, where the setting sun painted the sky with shades of pink and orange. It had been a long day, and he was eager to get back to the bunker and grab a decent meal.

Jack, on the other hand, walked with a spring in his step, his eyes darting from one side to the other as if expecting a surprise around every corner. His youthful curiosity was a stark contrast to Dean's weary demeanor. 

"You okay, kid?" Dean asked, noticing the unusual energy radiating from Jack.

Jack nodded, his eyes never leaving the horizon. "Yeah, just thinking about all the places we're gonna see on the road."

Dean chuckled. "We've seen our fair share, haven't we?" He paused, looking down at Jack. "But I get it. The open road's got a way of making you feel alive."

Jack's expression grew serious as he looked at Dean. "Dean, can I tell you something?"

Dean stopped walking and turned to face him. "Course you can, what's on your mind?"

Jack took a deep breath. "I've got this... feeling."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What kind of feeling?"

Jack searched for the right words. "It's like... something's out there. Something important. And we need to find it."

Dean's expression shifted from amusement to concern. "What do you mean?"

Jack bit his lip, his eyes scanning the area as if searching for something unseen. "It's a hunch, I guess. A tug in my gut, telling me we need to stop."

Dean considered this for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright, I trust you. What do we do?" he asked as he parked the impala. 

Jack looked up at him, his eyes clear and focused. "We keep going." 

The two hopped out of the car. 

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the road. 

He grabbed Dean's arm, stopping him in his tracks. "There," he whispered, pointing into the woods. "I feel it stronger here."

Dean's eyes narrowed as he followed Jack's gaze. Forest and Winchester never go well together. But something about the way Jack's grip tightened on his arm made him believe. "Let's check it out."

A faint, sweet scent lingered in the air, one that didn't quite belong amidst the usual forest natural odors. It grew stronger as they ventured deeper, until it was almost overwhelming.

Dean's boots crunched on ground as he moved. He chose to walk ahead even as Jack lead them. 

"What are you spidey sense telling you?" Dean called over his shoulder.

"A little bit more, we are getting closer." 

They walked in silence for a while, the crunch of their steps echoing through the stillness. The trees whispered secrets to each other as the wind danced through their leaves. 

As they reached the clearing, by the lake's edge, a figure was sitting by the lake and along with that a dog, a feral looking dog. 

He was about Jack's age, with a lean build and baby features that made him look both vulnerable and cute in the same moment.

"Can I help you guys?" he asked, his voice a strange mix of curiosity. 

Jack squinted. He may have his power, his omniscient, but he would rather not use it. "I respond to your presence, I felt you" he said.. 

"Hey kid, you really shouldn't be out late. The sun is setting, your parents must be worried sick about you..." Dean said, not happy about a kid being alone so far out of the city. 

The boy stepped closer, revealing eyes that shone with an unusual light. "I'm Jesse," he said, extending a hand to shake. 

Jack took the hand, feeling a strange warmth in the grip. "Jack," he said, his voice a little too loud in the quiet night.

Dean eyed Jesse up and down. "Jesse?" 

Dean has lived a very long life, many years in hell and earth. He knows the faces and names of his enemies and friends and family, he knows every single creature he has ever learnt about, seen and killed. 

But sometimes even it comes to civilians, the lines blur, but this was not a civilian. 

Looking a lot closer at those hazel eyes, this was the Antichrist. 

Dean has not made a plan concerning him, he forgot about the kid. Especially after he... 

The kid was forced to up and leave his life, to protect his parents and himself. He had to disappear because of what he was, had to-

Now that hurt Dean's heart. 

Dean knelt down, "Jesse?" he said a little bit shaky. 

"Yeah," Jesse replied, his gaze flicking between the duo. "I know this place like the back of my hand."

The three of them stood awkwardly for a moment before Dean broke the silence. "You have to go home, your parents must be worried sick about you." 

Jesse's eyes narrowed slightly, something unspoken passing between them, but he nodded. "They won't know I'm missing. Hey, I've got a fire pit set up, not too far from here," he said, pointing deeper into the forest. "You're welcome to join me, I'm trying camping."

The invitation hung in the air, a question wrapped in the promise of warmth and conversation. 

Dean hesitated, mainly wanting to question the ominous 'they won't know' part, but Jack's curiosity was piqued. He turned to Dean , a silent plea in his eyes.

"Alright," Dean relented with a sigh. "But as daylight hits, I'm taking you home..."

The unspoken tension crackled like the electricity before a storm as they followed Jesse into the woods, the line between friendship and something else drawn taut with every step.

The fire pit was exactly as Jesse had described—small and unobtrusive, nestled in a clearing where the moonlight barely dared to tread. A small fire danced in the center, casting flickering shadows over their faces as they sat around it. 

The warmth was welcoming after the chilly night air.

Jack couldn't help but stare at Jesse, whose eyes never left the flames. There was something about the way he moved, the way he held himself, that whispered of secrets and otherworldly power. It was the same feeling Jack got when he looked in the mirror—a reminder of what lay beneath the skin.

Dean cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "So, Jesse, what brings you out here, alone?"

Jesse glanced at him, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "My dad promised me camping but he forgot, though I didn't so I've been here."

Dean wanted to brush of the feeling of a strange kinship with this boy. He knew what it was like... He remembers a little bit of Jesse self-sufficiency but back then he had brushed it away due to the situation back then.

The silence grew heavier, thick with unasked questions. Dean sat down in front of the fire, adding some more sticks and some leaves. 

"You know, my old man used to take me out camping," Dean said, finally looking up from the fire. "Taught me how to fish, hunt, cook. Basically how to survive in woods."

Dean chose to give the diluted version, he, himself doesn't want to think about it. 

"Then I taught my brother, what my father taught me. My brother's name is Sam." Dean smiled, "Caught his first fish when he was just a little tyke."

Jack sat down closer to Dean, the fondness in Dean's voice brought a smile to his lips.

As the flames grew, Jesse's gaze settled on Jack. "You know, we're not so different," he murmured.

Jack, with his knowledge held in him, he could easily tap into it and solve both the boy's answer, he suspects Jesse can do the same thing. "I know, I can feel it." 

The words hung in the air, charged with a significance that only the two of them could understand. 

Dean, sensing the shift, he decided to take a blind shot "Jack is a Nephilim, a hybrid of an angel and a human. While Jess is a Cambion, a hybrid of a demon and a human " he said, his voice a gentle interruption to the moment. 

Jack's eyes never left Jesse's. Either of them looking surprised or confused. Jack has the knowledge and memories, but he doesn't want to open that door, yet. Jesse has always been self-aware, always knew things, did things a normal child won't do.

Dean shot them both a curious look, but said nothing. "Hey let's get to Baby, we can crash there for the night and take Jesse home tomorrow." he got up. 

The journey back to the impala is quite...

Chapter Text

September 9th, 2002.
 Alliance, Nebraska

910 Flake str.

Restuarant 15

Myster Diners

The plan was simple.

Get Jesse home, then really go to the bunker.

But he was hungry, being in his twenties again.

Plus two growing children need food.

So he simply took them into a breakfast diner.

The diner's neon sign flickered, casting an erratic glow on the rain-soaked pavement. Inside, the scent of burnt coffee and greasy eggs lingered in the air, a comforting embrace for the weary traveler. 

Dean sat at the table by the window. His leather jacket hung from the stool beside him. He got the three of them the simple breakfast take, coffee and milkshakes. 

"You know," the waitress said, topping off his coffee, "you look like you've got a long way to go."

Dean nodded absently, his eyes never leaving the map and notebook. "Yeah."

The bell above the door chimed, and two figures stumbled in, soaked to the bone. Jesse, his eyes wide with excitement, and Jack, looking utterly perplexed, as if trying to understand the concept of rain.

Ever since the two of them meet, they've been hitting it of like old friends, they remind Dean of Sam and Cas when they were friends. 

"De!" Jesse called out, his voice a mix of relief and something else—mischief, perhaps.

The last thing Dean needed was another detour. "What's up? Where you two playing in the rain?!" 

They slid into the booth across from him, a grin spreading ear to ear. 

"It felt fun." Jack leaned in. 

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Fun, ha?"

"Come on, it's not like we can get sick," Jess said cheeky. 

"It's a risk, but maybe a little fun won't hurt, before we hit the road again." Dean said. He had certainly seen the effects of them on each other. Two rare beings, unwanted on either side, they have all the power of this world on the tip of their fingers, but they still want to play. 

They can easily relate to one another. 

Jess hovered near the booth, his youthful gaze scanning the menu. "What is this?"

Jack leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "It's a waffle. Or at least, that's what they're saying. Diner food sucks"

Dean scoffed offended, his hand hovering over his mug. "Yeah yeah, you just like cereal only."

"That's the thing," Jack said, his eyes gleaming. "Unlike someone I know."

Dean's interest piqued, despite his better judgment. "Alright, lay it on me."

Jack looked at Jesse, "Pie. He's so obsessed." he said in a childish voice to exaggerate.

"It's Pie." Dean defended, picking at his greasy burger. 

Jack swirled his straw in a half-empty milkshake, watching the strawberry mix with the vanilla. 

"I find cake much better." Jesse said. 

The and there Dean was ready to throw both boys out of the diner, out of his sight, but the giggle from them just made him roll his eyes. 

...

Dean Winchester's strongest memory was the smell of leather and gun oil. It was the scent of his dad's old Impala, the one that had seen more miles and battles than any car had a right to. It was a scent that brought him comfort, a scent that was as much a part of him. That car had been their fortress on wheels, their sanctuary from the monsters that stalked the night. 

Jack Kline's earliest memory was of light. Brilliant, blinding light that filled his world with warmth. It was the moment he'd come into existence, a creation of angel and human, a nephilim who'd never quite fit in anywhere. He'd been born into a world of chaos and darkness, and the light was the promise of something better, something he hadn't found yet.

Jesse Turner's coldest memory was before he was even born. Still in his mother's embraced, he remembers all that he'd heard from her, from the people around her. He knows why she gave him away and he doesn't blame her. His existence is too much for a normal human to comprehend. He's never found a person who understands him or a person who can relate to his existence, until now. 

...

Dean knows how sugar can be to a child. He's personally experienced it with Sam when they were growing up, so when it came to Jack and Jesse, he naturally assumed, none of that normal child metabolism will affect them. 

He was wrong. 

He's way worse than a normal child. It's two supernatural kids, who have powers, because yes he's having to deal with their effects 

To think a simplest treat turned into a supernatural spectacle. 

_Have to check their sugar intake_

Dean sighed. 

Dean sprinted after them, his heart hammering in his chest. This was going to be one heck of a wild ride, and he had no idea where it would take them. All he knew was that he had to catch them before they got too carried away. And with each bounding step, he hoped he had the stamina to keep up with their sugar-fueled antics.

The two of them had escaped, leaving a trail of sugar-coated footprints behind them. 

Dean knew he had to catch them before their powers got out of hand. He took a deep breath and stepped into the sugar-scape, the sticky ground pulling at his shoes.

The two of them were fast, their sugar-infused energy propelling them through the transformed streets. 

The buildings grew taller and more twisted, the air thick with the scent of cotton candy. People stumbled by, their faces frozen in surprise, some with lollipops growing out of their heads, others with their clothes turned into licorice. It was a sight to behold, but not one that brought Dean comfort. 

He had to get to the two before the entire town became a giant candy playground.

"Alright, time to go," he announced, trying to sound firm but gentle. "You've had your fun, now let's get back before it gets dark."

Jesse zipped past, leaving a streak of chocolate in his path. "Aw, come on, De! Just five more minutes!"

Jack popped up beside him, his eyes pleading. "Yeah, we promise we'll be good!"

Dean knew their promises were as fleeting as their sugar rush. But the puppy eyes they gave him, broke his defense. 

"Fine," he sighed, "But clean up the sugar on the town then you two can play in the playground." 

The two squealed and took off, their laughter piercing the air. Dean began to count down in his head, his eyes never leaving them. 

He pulled out his phone and took pictures, he's never seen Jack be a child nor does he remember Jesse smiling at all. So this interaction was precious. 

_Fuck I need a better camera..._

Chapter Text

September 10th, 2002.

Plainville, Nebraska

183 Highway

Dean sat in the driver's seat, his eyes fixed on the long stretch of asphalt ahead. 

The engine hummed a comforting tune as the miles passed by. He was bobbing his head to the music playing and lip-syncing to the lyrics. 

In the passenger seat, Jack fidgeted with the hem of a Nintendo Dean got him, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror every few seconds. His blonde hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction like he'd just rolled out of bed. His skin was pale, almost translucent in the dim light of the car, and his cheeks were flushed with either anger or frustration, Dean couldn't tell which. 

They hadn't spoken much since they'd left the city limits, the silence stretching out between them like the road beneath the car.

Jack had always been the quiet one, but this was different. This was a silence that had weight, that filled the car until it felt suffocating. 

Dean knew the reason behind it. 

Jesse was back there in the city, back with his parents, livinghis life free of them. Jesse, who had understood Jack in a way that no one else ever had. Jesse, who had been Jack's best friend for a few hours, and yet it feels like it's been years. But Jesse had a life to live, a future to chase. And Jack... well, Jack and Dean, we're in the times travel predicament was stuck with what they have to do.

The sun was setting now, casting long shadows across the road. The scenery outside the windows grew darker, the world outside turning into a canvas of indigo and purple. A few stars had started to twinkle in the sky, distant points of light that offered no guidance, no comfort to the two of them as they drove further into the night.

The quiet from Jack was thick, a tangible thing that seemed to press down on Dean's chest, making it hard to breathe. He cleared his throat, hoping to break the silence, but the words got stuck in his mouth, tasting like dust.

Jack's hand stilled on the seatbelt, and he finally turned to look at Dean. His eyes were a stormy gray, full of accusation, so similar to a certain Angel. "Why did we have to leave him?" he asked, his voice low and squeaky. 

It was the first time he'd spoken since they'd left the city limits, and the question hung in the air like the smoke from an extinguished firework.

Dean took a deep breath, the leather of the steering wheel warm and sticky under his palms. "You know why," he said, his own voice gruff with emotion. "As much as Jesse is similar to yo,as such as Jesse has a role in all this, we shouldn't take away the littlenormalcyhe has left. He deserves that much."

Jack's gaze never wavered. "But what if keeping connected to him saves him more than abandoning him alone!?"

Jack got no answer, "Is that why you haven't called Sam or Bobby or anyone?" He pressed, "or Castiel, I miss him."

Dean just sighed and focused on the road ahead, the yellow lines blurring under the car's headlights. They had miles to go before they reached their destination, and the silence in the car was as vast and unpredictable as the journey ahead of them.

"Whose Castiel?" A familiar childike voice from the backseat.

Both Dean and Jack jumped in surprise. 

Dean accidentally swerved the car but quickly grabbed ahold of it. "WHAT THE HELL JESSE!"

Jack jumped to the back seat, "Jesse!"

Dean turned off the car, then his whole body around, "When did- How did you get in here?" 

"I focused on Jack's energy to find your location, and I teleported," Jesse said as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Of course, you did." Dean sighed, "What about your parents kid, where do they think you are?" 

Jesse shrugged, "I found a kid who doesn't have parents and placed him in my place."

Dean double down, "You did what!?"

"I usually do that when i want to explore on my own. Don't worry, the other kid agreed."

Dean had no ideas where to even begin, whether to scold the kid or turn the car around. 

"Teach me too," Jack whispered, but nothing doesby Dean's ears, especially Jesse's answer, "Obviously."

...

Dean stood outside the dilapidated bunker, his boots sinking into the damp earth. 

It had been years since anyone had set foot inside, and it showed. The surrounding trees had claimed the area as their own, their branches and vines wrapping around the concrete structure like a lover's embrace gone feral. He pulled out a flashlight and keys.

It's like magic. It is magic. Just like the very first time, him and Sam, they had no idea what to expect, 

"Jack, Jesse, ready to see the Batcave?" he called over his shoulder. 

The two boys giggled. 

"Ready to get your mind blown away?" Dean asked, a hint of excitement in his voice.

They stepped inside, the door screeching in protest as it swung open. 

"Wow," Jesse murmured, his voice echoing in the emptiness. "This place is... intense."

Dean nodded, a smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah, but just think of it as a blank canvas. We can make this into anything we want."

Dean walked to the large metal box in the corner and flipped the switches. "Now the real magic."

Jack laughed, "Time to pick rooms!" his eyes lighting up as Jesse looked around. 

"I want the biggest room!" 

Dean grinned and said, rolling up his sleeves. "We've got a lot of cleaning to do before we can even think about setting."

Chapter Text

December 15th, 2002

Lebanon, Kansas

The Men of Letters bunker 

Dean had spent the next couple of weeks cleaning and furnituring the rooms to personalize them.

He also took on a couple of hunts nearby to let out some steam.

He needs to start his who-to-kill list soon.

He doesn't care whether these bastards have not done anything wrong yet. But hell, some of these bastards are responsible for killing important people in his life.

He was going to take his time with them, show them a whole hell.

But, he needs a more complex and well thought out plan... He's not very good with plans when he's not under constant stress.

His movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic, as if the act of cleaning could somehow ward off the looming shadow of his thoughts. It doesn't. 

Despite the chaos of thoughts , there was something oddly soothing about the mundane task at hand. It grounded him, gave him a moment to collect himself before he had to face the inevitable.

'You're stalling,' a voice said from within him said, it sounded very similar. 

"You know you can't put it off forever, right?" this time the voice was gentle, but firm. "You're going to have to make that call eventually."

Dean sighed, the weight of his avoidance heavy in his chest. The call he needed to make was to a Bobby, and it wasn't a conversation he was looking forward to. 

He nodded, setting the pan aside. "Yeah, I know," he murmured, his eyes scanning the room for a new distraction. "But I've got time."

'Dean, it's okay to be nervous,' the voice said. 'But you can't worm your way out of this one.'

With a heavy exhale, Dean slumped his shoulders. The truth hung in the air. The call needed to be made, and he knew it was going to change everything.

"I'll do it," he said, reaching for his phone. "After I finish up here."

Dean picked up the pan again, scrubbing with renewed vigor. He had to call. He had to face the music, even if it meant stepping out of the cocoon of his comfort zone. 

"De, we are bored!" Jesse mumbled in his OJ.

"Dean, thank you for the meal." Jack said, finished his lunch. 

Lost in his monolgue, Dean almost forgot about this twin. The two, mostly Jesse, have been running circles around him. But he honestly didn't mind the company. The two very much filled up the quietness around him, there's never a dull moment, especially with Jesse and Jack learning how to prank him. 

"Jesse, grab those towels and help me dry," he called over his shoulder.

Jesse sighed heavily, his gaze drifting out the window to the inviting blue sky. "But it's a perfect day outside," he complained. "Can't we just leave the dishes?"

"Not on your life," Dean shot back, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

Jack's eyes lit up. "What are we doing after?" he asked, his curiosity piqued 

"We'll see," Dean said mysteriously. "But first things first."

Dean dialed up Bobby's number. With a deep breath, he hit the call button, the sound echoing in the stillness of the room. The line rang once, twice, and then... 

"Boy is that you! Where the hell are you!" 

Dean sighed in relief, a chuckle escaping from his lips. "Yeah Bobby, it's me." 

"You idjot!" Bobby cursed under his breath. 

"I'm in the Batcave Bobby. Full on Batman." Dean chuckles again, much happier. 

"What are you on about now?" 

Dean smiled as if Bobby was in front of him, "You are going to lose your pants. I got myself a base. It's awesome." 

A beat, than... 

"Boy, you and I have different definitions of awesome." Bobby grumbled frustrated. 

"Well you can come up here and see it if you want. It's in Lebanon, Kansas, I'll send you the coordinates." 

"Kansas?" 

"Yep!" 

"Fine, but you have some explaining to do starting with why I've been hearing your name from the community every bloody day!" Bobby grunted, "Also make sure to take care of yourself before I get there." 

"Of course!" The call ended after that. 

Dean turned to face them, a glint in his eye. "Alright, you two," he said, wiping his hands on his apron. "You're off the hook. What do you want to do today?"

Jesse's eyes grew wide, and he clapped his hands together. "Can we go to the park?"

Jack shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

Dean nodded. "The park it is." He took off his apron and hung it on the hook. "But remember, we're a team. Whatever we do, we do it together."

Dean was already making a grocery list for Bobby's favorite foods, and what the fridge was short off. Well not that it ever was, especially after the hunt he did at that farm, he has a life's supply of fruit, veggies and grains!

Chapter Text

September 8th, 2002.

2194

Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

Three months ago

Bobby had been watching a game with his beer at hand, when he got a call from the senior Winchester. He's mood immediately soured. 

"You gotta be kidding me, singer," John spat into the phone, his voice tight with rage. "How could you do this?"

Bobbly, confused, pulled the phone away from his ear and checked the caller ID. Sure enough, it was John's number. He put it back and replied calmly, "Do what, exactly?"

John's breathing was heavy on the other end. "Dean left. He's on his own, he left me a massage and he isn't even calling me back. And you know why? Because you talked him into it."

Bobbly blinked, his grip on the phone tightening. "John, I have no idea what you're talking about. I haven't seen or talked to Dean in weeks."

"You know what, it's a Damm good thing. Now the boy can live his own life without you bloody controlling him!" Bobby said, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his chest.

John's response was a furious growl. "You just couldn't resist pushing him away. You're the only one other person Dean listens too."

 Bobby took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions. "Look, John, I don't know what's going on, but I didn't have anything to do with this. Maybe this is for the best."

"Whose best?" John's laugh was brittle, broken. "First Sam and now Dean, fucking dean? These are my boys, singer!"

Bobby asked, his patience wearing thin. "Had you treated them as such, they wouldn't be cutting themselves away from you..."

There was a pause, and for a moment, Bobby thought the line had gone dead. Then John spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "Who the hell are you to talk to me like that."

Bobbly felt his own anger rise, hot and fierce. "I'm the one who bought Sam his magic set while you were fucking around. I'm the one who threw a ball with Dean."

"All useless stuff," John said quickly. 

Bobbly pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's that thinking that's placed you in your current position."

 Another pause, and then John's voice was defensive. "Fuck off" 

John dropped the call before Bobby could get a word in. 

 Bobbly sighed. 

 This was a something he hadn't seen coming, and he had a feeling it was just the start. 

Dean, soldier boy Dean went off on his own? Without anyone's thought in or advice? It couldn't have been Sam, Dean has never taken his brothers advice about leaving the hunting world. 

It's not him. 

And the list of Dean's friends and companions is non-existent as far as he's concerned. 

So Dean really took if on his own? 

That was interesting. 

... 

His thumb hovered over the worn phone screen, the glow casting an eerie pallor on his weathered face. He was trying to call Dean. Again.

He had let a few days passed, waiting for Dean to call him or even show up at his place, not nothing of the sort happened. 

As much as he was proud and very surprised of Dean's decision. The boy had nothing but what the impala was equipped. He didn't want the boy hunting on a few supplies. 

Bobby's voice was gruff as he spoke to the void, "Come on, Dean. Pick up." But the line remained stubbornly silent. 

It was unlike Dean to ignore his calls, especially not to call back. 

Bobby was worried that something happened to Dean on his solo hunting, but the kid has hunted solo and successfully, but most importantly he's called him to ask for information. Dean may not like asking for help, but he had no problem asking for information from Bobby. 

But the boys been radio silent. 

So Bobby went to his contacts to ask about Dean, hopefully someone had bumped into him, but knowing a Winchester he doubt. 

Much to his surprise, Dean was not even trying to hid or go under the radar. 

Dean had been to the Roadhouse! 

Dean had been on a roll, it seems. Tales of his hunts that were so ludicrously successful, they seemed more like the stuff of legend than reality. Bobby's curiosity was piqued, a mix of pride and skepticism bubbling in his gut like a stew left on the stove too long.

"The boy been making waves in these parts, taking out the big ones."

Bob's interest sharpened. "Big ones?"

"He took on a vampire nests, emptied it clean. It's all anyone's been talking about here"

Bob's hand tightened around the phone. 

"The boy is way over his head if you ask me. Too drunk on youth and adrenaline." 

Bob's heart skipped a beat to every detail he got regarding Dean's hunt. 

"Thanks for the info," Bobby said, his tone flat. 

He had to find Dean. Whatever was happening, he needed to know. He couldn't shake the feeling that the boy was in over his head, and the silence on the other end of the line was deafening.

The world of the hunt, where the monsters were real, and sometimes, the heroes weren't who you expected them to be. 

"Not even a month hunting alone. The idjot is hunting fucking vampires! Which aren't extinct anymore." Bobby felt himself going grey.

Chapter Text

September 20th, 2002

Nebraska

Central, NE

Roadhouse

The bell above the door jingled, a cheerful sound that pierced through the low murmur of the early evening crowd at the roadhouse. Jo Harvelle, her blonde hair tied back in a neat ponytail, wiped a glass with a white cloth, watching the door.

She looked up, expecting the usual local, but instead, her eyes fell on a man with a black leather jacket, dusty jeans, and a cute face that screamed 'trouble'. 

He scanned the room before his gaze settled on her. He walked up to the bar and flashed her with a charming smile. 

"What can I get for you?" she asked, trying to sound casual as she set the glass down with a gentle thud.

The man took a seat at the bar, his eyes still surveying the room. "Just a whiskey," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the very air around him. "And keep it coming."

Jo's heart skipped a beat. The way he talked, the way he moved – it was all too familiar. She had heard the stories, the whispers of his activities. 

This man was no ordinary traveler; he was a hunter, a slayer of the things that went bump in the night.

Her curiosity piqued, Jo leaned in closer. "You passing through?"

He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes locking onto hers. "Maybe," he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "But I've got a feeling I'll be sticking around for a bit."

The man was none other than Dean Winchester, the very name that has been on hunter's lips. Either from envy or admiration. But here he was, in the flesh, and Jo couldn't help the thrill that shot through her.

"You look like you know your way around a bar," Dean said, his eyes flicking to the other hunters. 

"Yeah, I've been working here for a while," Jo replied, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hands. "What brings you to town?"

Dean leaned closer, his eyes searching hers. "The usual," he said. "Troublemakers, and they're not usually the human kind."

Jo felt her heart race. This was it, her chance. She had to convince him to take her along, to show her what it was really like out there, beyond the safety of the roadhouse and her mother's overprotective embrace.

"Look," she began, "I know you're a hunter. And I know you need someone to watch your back. I've got skills, and I'm not afraid to use them."

Dean's smile grew wider, his eyes gleaming with something that looked a lot like amusement. "Is that so?"

Jo nodded, her heart racing. "My mom used to hunt, she taught me a few things," she said, her voice a little shakier than she'd intended. "But she won't let me go out there. Says it's too dangerous."

He took another sip of his whiskey, his gaze never leaving hers. "Your mom's right," he said, his tone serious. "It's a hard, lonely life. People die."

"I know the risks," she said firmly. "But I've got to do this. It's in my blood."

Dean studied her for a long moment, the silence stretching out between them like a tightrope. Finally, he set his glass down with a clink. "How old are you," he asked. 

Jo immediately bristled, "I'm not a kid!" 

Dean eased her up, "Not saying you are, I'm just asking a question." 

Jo knew she was damm well still a kid in the eyes of the law and most of these hunters, but the way Dean was looking at her, not lust, but almost warm, she just couldn't lie. 

"I'm seventeen, but I'm turning eighteen next year." Jo admitted. 

"So you're still in school?" Dean said. 

"I'm a hunter, not like school is required," Jo protested, her voice echoing in the dimly lit garage. She threw her arms across her chest, her eyes flashing with determination.

Dean said, his voice firm. "You're seventeen. You need to live a little before you jump into this life."

"I've been training for this," Jo shot back, her hands curling into fists. "I've been on a hunt before before."

Dean paused, his eyes searching hers for a moment, then said softly. "It's about you enjoying your teenage years. You've got prom, college to think about."

"And what about you?" Jo challenged. "You're only a couple of years older and you're already knee-deep in this mess. Everyone is talking about you vampire hunt, that you soloed!"

Dean sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I don't have a choice," he admitted. "This is my life. You still do."

Jo stepped closer to him, her eyes pleading. "I want to help," she said. "I want to do something real, not just sit around and pretend everything's fine."

"It's not pretending," Dean replied, his tone gentle. "It's living."

The silence between them was thick, filled with the unspoken understanding of their world. 

"Look," Jo said, changing tactics. "If you don't let me come with you, I'll just follow you."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" Jo's smirk was defiant. "You know I can track you. And what if I mess something up because I'm on my own?"

Dean let out a long, weary sigh. He knew her stubbornness was a trait they shared, and arguing further would only push her away. Plus, he could feel the eagerness in her voice—an eagerness that reminded him of Sam before he had seen the reality of their world. 

Dean's expression softened a little. "Okay," he said. "But first, tell your mom. You can't just up and leave without permission from her."

Jo bit her lip. She knew her mom would be furious, would do anything to stop her. But the call of the hunt was too strong to ignore.

"I will," she promised, her eyes never leaving Dean's. "Right now, I need to get ready."

Dean nodded. "Fine," he said. "But remember, Jo. This isn't a game. You're in it now, and there's no turning back."

The room seemed to spin around her as she took in his words. She had made her choice, and there was no looking back.

That night, Jo barely slept. Her mind raced with thoughts of what lay ahead. The excitement was tempered by a cold knot of fear in her stomach, but she pushed it down. This was what she wanted, what she had always wanted... 

Chapter Text

Ellen Harvelle, she's a woman made of steel.

Ellen was an intelligent, tough, experienced and capable hunter as well as a fiercely defensive maternal figure to her only child, her daughter. Due to having gone through much in her life, 

Jo was her name, and she was a whirlwind of energy, like her father. She was already taller than most of the girls her age, with the same sharp eyes that had seen more than their share of trouble.

Ellen watched Jo approach. 

Jo was her entire world, and she would do anything to keep that world safe. But the shadows grew longer every day, and the whispers grew louder. Hunting was a dangerous business, and the creatures of the night grew bolder by the minute. 

She didn't want Jo to follow in her footsteps, to live a life where fear was as constant as the moon's cycle. But she knew that her daughter was stubborn, with a spirit as wild as the very things she hunted. 

"I'm ready!" 

She knew her daughter's dreams were as vast as the ocean itself, but she couldn't shake the fear that came with the knowledge of what those dreams entailed.

"Ready for what?" Ellen asked, her voice carrying a hint of weariness. 

"To learn," Jo said, her eyes shining with excitement. "I want to be a hunter, like you, like dad. To protect people from things they don't even know exist."

Ellen's heart sank. She knew Jo's passion for the supernatural was deep, but the thought of her baby girl facing the same horrors she had was more than she could bear. 

She took a deep breath, trying to hide the tremble in her voice. "Jo, sweetie, we've talked about this. Being a hunter isn't a game. It's a dangerous life, full of pain and sacrifice."

Jo looked up at her mother, her eyes filled with determination. "I know, but I can handle it. I've been reading Dad's old journals and yours, even started my own!"

Ellen sighed. "I know you think you're ready, but the world isn't as simple as it seems. There's more to hunting than just fighting monsters. You have to deal with the consequences, the losses." She paused, looking out at the horizon. "And I've lost enough."

Jo could see the sadness etched into the lines of her mother's face, the weight of her own past battles reflected in her eyes.

"But what if I can make a difference?" Jo pressed. "What if I can save people, like you do?"

Ellen's gaze snapped back to Jo. "You can," she said, her voice firm. "But not like me. You're too young, too innocent for this life. I want you to have something better, something safe."

Jo's eyes narrowed. "You don't think I can do it. You think I'll fail."

Ellen's expression softened, and she sat down beside her daughter. "It's not that, honey," she said, placing a hand on Jo's shoulder. "It's that I've seen what this life does to people. The things you have to do, the things you have to see... It changes you."

"But what if it changes me for the better?" Jo asked. "What if I'm meant for this?"

Ellen looked at Jo, her heart torn between the love of a mother and the pride of a mentor. "You already are," she admitted. "You're strong, brave, and smart. But that's not enough to survive in this world."

This time Jo let's it go. The topic is buried for a while, but not forgotten, never.

Again Jo kept asking and begged, it went from once in every while to once a month to every single day to every single time a hunter talks about their hunts to Jo. 

Her daughter is strong, just like her. She's just as stubborn too. Jo never stopped asking. 

Then the Walker incident happened. 

She had never felt so much fear and anger at the same time. All she wanted was to shoot that prick and take her daughter away, far away from this world. 

She didn't shoot the prick, as much as she wanted too, hunters are rare and skilled people, you never know when one is going to die, so it's best not to kill each other. 

That's the unspoken rule. 

Fine, so Ellen did the next best thing, and grounded sixteen year old Jo from the roadhouse and supernatural activities. No stories, no books, just nothing, and full on supervision everywhere. 

~A year and a half later~ 

September 21th, 2002

Nebraska

Central, NE

Roadhouse

Now a new problem has risen. 

"Mom, I'm going hunting with Dean. I'd like to have your permission for it." 

This time Ellen grabbed her shotgun with no hesitation. 

Chapter Text

September 21th, 2002
 Nebraska
Central, NE
 Roadhouse

"What the hell have you been saying to my daughter!" Ellen demanded, ready with a shotgun.

Dean looked at her, his eyes narrowed. "I offered to take her out on a hunt. She's got potential."

Ellen's grip tightened on the gun. "Potential to get herself killed, you mean? She's not going anywhere with you."

"Look, Mrs. Harvelle, she's eager. She's ready to pounced and will do so at her first chance as soon as you look away."

Ellen stepped closer to him, the barrel of the shotgun pointed at his chest. "You stay away from Jo. Hunting is no life for her."

Dean sighed, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture. "Okay, okay. But you can't keep her protected forever. Sooner or later, she's going to our without asking for permission."

"Who the hell are you to say that about my daughter!"

A stark contrast to the fiery protectiveness burning in her eyes. Jo had been her entire world since her husband's death, and she wasn't about to let some hunter, especially a Winchester, come in and corrupt that.

"Ellen, I get it, but Jo's curiosity isn't going anywhere. She's seen things, she's heard things, she's not oblivious to the world out there," Dean replied, his voice low and even.

Ellen's eyes never left Dean's. "She's my daughter."

Dean nodded. "And she's got the spirit of a hunter in her, like it or not. But I'm not here to argue with you about it." He took a step back, his hands still in the air. "I'll leave it be for now. But know this, she'll come looking for it, whether it's with me or not."

"Never"

"I've seen that look in her eyes. She won't wait for you permission forever..." Dean tried.

Ellen's face was a mask of fury. "You don't know her. You don't know what's best for her. All you know is death and monsters, and I won't let you drag her into that mess." She spun on her heel, turning her back to him.

"Ellen-"

"Not another word," she cut him off, her voice as sharp as the blade she kept hidden under the counter. "You're not taking her."

"I have a kid brother. I've raised and looked after him our entire lives. I'd rather he come to me for help rather than sneak behind my back..." Dean said, "I may not know Jo for long but I'd rather she know she has an ally in me than rather another adult refusing her."

Ellen's jaw clenched. "You don't get it, Dean. I want Jo to have a life free from all this," she gestured to the roadhouse, "this monster hunting nonsense. She deserves to go to school, have friends, date, graduate, and maybe even have a family."

Dean's gaze softened. "I get it. Believe me, I do. But she's not like other kids. She's seen things they can't even imagine. And it's not nonsense, it's the truth of the world we live in. And she wants to know more."

"I'm keeping her safe!" 

"I understand," Dean said. "But sometimes, being safe is not the same as living." He took another step back and nodded respectfully before turning to leave.

Ellen's eyes filled with a mix of anger and sadness. "You Winchesters think you're so special, that you can just come in here and dictate what's right for her because of some family legacy. You don't know what it's like to raise a child, to watch them grow, to want them to have a future."

Jo, who had been quietly listening from the doorway, stepped forward. "Mom, maybe we should talk about this, later?" she said tentatively.

Ellen turned to her, the anger in her eyes fading slightly. "You're not going anywhere with him, Jo. End of discussion."

Dean watched the exchange, his frustration clear. "Look, I'm not trying to start a fight, but Jo's going to make her own choices. I'm just saying I could show her the ropes, keep her safe."

"Safe?" Ellen scoffed. "You think this life is safe?" She gestured to the battle scars etched into Dean's skin, the weariness in his eyes. "This is what hunting does to you. It takes everything good and turns it into a nightmare."

Jo took a step closer to her mother, her voice firm but not confrontational. "Mom, I'm not a little girl anymore. I can make my own decisions."

Ellen's grip on the shotgun tightened again, her knuckles turning white. "Not when it comes to this, you don't," she said through gritted teeth.

Dean's voice was calm, almost pleading. "Ellen, I've seen what happens to hunters who go it alone. It's a hard road, and it's a short one. I'm just trying to offer her a fighting chance."

Ellen's eyes remained steadfast. "She's not a hunter, boy. And she's not going to be."

"It's that my decision to make?" Jo said.

Ellen's gaze snapped to her daughter. "You're not going anywhere with him, Josephine." Her voice was firm, brooking no argument.

Jo's eyes searched hers. "But why not, Mom? I want to do this. I want to help people like Dad did."

"Your father," Ellen's voice cracked, "your father didn't have a choice. But you do. You have a choice to live a life without... without this," 

"Ellen," Dean began, "let's not make this about us. It's Jo's call."

"I said no," she spat. "Now get leave!"

Dean looked at Jo, regret flickering in his eyes before nodding slowly. "Okay, I'll leave it for now," he said, backing away. "But remember, I'm here if you need me."

As Dean entered the impala and drove off, Jo felt a swell of anger rise within her. "Why can't you just let me be who I want to be?" she shouted at her mother.

Ellen turned to her, tears welling in her eyes. "Because I don't want to bury you," she whispered. "I've already lost your father, I can't lose you too."

Jo could see the fear in her mother's eyes, a fear born of love and loss. She knew her mother was trying to protect her, but she also knew that she couldn't ignore the burn of the hunt forever.

"I need to be a part of this, Mom," Jo said finally. "It's who I am."

Ellen's grip on the shotgun loosened, "I just want you to have a chance at a normal life," she said softly.

"I don't want to be normal, I never have." Jo countered.

"Normal is safe," said her mother.

"Experience is safer" was all Jo could think of saying. She knew her mother's fears were rooted in love, but she couldn't stomach the thought of a life constrained by ignorance. "You can't keep me in a bubble forever," she added, her voice steady.

Ellen's eyes searched Jo's, looking for a crack in her resolve. "You're all I have left," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I can't lose you to this world."

"But I'm already in it, Mom," Jo replied, her voice filled with both passion and pain. "You can't protect me from it anymore. I need to learn how to survive in it."

Ellen sighed heavily, sliding the shotgun onto the workbench. She knew her daughter was right. The world was a dangerous place, filled with things that most people didn't even believe in. But she had hoped that by hiding Jo away, by giving her a "normal" life, she could somehow shield her from the horrors that had claimed her husband and so many others.

Unfortunately her fears overway everything: "No" 

Chapter Text

September 22th, 2002
 Nebraska
Central, NE
 Roadhouse

Ash squinted against the harsh light streaming through the dusty blinds, his head pounding like a drumline had taken up residence in his skull. He reached for the bottle of water on his nightstand, his hand shaking slightly. 

The room spun around him as he tried to sit up, a tornado of memories from the night before. The last thing he remembered was the neon sign of the bar flickering goodbye as he stumbled home.

The TV flickered in the background, the muffled sound of a talk show host's laughter grating against his sensitive ears. Ash took a deep breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor jolting him into full consciousness. That's when he saw the chair.

In the chair sat a young man, not more than in his early twenties, with dirty blonde hair that was a lot more blonde than it had any right to be, given the dim lighting of the room. He wore an outfit that screamed rock band roadie—black leather jacket, black t-shirt, and a pair of worn jeans that looked like they'd seen better days. 

"Who the hell are you?" Ash's voice was a croak, his throat dry as a desert. The stranger didn't stir, his chest rising and falling steadily with the rhythm of sleep.

Ash stumbled over to the chair, his vision swimming as he tried to get a closer look. The guy had tattoos—awesome ones—and they weren't the usual barbed wire and roses. These were symbols, ancient-looking, that danced across his arm. Around his neck hung a set of dog tags, a weird amulet and a silver cross, glinting in the light. 

The smell of leather and something faintly metallic filled the air around him.

As he leaned in, the stranger's eyes snapped open, a piercing shade of green that seemed to see right through him. "Dean Winchester," the man said with a yawn, stretching his arms above his head.

"I don't know any Dean Winchester." The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it. "And I didn't invite you in."

Dean looked around the room with a sleepy curiosity before his eyes landed back on Ash. "Well, I'm not exactly the guest type. More of a...crasher, I guess." He smirked, sitting up straight in the chair and running a hand through his hair, dislodging more blonde strands from his face. "But don't worry, I'm not here to steal your greens or anything."

"No shit." 

"I'm taking Jo hunting and you are coming with." Dean told him, like he didn't even have an option in the matter

Ash blinked, trying to clear the fog from his head. "I'm the guy in the chair. I don't do the heavy lifting. I can research and stuff."

Dean chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. "Nice try, but you're coming with us. You're part of the team now." He stood up, the leather of his jacket creaking as he moved. "Besides, I've got a good feeling about you."

Ash stared at him, incredulous. "Look, man, I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but I don't hunt things."

The smirk on Dean's face grew wider. "Oh, you don't hunt, huh? That's funny, because you're sitting in a room that's practically a shrine to the supernatural." He gestured to the bookshelves crammed with dusty tomes and the walls adorned with various talismans.

"Not to mention you are crashing at the roadhouses back rooms." Dean added, his eyes scanning the room with a knowing look. "You've got the gear, the books, and the look. You're practically screaming 'I hunt things that go bump in the night'. So, get dressed, we've got a job to do."

Ash glanced around, his gaze resting on the bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes titled "Demonology 101" and "Spells for the Modern Witch." The walls were indeed covered in talismans, but they were all part of his training with the older hunters. 

"What makes you think I can do this?" Ash managed to ask, his voice still shaky.

"Instinct." Dean shrugged, grabbing a set of car keys from the dresser. "Now get ready and geared... I'm picking you two up later today for the hunt." He sauntered out the door with the confidence of someone who's done this a hundred times before, leaving Ash in a stunned silence.

Ash stumbled to the bathroom, his mind racing. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, trying to piece together what was happening. His brown eyes searched for answers in the mess of his unkempt hair and the stubble that had overtaken his jawline. 

The hangover was real, but the man named Dean Winchester? 

That had to be some kind of hallucination, right?

But the confidence. It all pointed to something more real than a hangover-induced fantasy. With trembling hands, Ash reached for his phone, scrolling through his contacts. 

Jo. 

He had to talk to Jo about this.

When he finally got a hold of her, she didn't sound surprised. "Oh, you met Dean," she said, her voice filled with a mix of amusement and wariness. "Don't you remember, he's the one who took out that vampire nest, alone! He's that guy,hunters been talking about." Jo jogs his memory...

Then it clicks to Ash, "Fuckin Winchester!" He had heard about Dean Winchester among the supernatural community, especially of lately. 

A young man who had been fighting the supernatural since he could hold a knife. "Shit, why me?" He murmured to his reflection.

Jo's voice brought him back to the present, "I'm not entirely sure, but I think he's taking you along so my mom doesn't worry about me being alone with him."

Ash couldn't help but laugh, despite the gravity of the situation. "She's worried about you being with him?"

"Hey, I might know how to handle myself, but even I'm not foolish enough to underestimate the supernatural world I want to hunt! If Dean is my ticket to start hunting..." Jo retorted.

Ash rubbed his forehead, trying to make sense of it all. "Okay, okay. So, what's the job?"

Jo gave a nervous chuckle, "I don't know. Dean says he'll tell us on the road. A hunter should be able to adapt to anything."

Ash's stomach turned, a mix of nausea and excitement.

This was real. Too real. Even after a year of this, it still feels unreal sometimes.

He managed to get dressed and pack a bag with the essentials—his favorite knife, a handful of salt and iron bullets, and a silver protection necklace that had been a gift from Ellen. It had always been more for comfort than anything else, but now it felt like it could be his lifeline.

As he waited for Dean to show up, his thoughts raced. What kind of creature were they hunting? Would he be able to handle it? And why was Dean so confident in his abilities?

The door to the apartment creaked open, and in walked Jo, her eyes wide with excitement. She was dressed in all black, a knife at her belt and a stake in her hand. She looked every inch the part of a supernatural hunter. 

"You okay?" Jo asked, noticing his paleness.

"Yeah, just trying to get my head around this." He gestured to the bag by the door. "You really think I can do this?"

Jo nodded, a grin spreading across her face. "You've got the smarts, and I've got the sass. We've got this."

The sound of a muscle car roared up outside, and Jo's eyes lit up. "That's our cue."

They walked out to find a sleek, black '67 Chevy Impala parked in front of the building, gleaming in the mid-afternoon sun. The engine rumbled to a stop, and the door swung open. Dean stepped out, looking as unfazed by the day as he had when Ash first saw him.

Ash eyed the car, "That's your ride?"

"The one and only," Dean said, patting the car's hood. "Best piece of American muscle on four wheels."

As they piled into the car, Ash couldn't help but notice the weapons stashed in the back seat—shotguns, knives, and what looked like a collection of holy water bottles. The smell of leather and gasoline filled the cabin, mingling with the faint scent of something smoky and otherworldly.

Dean slid into the passenger seat, looking over the maps spread out on the dashboard. "We're heading to a small town in Ohio," he said, not looking up.

Ash swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Vampires?"

Dean said, "Djinn." He tapped his fingers against the side of the gun holstered at his hip.

The word sent a shiver down both Ash's and Jo's spine. They had read about djinn in one of the books from the collection, powerful beings capable of granting wishes with a deadly twist. They are absolutely rare, but apparently that's there's hunt with Dean...

"As much as I'd like to do some simple salt and burn hunts with you." Dean started, the corner of his mouth quirking up, "This one's gonna be a little more complicated." He handed over a map with a red X drawn on it, indicating their destination. "It's worth the experience and it shows you the rough reality of this world "

Jo, had only been on one solo hunt, that had been a simple hunt, nothing challenging. Ash had been on a couple of supervised missions, all simple and within beginner level, nothing challenging.

A Djinn was way above their level and experience.

Ash felt his palms sweat against the leather of the Impala's seat. "A djinn?" he repeated, his voice shaking slightly. "Those are... they're not exactly small fry."

Dean met his gaze with a serious expression. "Look, I wouldn't have brought you along if I didn't think you could handle it." He paused, his eyes flicking to Jo before returning to Ash. "You've got the brains, the know-how. Now you just need the experience."

Jo nodded in agreement, her excitement tempered by a hint of nerves. "We're in this together."

Ash took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. He didn't know if he could do this—if he could face the kind of monsters that lurked in the pages of his books and the stories he'd heard whispered in the dark corners of the internet. 

They drove for hours, the scenery outside the window a blur of green fields and small towns that looked like they hadn't changed in a century. The conversation was sparse, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Jo checked and rechecked their gear while Dean listened to classic rock, the steady beat of the music seemingly the only thing that could calm their nerves while simultaneously getting them excited for the hunt.

Chapter Text

In the quiet suburb. His footsteps were rhythmic, a gentle beat on the sidewalk that echoed the steady pulse of the neighborhood's collective heart. 

His eyes were drawn to the soft glow of the street lamps, each casting a pool of light that danced with the chilly autumn air. The leaves, a fiery mix of reds and oranges, whispered secrets as they tangoed with the wind.

Dean's thoughts drifted to his brother, Sam. He knew the young boy would be eagerly waiting for him, buried in his schoolbooks at their small, unassuming house. 

The image of Sam, nose deep in his homework, brought a warm smile to his face. It had been a long day, and he was looking forward to the comfort of a simple dinner and the sweet, mundane banter that only siblings could share.

As he approached the house, the scent of something simmering on the stove filled the air, hinting at a surprise that Sam had likely concocted. 

The smell grew stronger, a tantalizing promise of a hot meal waiting for him. He took a moment to appreciate the familiar creaks of the wooden porch beneath his boots as he stepped onto it. The house was an anchor in a world that often felt as if it were made of paper, ready to catch fire at any moment.

Inside, the living room was bathed in a warm, welcoming light. Sam's concentration was broken by the sound of the door opening, his head popping up from behind his textbook. 

He looked up at Dean with a mix of excitement and relief, his eyes saying more than words ever could about how much he'd missed his brother. "You're home," Sam said, his voice a little too loud for the quiet room.

Dean nodded, his smile growing wider as he hung up his coat. "And just in time for dinner, it seems," he said, peeking into the kitchen. "What's on the menu tonight, chef?"

Sam's cheeks flushed slightly. "Just some spaghetti. I hope it's okay," he said, his eyes darting back down to his homework.

Dean ruffled Sam's hair, his heart swelling with affection. "It's perfect, buddy." He took a seat at the kitchen table, feeling the weight of his gear slowly lifting off his shoulders.

The house was small, filled with the scents of their lives: burnt toast from early mornings, the faint aroma of gasoline from the fire station, and the ever-present smell of textbooks and ink. 

It was their sanctuary in a world where danger lurked around every corner, where their father's legacy as a hunter was never far from their minds.

"How was school?" Dean asked, his gaze lingering on the open book in front of Sam.

Sam shrugged. "It was fine. The usual." His voice was nonchalant, but Dean knew better. There was something simmering beneath the surface, something that the boy wasn't quite ready to share.

"Any girlfriends yet?" Dean teased, his voice light and playful, trying to ease the tension in the air.

Sam rolled his eyes, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Not exactly, Dean." He paused, his pen tapping against the paper. "There is someone, though."

Dean leaned back in his chair, his curiosity piqued. "Oh? Tell me more."

Sam sighed, looking up from his homework. "Her name's Jessica. She's in my math class. She's... she's just really smart, you know? And funny. But she's got this... glow about her." His eyes glazed over briefly, lost in thought.

Dean chuckled, his heart warming at his brother's infatuation. "Sounds like someone special."

The kitchen grew quiet, the only sound the occasional clink of silverware against plates as they enjoyed their spaghetti dinner. The simplicity of the meal was a stark contrast to the complexity of their lives outside these four walls.

As they ate, their father, John returned from a hunt. 

Dean and Sam stopped getting involved and with John's permission they got to live a normal life. Dean being a Firefighter and Sam is currently applying to law school. 

John's footsteps were heavy and deliberate, the kind of steps that carried the weight of the world. He greeted them with a nod, his eyes tired but relieved to see his sons safe.

John sat at the head of the table, his voice gruff. He took a bite of the spaghetti, his expression unchanging. "This is good," he finally admitted, and Sam's shoulders visibly relaxed. 

The silence that followed was a familiar dance, one filled with unspoken words and understood glances.

Dean took the opportunity to ask about John's day, trying to gauge his father's mood. "How was the hunt?" he inquired.

John's eyes remained on his plate, his jaw working as he chewed. "Quiet," he said, his voice a low rumble. "But that's how it goes sometimes."

Sam looked up, his curiosity piqued. "No supernatural disturbances?"

John shot him a look that was half amusement, half warning. "Sometimes, things just stay quiet."

The conversation lulled again, and Dean felt a pang of nostalgia for the days when the only thing they talked about over dinner was the game on TV or the weather. But those days were behind them, replaced by the shadows of their legacy.

After dinner, the three of them cleared the table together, the familiar routine a balm to their weary souls. John took the lead, his movements economical and efficient. Dean followed his father's lead, while Sam washed the dishes, his thoughts swirling in the soapy water.

As they worked, Sam couldn't help but ask, "Do you ever miss it, Dad?"

John paused, the plate he was drying hovering in mid-air. "Miss what?"

"Living instead of surviving." Sam clarified, his voice barely above a whisper.

Their father's gaze was sharp as he turned to face them. "Sometimes," he admitted. "But that life chose me, not the other way around." He set the plate down and sighed, his eyes lingering on the faded photo of their mother on the fridge. "But we've got each other, and that's enough."

Dean nodded in agreement, his hand on Sam's shoulder, offering silent support. They had agreed to stay out of the family business, but the whispers of their past never truly disappeared. The house was a bastion of normalcy in a world that was anything but.

As the night grew darker, the TV flickered to life with the evening news, the anchor's voice recounting tales of strange happenings around the town. John's eyes narrowed, and Dean knew what he was thinking. It had been too quiet for too long. The job was never truly finished; it was just on pause.

They finished the dishes in silence, the weight of their conversation lingering like the smell of the spaghetti sauce. When they were done, John retreated to his study, the door closing with a soft click. Sam picked up his book bag, his eyes on the floor. "I think I'm going to go to bed early," he said, his voice a little too casual.

Dean knew he needed some space. "Alright, bitch. Good night," he said, giving Sam's shoulder a final squeeze.

"Jerk" Sam smiled. 

As Sam disappeared down the hall, Dean couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming for them. It was like a storm on the horizon, the air charged with electricity. 

He took a deep breath, the house seeming smaller and more vulnerable than ever before. He knew that no matter how much they wanted to live normal lives, the shadows of their past would always be lurking.

The TV played on, a mindless buzz of laugh tracks and commercials, but Dean's mind was elsewhere.

"It's a dream. I know this is a dream..." Dean said to the hidden figure, "I was hunting you, the djinn None of this is real."

The figure chuckled, the sound echoing around the room. "Isn't it just like a fire to burn everything down and call it a dream?"

Dean was calm and collected, "Sam can't cook meat to same his life. He can make that healthy food, but not meat..." He said to the djinn.

"Also senses in such dreamscapes are always dull, they try to replicate it from memory but it's all dull..." Dean pulled out his gun. "But you, you're not from my memory, you're a figment of my imagination. You don't belong here."

The djinn's laugh grew louder, filling the room with a sinister mirth. "Is that so?" it asked, its eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "Perhaps I am more real than you give me credit for, firefly."

The room around them began to distort, the walls stretching and the floor becoming a sea of writhing flames. Dean felt his heart racing, his palms growing slick with sweat. He knew he had to wake up, to break free from this illusion. He focused on the cold, hard metal of his gun, the only thing in this dream that felt real.

With a roar of determination, he pulled the trigger, the sound echoing through the room. The djinn's laughter cut off abruptly, and the world around them shattered like a mirror, revealing the stark reality of the building he was searching for the djinn in. The smoke was thick, choking him, and the heat was intense, but he knew this was the real world. This was where the danger was real, not a figment of his subconscious.

He stumbled out of the room, his eyes watering, his lungs burning. The fire alarm blared overhead, a shrill reminder of the urgency of his mission. He had to find the djinn before it could claim any more lives. His instincts kicked into overdrive as he navigated the maze of corridors, his fireproof suit protecting him from the inferno around him.

His heart pounded in his chest as he searched, every step bringing him closer to the source of the fire.

Finally, he reached the room where the fire raged the most fiercely. The door was hot to the touch, but he didn't hesitate. With a grunt, he kicked it open, the heat hitting him like a solid wall. Through the flames, he saw the outline of a figure, tall and inhumanly graceful amidst the chaos. The djinn.

The creature turned to face him, its eyes burning with a malevolence that made Dean's skin crawl. "You're persistent, I'll give you that," it said, its voice like the crackle of a campfire.

"You're dying tonight," Dean growled, aiming his weapon at the djinn.

The creature smirked. "Am I?" It gestured, and the flames grew higher, reaching for Dean with hungry fingers.

But he didn't flinch. Years of training and experience had honed his reflexes, and he knew better than to let fear control him. He fired, the djinn dodging with an agility that seemed impossible in the face of such heat. The bullet ricocheted off the wall, embedding itself in a nearby fire extinguisher.

As the djinn lunged at him, Dean's mind raced. He knew the creature's tactics - it thrived on fear and pain, feeding on the suffering of others. But he wasn't going to give it what it wanted. He ducked and rolled, dodging the flaming tendrils that sought to embrace him. The room was a swirl of fire and smoke, the heat pressing down on him like a living entity. His eyes searched for an escape, for a way to end this nightmare.

The djinn's laughter was the only sound in the room, a mocking cackle that seemed to bounce off the walls. "You're no match for me," it taunted, its voice a symphony of hellish flames.

Dean scoffed, "So dramatic." His eyes narrowed as he spotted a weakness in the fire's pattern. The djinn's arrogance had made it sloppy. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with smoke-laden air, and sprinted. The creature underestimated his endurance, a mistake it would soon regret.

Ducking and weaving, Dean moved through the flaming obstacle course, his instincts honed by years of battling the literal and metaphorical fires of the supernatural. The djinn's flames licked at him, but he remained unflappable.

In a swift move, he grabbed the fire extinguisher, the metal cool against his palm, a stark contrast to the searing heat. He aimed it at the djinn, squeezing the handle. The burst of white foam shot out, not to smother the creature but to disrupt its fiery dance. The djinn hissed as the chemicals hit it, and for a moment, the flames retreated.

Dean took advantage of the opening and lunged, tackling the creature to the ground. They rolled across the floor, the djinn's laughter turning to snarls. The fire around them grew more intense, the room seemingly closing in, as the creature fought back with every ounce of its unearthly strength.

The djinn threw Dean across the room, "You think you can beat me?" the djinn spat, its eyes alight with fury.

Dean grinned through gritted teeth. "You're not the first monster to underestimate a Winchester."

"but most importantly. I was just the distraction for those two." Dean said as Jo and Ash entered.

Jo wasted no time shooting the djinn in the face.

The djinn screamed, writhing in pain as the holy water-infused bullets burned into its flesh. Jo's eyes were cold and focused, her hand steady as she reloaded her gun.

Ash took a step forward. "I've got you," he murmured, at he shoot salt bullets to slow the djinn down.

Dean watched, his muscles tense, ready to jump back into the fray if needed. But Jo and Ash had it under control. They'd worked together before, forming an unlikely but effective duo. Jo's military precision and Ash's knowledge of the arcane made them a formidable pair.

Jo stepped closer to the writhing djinn, her gun smoking. "You're going down," she said, her voice a cold promise.

Ash nodded, his own weapon at the ready. "It's time to send you back to whatever pit you crawled out of," he said.

They moved with the synchronicity of a well-oiled machine, each step and shot calculated to maximize its pain.

With a final, desperate effort, the djinn threw Dean off and tried to flee. But Jo was too fast. She pinned it to the ground with a booted foot, her gun pointed at its chest. "You're not going anywhere," she said firmly.

Ash approached, a wicked grin on his face. He pulled out a small vial filled with a glowing substance. "Time to put this fire out," he quipped, uncorking it.

The djinn's eyes widened in terror as the holy oil spilled onto its skin. It screamed, the sound echoing through the fiery chamber as the flames that surrounded it grew even brighter before suddenly snuffing out. Its body began to convulse, the once majestic creature now a twisted, smoking mess.

Dean took a step back, watching the scene. He had said he'd take the backseat of this mission, bit of a lie, but the two Jo and Ash handled themselves well enough.

The djinn's screams were music to his ears, a symphony of justice and victory. As the creature's body began to disintegrate, leaving behind a trail of ash and the acrid smell of burnt flesh.

"Nice shot, Jo," he said, his voice hoarse from the smoke.

"Thanks," she replied, holstering her weapon. "Couldn't have done it without the distraction."

Ash looked at him with a smirk. "I guess you make good bait."

Dean rolled his eyes, the tension in the room dissipating into a chuckle. "Just don't let it get to your head," he said, climbing to his feet.

"Let's not make this a daily thing, yeah?" Ash chuckled jokingly.

Dean saw that both were affected by whatever I individual dreamscape they were trapped in. Jo looked angry, Ash looked sad. Dean let them take it in, because this was a hunters life, this never gets easy or simple, especially with what's coming. 

Chapter Text

"Hello?" a tired voice spoke into the receiver.

"Hey, it's Dean," he said, his eyes drifting to the photo of the three of them in his wallet. 

"Oh, hey De," Jack's voice was faint, as if he was in a different room. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just checking in," Dean replied, his voice a mix of concern and casual ease. "How's the camp going?"

There was a brief pause, followed by a muffled giggle in the background. "It's fine," Jack said, trying to sound nonchalant. 

It's something him and Jesse have been trying to imitate from him, but he knew he's far, very far from being nonchalant. Yet it doesn't stop the two. 

"Fine, huh?" Dean teased, raising an eyebrow even though Jack couldn't see him. "You sure you're not just telling me that because you don't want to admit you're having fun?"

Jesse's voice cut through the static, closer this time. "We're not having fun, De," he protested, his tone a blend of earnestness and sarcasm. "We're being tortured by bible stories and forced to sing Kumbaya."

The three of them shared a laugh, and Dean felt a warmth spread through him, despite the chilly night air seeping in through the cracks in the cabin walls. He had dropped them off at the weekend church camp to give them a taste of normalcy, but he couldn't help feeling a bit guilty for leaving them behind while he went off to hunt. It wasn't the monsters he was worried about – it was the thought of them growing up without the one thing he has promised to protect: their innocence.

"So, you guys aren't secretly enjoying the s'mores and campfire ghost stories, then?" Dean asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Well..." Jesse began, but Jack was quick to cut him off.

"No way, it's all just boring stuff. Can't wait for you to come get us."

The line was filled with the sound of shuffling feet and hushed whispers before Jack spoke again. "We're okay, really. Just missing you."

Dean's heart swelled with love for the two of them. "Miss you too, kiddo. Just keep an eye on each other, alright?"

As the call ended, the quiet of the cabin closed in around him once more. He couldn't help but wonder if the whispers he heard weren't just the boys' friends plotting their next prank.

"Jack, how's camp treating you?" Dean's voice crackled over the phone.

Jack, with a mouthful of something sticky, mumbled a response, "It's... good."

Dean leaned against the rusty pickup, breathing in the scent of pine needles and gasoline. The silence on the other end was thick enough to cut with a knife. "You guys enjoying your weekend?"

Jesse, Jack's older brother, snatched the phone, "Dean, we're fine. They got us playing games and stuff."

Dean's eyes scanned the dense woods, his mind racing. "You sure? Nothing weird happening?"

Jesse rolled his eyes, "We're at a church camp, man, not Area 51."

"Remember if someone looks at you funny or touches you weird. You have my full punish to go crazy " Dean said protectively.

"Yeah, yeah, we know," Jesse assured, a hint of annoyance in his tone. "They're just priests and counselors, not aliens."

The connection was weak, but Dean heard enough to ease his mind a bit. "Alright, just keep an eye out for each other." He paused, listening to the distant laughter of children playing. "And don't eat too many marshmallows, Jack. Remember what happened last time."

Jack's muffled giggle turned into a gasp as Jesse smacked his shoulder. "I remember," he chuckled, his voice slightly clearer now. "But we're not roasting any here."

Dean couldn't help but smile at the memory. "Good to know. Now, I've got to go. Don't do anything stupid."

"We won't," Jesse promised, a smile in his voice.

Dean nodded, though they couldn't see it. "Call me if anything changes. Anything at all."

"We will," Jesse assured him, handing the phone back to Jack. "Give it to the counselor."

Jack took the phone and spoke into the receiver, "Bye, Dean." His voice was small, the stickiness in his mouth forgotten.

The counselor, a young woman with a kind smile, took the phone. "Thank you, Mr. Winchester. They're both having a great time. We'll keep them safe."

Dean ended the call and tucked the p hone into his pocket. He climbed out of the impala and going into the diner. 

Chapter Text

September 25th, 2002
 Winner, South Dakota

44 Johnson str.

El Tapatio res.

The neon sign flickered above the diner, casting a warm glow over the cracked vinyl booths. A few late-night patrons lingered, sipping coffee or nursing half-eaten plates of fries. 

The smell of grease mixed with the sweetness of pie wafted through the air, wrapping around Dean like a familiar blanket. He sunk his teeth into a juicy burger, savoring the taste as he watched Jo and Ash across the table.

Jo poked at her plate, the remnants of a burger sitting untouched. Her brow furrowed, eyes distant. 

Next to her, Ash fiddled with his phone, tapping away like the world could vanish if he didn’t stay connected. It had been a tough hunt, and the weight of it hung heavy in the air. 

"Hey" Dean said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You guys okay?"

Jo looked up, her blue eyes glimmering with a mix of determination and fatigue. "Yeah, just... thinking."

"About the Djinn?" Dean asked, a hint of concern creeping into his voice. 

"More like what it showed us," Jo replied, pushing her plate away as if it was tainted. "I thought I wanted to be like my dad, but n-" 

"Now you’re not sure?" Dean cut in. "Look, Jo, it’s all a trick. That thing was feeding off your fears. It doesn’t mean you’re not cut out for this." 

Ash chimed in, his voice light despite the serious tone. "Yeah, don’t take it too hard. I mean, I was totally gonna be a rock star until I got a taste of the whole ‘supernatural’ gig." He gestured dramatically, hands flailing as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra. 

"Wow, Ash," Jo said, a small smile breaking through her somberness. "What a dream." 

"Hey, don’t knock it! I had visions of fame and fortune. But then I remembered I can’t carry a tune to save my life." 

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. "You’d be surprised how many people can’t carry a tune but still think they’re rock stars." He leaned back in the booth, arms crossed. 'But seriously, Jo. You killed that Djinn. That’s something not everyone can say."

"Yeah," Jo said, her voice softening. "But it was still just a glimpse. I don’t want to just be another hunter with a vendetta..."

Ash feeling the mood sobering to depression-vile. "You guys should’ve seen me! I mean, I was like—whoosh!—and then, bam! That djinn had no idea what hit it. BANG!" He punctuated his words with wild hand gestures, nearly knocking over his soda.

Dean said, smirking. "It's like you were convinced you were some kind of superhero."

"Dude, I was a superhero!" Ash laughed, leaning back with a swagger that was both infectious and ridiculous. "Did you see the way I handled that thing? It was like I was meant for this!" 

"Right," Jo said, rolling her eyes. "And I suppose you think you can handle everything now, huh?" 

"Pretty much!" Ash replied, puffing out his chest dramatically. "I mean, who else can take down a djinn while looking this good?" 

 Dean chuckled, but a shadow crossed his face. "Just remember, Ash, it’s not just about looking good. It’s about being ready for anything. We got lucky tonight. Next time, it might not be the same." 

 Ash’s expression faltered for a moment. "Yeah, but we did it, right? We actually killed it. I mean, Jo and I!" He nudged her playfully. "You were amazing back there. Who knew you had it in you?" 

Jo shrugged, but a smile tugged at her lips. "It was easier when I was mad."

"Mad is good. Use it," Dean said, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward. "But don’t let it consume you. You have to find balance, or it’ll eat you alive." 

The words hung in the air, a heavy truth that grounded them amid the chaos of their lives. Jo nodded, the weight of his advice settling in. 

"Look, I know you want this life, Jo," Dean continued, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "But it’s dangerous. You need to be ready for the monsters, both outside and in your head." 

"Yeah, I know," Jo replied, her voice barely a whisper. "But I want to fight. I want to be part of something bigger than myself." 

 Dean’s gaze softened. "You already are. Just remember, it takes more than bravery. You need wisdom too." He gestured to Ash, who was now attempting a dramatic reenactment of their fight, complete with sound effects. "And maybe a little bit of humor to survive." 

Dean urged, his tone firm. "You’ve got the guts, and you’ve got the skills. It’s not just about monsters; it’s about saving people." 

"Yeah, like in those old monster movies," Ash added, looking up from his phone. "You know, the heroes who come in, guns blazing and save the damsel in distress. Only this time, the damsel can pack heat too." 

"Damsel? Really?" Jo raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "I’m not some princess waiting for a hero." 

"Exactly," Dean agreed, smirking. "Just a badass hunter in training. And, let’s be real, you’re probably more capable than a lot of guys out there." 

"Thanks," Jo said, her lips twitching into a smile. "I’ll take that." 

"Dean" Jo said, her voice steady. "I don’t want to go back to what I was doing before. I want to honor my dad’s legacy, but I need to find my own path too." 

"Then let’s figure it out together," Dean said, his face softening. "You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. Just take it one step at a time." 

"Easy for you to say," Jo muttered, but there was no bite in her tone. "You’ve been doing this forever. I’m still trying to find my footing." 

"Trust me," Dean replied, his gaze steady. "I’ve messed up plenty. It’s part of the process. Just learn from it and keep moving forward." 

The diner fell into a comfortable silence, the clinking of silverware and the hum of conversation blending into a soothing backdrop. Dean took another bite of his burger. 

"Don't even think about dropping out of school." He said in a stern, more mature look that weirdly fit him, Jo had sat up straight to the voice. "Hunting might not need a degree, but for me to stick out my neck for you to your mom. I need good grades and a good behavior, got that?"

"Yes, of course." Jo agreed in an instant.

Dean turned to ash, "I'm going to need you to create a site for me. Incrypted and Everything. Put that MIT knowledge to use."

Ash nodded, "What's it for?" he wondered.

"...Hunting site for hunters."

That peeked their interest immensely. 

Chapter Text

The air shimmered and cracked, and Jack and Jesse tumbled into the heart of the Whispering Woods. Towering trees, their bark gnarled and ancient, loomed around them, their leaves rustling with an eerie, almost sentient murmur.

"Ugh, teleporting always makes me dizzy," Jesse groaned, rubbing his temples. "Where are we, exactly?"

Jack's eyes wide with wonder, scanned their surroundings. "According to the map, this is the Whispering Woods. We need to find the Sylvani Bark. It's supposed to be… grounding."

"Grounding? For Dean?" Jesse raised an eyebrow. "Since when does Dean need grounding?"

"He's been… stressed," Jack said, his voice unusually serious. "And the bracelet will help protect him. Plus, he's always protecting us, it's our turn!"

A soft, melodic voice echoed through the trees. "Welcome, little ones. Lost, are we?"

A figure materialized from the shadows, a shimmering, ethereal being with eyes like glowing fireflies. "We are not lost," Jack said, his voice firm. "We're looking for Sylvani Bark."

The spirit chuckled, a sound like wind chimes. "Ah, the grounding bark. A worthy quest. But the woods are tricky. They play with your senses, twist your perceptions."

"We can handle tricky," Jesse said, stepping forward. "Just tell us where to find it."

"Patience, little one," the spirit said, its voice laced with amusement. "The woods offer trials, not directions. To find the bark, you must first find the true path."

Suddenly, the trees around them seemed to shift and change, their forms blurring and twisting. A path appeared, winding through the woods, but it shimmered and wavered, its direction uncertain.

"Which way?" Jesse asked, his voice laced with suspicion. "They're all moving."

Jack closed his eyes, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Listen… the whispers. They're trying to confuse us. But some of them… they sound clearer, truer."

"Clearer?" Jesse scoffed. "They all sound like wind to me."

"No, listen!" Jack insisted, his voice rising. "That one… it's saying, 'Follow the light, where shadows cease.' And that one, 'The stone remembers, where the river weeps.'"

Jesse looked around, trying to discern the whispers. "Light? Stone? What does that even mean?"

A section of the forest ahead began to glow with a soft, ethereal light, and a faint sound of trickling water reached their ears.

"The river!" Jesse exclaimed, pointing towards the light. "And the stone… look!"

A large, moss-covered stone, etched with ancient symbols, stood near the glowing path.

"The stone remembers where the river weeps," Jesse repeated, tracing the symbols with his finger. "It's a riddle. The light is the path!"

Jack followed Jesse as they ventured towards the glowing path. The illusions around them intensified, the trees morphing into grotesque shapes, whispering taunts and threats.

"This is ridiculous," Jesse muttered, his hands clenched into fists. "Just tell me what to punch!"

"No, Jack! Focus!" Jack said, his voice strained. "The illusions feed on your fear. Stay calm, and they'll lose their power."

As they pressed on, the illusions grew more aggressive, trying to block their path. Jesse, struggling to control his rising frustration, felt his energy draining.

"I can't… I can't keep this up," he gasped, his legs feeling heavy.

Jack reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "We're almost there. Just a little further."

The glowing path led them to a clearing, where a massive Sylvani tree stood, its bark glowing with a soft, green light. The spirit reappeared, its form shimmering like moonlight.

"You have found the true path," it said, its voice filled with approval. "Now, claim your reward."

Jack carefully approached the tree, his eyes filled with reverence. He gently touched the bark, feeling its grounding energy flow through him.

"This is it," he whispered, his voice filled with awe. "This is the Sylvani Bark."

Jesse , still recovering from the illusions, watched as Jack carefully gathered a piece of the bark. "Let's get out of here," he said, his voice weary. "I've had enough whispers for a lifetime."

And with another shimmer and crack, they teleported away, leaving the Whispering Woods behind.

The world dissolved into a swirl of colors and then snapped into sharp focus.

They stood at the mouth of a vast cave, its depths glittering with countless crystals. The air hummed with a subtle, magical energy.

"Whoa," Jesse breathed, his eyes wide. "Shiny!" Jack added as the two admired the crystals. 

Eventually Jack opened the map, "The map says we need to find the largest shard, deep within the caves. But it's guarded."

"Guarded by what?" Jesse asked, his eyes scanning the shadows.

A low, rumbling growl echoed from the depths of the cave. A large, crystalline creature emerged, its form shimmering and shifting as it moved. Its eyes glowed with an eerie light.

"That," Jack said, his voice tight. "A crystalline golem. It reacts to magical energy. We need to be careful."

"Careful?" Jesse grinned, cracking his knuckles. "I'm not exactly known for being careful."

"Jesse, listen to me," Jack said, his voice pleading. "We need to be smart about this. If we use too much magic, it'll attract the golem. We need to rely on… other methods."

Jesse looked at the golem, then back at Jack. "Other methods? Like what?"

Jack tapped his chin, his brow furrowed in thought. "We need to create a distraction. Something to draw its attention away from us. You see how the crystals refract light? We can use that."

"Refract?" Jesse tilted his head. "Like, make it shiny somewhere else?"

"Exactly," Jack said, grabbing a handful of smaller crystals. "We'll use these to create a light show in the opposite direction. Then, while it's distracted, we'll sneak past it."

Jesse grinned. "Light show! I can do that!"

They moved deeper into the cave, Jack carefully placing the crystals to create a path of light, while Jesse, with surprising precision, used his raw magical energy to amplify the light, sending beams of shimmering color dancing across the cave walls.

The golem, drawn by the spectacle, turned its attention towards the light show. Its crystalline form shimmered and shifted, its glowing eyes fixated on the dancing colors.

"Now!" Jack whispered, grabbing Jesse's arm. "Let's go!"

They dashed past the distracted golem, their footsteps echoing through the cave. They followed the map, deeper and deeper, until they reached a large cavern. In the center, a massive Aetherium Shard pulsed with a vibrant, blue light.

"That's it!" Jesse exclaimed, his eyes wide with awe.

"Careful," Jack warned, his voice low. "It's radiating a lot of energy. We need to be gentle."

They approached the shard cautiously, their hands outstretched. As they got closer, the shard began to vibrate, its light intensifying.

"It's reacting to us," Jesse said, his voice trembling.

"We need to harmonize with it," Jack said, his brow furrowed in concentration. "We need to show it we mean no harm."

Jack closed his eyes, focusing his energy, trying to match the shard's frequency. Jesse, mimicking his brother, did the same. The shard's vibrations slowed, its light softening.

"It's working," Jack whispered. "It's accepting us."

They carefully removed a small piece of the shard, its surface smooth and cool to the touch. The cave, no longer filled with the raw energy of the large shard, began to dim.

Suddenly, the golem's rumbling growl echoed through the cave, much closer than it had been. It had noticed the missing shard.

"Uh oh," Jesse said, his eyes wide. "I think it's mad."

"Run!" Jack yelled, grabbing Jesse's arm.

They turned and fled, the golem's crystalline form crashing through the cave behind them. The light show, no longer maintained, had faded, and the golem had found them.

A dizzying swirl of colors and sounds erupted as they teleported. They landed on a platform of shimmering, opalescent material, floating amidst a sky filled with other such platforms.

Below them, a bustling market sprawled across countless islands, connected by rainbow bridges and shimmering ropes.

"Whoa! Look at all the shiny things!" Jesse exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder. He pointed at a stall selling glowing orbs that floated in mid-air. "Can we get one? Can we? Please?"

Jack, equally captivated, stared at a group of winged creatures, their feathers shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow, pulling small, floating carts. "Look, Jesse! They're like… like flying ponies, but with wings!"

"They're called Sky-Steeds," a voice chirped. A small, winged creature, no bigger than a squirrel, landed on Jack's shoulder. "And they're very fast."

"Wow!" Jack breathed, his eyes sparkling. "Can we ride one?"

"Maybe later," Jesse said, tugging on Jack's arm. "We need to find the Phoenix Tear Thread. Remember?"

"Oh, right!" Jack said, snapping out of his reverie. "The map… it says it's sold in the highest stall, near the Rainbow Falls."

They followed the map, pushing through the crowds of strange and wondrous creatures. Jesse was constantly distracted by the colorful wares, pointing at everything that caught his eye.

"Look, Jack! A singing flower!"

"Jesse, focus!" Jack said, trying to keep them on track. "We need to find the thread."

They finally reached the Rainbow Falls, a cascade of shimmering water that arced across the sky, creating a dazzling rainbow. Perched on a platform near the falls was a stall filled with shimmering threads of every color imaginable.

"This must be it!" Jesse said, his eyes gleaming.

A tall, slender creature with iridescent wings stood behind the stall. "Welcome, little ones," she said, her voice like tinkling bells. "Looking for something special?"

"The Phoenix Tear Thread," Jack said, holding out the map. "Do you have it?"

The creature smiled. "Ah, a rare and precious material. It's not easy to come by. But I might have a small amount left."

She reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small, intricately woven pouch. Inside, a thread shimmered with a warm, golden light.

"It's beautiful," Jesse breathed, reaching out to touch it.

"It's also very expensive," the creature said, her smile fading. "It's woven from the tears of a phoenix, you know. It has powerful restorative properties."

"How much?" Jack asked, his voice hesitant.

The creature named a price that made Jack's eyes widen. "That's… a lot."

"We need it," Jesse said, his voice determined. "It's for Dean."

The creature looked at them, her eyes softening. "For a worthy cause, then. I'll make an exception. But you'll have to earn it."

"Earn it?" Jack asked, confused.

"I need a favor," the creature said. "One of my Sky-Steeds has gone missing. It's a young one, still learning to fly. If you find it and bring it back, the thread is yours."

Jesse grinned. "We can do that!"

They followed the creature's directions, searching the floating islands for the missing Sky-Steed.

They found it perched on a high platform, its wings trembling, too afraid to fly back down.

"Don't worry, little one," Jesse said, his voice gentle. "We'll help you."

Jack, remembering the creature’s description of the Sky-Steed's flight patterns, guided Jesse, and together they coaxed the young Sky-Steed back to the creature's stall.

The creature, delighted to have her Sky-Steed back, gave them the Phoenix Tear Thread, her eyes filled with gratitude.

"Thank you, little ones," she said. "You have kind hearts."

With the thread safely tucked away, they prepared to teleport to their final destination.

"The Astral Altar, here we come!" Jesse cheered, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

The air thrummed with celestial energy as they teleported, landing on a smooth, obsidian platform suspended in the vast expanse of the night sky. Stars twinkled around them, and a swirling nebula painted the darkness with vibrant colors.

"Whoa, it's like we're standing on a giant mirror in space," Jesse breathed, his eyes wide.

"It's the Astral Altar," Jack said, consulting the map. "The final step. We need to imbue the bracelet with power here."

"How?" Jesse asked, peering at the altar in the center of the platform. It was a complex structure of glowing runes and shimmering crystals.

"It's a ritual," Jack said, his brow furrowed. "We need to channel our combined energies, weave the materials together, and align them with the celestial currents."

"Sounds complicated," Jesse said, scratching his head. "Can't we just, like, zap it with magic?"

"Jesse!" Jack groaned. "This isn't a toy. We need to be precise, or we could mess everything up."

"Relax, Mr. Perfect," Jesse retorted, rolling his eyes. "I'm sure my magic is just as good as yours."

"It's not about being good," Jack said, his voice exasperated. "It's about control. Your magic is… unpredictable."

"Hey!" Jesse protested, his cheeks flushing. "I'm getting better at it!"

"Yeah, and you still managed to turn my hair blue last week," Jack muttered.

"That was an accident!" Jesse said, his voice defensive. "And it looked good on you!"

"It looked like a blueberry exploded on my head!" Jack retorted.

"Guys, focus!" A voice echoed from the swirling nebula. A shimmering, star-like being materialized before them. "The celestial currents are aligning. You must begin the ritual now."

"Right, right," Jack said, his cheeks slightly flushed. "Sorry."

They approached the altar, laying out the Sylvani Bark, the Aetherium Shard, and the Phoenix Tear Thread. Jack, with his knack for precision, began to arrange the materials according to the map's instructions.

"Okay, Jesse," he said, his voice serious. "We need to channel our energies together. I'll guide the flow, and you… try not to blow anything up."

"Easy for you to say," Jesse grumbled, but he focused, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

Jack began to chant, his voice resonating with the celestial energy of the altar. Jesse, mimicking his brother, added his own magical energy, a raw, vibrant force that crackled and pulsed.

The altar began to glow, its runes shimmering with light. The materials on the altar began to weave together, forming a delicate, intricate bracelet.

"Careful, Jesse," Jack warned, his voice strained. "Your energy is too strong. Try to… soften it."

"I'm trying!" Jesse said, his brow furrowed in concentration. "It's like trying to hold a lightning bolt!"

Suddenly, Jesse's energy surged, causing the bracelet to pulse with an intense light. The altar trembled, its runes flickering.

"Jesse!" Jack yelled, his voice panicked. "You're overloading it!"

"I can't stop it!" Jesse cried, his eyes wide.

Just as the altar threatened to explode, Jesse managed to redirect his energy, channeling it into the bracelet. The light subsided, and the altar stabilized.

The bracelet, now complete, shimmered with a soft, golden light. It pulsed with a gentle, protective energy.

"We did it," Jack breathed, his voice filled with relief.

"Yeah, we did," Jesse said, grinning. "Even with my 'unpredictable' magic."

Jack rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Yeah, yeah. Just don't tell Dean we almost blew up an astral altar."

"Let's never mention any of this, like ever!" Jesse said, his grin widening.

"Let's get back to camp, before the adults wake up!" Jack held his hand. 

Chapter Text

September 26th, 2002
Stillwater, Oklahoma

The Impala growled, a low, predatory purr that ate up the lonely miles of highway. 

Dean has been cruising for maybe an hour when the flickering neon sign of the 'Last Chance Gas & Grub' pierced the darkness.

Dean’s hunter senses tingled, a prickle of unease that had nothing to do with the gas station’s unsettling vibe. He slowed, then pulled the Impala into the cracked asphalt, the engine’s rumble the only sound in the oppressive silence.

The air hung heavy, thick with the metallic tang of blood. Dean’s hand instinctively drifted to the Colt tucked beneath his jacket. He stepped out, the gravel crunching under his boots, and surveyed the scene. 

Police taps everyone, but not a single cop in sight! 

The gas pumps were mangled, ripped from their hoses, and the windows of the grub shack were shattered, like the place had been hit by a tornado. 

A sigil, intricate and pulsing with a faint, crimson glow, was painted across the grimy floor and walls. 

Not paint, he realized, but blood. 

The same blood. 

A complex pattern of interlocking circles and sharp, angular lines, it seemed to shift and writhe in the dim light, a hypnotic, unsettling dance. 

Dean stepped inside, the air thick with the coppery scent of death. 

The scene was a chaotic tableau of violence, a whirlwind of overturned furniture and shattered glass. 

But beneath the chaos, there was a disturbing order, a ritualistic precision that spoke of something far more sinister than a simple robbery gone wrong.

He found a guy near the overturned counter. 

A man, middle-aged, his face contorted in a silent scream, his body twisted at an unnatural angle. The wounds weren't clean; they were ragged, brutal, as if inflicted by something… inhuman. And as Dean’s gaze swept across the room, he saw more. 

Two more men, each bearing the same horrific wounds, each a testament to a slow, agonizing death.

A vengeance sigil, he thought.

... 

Time for an unscheduled hunt. 

Dean stepped into the Stillwater Sheriff's Department, the bell above the door jingling a lonely tune.

Sheriff Brody looked up from behind a mountain of paperwork, his eyes narrowing. "Can I help you, son?"

"Agent Smith," Dean said, flashing a fake FBI badge. "I'm here to talk about the recent homicides."

Sheriff Brody raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Homicides? You mean the Baker, Miller, and Thompson cases? We're handling that."

"I understand that, Sheriff," Dean said, leaning against the counter. "But I've noticed some… irregularities. And I'd like to get your take on a few things."

"Irregularities?" Brody scoffed. "Like what? The fact that they were all killed brutally? Yeah, we noticed that."

"More like the symbol," Dean said, pulling out a photo of the sigil. "This symbol. Have you seen anything like it before?"

Sheriff Brody squinted at the photo, then shook his head. "Looks like a bunch of squiggles to me. What is it, some kind of gang sign?"

"We're still working on identifying it," Dean lies. "Anything about the victims that connects them together?" 

"Nothing other than they were dick bags to their families." Brody scoffed. 

"Care to elaborate?" Dean questioned. 

"Not my family situation, although if you suspect the family members. It's useless, it's none of them." Brody leaned back. 

Brody pulled up three separate file, which Dean immediately looked into, "And you're sure there's no connection between these 'imaginations' and the murders?" Dean asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Look, Agent, I appreciate your concern," Brody said, standing up. "But we've got this under control. We don't need some fed poking around, stirring up trouble."

Dean held his gaze. "With all due respect, Sheriff, I'm not leaving until I get some answers. And I'd strongly advise you to cooperate."

That didn't look like the eyes matching that young baby face, perhaps he's fbi for a reason.

Brody stared back, his jaw tight. After a tense moment, he sighed. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you. Here's a list of the the families addresses. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a town to protect."

Dean took the list, a grim satisfaction settling in his gut. "Thanks, Sheriff. I'll try not to cause too much trouble." He gave a small smile and left the office.

...

Dean pulled the Impala up to the first house, a modest bungalow with a swing set in the overgrown yard. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. He knew these conversations wouldn't be easy.

The door opened, revealing a woman with tired eyes and a weary smile. "Can I help you?"

"Agent Smith," Dean said, flashing his badge. "I need to ask you some questions about your husband."

"About Mike?" The woman's smile faded. "What's this about?"

"I'm investigating the circumstances surrounding his death," Dean explained, keeping his voice low and even. "I understand you and your daughter been having some… difficulties."

The woman sighed. "Yeah. Nightmares, mostly. Sarah's been jumpy, scared of the dark. It's been rough."

Dean hesitated. "I know this is a lot to ask, but would it be alright if I spoke with her? Just a few questions."

The woman looked at him, her eyes filled with concern. "I don't know… she's been through so much. I don't want to upset her more."

He knew he needed to talk to the kids, to get the details he needed. But he also knew he was walking a fine line. "I understand. I'll be gentle. I just need to understand what she’s seen."

After a little push, the woman bought him to her daughters playroom. Dean approached carefully as the child spotted him. 

"Hi," Dean said, softening his voice. "I'm Agent Smith. I need to ask you some questions about your dad."

Dean knelt down, putting himself at the girl's eye level. "Sweetheart, I know this is hard, but can you tell me about your nightmares?"

The girl’s voice was barely a whisper. "They're… dark. And I hear whispers. Like someone's calling my name. And there's shadows... they move."

Dean’s jaw tightened. "Do you see anything else?"

The girl looked at her mother, who gave a small nod. "Sometimes… sometimes I see a lady. With long, sharp nails."

Dean’s gaze hardened. "Sharp nails? Can you draw her for me?"

Dean definitely didn't like what he saw.. 

-

He moved to the next house. A teenage boy answered, his expression guarded. His grandmother stood behind him, her eyes sharp and suspicious.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

Dean repeated his explanation. "I need to ask your grandson some questions. It's about his father."

"He doesn't want to talk about it," the grandmother said, her voice firm. "He's grieving."

"I understand," Dean said, his gaze softening. "But it's important. I think he might have seen something… something that can help us."

The boy shifted to a defensive stand. "I don't know anything."

"Just a few questions," Dean said, his voice gentle. "Did you see anything weird? Hear anything?"

The grandmother watched him closely. "What kind of weird?"

Dean chose his words carefully. "Anything out of the ordinary. Anything that doesn't make sense."

"Look, I don't want to talk about him," the boy said, his voice rough.

"I know it's hard," Dean said, keeping his voice even. "But I need your help. Did you see or hear anything strange before your dad died?"

"Strange? He was a jerk," the boy spat. "That's strange enough."

"I understand you're angry," Dean said, his voice gentle. "But this is important. Did you have any weird dreams? Hear any noises?"

The boy hesitated, then sighed. "Fine. I keep dreaming about this… dark figure. It whispers Dad's name. And it has glowing eyes."

Dean’s eyes narrowed. "Glowing eyes? Anything else?"

The boy shook his head. "Just… it feels like it's watching me."

Dean pulled up the sketch he got from Sarah and the light of recognition front he teenager was good enough to tell him, he was on the right track. 

_

At the third house, a small boy clung to his mother’s leg, his eyes wide with fear. The mother's hand trembled as she held her son close.

"He won't stop screaming," she said, her voice shaking. "He talks about a lady with sharp nails. And he draws these…"

She showed Dean the crayon drawings, the disturbing symbols. "He said she's coming for him."

Dean's heart clenched. He wanted to shield these kids, to protect them from the darkness that was closing in. But he knew he couldn't. He had to get the information he needed, even if it meant dredging up their worst fears.

"Ma'am," he said, his voice low. "I need to talk to him. I know it's hard, but I need to know what he saw." Dean’s internal monologue was raging. These are kids, for crying out loud. I hate this.

"He won't sleep," she said, her voice shaking. "He screams about a lady with sharp nails. And he draws these… these symbols."

"He said they're what the lady draws," she said, her voice breaking. "He said she's coming for him."

Dean felt a surge of protectiveness, "Ma'am, I need you to stay inside, lock your doors. Don't let anyone in that you don't know."

Dean’s voice was hard. "I'm going to find this thing. I'm going to stop it. And I'm not going to let it hurt anyone else."

He need to research what the hell this lady was and kill her. Ain't no kid sleeping scared of the darkness like he was! 

Chapter Text

Dean parked the Impala in front of Stillwater’s crumbling library. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, staring at the dark windows, feeling the weight of the night pressing in. 

He grabbed his jacket, pulling it tighter against the bite of the cool evening air, and stepped out. His boots crunched on the gravel as he made his way to the front doors, each step echoing in the stillness. When he pushed the door open, the familiar scent of old paper and dust hit him like a slap, but it wasn’t comforting. It felt hollow, like this place had been forgotten by time itself. Maybe it had been.

As he walked past the circulation desk, the librarian barely looked up from her reading. Dean didn’t even have to try to smile; it was automatic at this point. "I’m looking for old town records."

She glanced at him briefly, eyes flicking over his FBI badge, before returning to her book. "Archives are in the back," she muttered, her tone indifferent. "Don’t break anything."

Dean muttered his thanks, and the sound of his boots on the wooden floor seemed too loud in the heavy silence. His thoughts weren’t on the librarian or the town records, he didn’t care about the history of Stillwater. He was here for answers, for anything that could shed light on what had been haunting these people.

The archives were at the back of the room, stacked high with old books and journals that looked as though they hadn’t seen the light of day in decades. The air in here felt thick, stagnant, as if it had been holding its breath for years, waiting for someone—anyone—to disturb the dust.

Dean ran his hand over a row of faded spines, but the words blurred in his mind. He wasn’t here for stories of the town’s founding or its early settlers. He was here for something darker. Something that had left a bloody mark on this place.

His thoughts shifted to the kids—their haunted eyes, their whispered stories of shadows and a woman with sharp nails. That damn sigil. The way it had wriggled beneath his skin when he saw it. He felt it now, a weight in the back of his mind, a pulse of dread that was almost physical. Whatever was haunting these kids, whatever was feeding off their fear—it was tied to this town.

He reached for a nearby book, Folklore of the Midwest, but found nothing worth his time. Ghosts, spirits, curses—it was all the same stuff he’d seen a thousand times before. The darker the story, the harder it was to find answers. He pushed the book aside and grabbed another—Old Towns of the Great Plains. He flipped through its brittle pages, scanning the stories of settlers and pioneers, tragedies and triumphs. Nothing that jumped out at him.

His fingers were sore from the effort when his eyes caught on a different book—old, leather-bound, and out of place on the shelf. No title on the spine. Just strange symbols carved into the cover, faded but still visible under layers of dust.

His gut tightened. There was something about it that drew him in, something more than just curiosity. He pulled the book off the shelf, feeling the weight of it in his hands as he opened the cover.

The first page stopped him cold.

A woman. Tall, emaciated, with long, ragged nails and hollow eyes, her mouth frozen in a silent scream. Her silhouette merged with the shadows, the kind of thing that didn’t belong in the world of the living.

Dean’s breath caught. He flipped the page, his heart racing. More drawings—more of the same woman. And there, etched into the corners of each page, the same sigil he’d seen at the gas station. Blood-red and pulsing with a sinister energy.

This was it. This was what he was looking for.

But as his mind raced, a gnawing emptiness tugged at him. Something he couldn’t shake. A feeling that had been building ever since he’d walked into Stillwater. He was alone.

He could feel it now, a kind of hollow ache deep inside him. Hunting alone, chasing shadows without anyone to back him up—it had never felt this empty before. 

He wanted Sam here. Wanted his brother’s voice in his ear, their banter filling the silence. Sam always had the angle Dean missed, the thing that connected the dots when he couldn’t see it. Sam had that knack for finding the right books, the right lore, the right questions that didn’t seem like questions at all.

But Sam was miles away, doing his own thing, chasing his dreams. And Dean—Dean was here. Alone.

He thought of Castiel then. A sudden, sharp ache at the thought of the angel. Castiel had always been a wild card—sometimes helpful, sometimes frustrating, but always there when it mattered.

I love you De-

But not now. Now it was just Dean, searching dusty pages and hoping for a break in the case that didn’t feel like it was slipping through his fingers.

Dean’s gaze flicked back to the pages of the journal. 

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to punch something.

But mostly, he just wanted someone—anyone—to be there with him. To share the weight of this, the way it felt like it was pulling him down into something he couldn’t see, something that would tear him apart if he wasn’t careful.

But Sam wasn’t here. Castiel wasn’t here. It was just him.

And God, he hated how empty that felt.

He couldn’t afford to slow down. Not now. Not when he was feeling this way, stuck. 

His mind was buzzing—half from the disturbing images still burned into his memory, and half from the scribbled note he found tucked into the back of the book. Barely legible, ink smeared by time and maybe something darker.

But it was a name.

Ashby.

The script was delicate, old-world. Beneath it, someone had scrawled, in shaky block letters:

“Survived the fire...”

He knows very well of blood curses, before—vengeful spirits tied to families, ancient deals gone rotten. If this Lady in the Dark was more than a ghost—if she was something passed down, some twisted legacy—it made sense that there might still be someone alive carrying the stain of it.

After a little digging through public records and obits, cross-referencing addresses, Dean found her.

Eleanor Ashby.

Eighty-three. Lived alone. Stillwater native. No kids. A quiet life, from the looks of it—no arrests, no known drama. Lived in a house on the far edge of town, tucked between a thicket of woods and a mostly-abandoned street of ranch-style homes.

...

The Ashby house was a sagging two-story with chipped paint and windows that hadn't seen a good cleaning in a decade. Wind chimes clinked softly on the porch, their sound sharp and cold in the late afternoon light. Something about the place made his skin crawl, like it was trying too hard to seem harmless.

Dean walked up the steps and knocked. He didn’t flash his badge this time. Didn’t feel right somehow.

It took a long moment, but eventually, the door creaked open. A woman peered out—thin, pale, with long silver hair pulled into a loose braid. Her eyes were sharp, too sharp for someone her age.

"You’re not from around here," she said, her voice dry but steady.

"Nope," Dean replied, forcing a smile. "Name’s Dean. Just passing through. I was hoping to ask you a few questions."

She studied him. Not suspicious. Not scared. Just… curious. Then she stepped aside.

"You’d better come in."

The inside of the house smelled like old wood, lavender, and something faintly metallic. A fireplace sat unused, and books were stacked haphazardly in every corner—handwritten journals, thick grimoires, worn-out paperbacks. He noticed a glass case near the window, holding strange trinkets: bones, feathers, an old key rusted with age.

"Let me guess," Dean said, nodding at the collection. "Family heirlooms?"

She smiled faintly, like it was a private joke. "Of a sort."

They sat in the cramped living room, and for a moment, Dean didn’t say anything. He studied her. The shape of her jaw. The way her eyes narrowed when she looked at him. She didn’t have the same hollowed-out look as the woman in the journal’s drawings. But there was… something. A resemblance.

"You know why I’m here," Dean said, finally.

She nodded, looking toward the fireless hearth. "You found the book."

Dean didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

She continued. "People think it’s a ghost. But she’s not. Not anymore. The Ashby line… we’ve kept it buried. For generations. Kept it quiet."

"So it’s true," Dean said quietly. "She was real."

"She is real." Eleanor’s voice dropped, and her hands tightened in her lap. "Her name was Isadora Ashby. My great-great-great-great-grandmother. She was a midwife, healer... and something else. She made a deal. A terrible deal. Gave herself to something in the dark. And it gave her power. Kept her alive long after she should’ve died."

"Let me guess," Dean said. "Didn’t come cheap."

"Never does." Eleanor exhaled. "She started taking children in the night. Not physically—but their fear, their life. They’d waste away. One by one. They tried to stop her. Burned her alive in the old Ashby house. Or thought she did."

Dean leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "But she didn’t die."

"Her body died," Eleanor said. "But not her spirit. She lingers. She clings to the blood. My blood. Every few decades, she wakes. She finds the pain, the fear, the broken families. And she feeds."

Dean’s jaw clenched. "So why now?"

Eleanor didn’t answer at first. Then she looked at him with something close to sorrow.

"Because she’s growing stronger. Feeding faster. And I’m dying. When I go… the bloodline ends. She’ll be untethered."

Dean stood. The air suddenly felt heavier, pressing down on his chest. he can't wait that long, Eleanor may be old, but death comes in mysterious ways.

"How do I stop her, now?"

Eleanor didn’t flinch. "I will have to die…with her.”

The words hung in the room.

Dean stared at Eleanor, his instincts screaming at him to push back, to find another way, to reject what she’d just said. But somewhere, deep in his gut, he knew. He knew the kind of magic that clings to blood. He’d seen it before family curses, ancient pacts, demons that only let go when the line was severed completely.

The young part of him was fighting the old part of him.

Eleanor’s eyes didn’t waver. She’d made peace with it. That was the part that hit Dean hardest.

"There has to be something else," he said, his voice low but urgent. "A ritual. A banishment. Something that doesn’t end with—"

"There isn’t," she cut in gently, but firmly. "Not for her. You saw the sigils. You felt them, didn’t you? That crawling feeling, like something’s inside you just watching, waiting." She tapped her temple lightly. "That’s her. She’s already halfway back. And I can feel it, too. The pull. Like a door swinging open, and she’s the wind coming through."

Dean paced a few steps, running a hand over his face. He hated this part. The helpless part. The part where the best you could do was make the ending hurt a little less.

Eleanor leaned forward, her voice softer now. “I don’t ask you to kill me. I’m not asking for mercy or martyrdom. I’m asking you to help me end it. Before she finds someone else. A kid. A mother. Anyone broken enough to draw her in. She’ll use them. She always does.”

Dean sat down heavily in the armchair across from her. “You sure this’ll work?”

Eleanor gave a small, tired smile. “If the last Ashby dies with her tether intact, she can’t anchor to anything else. She fades. Forever.”

Silence wrapped around them again. Dean stared at the fireless hearth, where the shadows danced in the fading light. For a second, he thought he saw movement—just a flicker, just a whisper of her. Isadora.

He looked at Eleanor.

Chapter Text

Dean let Eleanor sleep in.

She hadn’t said it outright, but he could see it in her eyes—the exhaustion. The kind that doesn’t come from age, but from endurance. From carrying too much for too long. Dean didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence breathe between them, that heavy kind of quiet that says more than words ever could.

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t what Eleanor expected.

“Well,” he said, leaning back in the chair, voice softer now, “you got a favourite pie?”

She blinked. “…What?”

“Pie,” he repeated. “Cherry, apple, pecan—hell, I’m not picky. Figured if we’re gonna be dealing with death tonight, might as well make a day of it.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then, against all odds, Eleanor laughed—a dry, surprised chuckle that seemed to come from somewhere long-forgotten.

“You’re serious.”

Dean stood and offered his hand. “Dead serious.”

The Impala rumbling down Stillwater’s cracked roads. Dean didn’t play music this time. He just let the quiet settle, let the wind roll through the open window. Eleanor sat in the passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap, eyes scanning the town like she was memorizing it for the last time.

They stopped at a diner—one of those faded 50s joints with chrome booths and coffee that tasted like burnt battery acid.

Dean ordered two slices of warm cherry pie and two mugs of coffee.

Eleanor didn’t say much, but she smiled after the first bite. “Haven’t had this in years.”

Dean grinned. “Well, damn shame.”

...

After that, they went to the old community garden on the edge of town. It was overgrown now, but Eleanor walked through it like she remembered every bloom, every row. She told Dean about her mother, about the summers spent planting lavender and rosemary, how the smell always reminded her of the people she couldn’t save. She told him about her childhood in Stillwater, about the first time she saw Isadora’s shadow pass through a mirror and how she learned never to speak of it. Dean told her about Sam—how he always tried to fix things, even when they were unfixable. He told her about Cas, and Bobby, and the way life just seemed to take from them no matter how hard they fought back.

...

The local flea market was a half-abandoned parking lot with maybe a dozen stalls, but Eleanor lit up the moment they got there. “I haven’t been here in years,” she said, walking slowly between tables full of junk, treasures, and everything in between.

Dean bought her a ridiculous wide-brimmed straw hat that made her look like someone’s eccentric great aunt on a beach trip. She laughed so hard, people stared.

They picked through old vinyl records. She told him which ones her husband used to play on Sunday mornings—jazz, mostly, with a little Hank Williams. Dean found an old cassette of “Back in Black” and mock-gasped. “A real classic,” he said, deadpan.

Eleanor found an old pocket watch. “My father had one like this,” she said, running a trembling finger over the glass. Dean bought it for her without saying a word.

...

Stillwater had a small lake just outside of town—more of a pond, really—but the view was good, and the breeze was better. Dean picked up sandwiches and sodas from a food truck that looked like it was held together with duct tape and desperation. They sat on a bench by the water, watching ducks fight over crumbs.

Eleanor dipped her feet into the water and closed her eyes. “It’s colder than I remember.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, tossing a crust to a particularly aggressive duck, “most memories are warmer than the real thing.”

They talked about regrets, about roads not taken. Eleanor admitted she had once loved someone—a woman—back in the ’60s. They’d kept it secret, hidden in the space between polite society and dangerous truth. “Her name was Ruth,” Eleanor said softly. “She had a laugh like rain.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a long time. Just nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

...

They hit the road. Not going anywhere in particular. Windows down, wind in their hair, old music on the tape deck. Eleanor picked the tunes—soft ballads, smoky jazz, and a little Patsy Cline. Dean just drove. Let the miles roll out beneath the Impala’s tires like they were shaking off ghosts.

“Why do you do it?” Eleanor asked suddenly. “Hunt, I mean. Why not stop?”

Dean thought about it. Really thought. Then said, “Because someone has to. Because people like you deserve a damn break. And because I don’t know what I’d be if I wasn’t… this.”

She nodded slowly. “That’s a lonely kind of purpose.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. But it’s mine.”

...

When the sun dipped low, they returned to her house. The moment stretched between them now—heavier, deeper. Dean helped her change into something simple: a linen dress, pale blue, and a shawl that had belonged to her mother.

She pulled her braid loose. “Is it strange to want to look nice for this?”

Dean shook his head. “Not strange at all.”

They drove to the old Ashby family plot, tucked into a grove just outside of town. The moon was rising, casting silver light across the stones. The sigils were already glowing faintly on the trees and earth, pulsing with something ancient and patient.

Eleanor stepped out of the Impala and looked up at the sky.

“Thank you,” she said, voice trembling. “For today.”

Dean’s throat tightened. “You don’t owe me that.”

She smiled softly. “That’s why I mean it.”

***

The Morning After

The sun rose slow over Stillwater, casting gold across the trees like it was trying to apologize for being too late. The air was still. Not haunted—just hushed. Like the world was taking a breath.

Dean stood alone in the Ashby family plot, his boots sinking slightly into the dew-damp earth. The grave wasn’t fancy. Just a simple stone he'd carved her name into himself with a chisel and patience. His hands were still sore. He hadn't minded.

In front of it, he knelt down slowly and set two things on the grass:
—Her pocketwatch, still ticking softly.
—A cassette tape, the label handwritten in careful block letters: “Ruth’s Songs.”

He didn’t say much. Just looked at the stone and whispered, “You mattered.”

Then he sat with her for a while. Just sat. Because that’s what you do when someone leaves a hole in the world. You don’t rush to fill it. You sit with the shape of it and let it be real.

...

Dean didn’t talk much to anyone in town. But quietly, piece by piece, he started leaving parts of Eleanor behind—not to forget her, but to make sure she was woven in.

At the diner, he gave the waitress an envelope. No return address. Inside: a generous wad of cash, and a note that just read:

“From someone who had the best pie of their life here. Thanks for making her smile.”

At the library, he waited until closing time. Slipped in Eleanor’s journals, neatly stacked and wrapped in twine. Each one labeled in her handwriting, every page filled with knowledge she’d protected for a lifetime. He tucked them into the Local History shelf, right between a book on pioneer farming and a dusty atlas. On the top, he left a final note:

“For those who want to understand the quiet kinds of bravery.”

At the old community garden, he fixed up a raised bed with lavender and rosemary. Her mother’s favorites. He didn’t leave a plaque or sign. Just flowers. Blooming in the sun.

...

The Impala hummed along the highway, the sky stretching wide and blue above. Dean drove with the windows down, letting the wind move through the car like a memory. The passenger seat was empty. But it didn’t feel empty.

After a while, he reached for the tape deck. Not “Back in Black.” Not “Zep IV.”

He slid in the tape labeled “Ruth’s Songs.” The first notes of a warm, smoky jazz tune drifted out, curling around the air like a soft sigh.

He smiled. Just a little.

“You’d hate my driving,” he said out loud, as if she were there. “But you’d love the music.”

The road rolled out ahead, long and open. And Dean drove into it—carrying her with him. Not like a weight, but like a compass. A steady pull, reminding him that sometimes the hunt isn’t about the kill.

Sometimes, it’s about the saving.

And sometimes…It’s about the remembering... 

Chapter Text

"DEAN!" The voice came before the kid. Jesse Turner barrelled out from the camp’s lodge, a blur of too-long limbs and tangled curls, backpack half-zipped and bouncing. He practically launched himself into Dean’s chest, and Dean—already grinning—caught him like second nature.

“Whoa, hey, kiddo—watch the ribs,” Dean grunted, but he laughed through it. “What are they feeding you in there, concrete?”

“Just pizza bagels and endless sunshine,” Jesse said dramatically. “And I beat the camp record in dodgeball. I hit a kid in the face and he lost a tooth. I apologized.”

Dean gave him a look. “You what?”

“It was wobbly anyway.”

Before Dean could interrogate further, Jack came jogging up with his duffel neatly slung over one shoulder and a popsicle in hand. “Hi, Dean!” he called, beaming. Jack stopped in front of him, grinning even wider. “I missed you.”

Dean’s expression softened. He ruffled Jack’s hair, then Jesse’s for good measure. “Yeah, well. Missed you punks too. Now c’mon. You’re my problem again.”

They piled into the Impala, Jesse blasting the Smooth and arguing over music rights while Jack tried to retell a ghost story the camp counsellor had shared—one that Dean was pretty sure was just a knockoff of The Blair Witch Project. 

***

September 27th, 2002
Guthrie, Oklahoma

120 Cleveland Ave.

The Impala pulled into the gravel lot with a low growl, her headlights sweeping across the hand-painted sign of “Rusty Spoon Family Diner.” It wasn’t flashy, but the neon “Open” sign flickered like a beacon in the soft dusk light, and Dean Winchester had learned to follow those wherever they glowed.

The backseat rustled as two booster seats squeaked in protest. Jesse Turner, a mop-haired boy with wide brown eyes and a stuffed dragon clutched to his chest, kicked his tiny sneakers happily.

“Are we getting ice cream?” he asked for the fifth time.

Dean smirked, glancing in the rearview mirror. “We’ll see. Depends on if Jack can behave like a human and not a tornado this time.”

Jack Kline, all blond curls and boundless energy, was already halfway out of his seatbelt. “I am a tornado!”

Dean laughed.

“C’mon, mini-monsters. Let’s get you fed.”

Inside, the diner was cozy. Booths with red vinyl seats lined the walls, and the scent of frying bacon still lingered in the air even though it was dinnertime. Country music hummed from a dusty jukebox in the corner. The boys ran ahead, Jesse carefully holding Jack’s hand like Dean had taught him.

A tall, slouched young man in a faded apron and name tag stepped up with two menus tucked under one arm. He looked about Dean’s age, maybe younger, but his posture was all weariness—eyes ringed with shadows, a mop of curly hair falling into his eyes.

“Uh, hey,” the guy said, barely making eye contact. “Just the three of you?”

Dean blinked. Something about him felt...familiar.

“Yeah,” Dean said slowly. “Me and the goof troop here.”

Jack raised his arms like he’d just won a wrestling match. Jesse bowed solemnly. The man offered a faint, puzzled smile.

“Booth okay?” the waiter asked.

“Yeah, perfect.”

They slid in, Jack immediately diving for the window seat, Jesse politely folding his napkin with exaggerated care. The waiter handed Dean a menu and hesitated—eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second. Like Dean’s face was scratching at the inside of his memory.

“Uh... you, uh, want drinks first?” the waiter asked.

Dean couldn’t stop squinting. The guy’s voice was familiar too, soft but a little shaky. Nervous. Or tired. Or both.

“Yeah, sure. Chocolate milk for the munchkins. Coffee for me.”

“Right.” The guy scribbled it down and started to turn.

“Hey,” Dean called after him. “What’s your name?”

The waiter paused. His shoulders rose and fell, a sigh barely disguised.

“Andy. Gallagher.”

And there it was—Dean felt it hit like a slow-burning shockwave.

Andy. Andy Gallagher.

A psychic. Not yet, maybe. Not the one he’d met years from now. The one who lived out of a van, read minds, pulled off Jedi mind tricks with a grin and a bong. But this version? He looked like he hadn’t smiled in a year. No weed scent. No van keys dangling from a carabiner. Just sadness and resignation wrapped in an apron and scuffed Converse.

Dean forced himself to nod casually. “Cool. Thanks, man.”

Andy shuffled off, unaware of the memories crashing behind Dean’s eyes.

“You know him?” Jesse asked softly.

Dean glanced down. The kid’s eyes were sharp, too sharp for four. Jack was busy trying to poke a sugar packet open with a fork.

“Kind of,” Dean said. “Not yet, maybe. It’s complicated.”

“Like time travel?” Jesse whispered.

Dean smirked. “You watch Back to the Future once and suddenly you're Doc Brown.”

Jesse grinned. “Great Scott!”

Jack chose that moment to dump half the sugar packet on the table. “SNOW!”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered a prayer to whoever was listening. Maybe Castiel was out there somewhere, watching and laughing.

Andy returned with the drinks and took their order: two kid-sized cheeseburgers, extra fries, chocolate milkshakes (“real milkshakes, not that powdery crap,” Dean clarified), and a bacon cheeseburger for himself with a slice of pecan pie.

“Sure you want the pie with the burger?” Andy asked, voice dry.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Bring the pie.”

Andy left, and Dean watched him go, that quiet weight in his chest getting heavier. Andy Gallagher. Alive. Sad. Normal—for now.

Dean hadn’t seen much of him in the future, just that one messy case with the Special Kids. Andy had been one of the good ones. One of the ones who could’ve made it.

Though this wasn't him. Not the version he’d met on hunts. Not the cocky, grinning mind-bender who rode around in a van full of incense and Weird Al CDs. This Andy—waiter Andy, hollow-eyed Andy—looked like someone who’d been chewed up by life before anything supernatural had a chance.

And Dean had seen that look too many times in the mirror to just walk away.

If someone had been there for him.

Dean sipped his coffee and stared out the window, feeling the boys’ warmth pressing against either side of him, tiny legs swinging under the table.

***

Dean Winchester would like the record to show that he was not going soft.

He would also like the record to ignore the fact that he had just carried a unicorn-shaped suitcase up the stairs of a cute little Airbnb cottage with window boxes full of pansies and a hand-painted sign that said “Welcome to Your Coastal Escape!” in cursive.

It was pastel.
It smelled like sea salt and essential oils.
And it had two bedrooms.

Because, apparently, Dean “I Live in a Car” Winchester now booked family lodging.

Jack was carefully unpacking his toy angel figurines onto the nightstand like it was a shrine, while Jesse was trying to bounce on the bed.

“DEAN! There’s a waffle maker!” Jesse shrieked from the kitchen. “WE CAN MAKE WAFFLES!!”

Dean ran a hand over his face. “Yes, Jesse, that is generally what waffle makers do.”

Jack wandered in holding a decorative throw pillow embroidered with live, laugh, love and frowned at it. “This is a very confusing message.”

Dean snorted. “You and me both, kid.”

It wasn’t that he was stalking Andy.

Okay, fine, it sounded like stalking when you say it out loud.
But really, Dean just… wanted to be sure.

The Andy he’d met back at the diner wasn’t dangerous. Hell, he was barely functioning. But Dean had seen what this kid could turn into. Powers. Visions. Mind control. And if fate had even the tiniest plan to drag Andy Gallagher into the supernatural blender again, Dean wanted to be there first.

Just in case.

Not because he cared.
(Not because Andy had that dead-in-the-eyes look Dean used to wear himself.)
(Not because he remembered what happened the first time they missed someone like Andy.)

Nope.
This was recon.

...

That’s what he told himself as he sat in the Impala with a pair of gas station binoculars and a peanut butter sandwich while parked across the street from The Red Hen.

Jesse was in the back seat coloring a picture of a dragon eating pancakes.
Jack was reading Goodnight Moon out loud in an unsettlingly perfect British accent.

Dean had tried leaving them with a babysitter, once. It ended with a toaster in the fish tank and a minor exorcism. Never again.

“Alright,” Dean muttered, watching the diner's side entrance, “Andy should be on shift in twenty.”

Jack peeked up. “Dean?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Are we spying on your friend?”

Dean froze. “He’s not my friend. He’s—look, this is surveillance. There’s a difference.”

Jesse leaned forward between the seats. “So...you’re like his guardian angel, right?”

Dean blinked. “No.”
“Yes,” Jack said at the same time.
“Absolutely not.”
“Protecting someone who doesn’t know it is kind of what angels do,” Jesse reasoned, swinging his feet.
“Angels also suck,” Dean muttered.

They both stared at him.

Dean sighed and slumped deeper into his seat. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m a slightly less stabby kind of guardian angel. Temporarily.”

The door opened. Andy stepped out into the sunlight, hair pulled back, wearing the same tired apron and a new bandage on his knuckle.

Dean’s jaw tensed.
Kid looked like he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in weeks.

“What’s he doing now?” Jesse asked, mouth full of apple slice.

Dean raised the binoculars. “Taking out the trash. Looking like someone who hasn’t had a dream that didn’t suck since ‘98.”

Jack squinted. “He’s sad.”

“Yeah,” Dean said quietly. “That’s kind of the problem.”

***

The week that followed was not Dean’s proudest.

Every day, he packed the boys into the Impala, dropped them off at a play center down the road (affectionately called “Bouncyland” by Jesse and “The Chaos Realm” by Jack), then parked himself in a booth at The Red Hen with a newspaper he didn’t read and a coffee he never finished.

Andy came and went, always tired, always polite, always just wrong enough to keep Dean suspicious.

He didn’t do anything—no mind tricks, no weird vibes, no shadowy figures meeting him out back—but Dean had seen enough “normal” to know when someone was trying too hard to be it.

Then, on the fifth day, Andy brought Dean his coffee refill with a squint.

“Okay,” he said, arms crossed. “You’ve been in here four days in a row. Same booth. Same coffee. Don’t talk to anyone. Just stare at me like I’m about to morph into a lizard.”

Dean paused mid-sip. “I like your eggs.”

Andy blinked. “You’ve never ordered the eggs.”

Dean winced. “Alright. Look. I just… I got a vibe, okay?”

“A vibe?”

“You’re not like the others,” Dean said, lowering his voice. “And I mean that in the X-Files way, not the, uh, culty one.”

Andy stared at him for a solid ten seconds. Then: “Are you a cop?”

Dean barked a laugh. “Hell no.”

“…Do you want weed?”

Dean snorted. “God, I knew it.”

Andy sighed, defeated. “Look, man, I don’t know what kind of weird code talk this is, but if you’re here to bust me, just do it. I’ve got nothing. No powers. No schemes. Just crap tips and dish soap burns on my hands.”

Dean paused, properly looking at him now. Under the exhaustion and sarcasm, there was a bone-deep loneliness. Not dangerous. Not malevolent. Just… lost.

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. “You’re not in trouble. I just… wanted to make sure you’re okay. And maybe…” He glanced out the window. “Maybe see if there’s a version of this world where guys like you don’t get chewed up by it.”

Andy blinked. “Okay, what?”

“Forget it.” Dean stood, tossed a twenty on the table. “Just—look after yourself. You ever get a headache behind your eyes or start hearing voices? Don’t ignore it.”

Andy narrowed his eyes. “I’m calling the cops.”

Dean walked off, muttering, “Not the worst idea.”

***

Dean Winchester wasn’t good at waiting.

He was good at punching, shooting, driving too fast down back roads with monster blood drying on his sleeve. But waiting? Sitting around watching someone quietly fall apart while not being able to fix it? That wasn’t in the Winchester manual.

So he did what he always did when things got bad.

He packed.

The canvas backpack was an old one—hunted down at a flea market, scuffed at the seams but sturdy. Dean dumped it out on the table and started building the kind of kit he wished someone had made for him.

Item One: The Journal. 
“If You're Reading This, Sh*t Got Weird: A Beginner’s Guide to the World Sucking Slightly Less”
– D. Winchester
A small leather-bound hunter’s journal, aged but clean. He filled the first twenty pages himself—notes on basic lore, sigils, protective symbols. Easy stuff. The rest was blank. For Andy. If he wanted it.

Item Two: Tools.
A silver knife. Salt vials. A tiny EMF reader that beeped like a happy microwave. A rosary. A pouch of chalk. Holy water in a travel shampoo bottle labeled “Conditioner.” Dean rolled it all into a canvas roll like a tattoo kit and tucked it deep into the bag’s lining.

Item Three: The Book.
A worn paperback called “You Might Be Psychic (and That’s Okay!)”—something Dean had mockingly bought years ago on a whim. Turns out it was half-legit. He bookmarked the chapters on visions, headaches, and mind-reading with little sticky notes. One of them read “Don’t freak out. You’re not crazy. Yet.”

Item Four: Cash.
Several thick stacks of bills, rubber-banded and folded into a zippered pouch. Enough to run. Enough to choose.

Item Five: The Letter.

Dean hesitated longest on this.

He stared at the blank paper for hours before the words finally came, scratched out in blocky, unsteady handwriting.

Andy,

You don’t know me. Not really. But I know you.
You’re gonna think this is nuts, and maybe it is. But something’s waking up in you, and it’s not your fault. It’s not bad. It’s just different. And the world? The world’s not great with different.
This bag’s got some stuff that might help. I put together what I could. You don’t have to use it. You can burn it all if you want. But if you feel like you’re losing it, if it gets too loud, or weird, or dangerous—
Call me.
I’m not a shrink. I’m not a cop. I’m just a guy who’s seen what happens when people like you don’t get a chance.
You deserve a chance.
You deserve to choose what kind of life you get.
Don’t let the powers choose for you.

I’m Dean. You can trust me. Or at least… try.

P.S. Jesse and Jack picked the backpack. Apparently dragons are lucky.

At the bottom of the page, he scrawled his cell number, a P.O. Box address, and the emergency safe house coordinates.

Then, he folded the letter carefully and slipped it into a manila envelope with one last thing: a photo.

A Polaroid Jesse had taken the day before—Dean at the kitchen table, pretending not to smile while Jack held up a pancake with chocolate-chip eyes. Jesse had written “You’re not alone” across the bottom in glitter pen.

Dean zipped the bag shut and sat back, staring at it like it might sprout legs and walk away. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, exhaled.

Tomorrow, he’d leave it for Andy. Quietly. No confrontation. No expectations.

Just… a chance.

Chapter Text

September 27th, 2002
Guthrie, Oklahoma

The coffee maker was broken again.

Of course it was.

Andy stared at it, trying to will the heating coil back to life with the sheer force of exhaustion. It gurgled mockingly, half-filled the pot, then gave up the ghost like a dying cat. He sighed, pulled the decaf label off the backup carafe (no one would notice), and poured it anyway.

It wasn’t that he hated the job.

Okay, he did hate it. But he also needed it.

Rent wasn’t cheap, even in a nothing town like this. The diner had a roof. Free meals. Tips on good days. And on good days, he didn’t think about what he used to be.

Used to dream louder. Used to drive farther. Used to believe in weird, maybe even be weird.

But that version of Andy was dead. Or sleeping. Or locked up somewhere inside, behind headaches and the way his ears rang when people got too close and too loud.

He kept his head down. Took orders. Wrote “Have a great day!” on receipts even when he meant “Please disappear.” Didn’t talk about the dreams. Didn’t talk about the nosebleeds. Didn’t talk about that night.

He didn’t exist anymore.

And then he walked in.

Grumpy. Broad-shouldered. Looked like a punch and a Metalica shirt had a baby. Sat in a booth like he owned the place. Two kids trailing behind him—one wild-eyed and bouncing, the other dreamy and way too calm.

Andy blinked.

Something itched in the back of his brain. Like déjà vu with teeth.

He took their order. Tried not to stare. Told himself it was nothing.

But when the guy looked at him—really looked—something inside Andy shifted. He felt seen. Not in the “customer service smile” way. In the “I know what you are” kind of way.

Andy's hand tightened on his order pad.

He knew that look.

He used to wear it, too.

...

The guy kept coming back.

Same booth. Same coffee. Same watching. Like he was waiting for something. Like Andy might suddenly levitate the salt shakers and declare himself king of diner wizards.

For four days straight, Andy told himself it was just his imagination. Maybe the guy had a thing for booths. Maybe the kids liked the chicken tenders.

By the fifth day, Andy had had enough.

“You’ve been in here four days in a row,” he said, crossing his arms, trying not to feel like a middle school hall monitor. “Same booth. Same coffee. Don’t talk to anyone. Just stare at me like I’m about to morph into a lizard.”

The guy blinked like a deer caught in, well, himself.

“I like your eggs,” he offered.

Andy frowned. “You’ve never ordered the eggs.”

A beat. The guy winced. “Alright. Look. I just… I got a vibe, okay?”

Andy stared. “A vibe?”

“You’re not like the others.”

Andy tensed. “Are you a cop?”

The guy laughed. “Hell no.”

“…Do you want weed?”

That got a snort. “God, I knew it.”

Andy exhaled, tired down to the marrow. “Look, man. I don’t know what this is. But if you’re here to bust me, just do it. I’ve got nothing. No powers. No schemes. Just crap tips and dish soap burns on my hands.”

And it was true.

He hadn’t read anyone’s thoughts in months. Not since… not since that motel room outside Flagstaff. Not since his ears bled after trying to not hear the shouting in the next room.

The guy looked at him—really looked at him—and said something that hit too close:

“You’re not in trouble. I just… wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Okay?

Andy didn’t even know what okay meant anymore.

Then the guy said something about the world chewing people up. Something about a chance.

And then he left.

Like it was nothing.

Like Andy was something.

...

It showed up in the walk-in fridge.

Tucked behind a crate of half-wilted lettuce, like someone very bad at hiding things had placed it there on purpose.

A backpack.

Dragons on it.

Andy stared at it for a long time before touching it. Longer still before unzipping it.

Inside was madness.

Salt. Knives. A little handheld thing that blinked like a Tamagotchi from hell. A book with sticky notes. A journal—written by someone calling himself “D. Winchester,” which had to be a joke.

And a letter.

You don’t know me. Not really. But I know you.

Andy sat on the crate. Read it once. Read it again.

The words sank in slow, like warm water into old skin.

You deserve a chance.
You deserve to choose.
Don’t let the powers choose for you.

At the bottom: a number. A photo. A glitter-scrawled message:

You’re not alone.

Andy laughed.

It wasn’t a full laugh. More like a noise—a choked, broken thing that made his chest hurt. But it was the closest he’d come in months.

He didn’t call the number.

Not that day.

Not the next.

But he kept the bag.

And he wrote something new in the blank pages of the journal that night.

He didn’t believe in angels.

But maybe… maybe he could believe in second chances.

Or at least in guys who leave dragon backpacks full of weird hope.

***

Journal Entry #1:

Day One

I don’t know why I’m doing this.
But here I am, writing in this stupid little journal. It’s not like anyone’s going to read it, except maybe me. And if I’m being honest, I doubt anyone cares.

I found the bag.

It was in the walk-in fridge at work. Half-hidden behind some lettuce and a gallon of ranch dressing. I know what you’re thinking: “Maybe I’m just losing it.” And maybe I am. But I swear to God, it was there.

It was a backpack. A little kid's backpack, with dragons on it. Jesse picked it, the note said. At first, I thought maybe it was some weirdo’s lost luggage. Then I opened it.

I know it sounds insane. But inside the backpack? Weird stuff. Salt. A silver knife. A tiny EMF reader that beeped like it was still trying to make friends. And then there was the letter.

You don’t know me. Not really. But I know you.

I don’t even know what to do with that. Or with the fact that there was a phone number and some random Polaroid inside. I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching me. But I guess that’s nothing new.

The weirdest part? I don’t feel afraid. I just feel… weirdly hopeful.

I don’t believe in angels. Or whatever this guy is trying to be. But maybe I’ll hang onto the bag for a little while longer. Just in case.

Journal Entry #2:

Day Four

I went through it all again today. The bag. The weird-ass stuff inside. The letter.

You deserve a chance.

I’m not stupid. I know what this is. Someone’s trying to help me. Or they think they are.

But I can’t figure out if it’s a trap or if I’m just losing it. Who the hell leaves a journal like this for a guy they barely know?

The guy’s name is Dean. Dean Winchester.

I Googled it, obviously. I couldn’t help myself. There are so many weird connections. Like so many connections. Ghost hunters. Demon hunters. The kind of guy who might look at someone like me—someone who’s seen things, heard things—and think they can fix me.

But… I don’t know. I think the part that gets to me is the hope in the letter. He really believes I deserve a chance. Like I can choose. Choose what? How does a guy like me choose anything? I can barely decide what to eat for breakfast.

I don’t know if I’m ready for whatever this is. But I also don’t want to ignore it. For once, maybe I can do something that doesn’t end up making everything worse.

I’m still thinking about it. About the whole thing. But it’s hard to believe in someone you’ve never met. Even if he did leave me a bag full of weird-ass tools.

Journal Entry #3:

Day Six

I almost called him today.

I swear, I was this close. I had the phone in my hand, and then I thought about what I’d say. “Hey, I found your backpack. Your note. Thanks for the weird knife and the EMF reader. By the way, do you know how to fix my brain?”

So… yeah. I didn’t call.

But it’s starting to eat at me, this thing with the bag. The journal. The weird feeling that someone out there knows exactly what I am and what’s happening to me. I can feel it. Something’s waking up in me. It’s not bad, but it’s different.

I don’t know if I should be afraid of it. It’s like being stuck between two worlds. The one where I’m a normal guy, running a shitty diner, and the other where I’m not normal at all. Where I might be something more, or less, or maybe just broken.

I’m not sure I’ll ever understand how this works. How the world suddenly goes from simple to this… but I’ve never been good at just sitting still, letting things happen. I’ve always had to make my own decisions. Even when they’re bad ones.

I’m not going to lie. I’m scared. But I’m also curious.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll call.

Journal Entry #4:

Day Nine

I went to the diner today. Same as usual. Same miserable routine. But the whole time, I kept looking at the bag. I kept thinking about him—Dean. The guy who left it. The guy who’s out there, maybe waiting for me to do something.

He said, “Don’t ignore it,” in the letter. As if I’d ignore something that weird. Like I’m just supposed to go on with my life as usual, like I haven’t had headaches that make me think I might die, like I haven’t had dreams where I’m flying through the air, controlling everything around me with just my thoughts.

When the headaches come, it’s like a storm. And when the storm clears, I’m left with nothing. Just empty space and the feeling that I’ve missed something big.

I don’t know if Dean’s some kind of supernatural superhero or if he’s just a guy who saw a broken soul and wanted to help. Either way, I’m getting close to the point where I’m going to need someone else to help. Someone who gets it.

Maybe this is the start of that.

Maybe I’ll finally stop pretending I’m fine.

Journal Entry #5:

Day Twelve

I’ve stopped pretending nothing’s going on. I’m starting to admit to myself that something’s happening. That whatever I’m experiencing is bigger than me.

The dreams don’t feel like dreams anymore. They feel like memories. Like pieces of a life I haven’t lived yet. Or maybe I’ve already lived it.

Last night, I saw myself. I was me, but not the me I am now. I was different. Older. Stronger. I had this feeling like I was ready to do something, but I couldn’t remember what it was. The only thing I could remember was the man—Dean. He was standing in front of me, looking like he was waiting for me to say something.

I can’t explain it, but it felt important.

I keep telling myself that I’m overthinking this, that it’s just stress. Maybe it’s the pressure of running a shitty diner, maybe it’s the loneliness. But deep down, I know this is more than that.

I don’t know if I’ll ever understand why I’m having these dreams. Or why I can’t shake the feeling that I’m supposed to be doing something. But I can’t keep running from it.

I’m not calling Dean yet, but I think I’m getting closer.

Journal Entry #6:

Day Fifteen

I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t know why I’m even bothering anymore.

I keep thinking about the last dream. It wasn’t like the others. There was something in it that felt real. More real than anything I’ve felt in a long time.

Dean was in the dream again. This time, he was standing in front of me, holding out a map. It was old, the edges worn, and there were places marked with a red X. I knew exactly what it was, but I couldn’t tell you how.

He said, “You have to come with me.”

I woke up with that voice still in my head. I still don’t know what to make of it. But now I’m at the point where I can’t just ignore it. Something is pulling me in.

I haven’t called. But I’m closer. I’m not ready yet, but I know I can’t wait much longer.

Journal Entry #7:

Day Seventeen

I’ve been staring at the book for days now. It’s like the universe keeps pushing me toward it, and yet I keep finding excuses not to open it. It feels… wrong somehow. Like if I read it, there’s no going back. But at the same time, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m supposed to read it. That it’s somehow important.

So, I did. I opened it tonight.

The book is old, really old. The pages are worn, and the cover is soft, like it’s been touched by a thousand hands. It’s called "The Psychic’s Guide to Understanding Your Power" or something like that. Doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. I thought it might just be a bunch of nonsense, but the further I got into it, the more I felt… connected to it.

The book talks about dreams. About how they’re not just dreams but visions. Visions of things that could happen. Things that will happen. And the more I read, the more I realized something: the dreams I’ve been having? They’re not random. They’re not just my mind playing tricks on me.

They’re a warning.

There was a section that caught my attention, something about "sensitive people" and "potential powers" they don’t understand. The words jumped off the page at me. “When the visions begin, it means you’re ready for the next step.” I don’t even know what that means. What next step?

The book didn’t explain much more than that. It says that powers like mine—whatever they are—can’t be explained easily. They evolve over time. But if I want to understand them, I need to accept them. I need to embrace the unknown.

And then there was a section about someone called “Dean.” Not the same Dean, I’m sure, but the description made my stomach churn. The book says that some “guides” or “mentors” can appear in your life when your psychic abilities start to manifest.

I’ve been ignoring it all for so long, but now? I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this information.

So, now I have a choice. Keep running from this… or accept it and figure out what happens next.

Journal Entry #8:

Day Nineteen

I didn’t sleep well last night. Actually, that’s an understatement. I didn’t sleep at all. The book is messing with my head, but it’s not just the book. It’s the dreams too.

The thing is, after reading that section about the psychic abilities, everything clicked. It felt like I was finally starting to understand. The dreams aren’t just random flashes of nonsense. They’re part of something bigger. I keep dreaming of Dean, and the house with the old pictures on the wall, the map with the X marks, the voice telling me “It’s time.”

What if he’s real? What if I’m supposed to find him? What if all this is leading somewhere?

I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do if I meet him. The book didn’t give any answers, only more questions. More hints that the powers are real, that they’re starting to stir, and that I have to figure out how to control them.

But the more I read, the more I feel this sense of urgency. Like I need to know what’s happening to me before I lose control. But what if I’m not ready for any of this? What if it’s all too much?

I guess I need to keep reading the book. Maybe it’ll answer more of my questions. Maybe it’ll give me some kind of direction.

But… what if I’m not supposed to understand all of this right now?

Journal Entry #9:

Day Twenty-One

I don’t know what I was expecting, but I definitely wasn’t expecting this.

I went to work today, tried to pretend everything was fine, but all I could think about was the book and the dreams. And Dean. God, Dean. It’s like everything is pulling me toward him, but I can’t explain why.

I read more last night. The book mentions something called "the awakening." It says that when someone with latent psychic abilities starts to dream these visions, it’s their awakening. It’s when they start to truly see the world in a different way. But there’s a catch. The book says you have to choose: to fight it and stay in your current life, or to embrace it and step into a new one.

It all sounds insane. But I keep thinking about Dean. What if he’s waiting for me to make that choice? What if I’m supposed to step up, like the book says?

But I’m scared. Terrified, actually.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that if I do go down this road, I’ll never be the same. I’ll never be the person I was before. And there’s no going back once I take that first step.

And then the weirdest thing happened. I got a call. It was from an unknown number. I picked up, but there was only silence on the other end.

I hung up, but my hands were shaking. Was it him? Was it Dean? How would he know to call me?

I don’t know what to do anymore.

I think I have to make a decision soon. I don’t know if I’m ready for it, but I don’t think I can keep running from it.

Journal Entry #10:

Day Twenty-Four

I keep thinking about that call. The silence on the other end. It felt like it was meant to tell me something, but I’m not sure what.

I’ve been reading more of the book. It’s almost like I’m trying to convince myself that I’m not going crazy. That this is all real, and I’m not just losing my mind. But at the same time, I can’t ignore what’s happening. The dreams. The feelings. The pull toward Dean.

The last part of the book I read today talked about the final step—the commitment. It says that when you reach this stage, you have to choose to step into the role you’re meant to play. It’s about embracing the power, about accepting that everything you’ve known so far is just the beginning.

I don’t even know what this role is. But I can’t deny that it feels like I’m being pulled toward something bigger. Something I don’t fully understand.

But I can’t keep ignoring it. The dreams are growing more vivid, and I feel like I’m being pushed toward a decision I’m not ready to make.

What happens if I call Dean? What happens if I finally accept what’s happening?

I don’t know. But I think I’m closer to finding out.

Journal Entry #11:

Day Twenty-Seven

I’m doing it.

I’ve packed everything into a duffel bag and left behind a life that felt like a rut. The money Dean left me… I can’t even explain it. It doesn’t make sense, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s meant for something. Meant for this. Maybe it's a safety net, maybe it’s a sign, but it’s in my hands now, and I have to use it.

But before I do anything else, there’s something I need to do.

I’m driving to see her.

I haven’t seen Jenna since she walked away from me last year. I still don’t know if I’ll ever fully get over it. She was the one I thought would always be there, the one who could make everything feel right even when I was a mess. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? I was a mess. I didn’t have any direction, and she couldn’t stick around for someone who didn’t know where he was going.

Funny thing is, I watched her from a distance for a while. She’s doing well. She’s figured her life out, and she looks... happy. I don’t know how to feel about that. I was never part of her future, and I’m not sure if I ever will be. But before I go any further down whatever path this is, I need to tie up that loose end. It’s been bothering me, nagging at me in the back of my mind, like there’s unfinished business.

The thing is, I never really got closure. I just let her go, and she let me go. It was messy. I never got the chance to tell her that I still cared, or that I was sorry for not being the person she needed.

So, I’m going to see her.

I don’t know if I’ll get the chance to say all that, but maybe that’s the only way to get rid of the weight I’m carrying.

Journal Entry #12:

Day Twenty-Nine

I went to her apartment today.

She was home. I didn’t expect that.

When I knocked on her door, I was already shaking. I didn’t know what I was expecting. Maybe I thought I’d be able to just slip back into her life like I never left, but that’s not how it works, is it? Jenna’s a different person now. I could see it in her eyes the moment she opened the door. She’s moved on. I could feel that weight in the air between us—this space that used to be ours, but now it’s filled with the silence of everything left unsaid.

She looked good. Really good. Her hair was done in this way that I hadn’t seen before. She had that confidence in her stride that I hadn’t noticed when we were together. I hated it, and I admired it at the same time. She was the person I wanted to be, the person I failed to be, and now… she didn’t need me anymore.

It hurt. But I needed to feel it.

We talked for a little while. Not about us, not really. She said she was happy, doing well, and I didn’t know how to respond to that. I wanted to ask her about the things she was doing, to get into her world, but I felt so distant. Like she was already living in a reality without me. A part of me was grateful for that. It’s what I wanted for her. But another part of me... well, it still wanted her.

I told her I was sorry. About everything. About the way I left things. I didn’t expect her to say anything back. She just listened, which was probably the best thing she could do.

In the end, she said she hoped I figured it out. She didn’t want me to go down the same road I was on before. She wanted more for me, and even if that meant not being a part of my life anymore, I think it was what she needed to say.

I left feeling lighter, in a strange way. Maybe it’s because I could finally breathe again, knowing I wasn’t clinging to a past that wasn’t going to come back. Or maybe it’s because I finally let her go.

Journal Entry #13:

Day Thirty

I did it.

I called Dean today.

After seeing Jenna, I felt this sense of finality. The part of my life that was tied to her is done. She’s moved on, and so must I. It felt strange at first—like I was leaving behind something familiar, something comforting—but that’s the thing, isn’t it? Comfort can keep you stuck. And I can’t afford to be stuck anymore.

The moment I finished talking to her, I felt this pull toward the next step. Toward Dean. It’s like I’ve finally accepted that whatever happens next is bigger than me.

I was nervous, but I called him anyway. I needed answers. I don’t know if Dean’s the right person to help me understand what’s going on, but right now, he’s the only person who might. I couldn’t keep ignoring the things happening to me. The dreams, the visions, the weird sense that there’s something more to this world than I can explain—it’s all too real now.

When he answered, it was like picking up a phone call from someone I’d known my entire life, even though I’ve never spoken to him before.

He sounded different than I imagined—calm, steady, like he’d been waiting for me to call. We didn’t talk much, just enough for me to explain where I was and what I was feeling. I told him about the book, about the dreams, about the pull I feel toward him, even though I don’t understand it.

He told me to come. 

I don’t know what that means, but I don’t think I need to. Something about his voice told me he wasn’t lying.

So, I’m going to find out what all of this means. I’m not sure where this road will lead, but I’m not turning back now.

It feels like I’m stepping into a new life, like I’m leaving behind a version of myself that was incomplete. And maybe I am. But whatever comes next, I’m ready.

I keep wondering what this is all going to look like. What will Dean be like in person? Will he be everything I imagine, or something different altogether?

And what about me? Am I ready for whatever this is?

I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

Chapter Text

Jo Harvelle

The classroom smelled like old paper and fake lemon cleaner, and Jo Harvelle was about three seconds from snapping her pencil in half.

Not because of the test.

There wasn’t a test.

Not because the lecture was hard.

It wasn’t.

In fact, she’d finished her assignment ten minutes ago.

It was because she wasn’t doing anything real.

Her fingers tapped against the desk, knuckles twitching like they missed the feel of a weapon. Her boots were scuffed from kicking her bedroom door that morning. And her hair was still tied back in a ponytail from training before school, even though her mom had scolded her for showing up to class “like she just rolled out of the Roadhouse.”

Jo didn’t care.

Mrs. Reilly paced in front of the projector screen, voice flat and nasal as she pointed at a grainy paused video. “This collage was created by a group of mixed media students from Marrow University’s creative program. It’s become a bit of a viral phenomenon, thanks to this—” she gestured to the screen, where a group of college kids danced in a dorm room that pulsed with bass, beer, and neon lighting. Behind them was a massive mural—made of photos, fabric, foil, and paint. It was chaotic. Loud. Kind of mesmerizing.

Jo narrowed her eyes.

Most of the class was snickering or zoning out. Some girl near the window whispered about how “hot” the guy in the video was. Another scrolled on her phone, not even pretending to care.

Jo tried not to care, either.

But there was something about that collage.

It wasn’t the colors. Or the music. Or the typical art-student-who-thinks-he’s-a-rockstar energy bleeding through the screen.

It was… the edges.

The whole thing felt like it was pulling her in, then shoving her back. Like staring into one of those 3D illusion posters that made your brain hurt. She blinked. Was that a face in the corner? Or a shadow? It shifted when she leaned forward.

Her hunter instincts buzzed. Not loud. Just a quiet, creeping tingle under her skin—like a breeze in a sealed room.

“Jo,” Mrs. Reilly snapped, “do you have something to add?”

Jo sat up straight. “Nope. Just admiring the art.”

A few people laughed. Mrs. Reilly frowned.

She droned on about symbolism, youth culture, mixed media, and some crap about “raw artistic expression.” Jo tuned her out. Her eyes were locked on the screen.

The camera moved, shaking a little as it panned over the room. Laughter. Someone chanted, “Make art, not rules!” and a red solo cup went flying. But in the split-second sweep past the mural, Jo caught something.

A symbol.

It was small. Almost hidden. Like a careless mark in a tangle of paper and paint.

But she’d seen it before.

An old hunter’s journal Ash had shown her once. She’d only glimpsed it—on a page about ritual bindings and soul traps.

She swallowed hard.

Normal kids wouldn’t notice. They’d call it edgy or punk or just “weird art stuff.” But Jo had grown up around salt lines, Latin incantations, and shotgun shells filled with iron. She knew danger when it tried to hide in plain sight.

Her hand moved before she thought, digging a pen out of her bag. She scribbled a note in the margin of her homework:

Symbol in corner. Double triangles. Could be binding. Soul trap?

She underlined it twice.

The bell rang a few minutes later, and the class exploded into motion—zipping backpacks, half-hearted goodbyes, the usual shuffle of teenagers with nothing more pressing than lunch plans and social drama.

Jo stayed still for a second longer.

Then she packed up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder with one fluid motion, and walked out without looking back.

The hallway was loud—bright lockers, too many voices, the sting of cheap perfume in the air. Jo cut through it like a knife. Her boots echoed on the linoleum as she made a beeline for the exit.

“Jo!”

She turned, already annoyed. It was Rachel—a perky blonde from her English class. “You going to the football game Friday? My cousin’s on varsity now and—”

“Nope,” Jo said, already walking.

She hated this. The whole charade. School, homework, small talk about things that didn’t matter. She wasn’t meant for it. Never had been.

But she’d made a promise.

Finish school. Then we talk about hunts.

Dean’s voice played in her head, that cocky half-smile of his flashing with it.

Can’t have you skipping steps, Harvelle. You want to be a hunter, you start by proving you can finish something.

So she was finishing school.

Barely.

And every day she felt like she was going to explode from how wrong it all was.

Today, though, she felt something else.

Today, the wrong wasn’t inside her—it was in that video. That art. That party.

Something bad had happened there.

And no one else had noticed.

Which meant it was up to her.

Alicia Banes

Most days, Alicia Banes could ignore the itch.

The feeling that she didn’t belong—not really. That she was the extra piece in a puzzle that already fit perfectly.

Max was downstairs chanting with Mom again. The candles, the chalk circles, the flick of fingers calling wind or flame. The two of them always looked like a team—like magic itself had chosen them.

Alicia? She was upstairs, staring at her laptop, wishing she could burn something without chemicals or lighters.

“Focus,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone.

Her room was a mix of witchy décor (for show), thrift-store punk (for rebellion), and messy journals (for sanity). She’d read every online demonology thread, watched every paranormal vlog, and followed every urban legend subreddit she could find. It was all secondhand, pieced together from hunters’ whispers and late-night videos of shadows caught on security cams. Nothing real. Nothing hers.

She tapped her pen against a worn notebook, then opened a new tab.

Marrow University’s art program had gone viral that morning. Something about a party. A mural. College kids dancing in a dorm like they were summoning a rave god.

She wouldn’t have cared—until the collage showed up on two different lore blogs she followed. One called it “a beacon for lost energy.” The other called it “a mood board with teeth.”

That made her sit up.

She hit play.

It started with noise—music too loud, camera shaking, someone laughing off-screen. The video wasn’t professional. Just grainy enough to feel real.

The mural came into view slowly. Mixed media. Torn photos. Foil. Paint splatters. Neon streaks like blood under a blacklight.

Alicia leaned forward.

There—buried in the chaos—was a mark.

It wasn’t a symbol she recognized from any coven or spellbook. But it was wrong. Old and wrong.

She paused the video and grabbed her phone, snapping a picture. Then she flipped through her notebook to an old page titled: HUNTER MARKINGS (possible correlation with Asa's journal).

Her fingers hesitated over the page.

Asa.

He wasn’t supposed to be a name that meant anything. Tasha had said he was “just someone I used to hunt with.”

But Alicia had overheard enough. Read enough between the lines.

Your father was a hunter.

That one truth cracked the whole story open.

Max didn’t care. He had his magic, his energy readings, his perfect tracking skills.

But Alicia… she wanted in.

Her fingers trembled as she flipped pages, cross-referencing the jagged lines she’d seen in the video with a scrawled diagram she copied from one of Asa’s hidden books. It wasn’t a match—but it was close. Maybe a variation. Or a corrupted version.

She rewound the video, this time watching the people.

A guy in a red hoodie danced in the foreground, eyes glassy, too wide. His aura—if she believed in that sort of thing—would’ve been spiking. Like his body was there, but his mind had left the building.

Another girl stumbled past the camera, giggling with a strange echo in her voice.

And the mural? It moved.

Not literally. But it pulsed. The colors throbbed under the flickering lights. Alicia swore the edges rippled when someone passed in front of it, like light bending wrong around heat.

She paused again.

There was something missing in the room. A quiet under the noise. The kind of silence that only came before something very, very bad.

She shut the laptop and stood.

No one had noticed. Not online. Not on the forums. Everyone thought it was just another viral moment from a college party.

But her instincts were loud now.

It was wrong.

And that meant it was hers.

...

“Dinner!” Tasha called from the kitchen.

Alicia was already halfway down the stairs.

The table was cluttered—half-eaten takeout, a pot of cooling herbal tea, and one of Max’s spellbooks laid open like a guest.

Max glanced up from it, face bright. “I got the shielding sigil to stabilize today. Mom says it’s my cleanest casting yet.”

“Cool,” Alicia muttered, sliding into her seat. She poked at her noodles without appetite.

“You okay?” Tasha asked, eyes narrowing just slightly.

Alicia shrugged.

She didn’t want to talk about it. Not the mural. Not the feeling in her chest. Not the fact that every time Max did something impressive, it made her feel smaller.

Just once, she wanted to be the one in the know. The one who noticed something first.

“You’re not still obsessing over those paranormal blogs, are you?” Max teased.

“Better than obsessing over fire circles and matchsticks,” she shot back.

Max frowned. “They’re sigils. And I’m—”

“Enough,” Tasha cut in, sharp but calm. “Both of you.”

Silence fell. A familiar one. Not angry. Just… layered.

Tasha sipped her tea, her eyes lingering on Alicia a little longer than usual.

“You’re smart, Alicia,” she said quietly. “But being smart doesn’t mean chasing ghosts.”

“What if the ghosts are chasing us?” Alicia muttered.

No one answered.

...

Later, in her room

Alicia packed her bag quietly.

Not much. Just a flashlight, her burner phone, the notebook, and a small iron dagger she’d swiped from one of Tasha’s old hunting kits and sharpened herself.

She wasn’t stupid.

She wasn’t going in blind.

But she was going.

She opened the video again and paused at the location tag: Marrow University, Weller Hall.

Just two bus transfers from town.

She had enough cash saved from reselling old grimoires on Reddit. Enough nerve to get past campus security, if she dressed like she belonged.

Her heart thudded.

She wasn’t a witch. Wasn’t a trained hunter.

But she was something else.

Curious.

Determined.

Her father’s daughter.

And whatever was going on with that collage?

She was going to find out.

Even if it meant facing something real.

Especially if it meant finally being part of the story.

Jane

Jane never got tired of walking.

It was the only time her brain went quiet. No group home noise, no part-time job noise, no buzzing fluorescent lights or whispers about “that weird girl who never gets sick.” Just her feet on pavement, earbuds in, and the city moving past like she didn’t belong to it.

Which, let’s be honest — she didn’t.

She’d never said it out loud. Not to her social worker, not to any of the rotating therapists, and definitely not to the other kids at the home. But she knew something about her was… different. Not just weird-different. Not just “your mom left you at a hospital when you were three” kind of different.

Something deeper. Sharper.

Like her bones hummed when people were in pain. Like the world tilted slightly sideways every time she touched someone who was hurting—and they got better.

She couldn’t explain it.

So, she didn’t.

...

Jane was tutoring a middle schooler named Liam two days a week. His parents paid her in cash and leftovers, and she was grateful for both. The kid was smart but had the attention span of a gnat with Wi-Fi.

“Just focus,” Jane said, nudging his worksheet back toward him.

“Why?” Liam groaned. “This is so dumb. I’m never gonna use algebra.”

“Says every future fast-food cashier ever.”

Liam rolled his eyes and slumped deeper into the couch. “I could be watching videos right now. My brother went viral.”

Jane blinked. “Wait, what?”

Liam brightened instantly. He yanked out his phone and opened a video before she could say anything else.

“Here—see? My brother and his roommates threw this party at Marrow U. Everyone’s been talking about it. Look, look—this part’s funny. He’s the one who does the keg stand and then wipes out.”

Jane watched the screen. The quality was shaky, the lighting bad. Typical college chaos. Loud music, neon lights, bodies moving in waves of laughter and beer spills.

Then the camera swept across a mural.

Her breath hitched.

Something shifted.

She didn’t know how to describe it. Just a pull. A sudden drop in her stomach like the floor had disappeared. Her skin prickled, like the air around her had been sliced open.

The mural wasn’t just paint. It was… layered. Heavy. It breathed, or looked like it did. Like it was watching.

And there—right at the edge—was something even stranger.

A person, half-caught in the frame. Face blurred. But Jane saw them.

Or rather, saw what clung to them.

Their aura burned. Not like a candle, but like static. Sick green sparks and fractured light, like whatever touched them had left scars no one else could see.

She flinched back.

Liam didn’t notice.

He kept rambling. “Now my brother thinks he’s hot shit. People were DMing him all day. I had to tell one girl to chill—he’s not even that cool. I’m basically his PA now. Lame, right?”

“Right,” Jane murmured.

Her eyes stayed glued to the paused frame.

Her heart was pounding. Quiet but sure.

Something was wrong with that video.

Not high school wrong. Not “these guys are idiots” wrong.

Wrong like deep-bone wrong.

She touched the edge of the phone screen.

For a split second, her fingers burned.

...

That night, Jane lay on her bed in the group home’s second-floor dorm, earbuds in, pretending to sleep. Across the room, her roommate snored softly. Someone down the hall was crying again. The usual.

But Jane’s mind was racing.

She’d seen strange things before. Flickers in people’s energy. Glimpses of emotion in color. Her hands got warm when people were in pain. Once, she pressed her palm to a girl’s bruised ribs after a skateboarding accident and watched the swelling disappear like time had reversed itself.

But this was different.

The collage had a feeling.

Like it was trying to pull people in. Feed on them.

She sat up in bed and pulled her hoodie over her head.

She needed answers.

She opened the browser on her old phone—slow and cracked, but functional. Searched: Marrow University collage party mural video.

There it was. Multiple reposts. One from the official art department’s page. Another from someone named “AshXSalt” who’d tagged it under #occult.

That stopped her.

She clicked the link. It led to a half-baked blog with a single caption:
“Beacon? Binding? One way to find out.”

And a set of coordinates.

Jane blinked.

She didn’t recognize the user. Didn’t know the jargon. But her gut twisted all the same.

This wasn’t just college kids being dumb.

Something was drawing people in.

And something inside her — that quiet, humming core she’d never been able to explain — was reacting.

Not in fear.

In recognition.

...

Jane skipped work. Faked a stomach bug. Used her tip money for a bus ticket that took her across the city and halfway to the university.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A message from her group home caseworker. She ignored it.

The moment she stepped onto campus, her skin tingled.

Students laughed. Played frisbee on the lawn. Listened to music under trees.

But behind it all… the air felt wrong.

She followed the location from the blog. Weller Hall.

The building looked normal enough. Brick exterior, big windows, cluttered bulletin boards. She walked in and almost stopped breathing.

The mural was still there.

And up close?

It was worse.

Painted-over layers. Objects embedded in the wall—wires, glass, what looked like bones. And symbols. Ancient-looking things scratched beneath layers of tape and canvas.

Jane stepped forward.

Her fingertips buzzed. The edges of her vision shimmered.

Whatever this was… it was alive.

And it was hungry.

Chapter Text

Jo Harvelle knew better than to ignore a gut instinct.

She might’ve been stuck in high school hell, but that didn’t mean she’d gone soft. Hunters didn’t get to shrug off the tingling in their spine, that voice in their ear that whispered: something’s wrong. They listened. Or they died.

So after class, she went home. Popped open a soda. Locked her bedroom door. And turned into the kind of student she actually gave a damn about being: the hunter kind.

Her laptop wheezed as it booted up. She smacked it twice like that’d help, then pulled up three tabs: local news, university press, and a hunter’s forum she wasn’t technically old enough to be on.

The mural.

It had only gone up two weeks ago.

Officially? It was a collaboration between students at Marrow University’s Fine Arts department — an “exploration of collective subconscious,” according to a pretentious blog review. Jo rolled her eyes. People were calling it "visionary." "Immersive." "Transcendent."

No one mentioned the runes.

She paused the video again, enhancing the contrast the way Ash taught her. There. Between a streak of black paint and what looked like shattered mirror: a symbol.

It wasn’t just art.

It was warded.

Or bound, she thought grimly.

She flipped open her mom’s old journal. A beat-up hunter’s log with bloodstains on the edges and notes scrawled in Ellen’s tight handwriting. Jo had read it a dozen times cover to cover.

Tonight, she was hunting through it like her life depended on it.

Because maybe it did.

9:44 PM

She scribbled across her spiral notebook, old school:
- sigil = containment or focus??
- party crowd too wired = influence??
- no news of injuries (yet), but vibes are off the charts

Every piece of info she pulled up was curated, fluffy, whitewashed. But one small blog buried in the search results mentioned something interesting:

“Sources say the original artist dropped out mid-project after a nervous breakdown. Hospitalized. Project was finished by student volunteers.”

Jo’s spine straightened.

That wasn’t just stress.

That was a trigger.

She tried to pull up the artist’s name—Kellan Dreeves—but his social media had been scrubbed. Instagram, blank. LinkedIn, gone. Even his artist’s portfolio 404’d.

She frowned.

Someone was cleaning up.

And Jo didn’t like cleaners.

She tapped her pen, eyes darting across her notes, trying to connect it all.

The mural. The party. The odd behavior.

And the symbol—she was sure of it now—wasn’t just decorative. It was Sumerian in origin. A variant of a mark used to anchor spiritual tethers. Usually harmless, unless activated with blood, intent… or mass energy.

What’s a party if not energy? Jo thought.

Hundreds of people, all buzzing, touching, drinking, laughing. Open. Vulnerable.

It was a feeding ground.

A summoning circle disguised as modern art.

She sat back in her chair, running a hand through her hair.

“This is big,” she muttered. “Too big for one kid with a knife and a death wish.”

Her phone buzzed.

Dean.

A message.

"Still finishing school like you promised? No skipping ahead, Harvelle."

Jo smiled, despite herself.

He always knew when to check in. Maybe it was the hunter's sense. Or maybe Dean had just been watching her back long enough to know when she was about to do something dumb.

She hovered over the keypad. Thought about texting him everything.

But what was she gonna say?

“Hey, I found an art installation that’s maybe a demonic snare, probably feeding on college kids, and oh yeah, I might sneak onto campus in the middle of the night?”

He’d drop everything. Show up with his stupid car and his “I’m older, I know better” face.

And that wasn’t what Jo wanted.

Not yet.

She wanted to handle it. Prove she could be more than backup. More than the girl on the sidelines waiting for the big leagues.

Still, she didn’t delete the draft message. Just in case.

11:17 PM

She zipped her jacket and stuffed her notes into her backpack.

No weapons. No salt rounds. Just sage spray, iron nail necklace, and a flask of holy water. Enough to get out. Not to start a fight.

She wasn’t going in loud.

Just a recon run.

Like Dean taught her.

Observe. Record. Retreat.

She left a note under her pillow, just in case her mom noticed she was gone:

Studying late. Library. Don’t wait up. XO – Jo.

It wasn’t a lie.

Just not the whole truth.

Midnight

Jo stood across from Weller Hall, hoodie up, eyes fixed on the building.

Campus was quiet. Streetlights flickered overhead. Everything looked normal.

But the air?

Still.

Expectant.

Like the mural was waiting.

Jo exhaled slowly.

She wasn’t seasoned.

She wasn’t reckless.

She was something in-between.

A hunter in the making.

And this was her first real solo run.

Just a peek, she told herself.

Just enough to know what I’m up against.

***

Alicia Banes knew three ways to unbind a hex, five ways to fake a warding circle, and how to bluff her way through a scrying session well enough to fool most adults.

But none of that mattered when you were fourteen, four-foot-eleven, and looked like you still needed a hall pass to breathe.

Especially when you were sneaking onto a university campus in the middle of the night.

She crouched behind a row of hedges across from Weller Hall, hugging her backpack like it could keep her warm—or maybe just grounded. Her fingers itched to draw a circle, speak a charm, do something, but this wasn’t a witch problem.

At least… not exactly.

Still felt like one, though.

Whatever this is, she thought, it smells like ritual.

The video had hit her feed three nights ago. At first, it looked like typical party chaos—lights, music, idiots doing drunk magic tricks with solo cups. But Alicia had paused it. Studied the background. Something in the shapes, the rhythm of the music, the pull.

There was structure in the chaos.

And that mural?

It wasn’t art.

It was intentional.

Witches used geometry. They used movement and focus and mass will.

And whatever that mural was doing, it was using all three.

But none of her usual books explained it. Even her mom’s private grimoire couldn’t pinpoint the exact design.

Which was why Alicia was here.

Because if it was magical, just… not witch magic, then it meant she’d finally found something she could bring to the table. Something her.

Not Max’s thing. Not Tasha’s.

Hers.

“Text me every ten minutes,” Max had said, frowning at her like she’d lost her mind. “Or I swear I’m calling Mom.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she’d hissed.

“I would and you know I would.”

So yeah. She promised. And she would text. Once she found something cool enough to justify being here.

She crossed the quad like a shadow—head low, jacket zipped, moving in the kind of practiced silence only kids with secrets ever learn. A security guard passed near the library, but never looked her way.

Weller Hall loomed ahead.

She slipped through a side door someone had propped open with a cardboard box—campus maintenance hack 101. Her sneakers made almost no sound on the tiled floor as she moved down the hallway.

The moment she stepped into the mural room, she felt it.

Pressure.

Like the walls were pushing inward.

The mural itself was massive—floor to ceiling. Weird shapes and objects layered into the paint. Mirrors, wires, feathers, beads. One section looked burned. Another shimmered faintly.

Alicia let her fingers hover over the surface.

No heat. No sound.

But definitely residue.

She reached into her backpack and pulled out a small vial of witchlight chalk. Tasha had made it for training—it glowed faintly when magic was present, but burned bright in the presence of active spells.

She uncorked the vial and sprinkled a tiny bit near the corner of the mural.

The powder flared.

Not bright, but enough.

“Bingo,” she whispered.

She moved quickly, drawing lines across the floor with a different piece of chalk—reveal sigils. A harmless trick unless triggered with intention. She crouched, pressed her palm to the ground, and whispered a phrase in Latin.

The floor shimmered.

And the mural… shifted.

New lines emerged beneath the visible paint. Hidden shapes. Bindings. Not crafted by a witch’s hand, but close enough that Alicia could read the structure:

Not to hold something in.

To guide it.

Her breath caught.

The mural wasn’t a prison.

It was a channel.

Like a funnel. A spiritual siphon.

A way to take energy and move it—maybe even gift it—somewhere else.

Or to someone.

That was not good.

Then she heard footsteps.

Not heavy. Careful.

Someone else was here.

She snatched her chalk and ducked behind a broken easel. Her fingers curled around a tiny packet of salt in her coat pocket. Her heart hammered.

The steps came closer, paused… then backed off.

No words.

Just silence.

And then they were gone.

She waited two minutes. Three.

Only then did she exhale.

She took out her phone.

Text to Max:

still alive. found something. huge. get ready to freak out.
also, pretty sure I’m not alone here.

She hesitated. Then added:

don’t tell mom.

Jo Harvelle knew when she was being followed.

It was part instinct, part experience, and part the fact that her tail was absolutely terrible at it.

The shadow had started after she left the mural building for the second time that week—just a recon check, nothing fancy. Except now, she had company. Whoever it was stepped when she stepped, paused when she paused, and had the audacity to crouch behind a trash can when Jo clearly saw them in the reflection of a vending machine.

Amateur.

So, Jo led them.

A slow circle around the back of Weller Hall, then down the maintenance path by the boiler building. No students this way. No security. Just floodlights and gravel.

Jo ducked behind the edge of a broken staircase, slipped out her knife—not drawn, just held—and waited.

Three…

Two…

One—

Scuffle

She stepped out and slammed the figure into the brick wall, blade at their side, not quite touching skin. “You wanna tell me why a teenager with a Lisa Frank backpack thinks she can tail a hunter?”

The girl froze. Wide eyes. Smaller than Jo expected. Younger. No weapon in hand, just a flash of salt packet falling from her sleeve.

“I—I wasn’t—” the girl stammered.

Jo narrowed her eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Okay! Okay, fine—I was following you. But only because you were following the mural, and I already checked it, and you didn’t set off any wards, which means you’re probably not evil. Probably.”

“Probably.” Jo blinked. “That’s your threshold?”

The girl nodded, sheepishly. “I'm Alicia.”

Jo lowered the blade a little. “Jo.”

They stared at each other. Neither moved.

Then the air changed.

The wind dropped, the lights overhead flickered, and a low hum filled the space between them.

Jo’s body tensed immediately. “Get down!”

Alicia dropped without question—good instincts, Jo had to admit. A second later, a wave of pressure rolled down the alley, like sound with no source. Her ears rang.

Jo twisted to look up the hill—something was moving near the mural hall. A shadow, big and wrong in the way things were only wrong when they weren’t human.

“What is that?” Alicia whispered, half-crawling to Jo’s side.

“I don’t know. But it’s coming this way.”

“I don’t think it’s fully physical.”

“Even worse,” Jo muttered. “That means we can’t shoot it, and we can’t outrun it. We need cover.”

“I saw a storm drain two blocks down.”

Jo looked at her. “You’re not completely useless.”

“I do read.”

They ran.

The shadow gave chase—its movement like liquid smoke, skimming across pavement, brushing against streetlamps that sparked and died in its wake. Jo didn’t look back. She knew better than to look back.

Alicia kept pace surprisingly well for someone half her size and not trained for sprinting through monster alleys.

They hit the drain, Alicia pulled aside the grate with effort, and Jo shoved her through first, then dropped in after.

It was wet. Cold. Reeked of mold and copper.

Jo pressed her back against the wall, one hand on her flask of holy water, the other bracing Alicia who was still catching her breath.

“Whatever that was,” Jo said, panting, “it’s not local.”

Alicia blinked up at her. “You think it’s connected to the mural?”

“I know it is.”

They were quiet a long moment. Somewhere above, the sound of footsteps—or maybe something dragging—echoed and faded.

Then Alicia broke the silence. “So… you believe me now?”

Jo sighed. “I never didn’t. I just didn’t expect backup to come in the form of a teenage nerd with chalk dust on her jeans.”

“I brought salt too.”

“Cute.”

Another pause.

“I think,” Alicia said slowly, “it’s not just feeding off energy.”

Jo turned toward her. “What do you mean?”

“I think it’s storing it. Like—charging. Gathering it for something.”

Jo felt her stomach drop.

Because if that was true?

Then whatever was chasing them tonight was just the beginning.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

“This is dumb,” Jo muttered.

They were crouched in a maintenance hallway behind Weller Hall, the flickering security light above them casting jumpy shadows. Jo adjusted the grip on her EMF reader, which had been mostly silent all morning. She hated slow hunts. Hated wild goose chases. Hated—

“You’re breathing too loud,” Alicia whispered.

Jo turned. “I’m what?”

“You’re—ugh. You’re, like, stomping around and snorting like a bull. No wonder nothing shows up. You’re scaring it off.”

Jo exhaled hard. “Okay, witchlet.”

Alicia rolled her eyes. “First of all, not a witch. Second, rude. Third, you’re not the boss of me.”

“I’m the one with the actual hunting experience.”

“You’re seventeen. That’s, what—three years older than me? You're barely legal in driver’s license terms.”

“I’ve been on hunts.”

“Yeah? With training wheels, maybe. You ever take down a vamp nest solo?”

Jo hesitated. “...No. But I’ve done salt-and-burns. Real stuff.”

Alicia crossed her arms. “Cool story. I dissected a skin-walker spell when I was eleven. And I’ve read every witch books log that my mom has access to.”

“Oh, look at you. Homework hunter.”

“Better than playing pretend.”

They glared at each other for a solid five seconds.

Then, together:

“You're impossible.”

After twenty more minutes of quiet walking, Alicia broke the silence.

“My mom doesn’t even want me learning this stuff,” she said casually, pretending to study a scratched-up student ID she’d found on the ground. “She says it’s not safe. Says I’m not ‘meant for it.’ Even though she trains my brother. Trains him.”

Jo snorted softly. “Welcome to the club.”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah. Ellen Harvelle. Harvelle’s Roadhouse? She wants me to stay behind the bar, pour drinks, clean guns—but never use them. Says I’m too young. Too emotional.”

Alicia nodded. “Too something. Always.”

They stopped by the old notice board in the hall—half-covered in faded event flyers and layers of thumbtacks.

Jo peeled one back.

Behind it was an older poster—weathered, torn—but she could make out a name at the bottom corner:

Lucien Marr. M.F.A.

Alicia leaned in. “Art student?”

Jo took a photo of it on her flip phone. “Maybe. Or maybe someone just pretending to be.”

“Too many things at once,” Alicia murmured. “Like the mural.”

Jo looked at her. “That’s... actually a decent point.”

“Wow. High praise from the hunting prodigy.”

“I can go lower.”

They smirked at each other.

They ducked into a deserted classroom to regroup, scanning files Alicia had lifted from a filing cabinet while Jo distracted the passing TA with questions about emergency exits. A few pages into the pile, Alicia paused.

“Lucien Marr. Look—he was here in ’99. Dropped out. Professors called him… uncooperative.”

“Did he ever finish the mural?” Jo asked.

Alicia tilted the page. “No. Apparently, he started something. Then vanished.”

“Like—left school?”

“No. Like poof. One night he was there, ranting about ‘vision’ and ‘doorways.’ Next morning? Gone.”

Jo’s fingers drummed the table. “I hate this crap.”

“I like it,” Alicia said. “It’s like a riddle.”

“Yeah, a riddle that eats people.”

Alicia shrugged. “Still cooler than trig.”

They packed up to leave, shoving the stolen papers into Jo’s duffel. As they crept down the hallway, Alicia glanced sideways at her.

“So. Your dad. He was—?”

Jo didn’t answer right away.

“Bill Harvelle,” she said finally. “He died on a hunt. Demon took him out when I was a baby. Mom won’t even tell me the whole story.”

Alicia nodded slowly.

She didn’t say it—but Jo saw it. The flicker in her eyes. The same weight.

“What about yours?” Jo asked before she could stop herself.

Alicia hesitated. “He’s... dead, too. More or less.”

Jo caught the pause but didn’t push.

They reached the exit, the cool air slapping their faces as the door creaked open. Sunlight hit them like a stage light. Somewhere behind the mural building, music pulsed—a frat party kicking up again.

Jo squinted. “I swear to God, if that mural starts influencing keg stands, I’m burning this whole campus down.”

“I’ll bring the matches.”

Jo cracked a smile. Alicia grinned back.

And then, of course—

“I still don’t trust you.”

“Good. I don’t need you to.”

***

Jane should’ve left hours ago.

She’d packed up her bag.

Even walked down the main path toward the street where the rideshare pickup lane waited.

But her legs wouldn’t carry her that far.

Not because she was scared—though, yeah, she was—but because something in her gut, in her bones, in whatever it was that made her different, tethered her to this place.

Like this campus, this mural, this moment was waiting for her.

So she stayed.

She didn’t go back to Weller Hall right away.

Instead, she found a dusty student archives room on the edge of the library, tucked behind an out-of-order copy machine and forgotten shelving carts.

It wasn’t locked. Nothing important ever was on this campus, it seemed. Not the mural. Not the doors. Not the secrets.

She dug through old faculty rosters, maintenance logs, even campus art grant paperwork. For hours, she pored through pages, highlighting mentions of anything mural-related.

And then—finally—she found it.

1999. "Artist-in-Residence: Lucien Marr, Graduate Fellow"

He had signed on for a “spiritual exploration of collective identity through symbolism and environmental interaction.”

But three months later, the program listed him as "withdrawn – unresponsive to outreach."

There was a note in the margin, from a faculty administrator.

“Subject claimed mural was a ‘vessel.’ Warned of it becoming a 'gate.' Security advised not to escalate.”

Gate.

Jane sat back. Her skin buzzed like she was sitting too close to a high-voltage fence.

She made her way toward Weller again just as the sun started to dip. The mural’s colors always looked different at this hour—brighter somehow, almost wet, like the paint had just dried and was still bleeding into the wall.

She stared at it.

It stared back.

Not literally. Not yet.

But it knew her. She could feel it. The auras around the wall still swirled—pale echoes of the students who had passed by, who had stared too long, maybe touched it without understanding.

She’d seen one boy do it earlier. He’d wandered close, glassy-eyed, and brushed the bottom corner of the mural with two fingers.

Five minutes later, he’d puked behind a vending machine.

Jane didn’t go near it.

But she whispered under her breath.

“Lucien Marr. Where did you go?”

She felt something stir in the air.

Not the mural—not exactly.

It was more like…

Pressure. Like someone standing too close behind her. Breath on her neck. But when she spun around—no one. Just a breeze. A few scattered flyers cartwheeling down the quad.

She didn’t scare easy.

But this wasn’t fear.

It was recognition.

Whatever this mural was? It didn’t want her gone.

Not yet.

She sat on a bench across from the building as night rolled in. The party music from another part of campus bled into the distance. Lights flickered in dorm windows. And Jane just watched.

Waited.

She opened her notebook.

Wrote in large, even letters:

Lucien Marr – 1999

Said it was a vessel. A gate.

Gate to where?

She paused.

Then added, beneath:

I’m not supposed to be here.

But I’m meant to be here.

***

The bus stop was lit by one flickering overhead lamp and the glow from the nearby vending machine, humming like it was holding its breath. No cars. No foot traffic. Just night, settling deep and still over the campus outskirts.

Jo paced.

Alicia sat on the bench, boots swinging above the ground, arms folded like a petulant cat.

“It’s almost two,” Jo muttered, glancing down the road. “If this thing doesn’t show up in ten, we’re walking to the diner and calling Ash.”

Alicia snorted. “And then we die.”

Jo ignored her.

Their mothers had no idea they were here.

One more hour and Ellen would call every hunter this side of the Mississippi.

Tasha might not yell—but she'd make her disappointment weaponized.

They couldn’t afford that. Not tonight. Not with this case still open, still gnawing at Jo’s brain like a hangnail.

And the mural? No closer to answers than when they’d started.

Across the lot, someone walked up.

A girl—maybe sixteen, maybe seventeen. Skinny. Shy posture. Secondhand jacket. She stopped under the vending light and checked her phone. Her face glowed pale in the screen’s reflection.

Jo clocked her instinctively. Not a threat. Too quiet. But alert. Watching everything.

Jane didn’t mean to stare.

It was just—they glowed.

Not literally. Not even like auras she was used to. But both girls on the bench had… shadows around them. Weight. They buzzed in the air the way people did when they were carrying secrets that bled into everything they touched.

Especially the tall one pacing like she was wired on five hours of adrenaline and spite.

The smaller one (smarter than she let on) flicked her eyes toward Jane and back.

“Great,” Alicia whispered. “More people.”

“She’s not a threat,” Jo said quietly.

Alicia side-eyed her. “You sure? Because lately, college murals are threats.”

Jo cracked half a smile. “Fair.”

Jane looked up. She met Jo’s eyes. Just for a moment.

It hit both of them like a low static shock.

Not recognition. But… resonance.

Jo tilted her head slightly, like she was trying to place Jane.

Jane blinked slowly. Said nothing. But her fingers tightened slightly on the straps of her backpack.

Alicia, oblivious to the tension, just groaned.

“We should’ve stayed. We missed something. I know it.”

“Yeah,” Jo said, but her eyes were still on Jane. “We did.”

The wind picked up, rustling loose leaves across the concrete.

Far off, headlights approached.

The bus.

As it hissed to a stop, all three girls stood—Jo and Alicia shouldering bags like half-beaten soldiers, Jane moving slowly like she wasn’t sure if she was meant to get on at all.

They filed on.

Jo and Alicia took a seat near the back. Jane sat alone, three rows ahead.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

But the whole ride, she could feel the pull behind her. The echo of something unfinished.

So could Jo.

Somewhere behind them, on the campus they’d left behind, the mural shifted.

Only slightly.

One more line appeared.

One more eye opened.

...

The bus hissed to a stop on the edge of a nowhere intersection, and Jo was already halfway down the aisle before the brakes finished groaning.

"See you," she said over her shoulder.

Alicia nodded, pulling her hoodie up. “Don’t die before I text you.”

Jo smirked. “Same.”

The walk from the stop to the Roadhouse was only three blocks, but each step stretched like a mile. Her boots hit cracked concrete in rhythm, scuff-scuff-snap. The air was cold enough to bite but not enough to shake the tension sitting low in her stomach.

That mural. That weird girl at the stop. The way the campus had felt like it was watching.

It wasn’t done with them. Not even close.

She slipped in through the back, avoiding creaky floorboards like she’d mapped them in muscle memory. Her bedroom window was already cracked open — old trick from the days Ellen locked it, thinking that’d stop Jo from sneaking out.

She pulled the sash up and slipped inside.

Safe.

Or… pretending to be.

The room was exactly as she'd left it: posters, salt rounds under the bed, holy water in a used lotion bottle on the dresser. She peeled off her jacket and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers laced, eyes on the floor.

She should feel relieved.

She didn’t.

Her phone buzzed.

[Alicia]
Got home. Alive. Mostly. No ghost in my closet. 

Jo smiled, thumbs hovering.

[Jo]
If something changes, or you feel weird—like, REALLY weird—text me first. We do this smart.

Three dots appeared. Then stopped. Then appeared again.

[Alicia]
Yeah. Deal. Night, Harvelle.

Jo hesitated.

[Jo]
Night, Banes.

She tossed the phone on her pillow and leaned back, arms behind her head.

The case wasn’t done. Not even close.

Her instincts were louder than ever — something was wrong about that mural, that campus, and definitely that girl with the weird energy who hadn’t said a word but had looked at them like she knew something.

She needed to tell someone.

But who?

Her mom? No way. Ellen would fly off the handle and lock her down for life.

Ash? As much as she loved the dude, he couldn’t keep a secret under pressure if it had a password and a holy sigil stamped on it.

Dean?

Jo sighed. That was the real question.

Dean wouldn't scold her. Wouldn’t ground her. But he'd take over. Just like he always did. The moment she said, “Hey, there’s a creepy aura mural,” he’d roll up with the Impala, a flask of holy water, and a shotgun loaded with rock salt — and she would be benched again. Watching. Learning.

She clenched her jaw.

She wasn’t stupid. If it got worse—if people started dying, or she couldn’t figure it out—she’d call him.

But not yet.

Not until she had something solid. A theory. A name. A trail worth following.

This was her case.

Her first real case.

And she wasn’t giving it up until the walls bled or the ground cracked open.

She flicked off the lamp and pulled the blanket over her head.

Sleep didn’t come easy.

But the choice?

That felt solid.

For now.

...

Alicia Banes made it home in nineteen minutes, door-to-door. That was her record. Her legs still burned from sprinting the last block, but she didn’t care. She was proud. Late afternoon light slanted across the driveway when she slipped through the side door and dropped her backpack by the bar-height counter in the kitchen.

Silence greeted her. No incense smoke. No whispered chants. No crash of spell ingredients being measured. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the faint sound of traffic outside.

Her mom was out on a “consultation”—Alicia wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, but it involved Tasha vanishing for hours on end and returning smelling like moonflowers and something metallic. Probably demon blood. And the consultant? Probably some panicked councilor or uneasy skeptic who ran when they saw the runes tattooed on Tasha’s forearm.

No matter. Today was her time. Her secret. She’d tell no one.

Footsteps echoed behind her. Max.

His eyes were on her bag. His lips pressed tight as his mental radar spun up. Max was fourteen, her twin in everything but this—magic. He had a nose for secrets, for things unspoken, and he certainly smelled the story in the straps of her pack.

“Hey,” he said coolly. “You’re back earlier than school lets out.”

Alicia swallowed. Kept her face calm. She’d rehearsed this.

“Traffic was light.” She shrugged, brushing hair from her eyes. “The bus was weirdly fast.”

He didn’t buy it. Max never did. He flicked on the kettle for tea—her favorite chamomile blend, ironic given what she’d been doing tonight.

“Let me guess,” he said, tossing her a mug as it warmed. “You’ve got homework. You’re tired. You just wanted to get back before Mom and I interrogate you for real.”

“Sure,” Alicia said, wrapping her hands around the cup. It steamed, and she took a small, careful sip. “That’s exactly why.”

Max studied her, green eyes sharp. He was the witch of the family in training—he could sense a hidden rune on a broomstick. But despite his abilities, he liked her. Probably because she let him win at board games when she was six, and because she’d taught him half the chants in Tasha’s private book just so he felt included.

“Okay.” He raised one eyebrow. “School was boring, I get it. But this?” He turned his phone around—Alicia’s stolen-chalk-dusted fingerprints smeared the screen. A screenshot of the mural video notifications. “You’re here way too fresh to be studying. Something else is going on.”

Alicia set her mug down. Her heart thumped loud enough to hear. “There’s nothing,” she said, but her voice pitched higher than she meant. “I’m fine. Why are you making a thing out of this?”

Max sighed and sat opposite her. “Because you’re always doing something secret. Every night, you disappear.” He paused, fingers drumming the table. “It’s—please don’t lie to me. I’m your twin. I want to help.”

She saw genuine concern in his eyes. That twisted her chest. She loved him for it, but she couldn’t let him in.

“You don’t understand,” she said softly. “This is different. This is… mine.”

He frowned. “Yours?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

They sat in silence, the kettle’s hum filling the gap. Max leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You know you can tell Mom and me anything—”

“Stop.” Alicia’s words snapped in the air. She stood suddenly, chair scraping. Maybe too dramatically, but the burst of energy was real. “This is not your hunt. Not Mom’s. Not yours. It’s mine. I’m going to figure it out.”

Max’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t push. He knew when to back down. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and simply nodded.

“Fine,” he whispered. “But text me if it goes sideways. Promise?”

Alicia’s chest tightened. A promise meant admitting risk. But she needed a lifeline—even an imaginary one.

“Promise.”

Max waved the kettle off and left the kitchen, footsteps fading up the stairs.

Alone, Alicia exhaled and leaned against the counter. She rubbed her temples. The adrenaline was draining fast, leaving her jittery and half-hungry. But mostly… alive. She tapped her phone open and stared at the messages from Jo:

If something changes, text me first. We do this smart.

She thumbed out a quick reply:

Already on it.

Then she locked the screen.

The kitchen clock ticked, loud in the stillness. It was only five o’clock. Hours until bedtime, hours until Mom stumbled in.

Time enough.

She slipped into her bedroom—walls papered with tarot-card prints, crystal clusters lining the windowsill, and a giant corkboard holding every scrap of research she’d pinned: photos of the mural at different angles, screenshots of symbols, Jo’s grainy phone-captured posters, and Alicia’s own translated notes.

Her gaze settled on one image: the faded Lucien Marr poster Jo had found. Beneath it, Alicia had drawn the symbol larger, tracing it with her chalk until it glowed faintly in the lamplight.

She crossed the room and pressed her palm against the corkboard. The chalk grooves felt alive under her fingers. A strange warmth pulsed from the lines.

She closed her eyes. Let her hunter instinct—her father’s blood she’d only recently claimed—meld with her training in magical theory. She pictured the mural. The runes. The pull she’d felt.

Where do you go?

She spoke the question out loud. Quiet, so anyone else in the house wouldn’t hear.

No answer.

But her skin prickled, and she knew she was on the right track.

A soft knock came at the door. Alicia jumped, heart slamming. Her brain flicked to alarm: who knew about this?

“Come in,” she called, voice steadier than she felt.

The door cracked open. Tasha stood there, hair still damp from a late-afternoon rain, eyes curious.

“Oh,” Tasha said softly. “You’re awake.”

Alicia swallowed. She’d hoped to be long gone before Mom came home. “Yeah.”

Her mother eyed the corkboard. “Research session?”

“Uh… history project.” Alicia held up her notebook. “Mom, I’ve got a formal assignment — I need to trace the origins of the mural for Art Club.”

Tasha’s brows rose. “Art Club?”

“Yeah. Just… school thing.”

Tasha studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Dinner in twenty.”

“Got it.”

She exhaled as the door closed. Close, but not enough.

Once alone again, Alicia sank onto her bed and pulled out the notebook. Page after page, she’d filled it with cross-references: Sumerian symbols, campus folklore, artist disappearances. But the one name that kept surfacing was Lucien Marr.

She flipped to a blank page and wrote it in bold: LUCIEN MARR

Underneath, she jotted the margin note excerpt: “Subject claimed mural was a ‘vessel.’ Warned of it becoming a ‘gate.’ Security advised not to escalate.”

Then she sketched the pastoral college seal into her margins—portion by portion—and mapped out possible escape routes from campus in case she needed to disappear again.

Despite the familiarity of the room, something felt different. Like she was ­sharpening a weapon for the first time.

She paused, pen hovering.

She felt… entitled to this. Entitled to the space between the chalk lines, the secret that was hers. No Max, no Mom.

Her phone buzzed. Jo.

Got anything solid?

Alicia smiled thinly. She typed back, deliberately:

Working on it.

She didn’t say that her next stop would be a public records office. Or that she was already planning to sneak back to campus at midnight, chalk in hand.

This was her hunt. And she’d stake that claim with every ounce of her cunning and grit.

...

Back in her room, the late afternoon sun slanted across the peeling paint and chipped desk. It was the same faded blue she’d painted months ago, but even the color couldn’t brighten this place much.

She sat on the edge of her bed, hands folded over her worn jacket, staring at the small stack of notebooks she’d borrowed from the library. Every page was filled with notes and questions about the mural—its strange symbols, the shadowed stories behind them, and the unsettling pull that had drawn her in.

She blinked. Why had she even gone there? To a campus buzzing with a hundred auras and a thousand hidden agendas. It wasn’t her world.

Jane was used to being outside.

Not just outside the group home, or outside the mainstream crowd, but outside of normal.

She’d felt it since she was a kid — that sliver of difference nobody talked about. The way people looked at her like she was somewhere else, even when she was standing right in front of them. How her therapist’s eyes would flicker with something unreadable when Jane mentioned the dreams. The flashes of light she sometimes saw out of the corner of her eye. The way she could heal a scraped knee faster than anyone else could.

Not normal.

But she didn’t have a word for it yet.

The weird thing was, she’d tried to pretend otherwise.

She tried to survive by fitting in. To be a regular kid with regular problems.

She went to group therapy sessions and nodded along while adults tried to untangle her life from its messy knots.

She worked her jobs—bagging groceries, cleaning floors, tutoring kids—because she had to.

She planned for a future that might never come.

And yet…

Every time she thought she was out of the woods, the woods grabbed her back.

She touched her fingers to the scar on her palm—a faint shimmer, barely visible—and thought about the mural again.

The mural, with its twisting symbols and faint hum she could almost hear in her mind.

The mural, that had called to her.

She wasn’t sure why.

Maybe because, like her, it was something hidden just beneath the surface.

Maybe because, even if she didn’t understand it, the mural was part of a bigger story—a story she was already caught up in.

Jane leaned back, eyes tracing the cracked ceiling. She wasn’t normal. She wasn’t safe. But maybe, just maybe, she was meant to be part of this.

Chapter Text

Living Room

The little kid’s voice bounced around the cramped living room—too loud, too fast, too urgent for the afternoon calm.

“—and then he just grabbed Mom and Dad’s card, right? Took like a thousand bucks or something, and now he’s gone. Phone’s off. Probably throwing another one of those crazy parties. You know, the kind where someone ends up in the hospital?”

The pre-teen—Timmy, she thought—shifted in his seat, fingers twitching nervously. His eyes flicked to the window every time a car passed outside.

Jane nodded absently, her gaze drawn back to the math worksheet between them. Just simple addition and subtraction. But her focus wasn’t on numbers.

Her mind circled the mural. The strange pull it still had on her. The name she’d unearthed in the research: Lucien Marr.

She tapped her pencil against the paper, forcing herself to stay present, to listen to Timmy’s voice.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Sounds like your brother’s got a lot going on.”

He shrugged, voice lower now. “Mom says he’s just ‘lost,’ but I think he’s more trouble than anyone knows.”

Jane looked up and caught the weight behind his words. She understood what it meant to be lost. To feel like you were fighting something bigger than yourself.

Her own secrets curled tight in her chest—silent and heavy. The visions. The healing. The world she’d tried to escape clawing its way back in.

Not yet, she thought. Not today.

Instead, she offered a small smile. “You’re doing great on these problems. Keep at it—you’ll be ahead of the class in no time.”

Timmy’s smile was small, but real. “Thanks, Jane.”

She packed up her things, her eyes drifting to the clock. The sun was low now. Shadows stretched long across the walls.

Jane paused at the door.

Outside, the world felt too big. And too quiet.

She didn’t know what was coming next. But she knew one thing:

She couldn’t run from it anymore.

Jo & Alicia

Jo tossed her phone onto the bed, glaring at the screen.

“This is useless,” she muttered.

Alicia’s voice crackled from the speaker, sharp and amused.

“Maybe you’re just bad at research.”

Jo fired back without hesitation. “Says the girl who sneaks onto campus at midnight without a flashlight.”

“I’m resourceful. You’re just reckless.”

They’d been at this for hours—texting, calling, digging through forums, archives, old newspapers. Screenshots of faded photos, cryptic symbols, and wild theories cluttered their phones.

But still, nothing solid.

Jo sat up straighter. “The mural’s history is mostly buried under campus renovations. Marr’s name shows up in maybe two security reports and some rumors.”

Alicia sighed. “And those symbols? Occult garbage that even my mom’s library doesn’t recognize.”

Jo groaned. “Awesome. Ghost-chasing in chalk dust.”

“Which means we need to go back. See the mural again. Closer this time.”

Jo hesitated. “I’m not getting caught again. My mom would kill me.”

“Same,” Alicia muttered. “But we’ll be smarter.”

They started tossing out ideas—camouflage, timing, escape plans.

Jo couldn’t help but smile. “You know, for someone barely fourteen, your instincts aren’t bad.”

“And for someone pushing eighteen, you’re still terrible at reading signals.”

Jo laughed. “Fine. We go back. Midnight. Mission-style.”

“Deal.”

She grabbed her jacket, adrenaline bubbling beneath her usual scowl.

Alicia’s voice softened. “Just—don’t get yourself in too deep.”

“Too late for that,” Jo muttered.

The Campus

The campus looked unfamiliar at night. Shadows swallowed the old buildings. Mist curled over the damp grass.

It was too still.

Jo adjusted the strap of her duffel, scanning the quad like a hunter. At seventeen, she wasn’t a pro—but she had grit. Enough to fake it.

Alicia followed a few paces behind, clutching a flashlight and a spell pouch tucked in her hoodie.

“No flashlight,” Jo hissed. “You’ll get us caught.”

“Then don’t get caught,” Alicia whispered back. “I’m fourteen, not five.”

“You tail a hunter like a baby duck, you get rules like one.”

“I’m not a duck. I’m a hawk.”

“A hawk wouldn’t have tripped over that fence ten minutes ago.”

Their bickering stayed low, but their movements were in sync. Over the last week, something like rhythm had formed between them.

Not partners. Not yet.

But close.

They reached the Humanities building. The mural loomed ahead—ancient, cracked, veined with faint shimmer under the moonlight.

Jo knelt beside the chalk markings. New lines had joined the old. A shape was forming. Twisting. Alive.

“This wasn’t here last week,” Alicia said, crouching beside her.

“No. Something’s active now. And it wants attention.”

A low sound rose in the distance. Not a growl. Not a screech.

A hum. Like static.

Jo froze. “That sound—”

“It’s behind us.”

They turned.

Something stepped out of the treeline. Humanoid in form, but wrong. Its aura flickered like oil on water.

Alicia backed up. Jo reached for the iron knife in her boot.

“We fight together,” Jo said. “Use what you’ve got.”

Alicia nodded, clutching a salt pouch. Jo lunged first—blade flashing—but the thing didn’t bleed. The knife passed through like fog.

Alicia flung the salt. It hissed. Screamed. But kept coming.

They ran.

Through hedges, down paths, over flowerbeds. Jo’s lungs burned. Alicia stumbled. Jo caught her.

Dead end.

“Crap,” Jo breathed. “We’re boxed.”

The shadow-thing followed, dragging its static behind.

Jo raised her knife again.

Alicia clutched her pouch like it might save them.

Then the air shifted.

From the edge of the courtyard, a voice rose—calm and firm.

“Stop.”

Jane.

She stepped forward, eyes glowing faintly gold. Her hands trembled—but she stood steady.

“Get away from them.”

The creature paused. Something in her voice pinned it in place.

Jane raised her hand—and light flared.

Not flame.

Not a weapon.

Just energy. Raw. Focused.

The thing shrieked, flickering, shrinking back.

Jane stepped closer. The glow surged.

With one final, garbled scream, the shadow burst—scattered like smoke in the wind.

Silence.

Jo dropped her knife. Alicia just stared.

Jane staggered. Jo caught her.

“You okay?”

Jane nodded. “I didn’t know I could do that.”

Alicia stepped forward. “You… what are you?”

Jane’s eyes dimmed. “I don’t know. But I think I was meant to find you.”

The mural pulsed behind them.

***

The small, dimly lit basement room was a far cry from the chaos they’d left behind. A hastily cleared corner with mismatched chairs, a battered table, and flickering fluorescent lights set the scene for a fragile truce.

Jo slumped into a chair, rubbing the soreness out of her arms. “We’re lucky to be alive.”

Alicia stood by the cracked window, arms crossed, jaw tight. Her eyes didn’t leave Jane, who sat quietly on the far side, gingerly pressing her hands together as if she could hold her own doubts inside.

The air was thick with tension, more than just the pain from their recent fight.

“So,” Alicia finally said, voice cool, sharp. “You’re a witch.”

Jane blinked, confused. “No. I’m not.”

Alicia’s eyes narrowed. “You just lit up like some kind of holy beacon when that thing attacked us. That’s witchcraft, or some form of it. You’re hiding it.”

Jo cut in, voice low but firm. “Alicia, calm down. We don’t even know what Jane is yet.”

Alicia’s glare swung to Jo, heated and unrelenting. “Yeah, well, I don’t like surprises. This whole thing is supposed to be my case. Witch-free. Just like I said—no magic, no nonsense. And now we’ve got a mystery girl flashing angel light all over the place.”

Jane’s chest tightened. The sting in Alicia’s words wasn’t just suspicion — it was something deeper. 

“I’m not trying to be a witch,” Jane said quietly, voice wavering but steady. “I don’t even know what I am.”

Jo’s hunter instincts flared, the urge to protect overriding everything else. “Look, whatever you are, you helped us. And if it comes down to it, I’m calling Dean.”

Alicia’s eyes sparked fire. “Call him? You mean call in the big guns because you’re too scared to handle it yourself?”

Jo’s jaw clenched. “It’s not about fear. It’s about not dying on a case we barely understand.”

Jane shifted in her seat, feeling swallowed by a world she never asked to be part of. Hunters, witches, monsters—none of it made sense. None of it felt like home.

But she wasn’t weak. Not really.

When Jo winced, Alicia and Jane both noticed. Jane stood, crossing the room with a tentative grace. “Let me help.”

Before either of them could protest, she pressed her hands gently over Jo’s bruised ribs. Warmth spread like a quiet fire, dulling the pain and easing tension.

Jo inhaled sharply. “What—how?”

Jane shrugged, cheeks flushed. “I don’t know. I just… I can heal.”

Alicia’s gaze flickered between them, her defenses faltering. “So you are special.”

Jane nodded. “I guess.”

For a long moment, the three of them sat in uneasy silence, the fight forgotten but the barriers still high.

Finally, Jo broke the quiet. “We need to figure this out together. No more secrets. No more assumptions.”

Alicia gave a reluctant nod, but her eyes held a flicker of something unspoken — a challenge, maybe, or a fear of being left behind.

Jane met her gaze. “I don’t know what’s ahead. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Jo smiled, just a little. “Good. Because this isn’t over.”

...

Jo dropped her duffel with a heavy thud on the floor. Salt, iron rounds, a couple of blades—including one she’d lifted from Ellen’s stash and absolutely was not supposed to have.

She ran her fingers through her hair, sighing. 

Behind her, Alicia was already pulling printouts from her oversized backpack, methodically pinning them to a peeling corkboard she’d dragged in from the hallway. Photos of the mural, red circles around sigils. A grainy still of the viral video’s host, eyes too bright, smile too wide. Headlines: "Student Influencer Throws Wild Party — Again", "Local Campus Murals Spark Debate".

Jane lingered near the corner, notebook open on her lap, legs tucked under her like she wanted to disappear into the floor. She hadn’t spoken much since last night—still rattled. Jo didn’t blame her.

“Alright,” Jo said, clapping her hands together once. “Let’s go over what we know. Alicia?”

Alicia didn’t look up. “It’s not a haunting. Not a possession either. Whatever it is, it’s smarter than that. Viral. Strategic.”

“Demonic?” Jo asked.

“No sulfur traces,” Alicia said quickly. “And it doesn’t act like a demon. It doesn’t hide. It… spreads. Infects.”

Jane shivered. “It feeds on them.”

Jo turned toward her. “Feeds?”

She nodded. “Not like blood, but—it’s like it gets stronger when people look at it. Like it wants to be seen.”

“Internet clout as supernatural fuel.” Jo muttered. “That’s new.”

Alicia snorted. “Figures hell would adapt faster than the Church.”

Jo crouched by her duffel and started laying out weapons. A sawed-off shotgun, silver knife, vials of holy water. Her tools were sharp and tested. They grounded her. Made sense in a world that increasingly didn’t.

She looked to Alicia. “What’s the angle?”

Alicia clicked her pen, pointed to a photo of the mural. “This symbol’s a binding. I cross-checked it with some of Mom’s lesser grimoires—old Celtic wards, some mixed with Norse. Someone tried to trap it a long time ago.”

“Failed,” Jo said.

“Clearly.”

Jane chewed on the corner of her thumbnail. “If it was bound once, maybe it can be again?”

“Yeah,” Jo said. “If we know what ‘it’ even is.”

Alicia looked to Jane. “You felt it, didn’t you? That shimmer in the air before it came for us?”

Jane nodded. “It’s like… static. It moves through people. It doesn’t have a face of its own.”

Jo glanced at her. Jane wasn’t a hunter. Wasn’t trained. But there was something about the way she observed, quiet and deep, like she was tuned into something they weren’t.

“What else can you do?” Jo asked.

Jane looked up, startled. “I don’t know. Heal people. Sometimes see colors around them. Moods. It’s not like I choose it.”

“So you're not a witch,” Alicia muttered, just loud enough to be heard. “You’re something else.”

Jo ignored the jab. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here. And we’re running out of time.”

She moved to the table, where Alicia had sketched a crude map of the campus. “We hit the mural first thing in the morning. Jane, stay back. If you feel that pull again, tell me. Alicia, find out what this binding is made of—materials, language, bloodlines if you have to. I’ll check the grounds for any other signs.”

Alicia raised a brow. “You giving orders now?”

Jo smirked. “Someone’s gotta play general.”

“Fine,” Alicia said, rolling her eyes, “but I’m not taking advice from someone who still thinks Bluetooth is a conspiracy.”

Jane laughed quietly, her first laugh in hours.

Jo grinned. “That’s better. Alright, let’s move.”

As the girls turned to their respective tasks, Jo took a breath and looked around. Three girls. One half-trained hunter, one baby witch with a secret legacy, and one…Psychic? She didn’t know yet. What she did know was this:

Whatever they were hunting—it was old. It was hungry. And it was smart.

But so were they.

...

Alicia sat cross-legged in front of her laptop, the glow of the screen painting her face in shades of blue. The rest of the room had faded into background static—Jo pacing with a machete in her hand, Jane flipping through an old book she claimed "buzzed" when she touched it. Alicia didn’t notice. She was deep in the grid now.

Layers of open tabs and PDFs spread across her screen like a mind map on steroids. She wasn't just hunting information—she was carving it open. Symbols, historical context, obscure myths, and dark web blog posts from occultist nerds who lived in their basements all came together into a narrative that no one else was telling.

Marr.
Not a person. Not a demon. Not exactly.

Alicia spoke aloud without meaning to, eyes glued to the page.

“Marr… is derived from the Old Norse word mara, which is the root of the modern word ‘nightmare.’ A Mare is not just a dream demon—it’s an entity that slips into people’s minds and stirs up their deepest ambitions, insecurities, and hunger for attention.”

Jo stopped pacing. “Like psychic manipulation?”

Alicia nodded slowly. “Closer to possession without full control. Marr doesn’t take you over. It just leans in and whispers until you do what it wants. Because you think it's your idea.”

Jane looked up, pale. “That mural. It was made to trap it, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Alicia said. “Some idiot students probably summoned it back then thinking they were being edgy. Someone tried to contain it with a binding sigil carved into the wall. Didn’t hold.”

Jo knelt beside the corkboard. “So it needs a host?”

“More like it rotates hosts,” Alicia said, scrolling down her notes. “It doesn’t possess people forever. It rides them until they burn out—overdose, disappear, go off the grid—and then it jumps. But the more people watch, the stronger it gets. It feeds on that attention.”

“That's why the parties,” Jo muttered. “And the livestreams.”

“It's viral,” Alicia said. “In the truest sense.”

Jane looked haunted. “The boy my student talked about… his brother, the party host—he was off. Like his aura was pulsing, even through a screen. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Jo stood up. “We need to find him. Fast.”

“No.” Alicia held up a hand. “We need to find the anchor. There’s always something binding a Mare to a location. A focus point. Last time, it was the mural. This time, I think it’s the—”

She was interrupted by a beep from her laptop.

A new video upload. From the host.

Jo and Jane gathered behind her.

The video thumbnail was disturbing—a wide shot of the mural during sunset, its colors distorted, the sigils glowing faintly red, as if blood had seeped into the wall.

Alicia clicked it.

It wasn’t a party video. No music, no screaming kids, no strobe lights.

Just the influencer standing still, eyes locked to the camera, whispering something under his breath. Over and over.

Jane gasped. “It’s a chant.”

Jo stepped forward, voice grim. “He’s summoning it again.”

Alicia reached for her phone. “We have to move.”

“Wait,” Jane whispered. “That thing… it’s not just growing. It’s waking up.”

The air in the room shifted.

Jo grabbed her weapons.

Alicia pocketed her laptop.

Jane closed the book, one hand hovering over its cover like it might burn her.

And somewhere, far away but getting closer, something smiled.

...

The mural pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

Jane stood just outside the quad, hidden behind a cluster of hedges lining the open green. Night had fallen, but the university lights cast a dull orange glow on the massive wall. From this distance, the mural looked like any other college art project—bold, pretentious, semi-mystical. But Jane felt it.

She could see the aura radiating off the stone—wrong colors, shifting like oil on water. Where she usually saw warm hues of people’s joy or grief or anger, the mural radiated hunger. The auras of students passing by thinned near it, as if something was draining them.

“Jo,” Jane whispered into the walkie-talkie Jo had handed her an hour earlier. “It’s alive.”

Jo’s voice crackled in her ear. “Define ‘alive.’”

“It’s feeding again. I think it’s calling people to it.”

Behind Jane, Alicia crouched, tapping on her phone with one hand, small bag of chalk and salt on the ground beside her. “Give me two minutes to finish the circle. Don’t engage until I say.”

Jane’s palms tingled. That energy was back. Like a static charge, buzzing through her veins. Something inside her was stirring. She didn’t know what, but it wanted out.

Jo moved up to their position from the south side, eyes scanning the campus. “We’ve got about fifteen students sleepwalking this way. They're not acting possessed. Just… entranced.”

Alicia’s voice was clipped. “Marr’s using them like batteries. Keep them out of the way.”

Jane frowned. “Should we… wake them?”

“No,” Jo said quickly. “Break the trance, and Marr gets angry. We need to hit it first, before it has a reason to lash out.”

Alicia sprinkled salt across the dirt, muttering under her breath. Jane couldn’t make out the words, but she felt them. Like pressure behind her eyes. Magic.

“Okay,” Alicia said, standing. “Circle’s ready. This won’t banish it, but it should suppress its anchor long enough for us to finish the job.”

Jane stared at the mural. “Then what do I do?”

Jo looked at her, serious. “Follow your gut. That’s your weapon.”

“That’s not a weapon,” Alicia muttered.

Jo shot her a glare. “You’re fourteen.”

“And I’m still right,” Alicia snapped back.

Before Jo could fire off a retort, the sound hit them.

Low. Rumbling. A growl made of voices, hundreds of whispers layered into one. The mural’s center symbol began to glow.

“Marr knows we’re here,” Jane breathed.

Jo took a step forward. “Then let’s introduce ourselves.”

They moved as one.

Jo swept through the quad first, knocking back a student who tried to block her path, eyes glassy and smile too wide. Alicia began chanting, her chalk lines glowing dimly. Jane followed, not sure what she was doing—only that she was meant to be here.

The air thickened. The world tilted.

And the mural moved.

It peeled open like a mouth. The paint flaked and bled. Shapes slithered from the stone, not shadows, not quite physical either. They were ideas, half-formed—envy, lust, hunger for fame, hunger for attention. They reached.

Jo fired rock salt into the dark, shouting. Alicia screamed a counter-spell, her voice cracking under pressure.

Jane felt it in her chest. A pull.

She stepped into the circle.

The moment her foot crossed the salt, the whispering stopped.

Everything stilled.

The mural froze.

And every single “possessed” student snapped their heads toward her.

Jane’s pulse thundered. “I don’t know what you are,” she whispered. “But you don’t belong here.”

She held out her hand.

Light sparked in her palm—golden, raw, unstable.

The mural cracked.

Something inside screamed.

Jo grabbed Alicia’s hand and dragged her back.

Jane took a step forward.

The light surged.

The mural shattered.

Students collapsed.

And silence fell.

Chapter Text

The bunker was quiet—too quiet.

Dean Winchester sat at the long war table, methodically polishing a silver blade.

Across the room, Jesse and Jack huddled over a stack of lore books, arguing in hushed voices about whether warding sigils could be tattooed with glitter ink.

He didn’t care to ask.

Instead, he kept his eyes on the blade, pretending the weight in his gut wasn’t getting heavier by the minute.

Something was off.

He’d felt it all day—like the world had leaned slightly sideways and hadn’t righted itself.

Then his phone buzzed.

ASH – [CALLING]

He sighed, flicked it open. “Tell me this is about pie.”

Ash’s voice came through crackly and a little too fast. “Uh, not quite, man. We’ve got a Jo situation.”

Dean sat up straighter. “Define ‘situation.’”

“She hasn’t been home in two nights.”

Dean stilled. “She better be at a salt-and-burn and not buried in some demon’s basement.”

“She’s fine! Far as I know. I’ve been covering for her.”

That landed like a sucker punch. “You what?”

“Hey, don’t yell. She said it was just some harmless recon. Weird art video thing. I figured it was typical teenage spooky obsession. Harmless. But Ellen’s due back tonight, and if Jo’s not in her bed pretending to study—well, you remember what happened last time.”

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. You limped for a week.”

“I told her to check in. She didn’t. Figured I should escalate before I get grounded too.”

“Great,” Dean muttered. “Send me her last known. I’ll find her.”

“Sending now. Good luck. She’s sneaky, like you.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, already standing. “That’s the problem.”

He hung up, slid his phone into his pocket, and turned toward the library.

Jesse looked up from a book titled Minor Demonic Pacts and How to Break Them Without Dying. “Going somewhere?”

Dean grabbed his jacket off the back of a chair and shrugged into it. “Gotta go pick up a wayward teenager before her mom kills someone. Probably Ash.”

Jack popped his head out from behind a tower of books. “Do we get to come?”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Do you want Ellen to kill you too?”

Jesse shrank back. Jack just looked disappointed.

“Stay inside the wards. No spell food. No spirit board crap. And if I come back and find you’ve summoned another talking cat, I swear—”

“It wasn’t supposed to talk!” Jesse said quickly.

Dean pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at them. “Behave.”

He grabbed the keys to the Impala, the familiar weight grounding him. Same old car, same old crap. Only now he was babysitting teenagers with more firepower than sense.

...

The cold air hit him hard as he stepped out into the night. Kansas in late fall—crisp, bitter, and quiet. He slid into the driver’s seat and glanced at the message Ash had sent. A pin, GPS coordinates dropped about two towns over. Some college campus.

Of course.

He started Baby with a low growl of the engine and peeled out, tires whispering against the damp pavement.

Jo Harvelle. Stubborn, scrappy, and seventeen. Dean had been very clear: no hunting until she was eighteen. So naturally, Jo had found a way around that.

Still, she was like a little sister to him. Always had been, even back in the original timeline. And yeah, maybe the whole time travel thing had screwed with some of the finer details, but some things didn’t change. Jo was still Jo—brave, reckless, and too smart for her own damn good.

The drive gave him time to stew. Who was she working with? Was she alone? Was this just some haunted painting or another cursed object draining kids dry? He didn’t like any of it.

Not when Ash sounded nervous.

Not when Jo went radio silent.

Not when he had to lie to Ellen.

He parked a block from the pin and killed the engine. The college loomed ahead, half-asleep. Lights on in dorm windows, stragglers stumbling between buildings, phones glowing in their hands. Dean stayed in the shadows, letting his instincts take over.

The coordinates dropped him near an old art building—modern concrete and steel, totally at odds with the rest of the gothic campus. He slipped around the side and scanned the area. No screams, no sulfur, no sigils.

But he felt it.

Something was off. A trace of energy, low and cold, like a static buzz in his skull.

He checked the door. Locked. Didn’t stop him. One quick tool twist and he was in.

The hallway smelled like turpentine and old anxiety. He moved quiet, boots barely tapping. He passed a flickering light, a line of bizarre student art, and—

Voices.

Low, urgent, female.

He paused at a corner and peered around.

There, halfway down the hall, were three girls. Jo, crouched with her back against the wall, looking like she’d just gone ten rounds with something big and mean. Another girl—a younger one with a mop of curly hair and nervous eyes—was helping her wrap a bandage. And then—

The third girl.

Pale, dark-haired, too still. She was staring down the corridor like she could see something that wasn’t there.

Dean’s stomach dropped.

“What the hell,” he muttered.

He stepped into view.

“Jo.”

All three heads snapped toward him.

Jo groaned. “Crap.”

Dean folded his arms. “Wanna explain why you’re two counties away from your bed and covered in monster juice?”

The youngest girl opened her mouth.

Dean held up a hand. “Don’t. I’m not mad.”

He paused.

“I’m furious.”

“Move. Now.”

Dean’s voice left no room for debate. He jerked his head toward the side door he’d come in through, already sweeping the hallway with sharp, practiced eyes. No EMF readings, no demonic sulfur—but the buzzing energy hadn’t left. Something had been here. And he didn’t like the idea of whatever it was catching up while he was standing around babysitting.

Jo, still pressing a gauze pad to the cut on her shoulder, groaned as she got to her feet. “We handled it.”

“Not the point,” Dean muttered.

The other two girls hesitated. The younger one—curly hair, wide eyes—looked to Jo first, uncertain. The other, darker-haired and watchful, didn’t move until Dean’s gaze landed on her. She tilted her head slightly, as if seeing something in him no one else could.

Dean frowned. “That a problem?”

She blinked once. “No.”

“Then let’s go.”

He herded them down the side hallway, away from the front doors, away from security cameras and whatever part-time rent-a-cop was about to start their night shift. The girls were quiet, but he could feel the exhaustion rolling off them. Not just physical. The kind of tired that comes from carrying too much fear for too long.

He knew that kind of tired well.

Outside, the cold air slapped their skin. Jane shivered in her hoodie. Alicia shoved her hands into her sleeves. Dean unlocked the Impala with a sharp click, motioning for them to get in.

Jo slid into the front without protest—another sign she was rattled. Dean didn't say anything. Not yet. He opened the back door for the other two.

Alicia hesitated just a second too long.

Dean caught it. She looked at the car like it was a test she hadn’t studied for. Her chin lifted, like she was daring him to comment.

He didn’t.

Instead, he held the door and said, “Back seat’s safer.”

She blinked. “Okay.”

Jane followed her in, still quiet, still staring. Dean could feel her eyes on him like a tickle between the shoulder blades. Not suspicious. Just… studying.

He slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. Baby rumbled to life, warm and familiar.

A few blocks passed before anyone spoke.

Jo sighed, leaning her head back against the seat. “Ash snitched, huh?”

“He panicked,” Dean said. “Said if Ellen got home and found you gone, she’d skin him and make a lampshade.”

Jo smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “She probably would.”

Dean glanced sideways. “You okay?”

She nodded. “We’re okay.”

“You bleed on my seats, we’re gonna have a problem.”

That earned him a ghost of a smile.

From the back, Alicia cleared her throat. “So… you’re the Dean Winchester?”

Dean met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Depends. You planning to stake me?”

Her eyes went wide. “No! No—I mean. I just… I’ve heard of you. A little. From uh—Jo.”

“Relax,” Dean said, voice dropping to something gentler. “I’m not gonna bite.”

Jane spoke up, voice soft but certain. “You’re different.”

Dean blinked. “Most people say ‘taller on TV.’”

“No. Not like that.” She leaned forward a little. “You glow. Not like normal people. Not even like Jo. It’s loud. Sharp. Like lightning under your skin.”

He kept his face neutral, but something clenched in his gut.

He’d seen that look before—usually from prophets, kids too sensitive to the divine. She wasn’t lying. She was seeing something.

And he had no idea what she was.

“What's your name?” he asked.

“Jane.”

“Got a last name, Jane?”

“Not really.”

That landed like a stone in the silence. Jo shot him a quick glance. Alicia stared at the window.

“Alright,” Dean said eventually. “Well, Jane, I don’t know what you’ve been through, but you did good tonight.”

Her mouth parted slightly. Not surprised—stunned.

Dean didn’t press. He just drove.

By the time they hit the outskirts of town, Jo was half-asleep against the window. Alicia was sitting ramrod straight, clearly trying not to nod off. Jane was still alert—too alert for a girl who should’ve been passed out like the others.

“Where are we going?” she asked quietly.

“Batcave,” Dean said. “Safe. Warded, sealed, way off the grid. You’ll be safe there for the night.”

Alicia perked up a little. “Is that where you live?”

Dean gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Close enough. Got a couple kids I watch over. They’re, uh… special cases.”

“Like us?”

That pulled a soft grunt from him. “Like everyone, far as I’m concerned.”

Alicia studied him from the corner of her eye. “You don’t act like I thought a hunter would.”

Dean arched an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. I thought you’d be meaner.”

Jo snorted, eyes still closed. “Give it time.”

Dean chuckled despite himself. “She’s not wrong. I can be. Especially when I find out three kids decided to solo a cursed object without backup or salt rounds.”

“We didn’t solo it,” Alicia mumbled. “We teamed up.”

Dean didn’t respond. Just nodded once, like he was filing that away.

Behind him, Jane finally let out a long breath. Not relief. Resignation. But it sounded like the first breath she’d taken in a long time that didn’t come with a sharp edge of fear.

Dean tightened his grip on the wheel.

He didn’t know who these girls were yet—not completely. But he knew what they were.

They were his.

Whether they knew it or not, whether he liked it or not.

And Dean Winchester didn’t let his people go unprotected.

Dean drove in silence, hands steady on the wheel, but his mind was nowhere near the road.

He hadn’t meant to bring them with him.

That hadn’t been the plan.

The plan—if you could call it that—had been to find Jo, drag her home, chew her out, and maybe drop off the other two wherever they belonged.

Some half-assed college dorm or a safehouse with more adults than teenage nerves.

Not… this.

Not them sitting in the Impala—tired, scraped up, barely holding themselves together—and definitely not the thought forming in the back of his head that maybe the safest place tonight wasn’t anywhere but the bunker.

Jo was half-asleep in the front seat, legs pulled up, head tilted toward the window like she was trying not to sink too far into her guilt. He’d said maybe three words to her since they left the campus, and every one of them landed heavier than she wanted to carry. She knew how Dean worked. He didn’t yell unless he was scared. Quiet Dean meant he was really pissed—or really hurt.

This was somewhere in the middle. And Jo knew it.

In the backseat, Jane was still watching him. Not scared. Not suspicious. Just watching. Like she could read every shift of tension in his shoulders, every twist in the knot forming under his ribs. Like she knew he was holding back a thousand instincts at once.

And Alicia—hell, the kid looked like she’d rather be bleeding out than look weak in front of a stranger. She kept her posture military-straight, her eyes flicking between the road and the rearview like she was waiting for a test and didn’t want to miss it.

Dean kept driving.

He told himself he’d find a motel.

A church basement, maybe. Somewhere neutral. Somewhere the girls could crash without risking anything. Without seeing Jesse and Jack. Without getting caught up in his real life—the messy, cosmic, dangerous one. The one that had already taken too much from him to risk losing more.

But each mile made that plan feel flimsier.

Because Jo was hurt. Alicia was shaking under that practiced calm. And Jane—

Dean didn’t even know what Jane was.

But something inside him did.

She didn’t set off his alarms. She didn’t smell like werewolf or vampire or witch. But there was power in her. Coiled. Untrained. Quiet—but deep. Like a still lake that could swallow a forest if you stepped in wrong.

Dean knew danger. Knew weapons.

Jane wasn’t a threat. Not yet.

But she was something.

And if anyone else had found her—any hunter—they might’ve put a bullet between her eyes before asking questions.

Same with Jesse. Same with Jack.

Same with any kid too strange, too bright, too other.

Dean gritted his teeth.

This was why the bunker had stayed a secret.

This was why even most of his old friends didn’t know about the boys.

Hunters weren’t always the good guys. Not when things got complicated. Not when the lines blurred and morality turned gray.

But tonight, the bunker wasn’t just a fallback.

It was the only place he could guarantee was safe. No matter what—or who—these girls were.

He glanced at the clock. Midnight creeping up. The roads were empty, the Kansas night stretching out dark and quiet around them.

He exhaled slowly and made a turn he hadn’t meant to.

Jo stirred. “We’re not heading to a motel?”

“Nope.”

She blinked sleepily. “So where are we going?”

Dean kept his eyes on the road. “Somewhere safe.”

Jo didn’t argue. That alone told him how wiped she was.

Behind him, Jane leaned forward. “You weren’t going to take us there at first.” she added, “You changed your mind.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean muttered. “Plans change.”

Alicia spoke up, voice thin but trying to sound tough. “Is this a safehouse?”

Dean hesitated. “Sort of.”

“What if we’re not allowed there?”

He looked at her in the mirror. “You’re with me. That’s all that matters.”

That seemed to land harder than he expected. Alicia sat back like she didn’t know what to do with that answer.

Jane smiled, small and quiet. “Thanks.”

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat and drove on.

...

The road ended at a dead stretch of woods, and the Impala rolled up to a rusted fence hidden behind thick brush. Dean got out, pried open the gate, then guided Baby down the dirt path until the old bunker door loomed into view.

To the girls, it probably looked like nothing. A concrete mound with iron doors and no signage.

To Dean, it was the last real fortress left in the world.

He killed the engine.

Jo sat up straighter, eyes clearing. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah.”

Alicia looked up at the structure. “What is this place?”

Dean opened his door. “You’ll see.”

He led them inside—down metal steps, through layers of ancient security and steel doors. The lights flickered on with a low hum, illuminating a space older than any of them, steeped in lore and loss.

It still smelled like gun oil and old books and home.

Footsteps echoed above. Then—

“Dean?” Jack’s voice, light and hopeful. “You’re back!”

Dean turned. “Yeah. Company.”

Jesse appeared beside him, blinking at the girls. “Whoa.”

Jane looked at them, eyes wide. “He's like me.”

Dean glanced at her.

She hadn’t said what she was.

And yet—she knew.

He felt his breath catch.

Jack waved shyly. “Hi.”

Jane smiled, more genuine now. “Hi.”

Dean looked at the three girls—their exhaustion, their bruises, the way they hesitated before stepping fully into the light.

Then he looked at the boys—their innocence, their weirdness, their trust.

And finally, at the bunker itself. The ancient safe haven he’d spent so long keeping to himself.

Maybe it was time to stop keeping it for just himself.

Maybe this was what it was meant for.

Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Alright,” he said. “Ground rules. No summoning. No spell duels. No wandering off into cursed vaults. And no stealing my pie.”

Jo smirked.

Jane nodded solemnly.

Alicia just whispered, “You have pie?”

Dean sighed again.

It begins.

Dean let the girls crash in one of the spare rooms. He handed them a pile of towels, three sets of sleep clothes, and gave strict instructions: shower, sleep, no poking around in locked rooms.

Jo mumbled something halfway between “thanks” and “don’t start,” and then all three vanished into the steam of the bunker’s ancient but still-functioning showers.

By the time Dean collapsed on the old leather couch in the war room, it was well past two in the morning. The map table glowed quietly beside him. Files were scattered like breadcrumbs from his half-finished research. But for the first time in what felt like years, the silence didn’t settle on him like a weight.

There were voices in the bunker again. New ones.

That should’ve scared him.

Instead, it felt… right.

...

By 7:30 the next morning, Dean was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, coffee pot full, and griddle sizzling.

He’d been up since six. Couldn’t help it. Dad Mode hit hard when you unexpectedly get three teenage girls.

Bacon was already draining on paper towels. Pancake batter rested in a giant mixing bowl next to a stack of mismatched plates. Eggs cracked into a pan, the familiar rhythm of cooking easing something in his chest.

He was halfway through flipping the second batch of pancakes when Jesse appeared.

“Smells like cholesterol and love,” the kid said cheerfully.

Dean didn’t look up. “Sit. Coffee’s for grown-ups, orange juice for you.”

Jesse stuck out his tongue but grabbed a glass and plopped down at the table, curly hair still tousled from sleep. He had a book tucked under one arm—some old Latin primer—and a sugar packet he was definitely about to pour straight into his juice.

Jack followed a few seconds later, barefoot and blinking, hoodie sleeves twice too long.

“They’re still sleeping?” he asked, yawning.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Let ‘em rest. Long night.”

Jack slid into the seat next to Jesse, already peering toward the hallway. “They’re cool.”

Dean arched an eyebrow. “You said three words to them.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t scream. Not even when Jesse levitated that fork.”

Jesse grinned. “I was subtle!”

“You embedded it in the wall.”

“Quietly.”

Dean sighed. “No powers at breakfast.”

“Too late,” Jesse said, just as the juice pitcher floated off the counter toward him.

Dean snapped his fingers. “Down.”

The pitcher thunked back onto the table. Jack winced in sympathy.

“We’re just excited,” he said. “It’s the first time we’ve met other people who know about all this. Who won’t freak out if we say ‘ghoul’ or ‘warding sigils.’”

Dean paused.

That’s what this was, wasn’t it?

Not chaos for chaos’s sake. Not even showing off.

It was relief. Belonging.

Even his boys—raised safe, loved, protected—were starving for connection.

Dean flipped a pancake and muttered, “You break anything, you’re cleaning it.”

...

By eight-thirty, the smell of bacon finally dragged Jo into the kitchen. She looked like she’d slept in a tornado—hair damp, hoodie misbuttoned, and an expression somewhere between confused and emotionally hungover.

Dean slid a plate in front of her without a word.

She nodded. That was as good as “thanks” in Jo-speak.

Alicia showed up five minutes later, much more composed—though her shirt was clearly tucked inside out, and she kept darting glances at the symbols etched into the walls.

Jane came last. Fresh-faced. Barefoot. Eyes quiet but curious, like she was still trying to decide if this was a dream or some kind of very strange afterlife.

Jesse and Jack watched them all like feral puppies being introduced to new pack members.

Dean braced himself.

“So…” Jesse said, chin in hand, “you guys fight monsters?”

Alicia blinked. “I mean… kinda?”

“What kind?” Jack asked, leaning forward eagerly.

Jo narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

Jesse leaned dramatically across the table. “Because we’ve only read about real fieldwork. Dean won’t let us do anything cool.”

Jack nodded solemnly. “We’ve been stuck in kindergarten. They think Jesse’s magic is just really creative coloring.”

“I melted a glue stick with my mind,” Jesse added proudly. “The art teacher cried.”

Alicia nearly choked on her juice. Jane looked fascinated.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “I give you bacon and this is how you repay me?”

“We’re bonding,” Jesse said.

“Don’t encourage them,” Dean told the girls. “They don’t need help being menaces.”

Jo was smirking now. “Pretty sure they’re your fault.”

“Genetically? No.”

“Cosmically? Absolutely.”

Dean opened his mouth, closed it, and finally just shoved more pancakes onto everyone’s plates. At least if their mouths were full, they’d talk less.

It didn’t work.

...

By nine-fifteen, Jesse was giving Alicia an impromptu lesson in hex bag theory using condiments, Jane was asking Jack if auras ever made music (his answer was a fascinated sometimes), and Jo was leaning back in her chair, finally looking like the weight on her shoulders had loosened.

Dean sipped his coffee, leaning against the counter, watching it all unfold with a mixture of dread and reluctant warmth.

He’d give them another hour.

Then—questions.

He still didn’t know where Jane came from.

Didn’t know what Alicia’s magic-free status meant for a girl raised in a witch house.

Didn’t know what Jo had been thinking, going after a cursed video alone.

But right now, they were safe. Fed. Laughing.

And Dean Winchester would give them that—for now.

Even if it cost him his last bottle of syrup.

The others were still in the kitchen—Jesse had declared it Training Hour and was now balancing a spoon on his forehead while trying to explain demon traps to Alicia using pancake crumbs. Jack was humming quietly, eyes closed, probably trying to map Jane’s aura in colors only he could see.

Dean let them have their chaos.

But Jo? Jo he pulled aside.

The war room was quiet, the only light coming from the table’s gentle map-glow. Dean didn’t sit. He stood with his arms crossed, eyes on the girl who looked far too much like a blend of youth and stubborn scars for her age.

Jo leaned against the long table, arms folded, eyes wary but not defiant—yet.

“You wanted to talk,” she said.

“No,” Dean replied, voice low but firm. “You need to listen.”

That made her straighten.

He let the silence stretch a second too long before continuing.

“Our deal,” he said, “was simple. You finish school. I talk to Ellen about letting you hunt. Not before. Not on your own. Not sneaking out at night.”

Jo opened her mouth. Dean raised a hand.

“No. Not this time. You don’t get to talk your way out.”

She closed it, jaw tightening.

Dean took a slow step forward. “Those girls? They’re not like you. Jane doesn’t even know what she is yet, and Alicia—she’s trying so hard to prove she’s worth something, she’d jump in front of a train if she thought it made her a ‘real hunter.’”

His voice dropped even lower.

“Their lives were in your hands, Jo.”

“I know,” she said, quiet.

“No. You don’t.”

Dean’s voice cracked, and for a split second, Jo saw the flash of fear behind his anger—the kind of fear only people who’ve lost everything know.

“You think I don’t get it? You think I wasn’t like you?” he said, pacing now, anger edged with hurt. “Sneaking out when I was barely older than you, taking stupid risks because I wanted to prove I was ready. That I was useful. That I could help.”

He turned on her, pointing.

“I had Sam - which he was still younger than me, he wasn't ready. You had no one. You led two kids—kids who weren’t ready—into a cursed nest of a nightmare. And if you’d died out there…”

He stopped, breathing hard.

“If you’d died,” he said again, quieter, “Ellen would never come back from that. Neither would I.”

Jo looked away.

“I didn’t ask them to come with me,” she said. “I tried to do it alone.”

Dean stared at her.

“And when they showed up? You didn’t turn them away. You let them follow. You let them risk themselves. That’s what leaders do. Or bad leaders.”

She flinched.

“Good leaders? They protect their people. They know when to say no. They walk away from the fight if the cost’s too high.”

“I thought I could handle it.”

“You couldn’t.”

He let that word hit the floor between them like a hammer.

“You got lucky, Jo. That’s all. Jane pulled your ass out of the fire. And luck runs out.”

She swallowed hard. Her voice came small. “It wasn’t all luck. We figured it out. Together.”

Dean’s eyes softened just a fraction, but he shook his head.

“I’m not saying you didn’t do good. You did. But you did it wrong. You gambled with lives that weren’t yours to risk.”

Jo stared at the glowing lines on the map table. Her fingers curled around the edge, white-knuckled.

“You always treat me like I’m more than just a kid,” she said. “You train me like a real hunter. You talk to me like one. But the second I act like it—”

“This isn’t about respect,” Dean interrupted. “This is about timing. You’re good, Jo. I know that. You’re better than I was at your age. But that doesn’t mean you’re ready to lead. Or that you know when to back off. Being a hunter isn’t about proving you’re tough.”

He took a breath. “It’s about knowing when to walk away.”

Jo didn’t answer right away.

When she finally did, her voice was hoarse.

“I didn’t want them to get hurt. I didn’t mean for them to—”

“I know,” Dean said. “But ‘meaning well’ doesn’t stop people from dying.”

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“Look. I’m not grounding you from life. But this?” He gestured to the bunker, the situation, the bigger picture. “This isn’t a game. Those girls are in it now—whether they’re ready or not. And if they’re gonna be around, you sure as hell aren’t going to be running solo missions with them behind my back.”

Jo nodded, slow and heavy.

Dean stepped closer, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m not mad at you. I’m scared, Jo. I’ve buried too many people I care about. I’m not adding you to that list.”

Her chin trembled just a little.

“I didn’t want to screw it up.”

“You didn’t screw it up,” Dean said. “You just forgot that you don’t have to carry everything alone.”

She sniffed, blinking fast.

Dean didn’t push.

Just squeezed her shoulder once, then let go.

“Alright. Now go help Jesse clean up the kitchen. And make sure Jack doesn’t give Jane another lesson in ‘angel flight’ using the laundry chute.”

Jo gave a weak laugh. She lingered at the doorway, then looked back. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks… for not yelling.”

“I’m saving that for when Ellen gets back.”

Jo winced. “Right.”

She disappeared into the hallway, and Dean leaned back against the table, letting out a breath that felt like it’d been stuck in his ribs all night.

She was still standing.

That’s what mattered.

Dean found her in the library.

Jane sat cross-legged on one of the long tables, books open around her like a nest. Lore texts, anatomy diagrams, angelic symbols drawn in her shaky but curious hand. Jack must’ve brought them—his favorite Nephilim primers from the restricted shelves. She held a pen in one hand, not writing, just turning it over between her fingers.

She looked up when he approached but didn’t flinch. Just watched.

Quiet kid. Still waters.

Dean recognized that kind of quiet. It was the kind that came from not being seen for too long.

He grabbed the chair across from her and sat down slow, arms folded, gaze steady.

“You get some sleep?”

Jane nodded.

“You eat?”

She nodded again, then hesitated. “Bacon was good.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “Thanks. Feeding small armies of supernatural disasters is kinda my thing now.”

That earned him a faint smile. It didn’t last long.

She looked down at the book in front of her—open to a page labeled “Nephilim: Titans of the world”—and went still again.

Dean leaned forward. Rested his arms on the table.

“So,” he said. “Jack talk to you?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“I asked him what he was. He told me. I asked him what I was. He… sort of stared at me like I was made of starlight.”

Dean chuckled under his breath. “Yeah. That sounds like Jack.”

Jane touched the page. “Is it true?”

“Yeah,” Dean said gently. “You’re a Nephilim.”

She nodded again. Like she’d already known—somewhere deep down.

Then she looked him in the eye.

“Am I dangerous?”

Dean didn’t answer right away.

He let the question settle, weighed it carefully, made sure when he spoke it wasn’t from instinct or fear or habit.

“No,” he said finally. “Not just because you exist.”

Jane tilted her head. “That’s not really a no.”

Dean leaned back, looking at her—really looking. Thin shoulders, guarded eyes, that stillness in her that wasn’t quite human anymore.

“You’re powerful,” he said. “That’s not your fault. That’s just fact. But power doesn’t make you dangerous. Choices do.”

“Even if I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“Especially then.”

He stood, pacing slowly between the chairs, voice steady.

“You’ve been healing people. Seeing auras. Picking up on energy no human’s supposed to sense. That’s the angel blood. It’s in you, whether you asked for it or not. You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t choose to be born this way.”

Jane looked at her hands. “But I am.”

Dean stopped beside the table, crossed his arms.

“You think I haven’t met people who used their powers to hurt? Who were dangerous?”

She didn’t answer.

“I have,” he said. “Hell, I’ve been one. Not with powers, but with guns, blades, rage. I’ve made bad calls. Let fear run the show. But you? You saved Jo and Alicia. You walked into a cursed nightmare and came out the other side.”

“Because I healed fast.”

Dean shook his head.

“No. Because you chose to help. That’s what matters. Not the wings or the healing or the weird sixth-sense stuff. That was your choice.”

Jane was silent for a while, processing.

Then: “Are you afraid of me?”

Dean didn’t flinch.

“Not even a little.”

She blinked. “But Jack said some hunters—”

“Yeah,” Dean cut in. “Some hunters shoot first, ask never. That’s how I was raised. Monsters are monsters. Black and white. But I’ve lived long enough to know the world doesn’t work that way.”

He softened.

“Jack was the first Nephilim I ever met. I didn’t handle it well. I was scared. He’s family now. He’s… my kid. And you?”

He nodded toward her.

“You’re not alone anymore, Jane. You hear me? You’re not some freak in the dark. You’ve got people now. People who get it.”

Jane’s throat bobbed. “You don’t even know me.”

Dean crouched down beside her seat, eye-level now.

“I know enough. I know what it looks like when a kid carries too much. I know what it means when someone like Jack calls you bright. And I know what it feels like to be scared of yourself.”

Jane’s voice was barely a whisper. “What if I mess up?”

“You will,” Dean said. “So will I. So will Jack, Jesse, Jo, Alicia—hell, everyone in that kitchen right now is gonna screw up at some point. The trick is learning from it. Owning it.”

He stood, stretched, then offered her a hand.

“I’m not gonna lock you up or send you to angel boot camp. But if you’re staying, you train. You learn control. You figure out what you can do, safely. With supervision. Got it?”

Jane stared at his hand, then took it.

Her fingers were cold, but her grip was steady.

Dean helped her to her feet.

“Welcome to Team We-Don’t-Explode-Things-Without-Warning.”

Jane gave him a small smile. “Terrible team name.”

“We’re workshopping it.”

He clapped a hand on her shoulder and guided her toward the hall.

“You hungry again? We’ve got leftover pancakes.”

“I think Jesse said something about syrup sigils?”

“Right. I’m shutting that down before the table starts glowing.”

Jane walked beside him in silence for a few steps, then asked, “You really think I can be… good?”

Dean looked down at her, something tightening behind his ribs.

“I know you can.”

And he did.

Because this time, he wouldn’t let fear call the shots.

Dean found Alicia in the garage.

She wasn’t touching anything—just sitting on the cold metal bumper of a vintage Impala knockoff, legs dangling, eyes scanning the rows of tools and parts like she was building something in her head. Her fingers moved without thinking, tracing sigils in the air—small ones. Protective wards. Witch work.

She noticed him, of course. Had probably felt him before he stepped into the room. Smart kid.

“Don’t worry,” she said, not looking up. “I’m not casting anything.”

Dean leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Didn’t say you were.”

She glanced at him. “You were thinking it.”

He gave her a small shrug. “I think a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I’m always right.”

Silence stretched, the good kind. The kind that didn’t need filling yet.

Then Dean pushed off the doorframe and walked over, stopping a few feet away.

“You okay?”

Alicia gave a tight nod.

“You hungry?”

Another nod.

He raised an eyebrow. “And yet here you are, sitting in a garage instead of helping Jesse and Jack turn the kitchen into a sugar explosion.”

“They’re…” She hesitated. “A lot.”

Dean grinned. “Yeah. Welcome to the bunker.”

He waited a beat, then let the grin fade.

“You and I should talk.”

She stiffened, just a little.

“I didn’t break anything,” she said quickly. “Didn’t sneak out, didn’t summon anything, didn’t even light a candle without a fire-safe setup.”

Dean held up a hand. “Hey. Slow down. You’re not in trouble.”

She blinked, surprised. “Oh.”

He nodded toward the car. “Mind if I sit?”

She shrugged. He took that as a yes and settled beside her, the Impala’s twin groaning a little under the weight.

Dean looked ahead, not at her, and spoke like he was talking to the air between them.

“I read your notes. The ones you left on the Marr case. Good instincts. Good recall. The binding spell? Clever.”

Alicia sat up straighter, just a bit. “Thanks.”

“You’ve been keeping up with your brother’s training, huh?”

Her jaw clenched. “Someone has to.”

Dean caught the flash of bitterness and didn’t press yet. Just nodded slowly.

“You know a lot. Probably more than most hunters I’ve met when it comes to witch lore. You’re sharp, quick on your feet. You handled yourself better than I expected for someone your age.”

Then his tone shifted—not hard, but heavy. Solid.

“But Alicia? You’re fourteen.”

She looked at him sharply. “So?”

“So,” Dean said, “you’re not a hunter.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You just said—”

“I said you were smart,” he cut in. “I said you had instincts. That’s different. Hunting’s not about knowing a book cover to cover. It’s about walking into the dark when the rules stop working. It’s about blood and choices and sometimes losing more than you win.”

He let that sit.

“You’ve read the lore. But you haven’t lived it. Not yet.”

Alicia crossed her arms. “You think I can’t.”

“I think you shouldn’t—not alone. Not untrained. Not when you’re still trying to prove something to your family.”

That hit. She flinched like he’d slapped her.

Dean softened. “I’m not judging. I know what it’s like to want to be seen. To try and be what everyone around you is just… born as.”

Alicia’s lips parted. “I’m not magic. My mom is. My brother is.”

Dean nodded.

“You think that makes you less.”

She looked away.

“It doesn’t,” he said. “It just makes you different. Doesn’t mean you don’t belong. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean you’ve got to earn your place by running headfirst into death traps.”

Her voice cracked. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Dean looked at her—really looked. The way she sat too still, the way her fingers kept moving like they needed to be useful or they'd lose meaning.

“You don’t have to do anything to prove you matter, kid. Least of all get yourself killed.”

Alicia sniffed but didn’t cry. She wouldn’t—not in front of him. 

“I want to learn,” she said quietly. “Not just spells. Real stuff. Real hunting. I want to help. And I want to survive it.”

Dean nodded slowly.

“I believe you.”

She glanced at him, hope flickering.

And then: “Will you train me?”

Dean paused, and the hope dimmed before he even spoke.

“I’d like to,” he said. “But I can’t. Not without your mom’s say-so.”

Alicia stiffened. “Why not?”

“Because,” he said gently, “you’re still her kid. And she gets a say in what kind of life you walk into.”

“She barely looks at me,” Alicia muttered. “She trains Max. She forgets I’m even there half the time.”

“That’s her mistake,” Dean said, sharper now. “Don’t make it yours too by trying to get her attention the hard way.”

Alicia didn’t answer.

Dean sighed. He looked her in the eye.

“I’m not shutting the door. But I’m not opening it until she knows it’s happening. You want in? Talk to her. Let her see who you really are. Not just what you think she wants.”

Alicia bit her lip.

Dean stood.

“But while you’re here? You’re part of the crew. You help research, you train in the gym, you learn what you can safely. And you eat my pancakes.”

Alicia smirked. “Even the ones with bacon inside?”

“Especially those.”

She slid off the bumper, standing beside him.

“Thanks,” she said. “For not laughing.”

“I don’t laugh at courage,” Dean said. “Not the real kind.”

And with that, he slung an arm lightly over her shoulders and guided her back toward the chaos and comfort of the bunker kitchen.

The bunker’s war room hadn’t seen real war in a long time, but today, it echoed with something heavier than any apocalypse: disappointed parents.

Dean sat at the long table, phone in one hand, coffee in the other. The girls were out of earshot, but just barely. He could hear Jo pacing in the hallway like a caged tiger. Alicia was probably gripping a textbook somewhere hard enough to bend it. Jane sat silent in the corner, tucked into herself like she was bracing for a storm she didn’t even get to be part of.

Dean had already made the call. The only thing left was the fallout.

First came Ellen.

Her voice exploded through the speaker like thunder through a whiskey glass.

“You’re telling me my kid’s been sneaking out for a week while Ash covered for her dumb ass, nearly got eaten by an art project from hell, and you’re just now CALLING ME?!”

Dean didn’t flinch.

“Yeah, that about sums it up.”

“Dammit, Dean! You told me you’d watch her—”

“I was,” he said. “Watching. Not chaining her to a radiator.”

“Don’t you dare get smart with me.”

“I’m not,” he said, calm and low. “I’m being honest.”

That gave her a beat of pause.

“Ellen,” he continued, “I didn’t know. I found out after the fact. If I had, I’d have stopped it before it started. And you know that.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was loaded.

He pressed on. “I got the call from Ash, I tracked her down, and I brought all three of them back in one piece. I’m telling you now because it’s the right thing, and because you deserve to know everything.”

“You damn right I do.” Her voice was steel now, controlled but shaking. “She’s seventeen, Dean. She’s still a kid. If she’d died out there—”

“I know,” Dean said quietly. “Trust me. I know.”

Another beat passed. When Ellen spoke again, it was quieter, but no less firm.

“Where is she?”

“Outside the room. Listening.”

“Put her on.”

He stood, took the phone into the hallway. He didn’t hear the words that followed. He didn’t need to. He’d heard that voice before. From Bobby. From John. From himself. Love and fury in equal measure.

When he came back inside, he’d barely sat down before his other phone rang.

Tasha Banes.

Now this was going to be a different kind of storm.

He answered. “Tasha.”

There was no yelling. No explosion.

Just a voice like black ice: measured, clipped, lethal.

“You have my daughter.”

“Safe and sound.”

“Explain.”

Dean inhaled slowly. “I didn’t know Alicia was involved until after the fact. She met up with Jo, and then Jane. They investigated a cursed mural, dealt with it, and nearly got themselves killed in the process.”

“Jo Harvelle,” Tasha said, voice cool. “The Ellen Harvelle’s daughter.”

“Yeah.”

“And Jane?”

“She’s…” Dean paused. “She's not connected to either of us. She’s in the system.”

“I see.”

Dean pushed forward. “I’m not calling to make excuses. I’m calling because I’m not going to hide this from you. Alicia acted without telling you. It was brave, but reckless. They were lucky.”

“And if they hadn’t been?”

“Then we’d be having a very different call.”

There was silence on the other end. Not a pause—just Tasha thinking.

“I raised Alicia and Max to understand our world,” she said eventually. “But I never trained her to be a hunter.”

“She wants it,” Dean said. “Wants to prove herself. She knows her lore better than some adults I’ve met.”

“I’m aware of her talents,” Tasha said dryly.

“She’s not reckless,” Dean continued. “But she is hungry. For approval. And she’s got too much heart to sit still while someone gets hurt.”

More silence.

Then: “And what do you intend to do now?”

Dean glanced toward the hallway.

“I’m sending her back. I’ll make sure she gets home safe. Same with Jo. As for training—nothing’s happening unless you say it does.”

“And if I say no?”

“She doesn’t train here. That’s the deal.”

A long, long pause.

“I appreciate the honesty, Dean. Most wouldn’t have called.”

“I’m not most.”

“No,” Tasha said. “You’re not.”

And then the line went dead.

Dean exhaled and set both phones down on the table. He didn’t move for a moment, just let the silence settle. Then came the shuffle of feet outside the door.

He turned to find all three girls in the threshold. Jo’s arms were crossed tight, jaw clenched. Alicia’s face was pale, eyes flickering with panic beneath the surface. 

“You called them,” Jo said flatly.

“Damn right I did.”

“You said—”

“I said I’d handle it,” Dean interrupted. “And I did. I don’t lie to parents, not anymore. You scared the hell out of them.”

“They never would’ve found out if you hadn’t said anything,” Alicia muttered.

Dean looked at her—really looked.

“You want to be treated like hunters?” he said. “Then act like it. First rule of the job is responsibility. You screw up, you own it. You don’t sneak off and pray nobody finds out.”

Jo opened her mouth, but he cut her off gently.

“I’m not mad at you. I’m not kicking anyone out. But I am drawing a line. You don’t get to risk your lives in secret anymore. You want in on this life? You do it right. You do it safe. And yeah—your parents get a say.”

The room was quiet. Not out of agreement—just realization.

Dean softened his voice.

“I’ve been on both sides of this, girls. I’ve been the kid, making choices nobody could stop. And I’ve been the one left holding a bloody jacket, wondering how I missed the signs.”

He stood, running a hand through his hair.

“So yeah. I made the call. You’re pissed at me? Good. That means you’re alive.”

And with that, he walked past them, down the hall—toward the kitchen, toward Jesse and Jack, toward the next fire that needed putting out.

Behind him, the girls stood silent.

Alive. Angry. And growing up fast. 

Chapter Text

The first to show was Ellen.

She arrived like a thunderstorm rolling over scorched earth—dust in her hair, boots caked in road grime, and shoulders drawn taut with fury.

She didn’t knock.

She didn’t have to.

The steel door groaned open, and Ellen Harvelle walked into the Bunker like she owned it.

Dean heard her boots before he saw her.

Heavy, purposeful steps.

A stomp of rage wrapped in maternal panic.

She stopped dead the moment she entered the war room.

“What the hell is this place?” she asked, eyes sweeping over the stone walls, glowing map table, and the low hum of a place long buried from the world.

Dean stood from where he’d been leaning, trying not to hover too much over the kids. “Home,” he said simply.

Ellen gave him a look like she wasn’t sure if he was serious or just full of crap. “Looks like a fallout shelter.”

“Kinda is,” Dean allowed, with a half-smile. “Cold War bunker. Secret. Secure. Stocked. It’s where I’ve been setting up base.”

She took a few slow steps in, nostrils flaring. “Well, ain’t that cozy.”

Then Jo appeared from around the corner—still in her worn jeans and flannel, looking younger than usual, more like seventeen than the hardened hunter she tried so hard to be.

“Mom—” Jo started, voice cautious.

“Don’t you ‘Mom’ me, Joanna Harvelle.” Ellen spun, eyes blazing. “What the hell were you thinking? You could’ve died.”

Jo flinched, but didn’t back down. “We had backup.”

Ellen’s voice cut sharper. “You had nothing—no adults, no plan worth a damn, just a death wish and two kids even younger than you!”

Dean cleared his throat, stepping forward. “She did save lives. They all did.”

Ellen didn’t look at him, not right away.

Just kept staring down her daughter. But then her eyes shifted, met his, hard as stone. “Don’t defend her. You didn’t know they went until it was done, right?”

Dean hesitated, then nodded. “Right.”

“Then we’re good.”

Dean backed off.

This was between them.

Without another word, Ellen closed the distance between her and Jo in two strides and pulled her daughter into a bone-crushing hug. Jo let out a startled breath, arms pinned to her sides.

“You scared the hell outta me,” Ellen muttered into her hair, voice thick now. “You goddamn fool.”

“I’m sorry,” Jo whispered.

Then Ellen shoved her back, hands firm on her shoulders. “I don’t want sorry. I want you alive.”

Jo looked down, shoulders drawn in. “We handled it.”

“Not the point,” Ellen snapped. “You don’t get to decide when your life’s worth gambling. That’s my job—least until you stop making dumbass decisions like this one.”

Silence hung heavy for a moment.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. The war room felt too small, too full of ghosts and regrets.

Then Ellen sighed, stepping back, eyes scanning the room again. She spotted Jesse curled up on the couch with Jack, both watching from a safe distance, too quiet. She stared at them for a beat—two more kids someone should’ve been watching.

“Who’s the tall one?” she asked quietly, gesturing toward Jesse.

“Jesse,” Dean said. “A mischief kid.”

“And the little guy?”

“Jack. The sweet one.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So you’re collecting orphans now?”

Dean shrugged, half-defensive. “Someone’s gotta keep them alive.”

Ellen crossed her arms. “And that someone’s you.”

“Guess so.”

Ellen was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded, just once. “Fine. But we’re laying down some rules, Winchester. For all of them.”

Jo groaned softly. “Please don’t—”

“Rules, Jo,” Ellen snapped. “You want to be treated like a hunter? Start acting like one who’s got more sense than guts.”

Jo bit her tongue, eyes flitting toward the boys on the couch. “We really did help people, though. Ask Dean.”

Ellen sighed, running a hand over her face. “Helping people’s great. Surviving it is better. And telling your mother before you run off to play hero? That’s basic courtesy.”

Dean looked between them, tension finally beginning to crack into something a little softer. He could tell Jo wasn’t proud, not really. She’d scared herself, too. But she stood taller for it, the way a kid does after their first real brush with mortality. And Ellen… she was here. That meant something.

More than Jo probably realized.

The heavy metal door creaked open again.

This time it was Tasha Barnes who stepped inside.

She moved with a grace that seemed almost unnatural—tall, statuesque, draped in black from head to toe. Her long coat swept the floor like a shadow trailing behind her. Silver rings glittered on her fingers, catching the dim light as she folded her arms. There was a chill in her presence, a quiet authority that made the air itself feel cooler.

Her sharp eyes scanned the war room once before resting on Dean.

“This place is layered in wards,” she said, voice calm but edged with appraisal. “Not recent. Enochian, Druidic, some older than that. You live here?”

Dean shrugged, a trace of defensiveness in his voice. “I maintain it.”

She didn’t push further. Instead, her gaze flicked down the hall.

There, sitting with her back pressed against the wall, was Alicia. She was small, barely fourteen, eyes fixed on a scuff mark on the concrete floor. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap, fingers pale.

The moment Tasha’s presence registered, Alicia stiffened.

“You went on a hunt,” Tasha said quietly, stepping closer.

Alicia nodded, barely meeting her eyes.

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to understand.”

Tasha’s lips pressed together. “Understand what?”

A long pause. Alicia swallowed hard. “Understand this side of the supernatural, his side.”

Tasha inhaled slowly, eyes softening for a flicker of a moment.

“And now you do?”

“Some of it.”

Without waiting for more, Tasha’s tone shifted—calm but absolute.

“We’re leaving.”

“Wait—”

Tasha’s voice didn’t rise, but there was no room for argument. “No. You’re coming home. We’ll talk there. This isn’t the place.”

Alicia’s eyes finally met hers—fear, relief, and something unspoken all tangled together.

Dean watched the exchange, his jaw tight. He understood. This wasn’t about punishment or lecturing. It was about protecting a kid who’d already lost too much.

Tasha turned her cool gaze back to him. "Thank you for keeping her alive."

"That’s the job."

Tasha nodded, just once, then moved to gather Alicia.

“Let’s get you out of this bunker for a while,” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper. “Safe doesn’t always mean walls and wards.”

Alicia hesitated, then let herself be led away, shoulders relaxing slightly as she followed.

Dean stayed behind, watching them go.

The Bunker was quiet again—but the weight of what had just happened settled deep into its stone walls.

Ellen lingered after the others had scattered.

Jo had finally crashed—curled up in one of the bunker’s spare rooms, wrapped in too many blankets, boots kicked off but jeans still on, like she’d only meant to sit down for a minute. Her breath had evened out. The fire behind her eyes had dulled into exhaustion.

Dean stood just outside the doorway, shoulder pressed to the wall, arms crossed. He didn’t say anything when Ellen stepped up beside him.

“She’s asleep,” he said after a moment, voice low.

Ellen nodded, watching her daughter through the half-open door. “About time.”

There was a long pause.

Then Ellen spoke, her voice softer than usual—measured. “You’re collecting them.”

Dean turned his head. “What?”

“Kids. Strays. All of them. Hell, Jo. You're her second home, whether you want it or not.”

Dean didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t have to.

The silence said enough.

Ellen sighed, looking around the corridor, the low stone walls, the faint hum of the lights overhead. “This place… it’s something. Big. Warded. Old. You built this up already?”

“Nope,” Dean said. “But I'm making it my home. It’s coming together.”

“Hmm.” She rubbed the back of her neck, frowning like she was still trying to figure out if she approved. “I don’t like it. Feels like a fortress.”

“It kinda is,” Dean said. “Needed a place to keep them safe.”

Ellen’s eyes narrowed, not unkindly. “You think you can keep them all safe?”

Dean looked down the hall toward where Jesse and Jack had disappeared, still talking excitedly about building bunk beds or teaching Jane how to sword fight with a plunger. Then back at Jo’s sleeping form.

“I have to try.”

Ellen exhaled through her nose. “I don’t hate it either,” she admitted grudgingly. “It’s just… they look at you like you’re some kind of hero.”

Dean’s jaw tensed, his gaze darkening. “I’m not.”

“I know that,” Ellen said. “But they don’t. Not yet.”

Another beat passed.

“Don’t get my kid killed,” she said, voice steely now, grounded again in that fierce, mother-grizzly place he remembered from the Roadhouse days.

“Never planned to,” Dean said quietly.

She nodded once, firm. Then turned and walked off, boots echoing in the hallway.

Dean stood there a little longer.

He wasn’t sure when it had happened—when being a hunter had turned into being the last adult in the room. The one who gave the orders, who fixed the gear, who signed the school forms and patched the wounds and told the half-truths that kept kids from breaking under the weight of what they’d seen.

He hadn’t signed up to be a father.

Jesse bounced on the balls of his feet, his grin practically splitting his face. “Come on, Dean! Jane’s cool. She’s got magic and stuff. We need more people to watch our backs.”

Jack nodded eagerly, eyes shining bright like a kid who just got told he could have ice cream for breakfast. “Yeah! Jane can help us. And I can teach her some spells, maybe!”

Dean raised an eyebrow, watching the two boys trade excited glances. They were a bizarre pair—five-year-olds in stature but carrying the weight of worlds on their shoulders. Jesse with his fiery spark, the mischief barely contained; Jack, the glowing sunshine, always trying to be the light in the dark.

“You guys sound like a couple of puppies begging for a bone,” Dean muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

Jesse jabbed an elbow at Jack. “Puppies? We’re more like wolves. Protectors.”

“Right,” Jack said, folding his hands and looking very serious for someone who still hadn’t quite grasped the whole ‘adult hunter’ thing. “And wolves take care of their pack.”

Dean sighed, rubbing his face. He could feel it creeping in—the shift from tough-as-nails hunter to… Dad. The guy who had to keep everyone alive, keep everyone from hurting themselves, even if it made him sound like a broken record.

“Alright,” he said finally, folding his arms. “You’ve twisted my arm.”

Jesse whooped, pumping his fists. “Yes! See, Dean? We knew you’d come around.”

Jack clapped his hands, grinning like the world was a better place already. “Jane’s one of us now. The pack is growing.”

Dean shook his head but smiled despite himself. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t start calling me ‘Dad’ yet.”

Both boys laughed, but Dean could see it in their eyes—they already thought of him that way.

And maybe, he thought, that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Jane watched everyone else go, her eyes distant and hollow, as if she were looking through the walls rather than at the people leaving. The footsteps faded down the corridor, voices softening, until only the hum of the bunker’s machinery remained.

Jack settled beside her, his presence quiet but steady, a small comfort in the vast loneliness of the room.

Jesse shuffled over next, clutching a juice box and holding it out like a peace offering. “Here. For you.”

Jane blinked, surprised, but accepted it with a faint, almost shy smile.

Dean approached slowly, his voice low and gentle, careful not to startle her. “No one coming for you?”

Jane shook her head, eyes fixed on the tiny pool of light reflecting off the floor. “They’ll just assume I ran.”

Dean’s expression softened. “Do you want to go back?”

Another slow shake of her head.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You can stay here.”

Jack’s face lit up immediately, a hopeful grin breaking across his youthful features. Jesse clapped his hands softly, like they’d just won some quiet battle.

“That’s it?” Jane asked, suspicion lacing her voice.

“That’s it,” Dean said firmly.

“But what if—”

“Then I deal with it,” Dean interrupted gently, eyes steady and unwavering. “The whole school transfer, the new identity. You’re not a stray anymore. Not here. Not ever.”

Jane looked up at him then, as if seeing him for the first time—not just a gruff hunter, but someone willing to fight for her, to keep her safe. A fragile, flickering hope kindled in her chest.

She didn’t say it out loud, but in that moment, she decided maybe this place—the Bunker, the strange new family—could be a home.

Jane looked lighter. Jack was humming. Jesse had invented a game called “Haunted Snakes-and-leaders.”

Dean watched them for a long time.

He put on a record.

The music crackled to life—slow and bluesy.

He closed his eyes.

This wasn’t the future he knew. But it was his now. And he’d be damned if he let anyone take it from him.

Chapter Text

The Bunker was quiet in the early hours before dawn—so quiet it almost didn’t seem real.

Jane sat cross-legged on the floor outside her room, the dim emergency lights casting her in soft yellow shadows. Her arms wrapped tightly around the stuffed rabbit Dean had given her. She didn’t remember falling asleep with it, but the fur on one ear was already worn smooth from how often she clutched it without thinking. The stone floor was cold under her, leeching warmth through her pajama pants. It grounded her in a way she didn’t like. Reminded her she wasn’t supposed to feel safe—not really. That things like this—quiet hallways, warm lighting, something soft to hold—weren’t for girls like her. She wasn’t made for comfort. She shifted the rabbit in her arms, pressing her face to its fabric head. It smelled faintly of detergent and the lavender sachet Dean had put in her drawer. That was another thing: the drawer. The dresser. The room. All of it was hers now, apparently.

The thought made her stomach twist.

It was too quiet. Not like the group home, where the nights were restless and loud: kids sniffling, beds creaking, someone always awake and moving. The air there buzzed with tension. Here, in the Bunker, it buzzed too—but with something unfamiliar. Safety, maybe. Peace.

She didn't know how to live with peace.

She leaned her head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. Somewhere far off in the Bunker, a vent clicked as the heating system adjusted. The sound was mechanical, rhythmic, calming in the way only machines could be. Machines didn’t lie. Didn’t pretend to be kind until it suited them to stop. She understood machines.

A breath caught in her throat. She swallowed it down. She didn’t want to cry—not now, not ever again. Crying never helped. It only made you easier to hurt.

She remembered the group home in ugly flashes: cracked linoleum, chipped paint, the plastic mattress covers that made your skin sweat and your body cold at the same time. The smell of sap and floor cleaner. The way the staff called her “bright” like it was a joke, or a warning, or an insult.

You’re not supposed to get too attached. Not to the things they let you keep, not to the people who might leave. You don’t have things. You survive. That’s it.

The rabbit shifted in her grip as she pulled it closer. She didn’t know why Dean had given it to her—maybe because Jack and Jesse had one, or maybe because she’d lingered too long by the store shelf that day. He hadn’t made a big deal of it. Just handed it to her at checkout, tossed it in with the snacks and books like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did. She hadn't had something soft to hold in years.

She rubbed the fraying ear between her thumb and forefinger, over and over. It helped her breathe, somehow. Helped her remember where she was.

The Bunker smelled different too—cleaner, warmer, like leather and old paper and something faintly strong from the coffee Dean always brewed and forgot. It had layers, like the people who lived here. Nothing in the group home had layers. It was flat and hard and obvious: doors locked tight, cameras in corners, staff who never smiled unless someone was watching.

She didn’t know what to do with kindness. Didn’t trust it. Couldn’t believe it wouldn’t be taken away.

Her room door stood behind her, open just a crack. A slice of warm yellow light from the nightlight spilled into the hallway. Her bed was made. Her bookshelf had real books in it, not water-damaged castoffs. There were clothes in the drawers that actually fit. And there was a rug. A fuzzy purple rug she’d picked herself, because Dean had said: “Pick something you like, kid. It’s your space.”

Your space.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

This didn’t feel like her space. It felt like something she was squatting in. Borrowing. Pretending.

What if they changed their minds?

What if she messed it up?

What if they realized she didn’t belong and asked her to leave?

She pulled her knees tighter to her chest. The rabbit’s head pressed against her chin, and she blinked back the sting in her eyes.

She wanted this to be hers. Wanted to believe it could be. But the wanting itself felt dangerous.

She’d wanted things before. Families. Homes. Safety. All it ever did was hurt.

Behind her, the hallway stretched on—sterile and still, but not unfriendly. The humming of the walls felt like a heartbeat. Steady. Alive.

She listened for footsteps—Dean’s heavy boots, or Jesse’s light shuffles, or Jack humming to himself. Nothing yet. Everyone was asleep.

She wasn’t used to being the only one awake. At the group home, someone was always crying. Screaming. Fighting. Or worse—quiet in the wrong way.

She shifted again, curling tighter, pressing the rabbit to her chest like a shield.

It was a dumb toy, really.

She was sixteen.

She’d survived a hunt.

She could cast spells, throw punches, navigate a world that hated her.

She didn’t need a stuffed animal.

But when she held it, her hands stopped shaking.

Maybe that was enough.

Maybe, for tonight, it could be enough.

***

It started with boxes. Loud ones.

Dean’s voice echoed down the hallway as he hefted the first stack through the door. “Move it, troops! We’re not redecorating a crypt—we’re building a damn room!”

Jack practically vibrated with excitement, hopping in place like a caffeinated rabbit. “Jane, you’re going to love this. We found a lamp shaped like a mushroom! And a fuzzy rug. Oh! And—”

“Let her breathe, kid,” Dean said, dropping the boxes with a thud that rattled the floor.

Jane stood awkwardly just inside the door, arms folded tight across her chest. She didn’t know what to do with her face. Or her hands. Or her heart. It was all moving too fast. All this… stuff.

Jesse came in last, levitating a box with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “I told you we didn’t need to carry everything. Magic, people. Embrace the future.”

The box made a weird tilt mid-air, then shot up and wedged itself firmly against the ceiling.

Dean grunted. “Great. Now it’s furniture. Someone get a broom.”

They all laughed, even Jane. A little. She kept her smile tucked behind a half-exhale, but it was real.

The room had been bare that morning—just walls and a bed frame. Now it was an explosion of color, fabric, and noise. They’d gone out shopping with a list and come back with everything but. Jesse had insisted she needed color. “No more gray. You’re not a shadow, Janey. Pick something you actually like.”

She’d mumbled something about purple. A muted, soft kind of purple—not too bright, not too loud. Jesse had latched onto it like a mission from God. By the time they got back, he’d conjured matching throw pillows and a curtain charm that shimmered violet when the sun hit it.

Jack had grabbed a pack of glow-in-the-dark stars without asking. “They’re mandatory,” he said firmly. “Ceiling galaxies are scientifically proven to reduce nightmares.”

Jane didn’t have the heart to argue. Especially not when he stuck the first one above her bed, gave her the rest of the pack, and said, “Your sky. You pick the constellations.”

She had no idea how to do that.

Dean mostly stayed in the background—moving furniture, hanging shelves, drilling hooks into walls. He didn’t hover. Didn’t ask what she wanted every five seconds like the social workers used to. He just watched. Paid attention.

Halfway through the day, he passed her a stack of posters—classic rock bands, some fantasy landscapes, one with a phoenix rising through flames. She flinched when their fingers brushed. Just a twitch. Barely noticeable.

Dean noticed.

He didn’t comment. Just set the posters on the desk and stepped back. From then on, he didn’t hand her anything directly. Just left tools or items near her with a quiet, “That’s for you,” and moved on. No fuss. No spotlight.

It helped. A lot more than she could admit.

They worked for hours, the four of them. Jesse enchanted the closet doors to open with a snap instead of a creak. Jack strung fairy lights above the headboard and wrote her name in little LED letters. Dean patched the scuffed paint near the floor, muttering about sloppy contractors and “damn teenagers with rollerblades.”

Jane folded clothes into drawers with stiff hands. She didn’t want to feel anything about this. Didn’t want to want it.

But it kept sneaking in. The way Jack tilted his head to ask “Do you like this?” like it mattered. The way Jesse cleared off a shelf and labeled it “Potions Projects – Do Not Touch.” The way Dean glanced over after hanging her blackout curtains and said, “Better?” like he already knew the answer.

It got to her.

By the time the room was done, it looked… like hers. Not a showroom. Not a shelter bed with a paper tag. A real room. A little mismatched, a little chaotic—but warm. Lived in. Chosen.

They ended the day in a pile of beanbags on the floor, a movie flickering across a laptop screen. Jack had brought popcorn and M&Ms and somehow managed to get half of both on the floor within minutes. Jesse had commandeered the corner near the bookshelf and was critiquing the movie’s lighting choices.

Dean sat back against the wall with his feet stretched out, sipping a beer and not saying much. But Jane felt his eyes drift her way every so often. Just checking. Not hovering. Not pressing.

She didn’t think she’d ever had that before—someone looking out for her without trying to fix her.

The rabbit came later. Quietly, without explanation. She’d found it nestled on her pillow after brushing her teeth. A little brown thing with long ears and a squishy belly. No tags. No receipt. Just there.

But this—this was the moment she remembered most: the end of the day, the movie playing, the soft light of her new lamp casting shadows that didn’t scare her.

She was curled up in the purple beanbag, one hand wrapped around a soda can, the other tucked beneath her leg. Jack had just thrown popcorn at Jesse for spoiling a plot twist.

Jane watched them for a while—these weird, loud, ridiculous people who had decided she belonged.

Then she looked around her room. Her room.

And she said it before she could stop herself.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever built something for me before,” she said softly. “Not really.”

The words just hung there for a second, heavy and fragile all at once.

Dean didn’t make it weird. Just nodded like it made sense. “’Bout time someone did, then.”

Jack grinned and bumped her shoulder.

Jesse tossed a popcorn kernel in her hair and said, “Well, you’re stuck with us now.”

Jane rolled her eyes and ducked her head—but she didn’t hide the smile that bloomed on her face.

Not this time.

***

Magic lessons were supposed to be fun. That was Jack’s rule.

“Okay, now reach,” he said, standing barefoot on one of the Bunker’s training mats, arms spread like wings. “Imagine your aura is cotton candy. Sticky and pink and floaty.”

Jane raised an eyebrow. “Cotton candy.”

“Yup.” Jack beamed. “Sticky joy. Now twirl!”

She didn’t twirl. But she did focus, holding her hands out like he showed her. She was trying—not to impress anyone, not really. Just… because Jack believed she could.

A soft shimmer of magic flickered over her fingers. Pale lavender. Wispy and light, like steam catching sunlight.

“Whoa!” Jack lit up. “That’s it, Jane, that’s your aura—look at you!”

And she did look. Just for a second.

Then the moment collapsed in on itself. Her chest went tight. She yanked her hands down like she’d done something wrong, muttering, “I didn’t mean to.”

Jack tilted his head, smile faltering. “But it was good—”

“I wasn’t trying to show off.”

“You weren’t.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

He paused. Quiet now. Soft. “I know. But you’re allowed to have it anyway.”

She shook her head. “Let’s move on.”

They did.

Tutoring the boys was easier. Mostly.

Jack and Jesse treated it like a game. Every vocabulary session turned into a competition. Jesse insisted on calling it “Combat Grammar,” complete with sound effects and imaginary weapons. Jack declared himself the Supreme Commander of Spelling and wrote a theme song. Jane sat between them at the kitchen table, pretending to be exasperated while she corrected their handwriting. Secretly, she liked the chaos. Liked how they paid attention to her. Like she was smart. Like she mattered.

“Jane’s the best teacher,” Jack announced one day, mouth full of toast. “Even when she’s grumpy.”

“I am not grumpy,” she said, deadpan.

“You’re a little grumpy,” Jesse said with a grin. “But in a librarian way.”

Jack groaned. “Jesse, shut up.”

Jane rolled her eyes and turned the page. “Focus on your Latin roots, shrimp.”

She caught herself smiling.

Then quickly looked away.

Dean made grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch. The kitchen smelled like butter and garlic and warmth.

Jane hovered near the counter, hands tucked into her sleeves. “I can help.”

Dean looked at her over his shoulder. “You’re not the mom here, kid.”

“But I can—”

“Sit. Eat.” He slid a plate across the table to her spot before she could finish arguing. “This is a no-labor lunch zone.”

She sat.

It felt stupid to tear up over a sandwich, so she didn’t.

But she stared at the melted cheese a long time before picking it up.

Movie night meant noise. Blankets. Popcorn. The couch swallowed everyone into a pile.

Dean always claimed the corner like a throne, beer in hand and legs stretched out like he paid rent on the whole damn couch.

Jack curled up next to him, head on Dean’s chest, eyes already drooping. Jesse flopped down across both of them like a lazy cat. Dean didn’t even blink—just adjusted so no one fell off.

Jane took her usual spot on the floor, wrapped in her hoodie. Safer that way. She liked watching from a little distance.

Until Jack reached down and tugged her sleeve.

“C’mon,” he said, half-asleep. “There’s room.”

“There’s not,” she mumbled.

“I’ll squish Jesse.”

“Hey!” Jesse protested.

But he shifted over, and Jack pulled her up without waiting for more protest. She ended up between them, stiff and unsure. Jesse tossed a blanket over her legs. Jack leaned on her shoulder like it was normal.

Dean didn’t say anything. Just let it be.

The movie played. Some dumb comedy with explosions and talking dogs. Jane barely saw it.

Her heart was too loud.

She was warm. Fed. Safe. Touched like she belonged. Looked at like she mattered.

It was too much.

Every time one of them laughed, it felt like glass in her lungs. Every kindness stretched her skin tighter, like if someone said one more nice thing she might crack open. She wasn’t built for this. Not really.

She could survive a group home. Could survive the silence, the fights, the way no one remembered her birthday. She knew how to live without.

But this?

This was everything she’d ever wanted.

Which meant it could break.

It could leave.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

So she stayed quiet. Smiled small. Kept her voice even. She didn’t lean too hard into anyone’s side, even when Jack fell asleep against her. Didn’t ask questions when Dean brushed her hair back from her face once, checking if she was awake. Didn’t say thank you for the room or the sandwich or the stars on her ceiling.

Because what if she said it out loud, and it all went away?

What if loving this made it stop?

What if having meant losing?

So she sat there—loved, wanted, chosen—and told herself to be careful.

Because this was hers now.

And she didn’t know how to keep it.

***

Jane had never tried this before.

She wasn’t even sure why she was trying now—maybe boredom, maybe desperation, maybe some flicker of hope that if she could control it, maybe she’d finally belong here. Maybe she’d finally be enough.

She sat cross-legged on the cold concrete floor of the Bunker’s training room, eyes shut tight. Fingers twitched, tracing invisible patterns in the air.

A soft hum started in her chest. Low. A rhythm like a heartbeat.

She forced herself to breathe, to focus.

A faint purple light pulsed around her fingertips.

Okay.

Okay.

Try to hold it.

She willed the light to stay small, to stay gentle.

But it didn’t.

It grew.

Faster than she expected.

The hum escalated into a buzzing roar inside her head.

Her skin prickled like static electricity, and the room felt like it was closing in.

Suddenly, the air shimmered violently. A sharp pulse exploded out from her like a flare.

The warding charm that protected the Bunker blinked red, then flared with an angry hiss.

Lights overhead flickered wildly, casting chaotic shadows.

Jack stirred awake in his room, blinking through sleep. Jesse’s door cracked open; he rubbed his eyes, confusion blooming across his face.

Jane scrambled backward, heart pounding. The magic surged in her veins like wildfire, unrelenting and wild.

She clutched at her head, breath ragged.

She’d done it.

She’d blown it.

She’d brought danger down on them all.

Her chest slammed tight with panic.

She wasn’t supposed to have this much power.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Not really.

Her inner voice screamed louder than the wild magic.

“I knew it. I never belonged. I’m not safe here. I ruin everything.”

Hands shaking, she grabbed a bag off the bench, stuffing it with essentials — a few clothes, the rabbit, her journal.

No goodbyes. No explanations.

Just flight.

Halfway down the Bunker’s long hallway, Jane’s footsteps echoed hollow and hurried.

Her grip tightened on the bag strap.

She didn’t stop.

She didn’t look back.

Until she ran right into him.

Dean.

Standing calm and steady in front of the garage door, blocking her path like he’d known all along.

No yelling.

No demands.

Just quiet, patient confusion.

“Where you headed, sweetheart?” His voice was low, gentle, as if asking for a secret.

Jane blinked, voice tight. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

Dean raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

She swallowed hard, eyes darting away.

Her defenses collapsed like a house of cards.

“I—” she began, then stopped.

Dean crouched down, sitting on the cold floor to meet her eye to eye.

He was silent.

Waiting.

So she let it out, a burst of words she hadn’t dared say before.

“You don’t know me. You just let me stay. That’s not the same thing.”

Her voice cracked on the last words.

Dean’s gaze softened, patient as a winter dawn.

“You think Jack and Jesse came with a résumé?”

Jane’s mouth opened, but no words came.

Dean smiled, faint and sure.

“I don’t need to know everything yet. But I know enough.”

He reached out, just a hand, no pressure.

“You’re one of mine. You don’t have to believe it yet. Just... don’t run.”

The world slowed.

Jane’s breath caught in her throat.

The weight in her chest loosened, just a little.

She wanted to argue.

To say she was different.

But all she could do was nod.

And stay.

Chapter Text

John stood in the kitchen like a man from someone else’s memory.

The morning sun slanted in through pale curtains, catching on floating dust motes.

There were dishes in the sink—not many—and the scent of fresh coffee was a quiet comfort.

The smell of eggs and burnt toast clung to the air like static.

A frying pan hissed softly on the stovetop.

He flipped a pancake with an ease he hadn’t used in decades.

It landed cleanly, golden side up.

Kate had left early for a shift at the clinic. Adam was still asleep upstairs.

John leaned on the counter, coffee mug in hand. For a few seconds, he let the silence settle.

It wasn’t like the kind of quiet in motel rooms—sterile, sharp-edged. This was warm. Domestic. The hum of the fridge. The creak of the floorboards. The occasional thump from upstairs, a kid rolling over in bed.

He exhaled slowly.

This wasn’t his life.

It was a borrowed thing, like wearing someone else’s jacket. Fit just fine, but the smell was wrong.

Still, he’d learned to pretend. That was a hunter’s skill too, wasn’t it?

The phone buzzed in his pocket.

John fished it out, thumbed the screen. One new message.

Dean: “Going solo for a bit. Don’t worry. Not like Sam.”

He stared at the words longer than he should have.

Dean.

His oldest.

His right hand.

His soldier.

His boy.

John took a slow sip of coffee and made himself not react. Not really.

It’s a phase, he thought. Dean always comes back.

The smell of pancakes was starting to brown. He flipped the last one and plated them with mechanical precision.

Footsteps on the stairs.

Adam appeared, rubbing his eyes, blonde hair sticking up in six directions.

“Morning,” the boy mumbled.

“Hey, sport. Hungry?” John offered.

Adam nodded and slid into a chair.

John set the plate in front of him. Sat across the table. Watched his youngest eat like he’d done it a hundred times.

“Got anything planned today?” he asked.

Adam shrugged. “Thought I’d ride my bike to the lake. If that’s okay.”

“Just be back by five. We’ll grill dinner.”

Adam smiled around a bite of pancake. “Cool.”

John smiled back.

And ignored the way his phone burned a hole in his pocket.

It had started with a phone call.

He’d been on a hunt in Montana. Cold, wet woods. A banshee tearing through campers. Bloody work. Efficient work.

Then Kate called.

"He’s yours, John. He’s asking about you."

It had been twelve years. She’d never called before.

He’d driven to Minnesota without sleeping. The Impala drank the miles like whiskey.

When he knocked on her door, he had a box of old Hot Wheels cars under one arm and dirt under his nails. She stared at him like a ghost.

“You came,” she’d said.

“You called.”

The kid—Adam—peeked from behind her legs. A miniature. Twelve going on seventeen. Too sharp for his own good.

John had forced a smile. “Hey, kiddo.”

They let him stay one night.

Then another.

He fixed the leaky porch roof. Mowed the lawn. Rewired the back light.

Kate watched him from the kitchen window every time.

“You can’t pretend forever,” she told him one night.

“Watch me.”

“I mean with him. He’s gonna ask. You can’t lie to him about what you do.”

“I’m not lying,” John muttered. “I’m... editing.”

Kate crossed her arms. “You’re a hunter, John. He has a right to know.”

John’s hands curled into fists. “That life—it eats people. It eats kids.”

“And you think disappearing will protect him?”

He didn’t answer.

And Kate, damn her, let it go. For a little while.

John had started teaching Adam little things.

How to check oil levels. Change a tire. Use a wrench.

They whittled sticks on the back porch. Nothing fancy—just idle hands and lazy afternoons.

One day, Adam asked, “Were you ever married?”

John hesitated. “Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“She died. Long time ago.”

“Did you have other kids?”

Longer pause.

“No one you need to worry about.”

Adam blinked but didn’t push.

John’s hands ached from gripping the knife too tight.

He wanted to say: Dean would’ve loved this. Sam would’ve complained about mosquitoes.

He wanted to say: Your brother is probably halfway across the country hunting wendigos alone.

But he didn’t. Because here, in this slice of fake pie-life, he wasn’t that man.

He was just a guy. With a toolbox. With a kid.

And pretending was easier when you said nothing at all.

...

He woke up in a sweat. Gun in hand. No threat. Just the dream.

Dean bleeding out. Voice gone. Reaching for him.

He sat up, heart racing.

Checked his phone.

Nothing.

He texted again.

John: “Where are you?”

No answer.

He tried Bobby. Nothing. Called Pastor Jim. Nada. Even checked a few local hunter forums. Zilch.

Dean had vanished.

And now, weeks later, he had to admit it wasn’t a bluff.

Dean had gone. Truly gone.

Kate noticed the next morning.

“You’re twitchier than usual,” she remarked over coffee.

“Bad dreams,” he said.

“Your kind of dreams tend to get people killed, don’t they?”

John didn’t answer.

Later, in the garage, he almost called her out. Almost said: “I have to go. My boy’s missing.”

But Adam came around the corner, holding a baseball mitt.

“Wanna play catch?”

John smiled. “Sure, kid.”

And he played. Even if his chest felt like it was caving in.

He packed before dawn. Quiet as a shadow.

Kate found him by the Impala, duffel slung over one shoulder.

“So, that’s it?” she asked.

“Got a job. Out west.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You could’ve stayed. At least another day.”

“I can’t.”

Kate crossed her arms. “He’s going to ask why.”

“Tell him the truth.”

“You sure you even know what that is anymore?”

John looked away.

Before leaving, he crept into the kitchen and left a folded note on the table:

"You’re a good kid. I’m proud of you. Be better than me. – Dad"

He drove without music. Without distraction.

Checked every hunter-friendly bar, truck stop, contact.

Dean was nowhere.

But the last message stayed fresh in his mind:

"Not like Sam."

Not leaving in anger.

Leaving in silence.

And for John, that was worse.

Because silence meant Dean hadn’t expected him to come looking.

Silence meant maybe he wouldn’t.

Maybe John didn’t deserve to.

***

The motel room smelled like mildew and old coffee, and John Winchester preferred it that way.

Comfort was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Comfort made you soft. And soft men died.

He sat at the edge of the bed, gun in hand, towel around his neck damp from sweat and holy water. The salt lines were unbroken. The EMF reader sat still and silent. There were no spirits here, not yet.

He rolled his neck, trying to shake the ache that had settled deep in his spine. The last hunt in Montana had gone messy—a wendigo with a taste for hunters. Three dead before he put it down. One of them had a daughter that reminded him of Mary. Same eyes. Same laugh. Same way of asking, “Why didn’t you save him in time?”

He hadn’t stayed for the funeral.

The corkboard sat in the corner of the room, propped up on a cheap folding chair. Photos. Newspaper clippings. Red string, thumbtacks. A lifetime of obsession. He picked up the most recent article: a house fire in Lincoln, Nebraska. The mother had been pinned to the ceiling, organs scorched from the inside out. Infant child left untouched.

A pattern.

His hands didn’t shake. Not anymore. He stared at the woman’s face. Blonde. Young. Dead. Just like Mary.

He folded the paper and added it to the file.

His phone buzzed on the dresser.

He didn’t look. He already knew who it was.

Bobby Singer. Again. Probably with more questions, more warnings, more grief he didn’t have time to hold.

John turned the volume down and got up to clean his weapons.

Boise was cold and muddy in the spring.

He didn’t plan to stop there long—just long enough to pick up a new fake ID and some silver bullets from a supplier. He ended up at a hunter-friendly bar, one of those old truck stops that doubled as a graveyard for men who never found their way back home.

He ordered whiskey, no ice, and didn’t talk. That was usually enough.

Until a voice slid up beside him, casual but sharp.

“Heard your boy’s back on the circuit.”

John stiffened. Maddox. Rough-edged hunter out of Reno. Big mouth. Good tracker. Dangerous enough.

John didn’t look at him.

“Dean?” he said finally.

Maddox nodded. “Yeah. Been hearing chatter. Took down a nasty poltergeist out near Memphis. Had a team with him. Girl from the Harvelle. Kid too, I think. Heard they were tight.”

John took a slow sip of his drink. The burn was familiar. The words were not.

“That doesn’t sound like Dean,” he muttered.

Maddox chuckled. “Maybe he grew up. Looks like he’s making something. Some kind of network. You know how the kids are now. All about connections and backup. Whole different world from when we started.”

John said nothing.

Maddox leaned in. “Hell, man. Sounds like he’s doing good. Thought you’d be proud.”

Pride. The word felt wrong in John’s mouth. Like someone offering him cake at a wake.

Dean was supposed to follow orders. Hunt clean. Keep moving. No ties. No weakness. That’s what John taught him.

Not this—whatever this was. Teams. Kids. Building things.

He stood up without finishing his drink.

“He always hated Memphis,” John said under his breath.

Maddox looked confused. John didn’t bother explaining.

...

Back in the motel that night, John sat at the small desk with a new notepad and wrote a name at the top.

Dean Winchester.

Below it, he wrote down everything he’d just heard.

Memphis. Poltergeist. Harvelle girl. Kid partner. Possible network.

He frowned.

This wasn’t Dean. This wasn’t how Dean operated.

Unless—

No. Possession?

Maybe.

Dean had never gone off solo. He was loyal to the bone. He stayed with the family. He didn’t leave.

Not like Sam.

John closed the notebook. Tomorrow, he’d call some contacts. Dig deeper. Find out what the hell was going on.

But not tonight.

Tonight he had another job.

And Dean could wait.

Chapter Text

Karen died on a Tuesday.

It wasn't the sort of day that should've meant anything.

No eclipses or storm warnings.

Just a quiet, too-still evening, the kind that made a man feel like the world was holding its breath.

Bobby had been under the hood of a '78 Cutlass when he heard the scream.

By the time he got into the house, it wasn’t Karen anymore.

The thing wearing her skin smiled with her mouth. Used her voice.

For a long, terrible second, Bobby hesitated.

That hesitation cost him everything.

He put it down, eventually.

Learned it was a demon, one of the mean ones. But that didn’t bring her back. Nothing did.

Bobby didn’t take to revenge like John Winchester. He didn’t fill a journal with fury and drive across the country with his kids in the backseat. He filled a library instead. Read every scrap of lore he could get his hands on. Made his house a fortress. Learned every way to stop what had taken his wife, and how to kill everything else that went bump in the night.

He hunted, sure. But he hunted to *prevent*. Not to avenge.

And then one day, the Winchesters came knocking.

It was around midnight. Bobby had just settled in with a bottle of cheap whiskey and a copy of *Revenants and Other Restless Bastards* when someone banged on his door like the world was ending.

John Winchester.

The man hadn’t changed much since their first meeting.

Still stood like a drill sergeant, jaw set, eyes hard.

Said he had a case nearby and needed a place to crash.

Behind him, in the truck, were two kids.

Dean, maybe eight years old. Tired, suspicious eyes. Standing stiff like he was guarding something.

And Sam, no more than four. Curled into a jacket twice his size, asleep in the cab.

Bobby didn’t ask questions. Just pointed to the spare room. He wasn’t heartless.

He figured it would be a night, maybe two.

Then John left on a hunt.

Bobby didn’t like John. Never had. Too single-minded. Too damn reckless. And it didn’t take long to see that whatever military parenting style John had going on, it wasn’t working.

Dean didn’t act like a kid. He acted like a soldier. Quiet, watchful, protective. Like he had orders and was afraid to fail them.

And Sam—

Sam was smart. Real smart. The kind of smart that soaked up everything Bobby said and then asked questions that made Bobby dig through old books to give him answers.

The boys stayed a week. Then another. And another. John kept disappearing for longer stretches. Bobby didn’t ask why.

He cooked for them. Showed Dean how to use a wrench. Let Sam pull books off the shelves and ask about monsters. It was supposed to be temporary.

Then one day, Sam called him "Uncle Bobby," and that was that.

Over the years, Bobby became a constant.

John came and went. The boys stayed when they could. When they needed a place to rest. When something went bad. When they just didn’t want to be alone.

Bobby kept every postcard Dean never sent. Knew when the boys were trying to hide bruises. He taught them what John wouldn’t: how to research, how to protect, how to survive without losing yourself.

He didn’t always get it right. But he *tried*. And sometimes, that was enough.

Sam went to Stanford. Bobby knew about the fights, the yelling, the way John called it betrayal. But Bobby just sent Sam a box of books and a note: "Call if it gets weird."

He never did and Bobby still waits, because this is how kids are.

All he can do is be supportive.

Time passed.

Hunters aged like milk. Most didn’t last long. Bobby kept his head down. Ran phones. Helped newbies. Did the work others wouldn’t.

And then he started hearing whispers.

"You heard about that guy? Winchester?"

"Not John. The son. The older one. Dean."

"Kid’s a damn machine. Took down a wendigo solo. Helped train a couple rookies. Even got Ash from the Roadhouse to build some online thing for hunters."

Bobby listened.

And listened.

He knew Dean. Knew him better than anyone, maybe. The stories didn’t fit. Dean wasn’t a leader. Dean *followed* orders. Needed someone to point him at the problem.

But something had changed.

The stories kept coming.

Dean saving kids.

Dean working with hunters instead of isolating.

Dean carrying first-aid kits and giving advice.

Dean going solo but still watching out for others.

Dean sounding… like Bobby.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Not because it was bad. But because he knew how hard it was to be the one who stayed standing when everyone else fell.

One night, Bobby sat in Karen's old chair. The house was quiet. The whiskey was cheap. The fire had long since died out.

He held an old photo. Dean, maybe eleven. Sam beside him, arms crossed. Bobby in the middle, awkward, gruff, but smiling?

"Maybe you were wrong, John," he muttered.

"Maybe you made a soldier. But someone out there made him a man."

He looked at the phone.

No messages. No calls.

But that was okay.

"Just hope you remember, kid," Bobby said, his voice rough. "You got a home here. Always."

He took a sip.

The silence didn’t answer, but somehow, it felt like Dean had heard him anyway.

The late afternoon sun filtered through dusty windows, catching motes of light as they floated through the air of Bobby Singer’s cluttered house. Books and weapons littered every surface, a half-eaten sandwich sat forgotten on the arm of a chair, and the only sound was the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the house settling.

Bobby was elbow-deep in a box of silver bullets he needed to check for corrosion when his cell phone buzzed against the tabletop. The name on the screen made him freeze.

DEAN.

His hand trembled for half a second before he grabbed the phone and hit answer.

“Boy, is that you!? Where the hell are you!” he barked without thinking, tension snapping like a rubber band.

There was a pause, then a familiar chuckle on the other end. “Yeah, Bobby. It’s me.”

Bobby sat down heavily, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “You idjit.” The curse came out soft, too fond to sting. “You been off the damn grid for weeks. Not a word, not a whisper, and now I’m hearing your name more than ever from every damn hunter who can dial a phone.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean muttered, still sounding amused. “I’m in the Batcave, Bobby. Full on Batman.”

“What are you on about now?” Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose. Dean always had a flair for the dramatic, but this was new.

“You’re gonna lose your pants when you see it. I got myself a base,” Dean said, voice swelling with pride. “It’s awesome.”

There was a beat of silence. Bobby looked around his cluttered living room, the antithesis of whatever “awesome” Dean thought he’d found. “Boy, you and I have different definitions of awesome,” he muttered.

Dean just laughed again. “Well, you can come up here and see it if you want. It’s in Lebanon, Kansas. I’ll send you the coordinates.”

Bobby blinked. “Kansas?”

“Yep!”

He rubbed at his jaw. “Fine. But you got some explaining to do, starting with why I’ve been hearin’ your damn name from the community every bloody day like you’re some folk hero.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. Just a long, quiet exhale.

“You takin’ care of yourself at least?” Bobby asked after a moment. His voice softened. “I know you. You run too hard. Always have.”

“Of course,” Dean said. “Scout’s honor.”

Bobby snorted. “You were never a scout, you little liar.”

“Still. Means I’m being good.” There was a lightness in Dean’s voice Bobby hadn’t heard in years. Not since before the fire. Maybe not since he was a kid playing with Sam in the dirt outside Bobby’s garage.

“Well… send me the coordinates then,” Bobby said, pretending not to be moved. “I’ll see it for myself.”

“Deal. And hey, Bobby…”

“Yeah?”

“I missed you, man.”

Bobby closed his eyes. “Missed you too, kid.”

The call ended, leaving the house quieter than before. Bobby stared at the dark screen for a moment, then leaned back in his chair.

For a long time, he'd feared the worst. That John’s way had gotten to Dean so deep the kid would never come back from it. That he’d be just another hunter chasing death on a leash, heart hollowed out by orders and grief.

But now… now Bobby heard something else.

Hope. Maybe even joy.

And the way Dean had said "I got a base" — like a damn kid who’d finally been allowed to build his own fort — it reminded Bobby of the boy who used to sleep on his couch, curled around a blanket like it was armor.

Bobby let out a breath and smiled to himself, already reaching for his boots. Guess it was time for Uncle Bobby to hit the road.

It was early morning by the time Bobby’s beat-up truck rumbled down the unmarked road, tires crunching over gravel and grass. The coordinates Dean had sent him led to a nondescript field in Lebanon, Kansas — wide open and empty, until Bobby spotted the old electrical shed nestled into a hill like it didn’t belong. He squinted at it, suspicion already rising.

“Damn kid wasn’t kidding.”

He parked, climbed out, and eyed the place with all the wariness of a man who’d seen too many things go sideways in places just like this. But curiosity — and more than that, love — pulled him forward.

He descended the stairs cautiously, shotgun slung over one shoulder just in case. But when the reinforced door swung open at his knock, Bobby blinked.

It was… spotless. Weirdly spotless for Dean.

The air was cooler inside, and the place looked more like a government war room than a hunter hideout. Massive halls, ancient architecture, and signs of life: books, maps, cleaned weapons on display. But more than anything—quiet.

Too quiet.

Then he heard it.

Laughter.

Not Dean’s deep, gravel-edged chuckle, but childish laughter. Two sets of it. Bobby’s spine straightened.

He turned a corner and found Dean crouched behind a couch with a Nerf gun in hand. There were two kids—maybe five years old—one with light brown hair, the other with straw-colored curls, giggling as they tried to sneak up behind him with foam swords.

Dean caught sight of Bobby and froze.

Bobby blinked. “...What in God’s name am I lookin’ at?”

Dean stood up slowly, dropping the Nerf gun with a sheepish smile. “Hey Bobby.”

“Don’t ‘hey Bobby’ me,” he growled. “Why do you have hobbits with weapons?”

The two boys scampered behind Dean’s legs. One peeked out and said, “Are you the grumpy uncle?”

“Jesse,” Dean warned, but it was already too late.

Bobby blinked again. “You named them?”

Dean scoffed. “I didn’t name them. They came with names. That’s Jesse,” he pointed, “and that’s Jack.”

“Came with names?” Bobby echoed, eyebrows climbing. “Dean, what the hell is goin’ on?”

Dean sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Alright. Look. They’re… half-supernatural. Jack’s a Nephilim. Jesse’s… complicated. Cambion, antichrist. Still figuring that out.”

Bobby’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “And you’ve just been… what, playin’ house with two magical five-year-olds in a damn bunker?!”

Dean opened his mouth to argue—but then, a third figure entered the hallway.

A teenage girl, maybe sixteen, holding a book under one arm and a juice box in the other. She stopped short at the sight of Bobby.

“Hi,” she said, cautious but polite. “You must be Bobby. I’m Jane.”

Bobby looked at her, then at Dean.

Dean raised both hands. “Okay, before you say anything—”

Bobby cut him off, voice low. “You got three kids in here, Dean.”

“They’re not my kids.”

“Sure as hell act like they are.”

Dean scoffed, arms crossed. “I’m not doing this. I’m not dad or anything, alright? I’m just… takin’ care of them.”

“You bought them to use Nerf guns,” Bobby said flatly.

“They live in a bunker. Gotta be prepared,” Dean muttered.

“And juice boxes? And teddy bears? What was it I saw over there, a stuffed bee?”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “That’s Jack’s. Jesse has a moose.”

Bobby took a slow step forward.

The two boys peeked around Dean’s legs again, staring at him with open curiosity.

“Dean…” Bobby said carefully. “You’re raising them.”

Dean stared straight ahead, jaw tight. “I’m keeping them safe. They’re different. You know what happens to kids like them out there.”

Bobby’s heart gave a twist. He remembered Dean at twelve, hauling Sam on his hip through a snowstorm because John was three days late from a hunt. He remembered a kid with too much steel in his spine and not enough safety in his life.

“I know,” Bobby said softly.

Dean’s jaw worked. “Hunters wouldn’t think twice. If they found out what Jack is—what Jesse is—”

“They’d get hurt,” Bobby finished. “And you wouldn’t let that happen.”

“Damn right I wouldn’t.”

“And Jane?”

Dean glanced toward the girl, who had wandered over to the boys and was now smoothing down Jack’s hair like a big sister. “She… she belongs here too.”

Bobby let out a long breath. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Bobby—” Dean turned, defensive rising like a tide. “Don’t get all sentimental or whatever, okay? I’m just—doing what needs to be done.”

“Yeah.” Bobby’s voice turned dry. “Sure. That’s why you got ‘em matching stuffed animals and movie night schedules. Tactical parenting.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I swear to God—”

But Bobby reached out and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You did good, boy.”

Dean blinked, startled.

“I mean it,” Bobby said gruffly. “You didn’t just survive. You made something. Something better.”

Dean didn’t say anything.

Just stood there, jaw working, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to argue or sit down before his knees gave out.

In the background, Jack tugged on Jane’s sleeve and whispered, “He’s a good grumpy. Just like Dean said.”

Jane smiled. “Told you."

Chapter Text

Bobby Singer wasn't a man easily rattled.

He’d seen demons crawl out of crypts. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for the sight of Dean Winchester in an apron, flipping pancakes at 6:00 a.m.

He lingered at the edge of the Bunker's kitchen, scratching the scruff on his jaw, hat tipped back just enough to make his squint all the more judgmental. The sizzle of bacon in a cast-iron pan filled the room with a rich, smoky scent, while Dean hummed under his breath—hummed, like some Stepford diner waitress from an alternate universe.

“Dean Winchester making pancakes at 6 a.m.?” Bobby muttered. “Either the world's ending or the boy’s been swapped.”

He didn’t say it loud enough for Dean to hear, but the suspicion sat thick in his chest. Bobby watched, arms crossed, as Dean tossed a second pancake with smooth, practiced ease, then moved on to check the oven. Something was baking. Something sweet.

Okay, Bobby thought. Definitely brainwashed. Or worse.

Dean didn't look up, just kept moving like this was any normal Tuesday morning—which, apparently, it was now. A whole carton of eggs sat cracked in a bowl on the counter. Another skillet held golden-brown sausage links lined up with soldier-like precision. The fridge door was open, revealing an absurd stockpile of milk, berries, vegetables, and what looked like six pounds of butter.

Bobby’s gaze shifted to the row of lunchboxes on the side counter. Each one was different: a neon blue box plastered with old-school Marvel stickers, a sleek silver thermos-style container with a rune etched on the lid, and a bright purple bento box with glittery cat ears glued on top.

One by one, Dean packed them with military precision. Jesse’s sandwich—cut into the shape of a devil’s trap. Jack’s snack mix had a handmade label: Angel Fuel. Jane’s lunchbox included a small handwritten sticky note: You’ve got this, Kiddo. Each note had a smiley face and a doodle of a little protective sigil, just subtle enough not to spook her classmates.

“What the hell happened to you?” Bobby finally asked, stepping into the kitchen proper.

Dean looked up, unfazed, as if he hadn’t been under covert surveillance for the last ten minutes. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

“You possessed?”

“Not yet,” Dean said, grinning. “Want coffee?”

“I want answers. Since when do you know how to bake cinnamon rolls from scratch?”

Dean shrugged, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Farm hunt. A month back. Old woman had a cursed pig. Long story short, I saved her goat, she taught me how to cook, properly, and she thanked me with a lifetime supply of bacon and a magical sourdough starter. Been showing off ever since.”

Bobby blinked. “You’ve got a damn bacon cache?”

“Freezer’s enchanted. Stuff never goes bad.”

Bobby didn’t even want to know which witch helped with that.

Instead, he watched Dean spoon fresh fruit into Jack’s thermos, layer yogurt with honey and granola, then wrap a juice box in a little foil sleeve—charm-etched—to keep it cold until lunchtime.

“You runnin’ a day camp I don’t know about, or are those kids really going to school now?”

Dean gave a noncommittal grunt, turning to grab backpacks by the door. “Yup. School. Three days a week in town, two days homeschooled. Keeps ‘em grounded.”

“You drive ‘em?”

“Of course,” Dean said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

A beat.

“In the Impala?”

Dean looked offended. “What, I’m supposed to buy a minivan?”

That actually made Bobby snort.

The morning marched on with military efficiency.

One by one, the kids shuffled into the kitchen.

Jane was already dressed, red hair slicked back like she was trying out for a junior FBI division. Jesse followed, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, his mismatched socks bunched at his ankles. Jack, the youngest, came in last—his oversized backpack nearly swallowing him whole.

Dean handed out lunchboxes with ceremony, kneeling to meet each of their eyes.

“Alright, squad,” he said. “Checklist time.”

Jesse held out his wrist. A charm bracelet, made of iron beads, warded leather, and a small anti-possession sigil, gleamed under the kitchen lights.

“Solid,” Dean said. “You remember what I said about using magic at school?”

“No magic unless I’m dying or it’s math class,” Jesse recited. “Then I can hex the teacher.”

“Permission granted,” Dean said, deadpan.

Next was Jack. His charm bracelet had a feather woven into it, almost invisible unless you were looking for it. Dean adjusted it slightly.

“You got your angel blade?” he asked quietly.

Jack nodded. “It’s in my sock.”

“Good man.”

Then Jane, the tiny whirlwind, her bracelet decorated with glitter, a tiny salt shaker charm dangling from it like it was from Claire’s Boutique.

Dean crouched. “You remember the words, right?”

Jane beamed. “Latin first. Punch second.”

“That’s my girl.”

Bobby leaned against the wall, watching with arms crossed, the whole scene unfolding like some bizarre mash-up of Leave It to Beaver and The Exorcist.

Dean loaded the kids into the Impala with care, checking seatbelts and giving each one a last forehead kiss, quick and quiet, so they wouldn’t complain.

As the car rumbled to life and rolled out of the Bunker’s garage, Bobby stood in the now-silent kitchen, the scent of maple syrup still hanging in the air.

He rubbed the back of his neck, then muttered under his breath: “He’s got rules. Freakin’ rules.”

He stared at the now-empty kitchen for a long moment, then wandered over to the counter, where one last pancake sat on a plate beside a cup of coffee—black, just the way he liked it.

“Damn kid,” he said, taking a sip. “Maybe not possessed. But definitely not normal.”

By the time the Impala's low rumble faded back in the gravel road, Dean was already rolling up his sleeves again—not for a hunt, not today, but for something he once thought impossible: free time. Or at least, his version of it.

Back in the Bunker, the main library was buzzing—not with voices, but with ancient wires and hacked-together server boxes.

“Ash, you got those threads encrypted or not?” Dean called, adjusting a tangle of cables behind an old terminal. Onscreen, a makeshift interface flickered to life, somewhere between a Reddit board and a military-grade ops map.

Ash’s voice crackled through a speaker—he was remote, somewhere deep in the bayou, the audio quality as greasy as his hair. “Brother, this thing could survive a demon DDoS attack and still track a wendigo in Alaska. You’re golden.”

Dean allowed himself a half-smile. The HunterNet, as Ash insisted on calling it, was coming together—encrypted location tags, active-case discussion boards, even a classified section for buying rare spell components. It was ugly, but it worked.

“Appreciate it,” Dean said, shutting off the terminal. “Let me know if Reece logs in—I think he’s still got that cursed EMF reader.”

With the tech quiet for now, Dean turned toward his real sanctuary: the Bunker gym.

Ten minutes later, he was in full sweat-mode, beating the crap out of a punching bag with fluid, focused movements. Every jab had intent. Every breath was measured. No music, no distractions. Just him and the rhythm. Then—floor stretches. Breathing exercises. Meditation.

That part still felt weird. But after everything he’d been through, Dean had made peace with the fact that sometimes the monsters weren’t outside. Sometimes they were grief. Guilt. Fear. Stuff you couldn’t shoot.

“Gotta deal with my shit sometime,” he muttered, hands steepled over his knees, the world quiet for just a beat.

From the hallway, Bobby watched through the cracked gym door, silent. Not wanting to interrupt.

“The boy who ran from grief is now making peace with it,” Bobby thought. “I’ll be damned.”

By late afternoon, the kids were back, and the Bunker buzzed again—not with ghosts or spells, but with energy that couldn’t be bottled. The kitchen table had become a hybrid war zone: textbooks, spellbooks, open laptops, a floating crayon or two.

Jack was levitating three colored pencils midair, eyes slightly crossed in concentration. Jesse was hunched over his Latin primer, lips moving as he chanted. Jane sat between them, arms folded, one eyebrow raised in peak sibling disdain.

“That’s the plural form, dummy,” she muttered to Jesse, snatching the book and flipping a page. “You’re conjugating like a werewolf with a head wound.”

“Language,” Dean said, breezing past with a bowl of popcorn and a stack of index cards. “And floating stuff without a focus sigil? That’s how you end up eating soup with your mind for a week.”

He took his spot at the table like a drill sergeant with a soft side. Calm, focused. He switched from helping Jane with her history notes to quizzing Jack on elemental thresholds, then gently tapped Jesse’s pencil away before it could become another projectile in the escalating crayon war.

Bobby leaned in the doorway, arms crossed again. The kitchen light hit Dean’s face in a soft angle. Not a trace of rage, no raised voice, just steady correction.

“He don’t yell,” Bobby thought. “He teaches. He’s firm, but fair. John coulda learned a thing or two.”

After the study session and a brief recess involving an accidental floating chair, Dean grabbed his duffel bag from the armory and slung it over one shoulder.

“Just a recon. Cemetery ghost. Harmless spook. Might not even show,” he said, heading for the garage.

“You sure you don’t want backup?” Bobby offered, already half-reaching for his jacket.

Dean shook his head. “I’ll be back before bedtime. Don’t let Jack charm the toaster again.”

“No promises.”

Dean gave him a lopsided grin and vanished into the night.

He was back before dinner, smelling faintly of grave dirt and ozone but grinning all the same.

“Spook was just a grief echo,” he said, shrugging off his jacket. “Poor guy was still looking for his dog. Gave him peace, salted the bones. Quick and clean.”

Bobby nodded. “Kids good?”

Dean nodded back. “Yeah. Time for chili.”

He meant it literally—because dinner that night was Dean’s signature three-meat, black bean chili, served steaming hot with cornbread and sharp cheddar on the side. The kids gathered around like clockwork, arguing over who got the biggest bowl.

Bobby took his usual spot at the far end, soaking it in. For once, no one had blood on their clothes. No one was patching bullet wounds between bites.

Later, after dishes were stacked and the kitchen lights dimmed, the kids settled into the Bunker’s rec room for Movie Night. Jane picked the snacks. Jesse arranged the cushions. Jack—of course—chose The Iron Giant.

The room went quiet as the movie played, the flickering light casting shadows across the old stone walls. Jack cried quietly when the Giant whispered, “I am not a gun.” Jane wiped at her eyes like she wasn’t crying, even though everyone could tell.

Dean didn’t say a word. He just sat on the couch, arms spread wide, each kid tucked in against him in their own way—Jane under one arm, Jack leaning forward, Jesse half-asleep with his head on a pillow.

Bobby stood in the back, quiet. Watching. Heart breaking in the softest, most unexpected way.

He wasn’t sure what moved him more—the kids, so safe and warm. Or Dean, who once carried the world like a coffin on his back, now sitting still, holding onto the only peace he’d ever built.

And maybe—just maybe—not letting go.

***

What was supposed to be “two nights, tops” turned into a full damn week before Bobby realized he hadn’t even unpacked his truck. Not that he needed to. The Bunker had enough flannel, bourbon, and holy oil to cover most of his survival needs. That and the fact Dean had somehow weaponized hospitality. “Damn place had more books than the Library of Congress and a kitchen that could outmatch a roadhouse,” Bobby muttered one morning, pouring himself a mug of strong black coffee that tasted suspiciously like it had been brewed by angels. “Wasn’t my fault I stuck around.”

Of course, he could’ve left.

Could’ve hit the road, claimed a salt-and-burn somewhere in Wyoming or dropped in on Rufus. But something kept tugging at him. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was concern. Maybe it was the smell of hickory-smoked brisket drifting down the Bunker hallway.

Which brought him to this particular moment: leaning against the doorway of the kitchen once again, arms crossed, watching Dean whip up dinner like some tattooed version of Martha Stewart with a sidearm.

Brisket. Slow-smoked, barked at the edges, juices practically carving a path down the cutting board. A tray of golden cornbread cooled nearby, the air sweet with honey. Scratch biscuits—actual biscuits—waited on the stovetop under a gingham towel, like this was Sunday supper in Small Town, USA and not the secret HQ of hunters and supercharged kids.

Bobby sniffed the air, jaw tightening to hide his appreciation.

“If the boy ever hangs up his shotgun for a spatula,” he thought, “I’ll sponsor his ass myself. ‘Dean’s Diner: Where the pie’s safe and the cook knows Latin.’”

He cleared his throat and said, “You keep this up, and I’m getting you a food truck. Paint it black, slap a pentagram on the hood. ‘Baby’s BBQ.’”

Dean grinned without looking up. “You’d eat there.”

“Damn right I would. Long as you don’t try serving kale.”

“No promises,” Dean said, tossing a hot biscuit onto a plate and sliding it across the counter.

Bobby caught it one-handed, gave a grunt of approval after the first bite. He wasn’t about to say “thank you,” though. The boy was already smug enough.

Over the next few days, Bobby stopped pretending he was “just passing through.” He still told himself he’d leave in the morning, but mornings came and went, and somehow there was always one more thing. A check-in with the HunterNet.

A test ward Dean wanted his opinion on.

A kid asking a question only someone with a few more scars could answer.

And then there were the kids.

Jane was the first to really break through his perimeter. She was quiet, kind—almost unnervingly so. She had a habit of checking on everyone. “You okay?” she’d ask, with her big, searching eyes. It wasn’t the usual nosiness of kids. No, Jane had a kind of empathy that made Bobby feel like she actually wanted the answer.

“You always like this?” he asked one evening as she handed him a glass of water unprompted.

Jane just smiled and said, “Only when people are sad and don’t know it yet.”

That shut him up pretty fast.

Jesse, on the other hand, was chaos in denim.

One minute he was trying to levitate a book—successfully, somehow—and the next, he was crying over a bug he accidentally squished on the windowsill.

Bobby watched from the corner of the room as Dean helped Jesse bury it in the yard with a solemnity that was half touching, half hilarious. A shoebox coffin, a stick-cross grave, and a small rune scratched into the dirt “just in case.”

Later that night, Jesse crawled up next to Bobby on the rec room couch, blanket trailing behind him like a cape. He sat down, fidgeted for five seconds, then blurted, “Night, Gramps,” before flopping over and conking out against Bobby’s side.

Bobby blinked, unsure whether to be offended or flattered. He settled on pretending to be annoyed, muttering under his breath, “Gramps? Kid’s lucky I don’t salt his juice box.”

But he didn’t move.

Then there was Jack.

Sweet, wide-eyed Jack. Always asking the kind of questions that made Bobby pause, not because they were hard—but because they were honest.

“Do angels eat soup?” Jack asked during lunch one day, poking at his bowl like it held the answer.

“Some do?” Bobby replied.

“Do they sleep?”

“Don’t need to.”

Jack frowned. “But do they want to?”

That one Bobby didn’t have a good answer for. And Jack didn’t seem to mind. He just nodded and went back to eating. Later, he asked if souls could get tired. Bobby didn’t answer that one, either.

But that night, he found himself pulling out an old lore book on celestial fatigue. Just in case.

Bobby finally did what any decent hunter—or father figure—would’ve done on day one.

He snooped.

Not in a shady way, just… call it recon. The door to Dean’s quarters had been cracked open that afternoon, light spilling across the hallway in a golden line. No alarms, no wards—just an open invitation, or at least not a closed one.

So Bobby stepped in.

The first thing he noticed? Guitars. Three of them, lined up against the far wall like rifles. One electric, black as sin. One acoustic, scuffed around the edges. The third—a travel-sized one—sat perched on a hook, a soft cloth draped over it like it was sacred.

Next came the vinyls. Dozens of them. Zeppelin, Motorhead, AC/DC… sure. But mixed in were Johnny Cash, Nina Simone, even some old Delta blues pressed on clear vinyl. Dean had a turntable, a damn good one, with worn-out MP3 Player looped beside it.

And then the sketchbooks.

One was full of weapon designs—runic knives, demon traps, some sort of collapsible spear that Bobby would’ve bet actually worked. Another had pages of what looked like song lyrics, band names scratched into the margins, mock setlists written in tight block lettering. “Midnight Prophets.” “Dean and the Devils.” “Whiskey Psalm.”

Bobby stood there, thumbing through them, the air thick with quiet surprise.

“Hell,” he muttered. “The boy had a personality. Not just a mission. Took me long enough to see it.”

Two days later, the Bunker got louder.

Winter break came, and with it, a new wave of visitors—Ellen had finally agreed to let Jo spend a couple weeks with “Dean,” though she’d sent a glare with the girl that promised swift retribution if things got messy. And Ash had tagged along because, in his own words, “my room has a poltergeist and no Wi-Fi.”

Jo was seventeen and sharp-tongued as ever, her boots louder than her voice, her sarcasm sharper than any blade on Dean’s weapons wall. She strutted in like she owned the place, but Bobby could see it—that glimmer underneath the bravado. The teenage unease, the vulnerability she tried to outpace. She sparred with Dean in words and stances both, never letting her guard down, which only made him smile wider.

Ash, by contrast, floated in like a breeze through a beer can. Twenty years old, lived in flannel, half a soda always in hand. He greeted Bobby with, “Hey, man, you got that ghost-ward mod working on Linux yet?” before sprawling across a couch like it owed him rent. The man was a genius, sure—but he treated physical effort like it had a kill switch.

Dean didn’t complain. Just rolled his eyes.

“Jo thinks she’s bulletproof,” he told Bobby later, “and Ash thinks monsters are just buggy code. I’m working on ‘em.”

Training began the next morning. Not boot camp. Not John-style death marches. But real training, built from experience, discipline, and a whole lot of patience.

Bobby watched from the catwalk as Dean paired off with Jo on the mats. The two circled each other, bare feet slapping against the floor. Dean didn’t go easy on her—not for a second—but he wasn’t cruel, either. He pushed her to find balance, not just strength. She slipped once, and instead of barking at her, he stepped back, gave her a nod.

“Reset,” he said. “Again. You’ll get it.”

He sparred with Ash later. More cardio than combat. Ash was wheezing before the first lap around the Bunker’s main corridor. But Dean didn’t shame him—just clapped him on the back and said, “Next time, we’re doing yoga. That’ll really piss you off.”

It struck Bobby then, watching them all—the shape of this dynamic.

Dean wasn’t fathering these two.

He was something else.

A brother.

A protector.

A bridge between them and the world they weren’t quite ready to face.

“It hit me, watching him,” Bobby thought. “This was Sam again. But better. Dean wasn’t scared or angry this time. He was ready.”

By the fourth training day, something changed.

Dean invited Jane into the gym.

She hesitated in the doorway, one foot tucked behind the other.

Unlike Jesse or Jack, she hadn’t shown much interest in combat.

Her strengths were subtle—healing touch, aura reading, emotional resonance.

She was the Bunker’s emotional ballast, the one who could calm a room with a word, a look, a hug. But now she stood before the mats, hair tied back, palms flat.

“You sure about this?” Bobby asked quietly.

Dean didn’t even look up from wrapping her wrists. “If she’s gonna be around the fire, I’d rather she know how to stop the burn.”

Bobby watched as Dean walked her through stances, breath control, pressure points—not to hurt, but to defend, to endure.

He didn’t rush her.

Didn’t demand more than she could give.

He was patient, surgical.

When she finally landed a clean parry, he beamed.

Jane didn’t smile, but her eyes lit up.

Bobby folded his arms, something like pride swelling in his chest.

“Smart,” he thought. “Compassionate. Damn near surgical in how he guides them. This ain’t the same Dean I watched grow up. This one… this one’s building something real.”

That night, the Bunker felt full. The rec room buzzed with Jo mocking Ash’s choice of horror movie (“You would pick the one with evil Wi-Fi”), Jesse and Jack curled up like puppies on a shared beanbag, Jane quietly sketching in the corner.

Dean stood in the doorway, beer in hand, half-smile on his face.

Bobby stood next to him, arms crossed.

“You ever think you’d end up here?” Bobby asked.

Dean exhaled. “Hell no.”

“You good with it?”

Dean didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly: “Yeah. I think I am.”

And for once, Bobby didn’t have anything to add. Just raised his beer, clinked it gently against Dean’s bottle, and watched the fire grow.

Chapter Text

The Kansas cold had teeth, but it was nothing a man couldn’t wrestle into submission with a leather jacket, a braai stand the size of a car, and enough charcoal to alarm the EPA.

Dean Winchester stood at the center of it all—like some kind of suburban warlord—tongs in one hand, beer in the other, smoke curling around his shoulders like a seasoned cloak. The back patio of the Bunker had been swept, cleared, and converted into what he proudly dubbed “Winchester’s Grill ’n’ Chill.” The table was stacked with sides, trays of meat, plastic cutlery in Solo cups, and a cooler labeled in red Sharpie: EMERGENCY MEAT.

Because Dean had rules.
And rule number one for New Year’s? Nobody goes hungry. Ever.
Rule number two? Explosions come later.

"Don’t touch that!" he barked suddenly, not even turning. Somewhere behind him, Jesse's tiny feet skidded on gravel.
“I wasn’t gonna!” Jesse called back, clearly lying.
Dean flipped a burger with a practiced wrist. “Yeah, and I'm a fairy princess. Back away from the lighter fluid, Gremlin.”

From across the table, Bobby Singer stood squinting at the scene like it might combust on principle. Arms folded, wearing that signature look of suspicion that said he trusted this barbecue about as much as he trusted demons in a church.

“This much meat should be illegal,” Bobby muttered.
Dean took a swig of beer and flipped the ribs. “That’s the spirit.”
"You sure you're not possessed? Last time I saw you cook like this, it was for a wake."
Dean shrugged. "Well, if we’re all gonna die eventually, might as well go out full."

Bobby grumbled but didn’t argue. Truth was, he’d already had three servings of whatever Dean called his Whiskey BBQ Ribs, and was eyeing the cornbread tray like it owed him money.

Across the lawn, smoke curling into the cloudy sky, the kids were going feral. Jane had tried to supervise—ever the calm one—but Jesse and Jack had broken away the moment Dean lit the first grill. Now they were racing around in flannel capes fashioned from Dean’s laundry pile. One of them—Dean couldn’t tell which—had a spatula.

“Don’t make me ban flannel!” Dean yelled.
Jack paused long enough to grin back at him. “But it’s your flannel!”

Dean grumbled something incoherent, but his eyes softened as Jack resumed his chaotic orbit around Jesse. The two of them had more energy than a lightning storm—and less control.

From behind the sliding door, music spilled out: Zeppelin, obviously. Dean had dragged his record player out into the hallway and run a speaker wire through the window—because Bluetooth is for cowards. The music was part of the ritual. Loud enough to keep spirits high, just shy of shaking the Bunker walls.

“What’s next?” Bobby asked, peering at the grill.
Dean held up a tray. “Pineapple jalapeño skewers. Also, bacon-wrapped jalapeños. And... corn dogs for the kids.”
Bobby blinked. “Corn dogs?”
Dean nodded solemnly. “Custom made. Jesse’s don’t have crust. Jack’s are gluten-free. Jane likes hers with mustard smiley faces.”

Bobby looked like he might faint. “You made individual—”
There was a long pause. Bobby’s lips twitched like they were trying not to smile.
“Who the hell are you, and what’ve you done with Dean Winchester?”

Dean didn’t answer. He just flipped the tray, closed the grill lid, and said, “Reinvention. It’s the American way.”

There was comfort in it all—the way he moved between the grill, the music, the cooler. Everything had its place. And as the wind picked up, Dean lifted his chin and inhaled: cedar smoke, grilled meat, fresh snow, and just a trace of sulfur from the fireworks Ash had been stacking behind the Bunker like a madman with access to wholesale explosives.

Dean would deal with that later.

He wiped his hands on a towel tucked into his belt and turned toward the field. The long folding tables were half-set, the chairs mismatched and already damp with condensation. Plastic tablecloths whipped in the wind like battle flags. He grinned.

Some people rang in the New Year with champagne and ball drops. Dean preferred fireworks, grilled meat, and making sure every single person under his roof was fed, safe, and ready to take on the next apocalypse—or algebra, depending on age group.

He checked his watch. Four until midnight. Ten minutes until Jesse probably tried to eat a sparkler.

He grabbed a tray of hot dogs and started loading the next round onto the grill. From behind him, Bobby muttered something about food safety and nitrates.

Dean turned and shot him a look. “You’re still eating, though.”
“Shut up and pass the mustard.”

Behind them, music swelled. The wind kicked ash into the snow. Dean smiled and thought—just for a second—that maybe, just maybe, he was getting good at this.

The sky was slipping from navy to pewter when chaos reared its head again.

“Dean! Jack stole my shoe!”
“No, I borrowed it for science!”
From somewhere beneath the picnic table, Jesse popped up triumphant, waving one sparkly sneaker. “It’s an experiment!”

Dean didn’t even look up from the grill. “If your experiment includes fire, explosions, or Jack getting launched into orbit—”
“It’s not!” Jesse grinned. “Maybe!”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “That’s it. All of you—chairs. Now. No more science. No more flannel capes. No more wizard duels.”

Jack slumped into a lawn chair, looking heartbroken. Jesse sat beside him, dramatic as a soap opera star, while Jane gently confiscated a suspicious handful of sparklers from Jesse’s coat.

“Dean, they were going to light them on the grill.”
“I knew it!” Bobby called from the table, scowling over his newspaper. “You’re raising goblins!”
“They’re five,” Dean muttered. “They’ve got goblin hours built in.”
Jane, ever the diplomat, gave Dean a look that was half-exasperation, half-affection. “You said no magic. So they’re using science.”
Dean sighed. “Which is somehow worse.”

That’s when the second wave of guests arrived—right on time to make everything more complicated.

The front bunker doors swung open with a metallic creak, and Jo Harvelle stepped into the light like she owned it.
Seventeen, steel spine, chipped nail polish, and the attitude of someone who could headbutt a ghost. She had a duffel slung over one shoulder and a smirk already loading.

“Yo,” she greeted. “I smell meat. If that’s not for me, I’m gonna riot.”

Behind her came Ash, dragging a worn backpack and looking like a half-asleep tumbleweed with a mullet. He held up a six-pack of soda.
“Didn’t know what the underage rules were.”

“They’re five, Ash,” Dean called. “They get juice.”

Ash shrugged. “Rebels.”

After him was Ellen Harvelle, “I heard you have a shooting range.” was all she said, before disappearing into the bunker.

Jo dropped her bag, took one look at Jesse and Jack poking each other with twigs, and said, “You let these two live? Bold.”

“They’re fine,” Dean grunted, flipping burgers with the tired rhythm of a man who’d been doing this all day.

“They’re feral,” Jo said fondly, sitting beside Jane. “What’d we miss?”

“Nothing,” Jane replied, with the calm of someone who’d accepted her fate. “Dean made us do ‘study hour’ before he let us near the soda.”

Jo snorted. “Nerd camp continues, I see.”

And then, just when Dean thought the mayhem had peaked, the third wave hit.

Alicia Banes came down the hill in a puffy pink coat, dragging a suitcase that clearly hated gravel. Her twin brother, Max, trailed behind with his arms crossed, eyes scanning everything like he expected monsters to jump from the trees.

At their heels followed Tasha Banes—regal and cold as ever, like frost in human form. Her coat was immaculate. Her gaze? Less so.

Dean took one look at her and muttered under his breath, “Ah. The adult supervision.”

Tasha barely nodded. “We’re here.”

“That’s ominous,” Bobby muttered. “Do I need to salt the perimeter?”

“Not unless your sausages are haunted,” Tasha replied.

Dean met Alicia’s hug with a surprised huff. “Didn’t expect you guys until tomorrow.”

“Mom wanted to ‘scope the place,’” Alicia said with air quotes, grinning up at him.

Max, hanging back, gave Dean a long look. “Is this the place where Jo fought a banshee in the basement?”

Dean blinked. “No, that was—actually, yeah. Good times.”

“Hmm,” Max replied, skeptical but intrigued. He leaned against the table like he was waiting for it to do a trick.

Tasha surveyed the children like an Auror scanning for underage spells.

Her eyes landed on Jane.

“You’re not fully human.”

Dean stepped in fast. “She’s not dangerous.”

“I didn’t say she was,” Tasha replied smoothly. “I said she wasn’t fully human.”

Jane blinked, halfway behind Jo.

Tasha’s gaze shifted to Jack and Jesse, who were now trying to tie their shoelaces together.

“And those two?”

Dean crossed his arms. “They’re mine.”

That earned a single raised brow. “You’ve been busy.”

Bobby, ever the king of awkward timing, barked a laugh. “You’ve got no idea.”

Dean ignored them both, ushering Alicia and Max toward the table. “Plates are by the grill. Ash has fireworks prep—so, y’know, maybe say your goodbyes in case this goes sideways.”

“You gave Ash the explosives?” Tasha asked, deadpan.

“He’s supervised,” Dean lied.

From behind the grill, Ash struck a match and said, “Watch this!”

Dean spun. “ASH—”

Too late. One of the rockets launched sideways, ricocheted off the picnic bench, and exploded in the sky with a pink starburst. Jack and Jesse cheered like it was a Marvel movie. Jane yelped and ducked. Alicia clapped. Max smirked.

Jo turned to Dean. “So this is your plan, huh?”

Dean handed her a hot dog. “Welcome to Camp Winchester. Sign the waiver at the door.”

The time was ticking when Dean finally called it.

“All right, everybody,” he said, his voice cutting clean through the chatter, the half-eaten pie, the scorched remains of a hot dog Jesse had tried to roast with a sparkler. “Fireworks in five.”

A cheer broke out.

Ash, already wearing safety goggles and a grin that spelled disaster, stood by his homemade launch rack—a converted piece of garden equipment now loaded with enough firepower to make the neighbors call Homeland Security.

“You sure this is safe?” Bobby muttered, already edging away.

“Nope,” Dean said, handing him a beer. “But we’ve got two witches, two Nephilim, and a Cambion in the crowd. We’re covered.”

Bobby grunted, but stayed.

The kids were vibrating. Jack and Jesse had matching earmuffs on—Dean’s idea, and Jane was gently trying to stop Jesse from eating a glowstick.

“Hey,” Dean barked. “That’s not candy!”

Jesse pouted. “It glows!”

“Yeah, so would your stomach lining.”

Max snorted from the bench where he and Alicia were wrapped in a blanket, watching the festivities like visiting royalty. Tasha stood behind them, arms crossed, more stone-faced than usual—but Dean caught the way she’d subtly cast a protective ward around the area.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once. Thanks.

Jo stood beside Ash, holding the ignition remote like it was a detonator.
“Permission to go nuclear, sir?”

Dean paused, looked around the yard. Everyone was here. Everyone was smiling. Laughing. Safe.

It wasn’t just a party—it was a moment. One of those rare, golden ones.

“Light it up,” he said.

And with a spark and a whoosh, the first firework streaked into the sky—red, then green, then silver, crackling across the dark. Then another. Then five. Then a chaos of color and thunder, lighting the yard with kaleidoscope flashes.

The kids lost their minds, dancing around, pointing at the sky. Jack and Jesse shrieked with joy. Jane’s face lit up with wonder. Even Max looked impressed, his aloof act cracking as a cascade of purple shot upward like a comet.

Dean didn’t watch the sky, though.
He watched them.

His weird, mismatched, too-supernatural-to-be-normal found family. His not-my-kids kids. His pain-in-the-ass teens. Bobby, grumbling but grinning. 

He’d fought wars. Buried friends. Died.

And now?

Now he got to give them this.

After the last big boom cracked across the stars, the group stood stunned in the echoing silence—smoke curling through the winter air, the last shimmer of light fading.

Then Jack whispered, “Do it again.”

Dean laughed, genuinely. “Tomorrow, kid. The sky needs a break.”

“Party’s not over yet,” Jo called. “You promised movie hour!”

Jane tugged Dean’s sleeve. “Can we do stories too? Like the lore ones? But the funny ones?”

Dean raised a brow. “Funny?”

“Yeah. Like the one where you got turned into a gerbil.”

Dean groaned. “Y’all are ungrateful. I serve gourmet burgers, risk my eyebrows for fireworks, and this is the thanks I get? Gerbil tales?”

“Yup,” Jo said, arms crossed. “Storytime, old man. Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

January, 2003 — Western Pennsylvania

The snow came down like whispers—quiet, steady, endless.

It blanketed the narrow road winding through the woods like a worn ribbon, half-covered in slush, the trees skeletal and looming.

Inside a rust-bitten Pontiac, Megan Drury gripped the wheel tighter, fingers white-knuckled beneath a pair of chewed-up gloves.

Her fiancé, Kyle, fiddled with the radio, trying to cut through static and oldies that didn’t quite feel old enough to be charming.

“Can’t believe your mom still lives out here,” Kyle muttered, squinting at the road ahead.

“She likes the quiet,” Megan said.

“Yeah, well, I like places with cell service and more than three neighbors who aren’t related to each other.”

She smiled despite herself. He was annoying, but he’d driven six hours to see her family, so she gave him credit. The headlights sliced through the dark, illuminating nothing but falling snow and the occasional mail post buried in drifts.

Then—movement.

A blur darted across the road, fast and low. Not an animal. Too fast. Too sharp.

Kyle shouted. Megan swerved.

The car lurched. Tires skidded. For a split second, they were airborne—then slammed back down, screeching to a halt sideways in the snowbank.

Steam hissed from the hood.

Breathing hard, Megan sat frozen behind the wheel. Kyle twisted around, already opening his door. “What the hell was that? Did you see—?”

She saw it then.

Eyes, burning black like coal wet with oil. Watching from the treeline. No reflection, no iris—just darkness. And then: teeth. Too many.

She screamed. Kyle turned, but the thing was already gone.

Then—

Black smoke.

It leaked along the road’s shoulder, curling like a living thing, snaking under the glare of the streetlamp twenty yards back. Unnatural. Wrong.

A cheap motel room, somewhere outside Emlenton, Pennsylvania.

The bedspread is a faded paisley, the kind that once passed for cheerful in the 80s.

On top of it, splayed wide, rests a battered leather-bound journal.

Scratched edges.

Pages stained with time, coffee, and blood.

A line is underlined three times in dark pen:
"Black-eyed bastards – January sightings – PA."

John Winchester, standing at the window, jaw clenched, watching snow collect on the windshield of his Impala.

His breath fogs the glass.

He doesn’t look well.

He hasn’t looked well in a long time.

The duffel on the floor is half-unpacked—gun oil, rock salt, old knives. A flask of holy water. A frayed photo of two boys, tucked into the inside pocket of the journal.

He turns away from the window. Grabs his coat.

“Damn kid’s probably just trying to prove a point,” he mutters, voice low. Gravel-thick.

But the edge to his words isn't anger. It’s worry.

...

The kind with cracked linoleum floors and a jukebox that still takes coins. John nurses a bad coffee and a worse attitude. The waitress, Carla, refills his mug and eyes him sideways.

“Don’t get many out-of-towners this time of year.”

“I’m looking for someone,” John says without looking up. “Well—something.”

She pauses.

He gives her a tired half-smile. “i am FBI.”

After a beat, she leans in. “My cousin said he saw a man last week. Middle of the woods. Said he didn’t have any eyes. Just… black.”

John finally looks up.

“You think your cousin would talk to me?”

Carla hesitates. “He’s not much for strangers.”

John slips a twenty under his plate. “Neither am I.”

...

Stacks of outdated books. One shelf is labeled Occult, Myth, and Lore with a handwritten sticky note warning “RETIRED – DO NOT TRUST.”

John’s already flipped through half the section. A notebook full of sketches sits beside him—sigils, protective symbols, fragments of Latin. He runs a hand over his face. He hasn’t slept.

Across the room, the librarian squints at a clipboard. “You know,” she says slowly, “you’re not the first guy asking about weird symbols this week.”

John straightens.

“Kid came in yesterday. Said he was a blogger. Real twitchy. Looked like someone’s little brother pretending to be a reporter.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Did he give a name?”

She shrugs. “Didn’t ask. But he was poking around demon stuff. Same as you.”

Pizza boxes, VHS tapes, and two overflowing ashtrays sit in cluttered chaos. Andy Gallagher, is face-down in an occult encyclopedia that smells like a basement.

He mutters to himself: “Crossroads, possession, sulfur… What the hell is ‘Malphas’?”

On the floor beside him: a collection of Dean Winchester’s “starter kit” for baby hunters—a stack of scrawled notes, a couple cassette tapes labeled “DEMONS 101,” and a burned DVD copy of Evil Dead, with For educational purposes.

Trust me. scribbled in black Sharpie.

Andy rubs his eyes.

Sheriff’s Office, Emlenton

Andy sits in front of a gruff sheriff, trying desperately to sell his lie.

“I’m with the American Paranormalist Review,” he stammers. “We’re doing a… uhh… special on winter cryptids. And urban myths. You know. Goatman. The Eye Thief. That kinda thing.”

The sheriff raises an eyebrow. “You a student?”

Andy panics. “No. Yes. I mean, not right now. I took a break. To… to travel.”

It’s going badly.

Then he hears Dean’s voice in his head.
Be confident. Lie like you mean it. Oh, and don’t use the name Mulder.

Andy clears his throat. “Look, Sheriff. I’m just trying to help people understand what’s going on here. You got locals seeing things. You’ve got disappearing pets. And someone’s drawing these.”

He pulls out a matchbook—scorched at the corners, marked with a sigil scratched into the surface.

The sheriff stiffens.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Guy at a bar left it. Bartender said he seemed… wrong. Like his face didn’t fit right.”

Andy doesn’t know what the symbol means.

But the audience does.

It’s demonic. Mark of a summoner. Or worse.

Bookstore, Main Street — Emlenton, PA

The bell above the door gave a reluctant chime, half-frozen with rust.

The place smelled like mold, sage, and old secrets. Every surface overflowed—herb jars stacked like chemical weapons, tarot decks wrapped in twine, a cracked glass case displaying amulets that probably wouldn’t protect you from anything real.

John Winchester stepped inside, giving the place a sweep with seasoned eyes. His boots tracked in slush and dirt. The man behind the counter looked up, then back down without a word. John preferred it that way.

He headed toward the back, past a stand of cheaply laminated books about ley lines and dream interpretation. His fingers trailed along the spine of a real find—Demonic Sigils and Infernal Rites, 2nd Ed.—when he noticed someone already there.

Young guy.

Fidgety.

Wearing a vintage parka three sizes too big and scuffed Converse.

His head bent over a text on binding circles, tongue poking out in concentration.

Andy Gallagher.

John narrowed his eyes. Not a civvie. Too focused. Too comfortable with the impossible.

Not a pro either.

The kid muttered to himself and flipped a page. Then paused. He could feel it. That sense you get when something dangerous is nearby. He turned—and locked eyes with John.

The air went taut.

Andy’s pupils blew wide. “Uh. Hi.”

John said nothing.

“You looking for, um—” Andy glanced at the shelf behind him. “Love spells? No judgment.”

John stepped forward. “You always babble this much?”

Andy laughed nervously, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Only when I’m about to get punched. Which—I’m not, right? Punching’s not your vibe?”

John raised an eyebrow. “You’re not from around here.”

“Neither are you,” Andy shot back, then immediately grimaced. “Sorry, that was… aggressive. I’m just—doing some research. For a podcast.”

John gave him a once-over. “What kind of podcast?”

“You know. Paranormal stuff. Ghosts. Cryptids. The Eye Thief.”

A beat passed.

Then Andy leaned in a fraction, voice lower.

“…You a hunter?”

He instantly regretted it.

“I mean, not like a hunter. Or not that kind of hunter, if there’s—if there’s more than one kind, which I don’t even know. You could be, like, into deer or whatever. Big on flannel.”

John stared at him. Stone. Silent.

Andy wilted. “Okay. I’m gonna go die now.”

“You don’t smell like a civvie,” John said at last.

Andy blinked. “Wait, what do I smell like?”

“Like someone who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.” John grabbed the book Andy had been flipping through. “Stay outta trouble, kid.”

And just like that, he was gone—boots heavy, bell ringing behind him.

Andy exhaled, a wheezing sound halfway between relief and disappointment.

John’s Motel Room

John tossed his haul onto the bed.

The journal lay open again, pages sprouting notes and sketches like weeds.

He flipped through the book from the shop, pausing near the back where a dog-eared page caught his eye.

The paper was torn slightly, the crease familiar.

And then he saw it.

Dean’s handwriting.

Blocky. Precise. All-caps, with that little rightward slant.

“DON’T TRUST THE TRANSLATION ON THIS PAGE – LOOK FOR CORRECT VERSION IN THE BACK.”

John’s hand froze mid-turn.

He stared at the note, pulse thudding in his ears.

His son had marked this.

Dean was alive.

Not missing. Not dead. Just… gone. Choosing to stay gone.

John sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the journal closed on his lap.

He was quiet for a long time.

John stared at the photocopied page again.

Dean had trained that idiot.

Gave him tools.

Gave him tools.

He wasn’t just drifting.

He wasn’t lost.

He was hunting.

Without him.

John’s fists clenched. The betrayal burned sharp, but it wasn’t the first time.

Dean had always been the good soldier—until he wasn’t.

Until he decided he knew better.

But this wasn’t about rebellion.

This was deliberate.

Dean was hiding.

From him.

The motel lamp flickered once, the bulb humming.

John stood abruptly, pacing the room.

He wanted to punch something. Kick in a door. Yell. But the emotion came in a slower, heavier wave.

It wasn’t just anger.

It was grief. Confusion. That gnawing, permanent wound of not knowing why.

He sat again, rubbing a hand down his face.

Eventually, he circled something on a page:
SIGIL — RECENT USE. ACTIVE IN AREA. CONNECTED TO POSSESSION?

Then beneath it, in smaller letters:

Find the kid again. He might know more than he thinks.

Emlenton, Pennsylvania — January 2003

The sky was the color of dirty snow. A cold, metallic morning that seeped into the bones and never quite left.

John Winchester sat in a borrowed station wagon that rattled when it idled, nursing the last swallow of coffee from a grease-slick diner cup.

Across the street, the town library’s doors squeaked open.

And there he was.

Andy Gallagher, all elbows and overstuffed folders, half-tripping on the curb as he fumbled his way inside. Papers peeked out of his messenger bag like they were trying to escape. The kid looked like a college dropout with conspiracy theories, not a hunter.

But he was chasing something.

John watched him go.

“You think you’re a hunter, kid?”
“Let’s see how long you last when someone stops holding your hand.”

He waited three minutes, then crossed the street with purpose.

Inside the Library — 10:43 AM

Andy sat at the back, surrounded by yellowed town records and a crumpled legal pad filled with barely readable notes:

• March 1987 – Sister vanished from car with engine running.

• Same crossroads?

• Symbol etched on matchbook = ritual mark???

• Ask Carla again — don’t mention “cult” this time.

He was muttering to himself. “Okay, so what if it’s not possession? Could be summoning... or binding... or maybe just—uh, crap, what’s the Latin for ‘trap’ again?”

A quiet scrape of wood on linoleum.

Andy looked up—and nearly screamed.

John was suddenly across from him, sitting at the same table like he'd materialized out of shadow. No hello. No smile. Just that look—steel and weather and judgment.

“You’re sloppy,” John said.

Andy flinched. “Jesus!”

“Not quite,” John muttered, scanning the stack of clippings like he was already disappointed. “But you might meet him soon if you keep this up.”

Andy fumbled to look more confident than he felt. “Look, if this is about yesterday—”

“Who trained you?”

Andy blinked. “Excuse me?”

John leaned forward, voice low. “Where’d you get that guide? The salt rounds. The sigil knowledge. You didn’t dig that out of a cereal box.”

“I… look, a guy helped me. Taught me some basics.”

“Name.”

Andy paused. Then: “Didn’t give one.”

John stared.

Andy crumbled. “Leather jacket. Grumpy. Knew his lore backwards and forwards. Had a smile like he knew he was smarter than everyone else. He said I could handle myself.”

That made John pause.

Not visibly. Not enough for Andy to catch it. But his fingers twitched against the tabletop.

Dean.
Stupid, cocky, reckless... familiar.

John’s tone changed. Colder. Dead serious. “That guy get you killed and moved on, you wouldn’t even be a memory.”

Andy looked wounded. “You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t have to.”

Andy stood suddenly, voice louder than he meant.

“You don’t get to judge me, man. I’m out here trying to help people. You’re just—sulking in corners, waiting to punch something.”

John didn’t flinch. Just followed him with his eyes.

“You think this is helping?” He gestured to the chaos on the table. “Half-baked research and secondhand Latin? You think you’re ready for what’s out there?”

Andy stepped closer. “Dean didn’t think I was useless.”

John’s voice dropped to a blade-edge. “Thought he didn't give you a name?”

A long pause.

The kind that makes you aware of your heartbeat. Of how loud a library can feel when the silence cuts deep.

Andy clenched his jaw. “He saw something in me. I don’t know why. But he did. And I’m not backing out just because you decided to play drill sergeant.”

John stood too, slow and deliberate.

They were eye to eye now.

“You’re playing with things that don’t give first chances, kid.”

Andy didn’t blink. “So teach me something. Or get out of my way.”

The sky had turned to pewter, snow threatening again. They walked down the street in strained silence.

John finally spoke.

“There’s a pattern in the sightings. Victims go missing near the edge of town—same crossroad every time.”

Andy nodded. “Yeah. I mapped it out. I think there’s a connection to a house out on Juniper Lane. Old property. Been abandoned since the '90s, but someone’s there now. Sheriff said squatters. I say demonic.”

John grunted. “You say a lot of things.”

They reached the car.

Andy gestured to the passenger side.

John didn’t move. Just stared at him, unimpressed.

“You ride with me,” he said, “you carry the salt.”

Andy tried not to grin. “So… we’re a team now?”

“No.” John opened the trunk. “I’m using you. Big difference.”

He tossed Andy a bag of rock salt shells and a flask of holy water.

“You carry the weapons. You stay out of the way. You shut up unless I tell you to speak.”

Andy adjusted his bag. “Got it. I’ll be the intern.”

“And if anything goes south,” John said, slamming the trunk, “you run.”

Andy’s voice was soft but steady: “I already tried that.”

A flicker of something passed through John’s eyes. Regret, maybe. Understanding. He didn’t say anything more.

The Impala’s engine—or rather, the borrowed station wagon’s weak imitation of one—rumbled to life.

They drove into the gray.

And from somewhere nearby, unseen—

Something watched them go. 

January 2003 – Emlenton, PA

The house on Juniper Lane sat hunched at the end of a cul-de-sac like it was ashamed to be seen. Two stories of rotted siding and fogged-over windows, with the kind of silence that made your ears ring.

“Looks abandoned,” Andy said, pulling his coat tighter. “But like, actively abandoned. Not dust-and-dreamcatchers—more something-went-wrong-here.”

John didn’t answer. He was already halfway up the porch, eyes scanning the frame.

Andy hurried after him, duffel thumping against his hip. “So… you ever break into a house that wasn’t possibly cursed?”

John ignored the question, pulling out a knife and prying open the warped door with a practiced flick. It gave with a groan like it had been holding its breath.

The air inside hit like wet ash.

“Smell that?” John murmured.

Andy nodded. “Sulfur.”

“Trace amount. Old. Not enough for a possession. But something’s been here.”

They stepped inside, boots crunching over shattered picture frames and salt-streaked linoleum.

John moved with practiced efficiency, flashlight cutting through the dim like a scalpel. He checked doorframes, floorboards, baseboards—anywhere someone might hide sigils, bloodwork, bones.

Andy trailed behind, scribbling notes with shaking hands, but eyes wide, alert.

“Local kid lived here,” he whispered. “Disappeared two weeks ago. Eleven. Went missing from school pickup, no witnesses. No forced entry here. Just… gone.”

John said nothing.

In the hallway, above the molding near the ceiling, were symbols—neat, symmetrical. Carved with something sharp. The groove work was clean. Ritualistic.

John ran a thumb over one.

“Binding ward,” he muttered. “Amateur work, but consistent.”

They reached the back of the house. A bedroom—small, narrow, walls still papered in peeling dinosaur decals. A child’s room.

Andy froze in the doorway.

The candles had melted into squat, blackened puddles. Eleven of them. Arranged in a perfect circle on the floor, wax hardened into concentric ridges. The smell was wrong—burnt hair and rust and mold.

John stepped in first. Checked the center of the circle. No blood. No remains.

Andy’s voice was low. “That’s not a protection circle.”

“No,” John said. “It’s a trap.”

He crouched, brushing wax aside to reveal more carvings in the floor. “Latin. Broken phrases. Something was bound here—but not with enough power to hold it long.”

Andy scanned the walls, then tilted his head—something tickled the edge of his memory.

There.

Near the closet door, mostly hidden behind a peeling poster of a T-Rex, was a sigil carved in charcoal.

Rough. Small. Easy to miss.

But he’d seen it before.

He dropped to one knee, squinting. “Wait—this symbol—Dean had it in the guidebook. Margin note, barely legible. Said it was a cloaking ward.”

John stood abruptly. “Where?”

Andy pointed. “Right here. It’s meant to hide something from demonic detection. Could go both ways—keep demons out… or trap something in.”

John’s jaw tightened. He ran a hand over his stubble.

“This wasn’t just a possession,” Andy said. “Something was already here. Something someone was trying to hide.”

“And failed,” John finished.

They both looked back at the circle of wax and ash.

The child hadn’t summoned anything.

He’d been the bait.

They stepped out into the fading gray. The house loomed behind them like a secret half-whispered.

Andy lugged the duffel, heavier now with burnt candles, copied symbols, and every piece of paper they could salvage from the child’s desk. He looked tired, but focused.

John walked beside him, silver Zippo flipping open and shut in his hand. His face was unreadable. But his pace had changed. Quicker. On edge.

Something didn’t fit.
Something was watching that kid. Hunting it.
And it wasn’t gone yet.

They reached the sidewalk when John stopped cold.

The lighter snapped shut.

His head tilted slightly, like a predator catching a whiff of something too faint to place.

Andy felt it too.

A prickle down his neck. Like the air got heavy behind him. Like something just ducked out of sight.

He turned. Nothing.

Just a quiet street, empty porches, windows dark.

But—

Across the street, in the alley between two houses: something moved. Briefly. A flicker of unnatural shape. A shadow not shaped like any person.

Then: eyes.

And then—gone.

Vanished into black.

Andy didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

John looked toward the alley. Nothing.

But the tension in his shoulders told the truth.

They both knew.

Something had been watching them.

Andy opened the passenger door, but hesitated. “What was that?”

John lit a cigarette with the same lighter. Took one drag, then crushed it under his boot like he didn’t really want it.

“Don’t know yet.”

Andy climbed in, quiet.

John glanced once more into the alleyway, then slid behind the wheel.

His voice was low. Measured. But dark.

“Whatever’s here—it’s not done.”

The engine coughed to life, and they pulled away.

From the alley shadows, something unseen smiled.

Chapter Text

January 2003 — Emlenton, Pennsylvania

The sirens had already gone quiet by the time John pulled up. Blue and red still pulsed against the gray morning sky, flickering off frosted windows and wet asphalt.

Another kid.
Seventeen. Star quarterback. Good-looking, decent grades, prom date already picked out.

Now: dead. Torn open in his own bed.

John ducked under the yellow tape, flashing a homemade badge and the kind of expression that suggested don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to. The local officer tried to protest, but John’s voice cut clean and fast:

“Agent Daniels, FBI. You’ve got a dead minor and a crime scene with no forced entry. You want me here.”

Inside the house, the air was heavy. Clean, like someone had tried to bleach the grief out of it. But nothing could cover the coppery tang of blood.

John entered the bedroom.

The boy—Evan Becker—was slumped at the foot of his bed. Torn shirt, chest slashed deep, wounds too surgical to be random. Too intentional. Under the bed: black ash scattered like someone spilled fireplace soot in a ring.

John knelt beside the body.

Ash. Again.

He took a sample with a cotton swab and a grim look. Not sulfur. Not quite. Something older. Familiar.

The closet door creaked behind him.

Andy Gallagher stumbled in behind the officer, waving his knockoff press badge and trying not to slip on the plastic-covered hallway rug.

“I’m with the Greymatter Digest,” he mumbled. “We’re running a piece on grief and the supernatural. Supernatural grief. The grief of—uh. It’s a working title.”

The cop waved him off.

John shot him a glare sharp enough to cut.

Andy tripped into the living room, awkward, wide-eyed—but stopped short when he saw the mother.

She sat on the couch, hand clutched around a rosary, eyes red but dry. Not crying anymore. Past that. Floating in that stunned, airless space where reality warps and nothing makes sense.

Andy sat across from her, nervously flipping his notebook.

“I’m really sorry for your loss. I just—this might sound weird, but I’m trying to figure out if what happened to your son is part of something bigger.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared.

Then: “You’re not with the police?”

Andy shook his head. “No. But I’m listening.”

A beat.

Then she said, quietly, “He said he’d been hearing things.”

Andy’s pen froze. “What kind of things?”

“In his dreams,” she said. “A voice. A man’s voice, low and angry. Said a name over and over.”

“What name?”

She swallowed. “Dean.”

Andy went pale.

They stood outside the house as the sun dragged itself over the horizon. The frost hadn’t melted yet.

“You’re unbelievable,” John snapped. “You’re supposed to be the backup. Not the damn grief counselor.”

“She wasn’t talking to you,” Andy shot back. “Maybe try not growling every time someone’s in mourning.”

“I’m not here to coddle.”

“No, you’re here to punch the floor and hope demons fall out.”

John stepped forward, towering. “This is a pattern. These kids are being hunted. If you get in my way again—”

“I’m already in it,” Andy cut in. “And Dean’s name came up.”

That made John stop cold.

“Don’t toss my son’s name around to score points.”

Andy lowered his voice. “I’m not. I’m saying this thing—it’s circling people with trauma. Grief. Memory. The Becker kid lost his dad last year. The first victim? Lost his sister. The boy from the candle circle? Orphaned.”

John’s expression darkened, but he didn’t interrupt.

Andy pulled out his notes, flipping to a section filled with Dean’s scratchy scrawl.

“Dean thought some entities don’t attach to people—they attach to pain. To emotional residue. Stuff most hunters ignore. Said some things don’t leave physical traces, but they remember you.”

John took the notebook. Read. Then grimaced.

Dean had underlined one phrase:
“It’s not summoning—it’s magnetism.”

He grunted. “Still doesn’t tell us where it’s nesting.”

Andy glanced around. “All the victims lived within a mile of that broken-down church on the edge of town.”

John crossed his arms. “You saying it’s holy ground gone bad?”

“I’m saying if something wanted to feed, it would stay close to the well.”

The woods wrapped around the old church like fingers, gnarled and bare.

It used to be called St. Ignatius, but it had burned halfway down in the late ’80s—arson or lightning, no one was sure. The steeple was a blackened frame, the walls scorched, doors half-hinged.

They approached carefully, weapons loaded. Andy held a shotgun full of salt. John had the .45 and his silver knife at his side.

Inside, the air felt hollow.

Dust swirled in slow spirals. Every surface looked waterlogged, but the air was bone dry.

Then—

Scratching.

Under the floorboards.

John raised a hand. Motioned Andy back.

They crept forward. Near the altar, scorched symbols were carved into the pulpit—half-melted, smeared with ash. They weren’t demonic.

They were containment.

Andy scanned them. “These weren’t meant to summon. They were meant to seal.”

“Seal what?” John asked.

Andy hesitated. “Dean had a phrase for it. Something between a memory and a monster.”

Then—a scream.

Far-off, echoing through the woods like it bounced between trees.

They bolted outside.

In the dusk, near the treeline, they caught the flash of black eyes again—gone in an instant.

John raised his weapon, breath sharp.

Andy just stared.

“I don’t think it’s after them anymore,” he said softly.

John’s eyes narrowed. “Then who?”

Andy looked at him.

“You.”

Motel 6, Edge of Emlenton

The room smelled like old smoke and cheaper carpet cleaner. The kind of place where the walls felt thinner than the lies they’d told at check-in.

Andy pushed the door open quietly. The flickering bathroom light was off, but a bedside lamp cast long shadows across the room. He was going to crash early—his head was spinning from theories and twisted sigils and the words “Dean” still echoing like a curse.

Then he saw John, hunched at the small table, eyes glued to a weathered, black notebook.

Andy’s heart skipped.

It was Dean’s notebook—the one he’d been given months ago, right after that first awkward lesson in demon signs and shotgun loading. Andy hadn’t even seen John take it back.

John didn’t look up.

He turned another page, and another, the movement rigid—like the book might bite. His fingers hovered over a diagram of a containment seal that spiraled inward like a black hole.

The margins were cluttered with notes:

• “Not Enochian. Maybe pre-Christian?”

• “Can’t bind what won’t anchor.”

• “This thing doesn’t possess—it remembers.”

John ran a thumb over Dean’s handwriting.
A shorthand he’d never taught.
Symbols he’d never seen.
Counter-summoning theory that rivaled old Men of Letters schematics.

“Where the hell did he learn this?” John muttered.
“This isn’t what I trained him for.”

Andy leaned against the doorway. “Yeah. I figured that out by page four.”

John didn’t respond.

Andy crossed the room, voice quieter now. “Maybe you didn’t see what he could be.”

John finally looked up.

Andy didn’t flinch. “Dean did.”

Beat. The silence between them deepened—less angry now, more tired. Sad, even.

John said nothing. Just slammed the notebook shut, the sound too loud for the room.

The Church Ruins

The wind had teeth. Ice on every breath, creeping into gloves and cuffs and the space behind your eyes.

John and Andy moved through the wreckage of St. Ignatius like shadows, flashlights catching on broken pews and scorched hymnals.

Andy tried not to look at the melted altar again.

John had one hand on his gun, the other on the edge of a blade strapped to his thigh. “Stay sharp. If this thing’s watching us, it’s already ahead.”

Andy nodded. “That’s comforting.”

They circled the ruined sanctuary in silence.

Then: footsteps.

Not theirs.

Behind the altar, someone stepped out.

A teenager. Maybe fifteen. Skinny, pale, soaked in sweat.

John’s gun was drawn in an instant.

The boy raised his hands—but his eyes flickered black, just for a heartbeat. Then normal again.

His voice came out shaky, too deep.
Not entirely his own.

“The bloodline is marked.”
“The elder knows too much.”
“But the younger... Dean...”

Andy tensed. John froze.

“He remembers things he shouldn’t. He doesn’t belong here.”

John stepped forward, weapon steady. “Who the hell are you?”

The boy blinked rapidly. The voice came again, distorted:

“The ward breaks. The name echoes. He sees the wrong dreams.”

Andy scrambled, trying to draw a sigil in salt from his pocket. His hands were shaking too hard. He smudged the outer ring. “Damn it—”

The boy’s face twisted into a knowing smirk.

Then his body jolted—head snapped back, eyes rolled up. He screamed, voice ragged, the kind of scream that scrapes your soul.

“DEAN WINCHESTER!”

And then—collapse.

He hit the floor hard, blood running from his nose, mouth, ears. Twitching.

Possession: gone.

Andy rushed forward, checking his pulse. “He’s alive. I think. Barely.”

John didn’t move at first.

He just stared.

That voice.
That name.
The middle name no one outside their family should’ve known.

Not demons. Not monsters. Not anything they’d hunted before.

Slowly, John stepped forward and knelt beside the boy. He reached into the kid’s coat, searching for ID.

Instead, he found a folded piece of paper, already bloodstained.

A list.

Names, hand-written.
Some scratched out.
Some circled.
Most… young.

Evan Becker.
Micah Rowe.
Luis Harrow.

At the bottom of the list:
Dean Winchester.

Still untouched.

John pocketed it. Voice rough. “We need to get out of here.”

Parking Lot Silence

They stood in the lot behind the church ruins, under a dull orange streetlight, breath misting between them.

Andy leaned against the hood, too tired to talk.

Then: “Why do they know Dean’s name?”

John didn’t answer right away.

He looked toward the tree line. Where shadows moved too easily. Where cold air felt like a breath, not a breeze.

Then, finally:

“...I’m starting to think he was never just hunting solo.”

Andy’s brows pulled together. “What does that mean?”

John didn’t look away. “It means something marked him before we ever noticed. Maybe something’s been using him… or maybe he’s using something.”

A long silence.

Andy straightened. “You think this is about him, don’t you? That this thing—whatever it is—it’s not hunting at random.”

John looked down at the bloodstained list. Dean’s name burned through his palm.

“No,” he said finally.
“This thing wants a memory. And Dean… he’s carrying one.”

Motel, Edge of Town

The sky was still black when John Winchester stepped outside, coat pulled tight and breath misting in the cold.

He pulled a burner phone from his pocket, thumb hovering over the screen.

Contact: DEAN (PRIVATE)
No picture. No real name. Just a code he’d punched in months ago. Maybe longer.

He stared at it for a second too long, like it might answer without ringing.

Then:
Dial.

Ring.
Ring.

The click of the voicemail line felt louder than it should’ve.

“It’s Dean. You know what to do.”
Beep.

John didn’t leave a message.

He clenched his jaw and hung up, hard.

The heater clicked and wheezed like it was trying to die quietly. Andy was sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, sifting through more sigils, a half-eaten gas station burrito next to him like an afterthought.

John stepped back in, face stormy.

Andy looked up, already feeling the tension settle over the room like a weighted blanket. “Voicemail?”

John didn’t answer.

He dialed again—this time, another number.

It rang twice before being answered.

Bobby Singer didn’t bother with hello.

“Not my place to tell you a damn thing, John.”

John didn’t even sit down. “He’s alive. Obviously. But this thing we’re hunting—Bobby, he’s on the list. We’re out of time.”

“Then ask your son.”

John’s voice edged toward a growl. “Don’t jerk me around, Singer. This is bigger than whatever grudge—”

“No. You made your bed. Now you’re waking up in it.”

Click.

John stared at the dead line. Then hurled the phone across the room—it hit the nightstand with enough force to send a lamp skittering and made Andy jump.

“Okay,” Andy said carefully, “so... Bobby’s still not on your Christmas card list.”

John didn’t respond. Just started pacing.

Andy rubbed the back of his neck, then slowly pulled out his phone. “You know, uh… he gave me a number. Dean. Said only for emergencies.”

John turned on him, slow and sharp. “Don’t.”

Andy grinned. “Too late.”

He dialed.

Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Click.

“Andy?”

Dean’s voice. Low. Alert. Not surprised—just… ready.

Andy let out a breath, a little relieved, a little thrilled. “Hey. Yeah. Uh. So… things got kind of wild.”

He summarized it all in a rush—the black-eyed kid, the dream-name, the sigils no one could place, and the list with Dean’s name at the bottom. He didn’t spare a single detail.

John paced behind him like a bomb trying not to go off.

Dean’s voice went silent for a beat.

“...Did you say my dad is with you?”

Andy glanced at John, who was glaring literal holes into the side of his head. “Yeah. He’s… kind of been tagging along. Bossy. Stares a lot. Growls sometimes.”

There was a brief, almost startled silence on the line.

Then:

Dean laughed. Just once. Quiet, dry.

“Are you alright?”

Andy blinked. That part always caught him off guard.

“Yeah. Still got all my limbs. Emotional trauma pending.”

“Good. Text me your location. I’ll be there in a few hours.”

Andy nodded. “Got it.”

The line went dead without another word.

Andy pocketed his phone and looked at John.

“He’s coming.”

John didn’t move. He just stared. That same steel jaw set, the line between control and fury etched deep across his face.

“You shouldn’t have told him everything.”

Andy’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

John: “Because you never tell the whole story until you know who you’re dealing with.”

Andy exhaled, slow and even. “Yeah, see... I already do know who I’m dealing with.”

Beat. The silence stretched taut between them.

Andy shrugged. “That’s the difference between you and me.”

John didn’t answer.

But the look in his eyes?

It wasn’t anger anymore.

It was something quieter.

Something closer to fear.

Chapter Text

The stillness of the motel’s cracked parking lot was shattered by the thunderous roar of a V8 engine.

The Impala tore through the lingering dawn fog like a bullet—headlights slicing through the mist, gravel spraying beneath spinning tires, and the unmistakable riff of AC/DC’s “Back in Black” pumping from the car’s speakers like a pulse that refused to slow down. The world seemed to hold its breath as the car pulled in, skidding into a parking spot with a confidence that demanded attention, as if the very ground belonged to her.

Andy’s heart thudded against his ribs so hard he thought Dean might hear it from across the lot.

He pressed his nose to the motel window, breath fogging the glass, eyes huge and unblinking as he drank in the scene.

The music was loud enough to vibrate through his chest. His fingers trembled; he wiped sweaty palms on his jeans, tried to tuck in his untidy shirt, but the effort was wasted. He looked like a nervous wreck, and he felt it, too.

The door creaked open with a slow, deliberate ease, and Dean stepped out like he belonged to a different world. Dean was something else. Longer hair, loose and messy, refusing order. A black KISS shirt stretched over lean muscles, its sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal dark tattoos winding up his arms like whispered secrets. Rings gleamed on his fingers, each one worn with an obvious history, catching the early light. And there, on his shoulder, a tattoo peeked out—bold, black, jagged lines slicing through skin.

Dean’s wrists jangled with bracelets that told stories of their own. A frayed, colorful band, likely handmade by a child. A matte black band etched with mysterious symbols—ancient script? Norse runes? Protective sigils carved deep into the leather. And an ancient, worn leather cuff that looked like it had survived more fights than Dean himself.

The kind of presence that filled a room without needing to say a word.

The old bravado was gone, replaced by something denser, heavier, realer.

Andy whispered under his breath, heart pounding: “Holy crap. He’s cooler than I remember.”

John stood stiffly nearby, arms crossed like a barrier, jaw tight. His eyes burned with a fire Andy had never seen before. This wasn’t the son he raised. This was a stranger—a man carved out of a darker world, one John had tried so hard to shield him from. The weight of all those years of unspoken words hung between them, thick as the fog.

Dean didn’t even glance at John.

He strode past him with the kind of dismissive confidence that said loud and clear, I’m not the kid you tried to raise.

His boots crunched on the gravel, heading straight for Andy.

“You alright?” Dean’s voice was low, but steady.

Andy swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “Yeah. Just... ghouls. No big deal.” The words came out too fast, cracking slightly on the last syllable.

Dean smirked, a slow, knowing grin.

He clapped a heavy hand on Andy’s shoulder, making the kid practically glow.

The gesture was small, but it felt like a lifeline thrown across a stormy sea.

Dean finally turned toward John, the tension coiling tighter between them.

“Hey, Dad,” Dean said simply.

John sneered, trying to hide the mix of frustration and something like fear in his voice. “You look like a damn rock band got lost in a tattoo parlor.”

Dean’s eyes flashed with defiance. “Yeah? Well, at least I don’t look like I lost a bar fight with a salt shaker.”

Andy watched, caught between fascination and a growing unease. The power dynamics were shifting, and it felt like watching a slow-motion car crash—impossible to look away.

... 

Dean’s boots pressed into the gravel, each step heavier than the last.

The motel was a world away from everything he’d known before—the suffocating expectations, the rigid discipline, the impossible standards set by John Winchester.

He wasn’t that boy anymore. He was a man who’d seen darkness bleed into the edges of his soul and come out fighting.

He looked at John—not as a son, not as a soldier to be commanded, but as someone who’d chosen his own path.

The sneer on John’s face?

That was just noise.

Noise Dean had learned to tune out long ago.

Dean’s voice was steady but held an edge sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m not who you think I am anymore.”

John’s jaw clenched. “Funny. Because all I see is a punk who thinks he’s above the family.”

Dean laughed, a bitter sound. “The family? You mean the cage you built around us?”

That got John’s attention, but he said nothing.

The silence was a standoff, a battlefield where words were weapons.

Dean glanced at Andy, his eyes softer. “I’m here for him,” he said quietly.

... 

John’s fingers curled into fists, knuckles white as he watched Dean move like a storm incarnate—hair loose, clothes a deliberate rebellion, tattoos like scars from battles John refused to acknowledge.

That kid was gone.

Replaced by someone he barely recognized.

He hated how much it hurt.

Hated that the boy he’d tried so hard to protect had become something he didn’t understand, something out of his control.

“You think you can just walk back in here and everything’s okay?” John’s voice cracked with raw emotion, anger barely masking the ache beneath.

Dean met his gaze, steady and unflinching.

“No. I don’t think anything’s okay. I’m not here to fix what you broke. I’m here to protect what’s left.”

John’s breath hitched.

He wanted to yell, to demand, to punish. But the truth was a bitter pill lodged deep in his throat—

He’d broken more than he’d ever admitted.

... 

Andy’s heart felt like it might burst. Watching Dean, he saw the man his father had tried so hard to erase.

The man he’d wanted to be.

The man who scared John more than any monster ever could.

When Dean smiled at him, clapped a hand on his shoulder, it was like the weight of the world lifted for a moment.

But Andy knew the real battle was just beginning.

... 

The motel room smelled of stale cigarettes and cheap coffee.

The peeling wallpaper curled at the edges like forgotten memories.

Dean flipped open his leather-bound journal and spread it out on the cracked tabletop, the pages heavy with ink and secrets.

It was a map of wars fought and lessons learned—circles and sigils dancing across the paper, symbols ancient and arcane, some drawn with a precision that would shame the best hunters, others scrawled in the heat of panic and desperation.

Andy sat on the edge of the threadbare bed, eyes wide, absorbing every detail as if each mark held a secret code meant just for him. His fingers twitched over his own notebook, filled with neat handwriting and hopeful questions.

Dean pointed to a complex warding circle surrounded by smaller glyphs—black ink glowing faintly in the dim light. “See this? It’s a hybrid protective sigil, adapted from the Bojak rites—ancient spirits, nothing your granddad’s old manuals ever covered. I tuned it to block shadow spirits, wraiths—things that slip between the cracks.”

John leaned in, his face tight, brows knit. “We had it under control.”

Dean’s voice dropped, sharp as a blade slicing silk. “Yeah? That’s why the rookie called me instead of you.”

Andy flinched slightly, catching the edge of tension slicing between the two men. Dean’s gaze flicked to John, challenging, daring. “Times change. The old way doesn’t cut it anymore.”

John’s eyes hardened. “You think you’re smarter? You think your fancy tricks are better than experience?”

Dean shrugged, a slow grin curling on his lips. “I think I’m the one who’s still alive to fight. That’s what counts.”

Andy’s throat tightened. He watched the battle unfold, two forces circling, testing, trying to dominate without breaking. The room felt charged, a live wire buzzing with silent challenges.

John’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Watch your mouth, Dean.”

Dean leaned forward, voice softer but no less fierce. “Or what? You’ll remind me who raised me? That old drill sergeant routine? News flash, Dad—I’m not your soldier anymore.”

The room seemed to contract, the air heavy with words unsaid, wounds unhealed. Andy wanted to speak but the weight of their history held him mute.

Dean’s eyes softened when they flicked to Andy. “You called me. That’s good.”

Andy swallowed, voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

Dean clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You did right. Trust your gut—that’s better than any gadget or meter.”

Andy blinked, surprised. “You remember… from the pack?”

Dean laughed—a low, rough sound full of old scars and hard-won wisdom. “Hell yeah. Still got my silver dagger, chipped hilt and all.”

Andy smiled, pride sparking. “Yeah. It’s been with me since the beginning.”

Dean’s grin widened. “Good. Don’t lose it. That thing’s taken down two rakshasa. Not bad for a chipped old blade.”

... 

The weight of words hung between them like smoke. Dean needed air, space to breathe away from the tension.

He stepped outside, the cool morning breeze biting at his skin. Andy followed, tentative, like stepping onto unknown ground.

Dean nodded toward John, watching through the window like a sentinel guarding a fortress. “I figured he’d be long gone before I showed.”

Andy shivered. “He’s… intense.”

Dean’s smile was sardonic. “Yeah. That’s the word.”

They stood side by side, two soldiers waiting on the front line of a war that had no clear winner.

Dean’s hand found Andy’s shoulder again, steadying. “You did good, kid. You called. That’s what keeps you alive longer than any damn EMF meter.”

Andy almost choked on the words, heart hammering. “You remember the old pack? The rituals?”

Dean’s eyes gleamed. “You still using that dagger?”

Andy nodded, grinning. “Yeah. It’s chipped, but it’s mine.”

Dean’s voice dropped. “Good. That blade’s got teeth. Two rakshasa down.”

... 

From the edge of the treeline, something watched.

Still.

Silent.

Waiting.

Dean laughed, a brief sound of ease, but then it caught in his throat—a prickling at the base of his skull. His sixth sense flared.

He turned slowly.

His eyes locked on the dark shapes nestled in the trees.

The watcher didn’t move.

Just stared.

Back inside the room, John paced like a caged lion, the old warrior itching for battle, for control, for respect.

***

Dean’s boots hit the gravel with a crunch, the dawn’s pale light casting long shadows across the empty fields surrounding the old farmstead. The sky was still bruised with the last remnants of night, the air heavy and cold. He paused, letting the quiet seep in — that fragile calm before the storm. The Impala idled back on the cracked asphalt, engine humming like a low heartbeat, a tether to reality in the shifting tides of time and space.

You time travel enough, you start hearing echoes, Dean thought, eyes narrowing as he took in the horizon. Butterfly wings brushing against glass they shouldn’t touch. Clocks smashed to dust. Doors opening before their time. Time’s a broken song playing backward, forward, and sideways all at once.

He shifted his weight, fingers brushing over the leather cuff on his wrist — worn like armor and memory. That tattoo on his shoulder burned beneath his shirt sleeve, a scar and a warning both. His temporal scars. They sang in a language no one else heard.

This thing? It’s early. Too early.

Dean’s mind worked through the possibilities, sifting clues like a hunter tracking prey through the dense woods of reality. Not a demon. There was no sulfur trace in the air. No smell of brimstone, no echo of dark magic.

Not Leviathan. Unless one had broken containment early — a possibility he dismissed with a grimace. Too unlikely. Too catastrophic.

Maybe it’s something attached to me, Dean mused, voice low enough that only the wind could hear. A predator from a future I haven’t lived yet. Drawn to the scars time left behind.

He looked out over the land — fields overgrown with stubborn weeds, broken fences leaning like tired soldiers. Somewhere in this quiet ruin was the key. The last known location tied to the possessed teen — a boy caught between worlds, between sanity and something darker.

Dean grabbed a stick, sharp and sturdy, and knelt in the dry dirt. The soil was cracked, thirsty for rain. He began to draw — a map, a plan, a shield. Circles and lines, sigils of salt and ancient power.

“This is the path,” Dean said, voice steady, tracing the route carefully. “Salt lines here. To slow it down, confuse it. Trap sigils here, set to bind and hold. Andy, you cover the northeast flank with this —”

He tossed Andy a small carved bone totem, rough and worn smooth by time. The kid caught it without hesitation, eyes wide, almost reverent. Dean nodded.

“It’ll pulse if it gets too close. You’ll know.”

John’s voice came from the side, low and wary. “You’re giving him solo ground?”

Dean didn’t flinch, meeting John’s sharp gaze. “I trust him.”

John’s jaw tightened, his voice hard. “He’s a kid.”

Dean’s grin was slow, razor-sharp. “So was I. You still sent me into vampire nests alone.”

The words hung heavy in the morning air — an unspoken reckoning of scars and sins past.

Silence settled, thick and uneasy. John said nothing more, but the tension didn’t break.

Andy watched, eyes flicking between the two men, soaking in the charged atmosphere like a student caught between two masters. The dance of dominance, power, and reluctant respect played out before him, invisible threads tightening and loosening with every breath.

Andy fumbled with a protective rune carved into a worn piece of wood. His hands trembled slightly, the weight of expectation heavy on his shoulders. Dean knelt beside him, patient and exact, the practiced ease of a mentor settling over them both.

“Left to right,” Dean instructed softly. “Imagine you’re locking the door behind you. Not inviting it in.”

Andy exhaled slowly, concentration furrowing his brow. “You make this look easy.”

Dean’s voice dropped to a whisper, rough with hard-won wisdom. “That’s the trick. You act like it is. Monsters? They feed on fear. You don’t give ‘em that. You survive longer.”

Andy’s eyes shone with something new — determination, clarity.

This wasn’t training anymore.

It was survival.

The difference between drills and reality.

The difference John never gave Dean.

... 

Dean’s journal lay open between them, a sprawling battlefield of ink and arcane symbols. John paced like a caged lion, fists clenched, eyes flashing with old fire.

“You think those new tricks make you better? Smarter?” John’s voice was a growl, each word a challenge thrown down like a gauntlet. “You think you can come back and rewrite everything?”

Dean met his gaze without flinching, matching challenge with challenge, fire with fire. “I’m not rewriting. I’m evolving. Adapting. We’re not the same hunters anymore.”

John’s eyes burned with rage and something darker — fear, maybe. “You forget who put food on your table. Who taught you to fight.”

Dean’s smirk was a razor. “I learned how to survive because of you. But survival’s not enough anymore. We need to win.”

Andy watched the battle of wills, feeling the pressure squeeze his chest. The pride, the pain, the desperate hunger for control mixed with reluctant respect. It was a dance as old as time — fathers and sons, teachers and students, rivals and allies.

... 

Dean stood beside Andy, the boy gripping the carved bone totem tightly.

The kid’s eyes flicked nervously to the treeline where shadows deepened.

Dean’s gaze followed.

The watcher was there.

Silent.

Still.

Waiting.

The forest’s breath was held in a thousand tiny pauses, the tension stretched thin like a taut wire.

Dean’s sixth sense flared again — a cold spike tracing a path down his spine. He turned slowly, muscles coiled, eyes locked on the dark shapes.

The watcher didn’t move.

Just stared.

Dean’s mind raced, pieces clicking into place.

The creature was early.

Too early.

Drawn to the temporal scars that marked him as prey or prize.

It was a hunter, patient and cunning, waiting for the right moment.

“Andy,” Dean said, voice low and urgent. “You trust your gut, right?”

Andy nodded, fingers tightening around the totem.

Chapter Text

January 2003 — Emlenton, Pennsylvania

The woods were quiet.

Too quiet.

Then something stepped into the firelight.

Andy froze.

It had Dean’s build.

His stance.

It even wore Dean’s old worn leather jacket, the one with the stitched sleeve and burn mark near the collar. But the face—there was no face.

Just torn flesh, deep gashes where eyes and a mouth should have been. Like something had reached inside and scraped out everything human, leaving only a raw, hollow mask. A mockery of what had once been.

Andy couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. It was like the air around the thing had thickened, like sound itself was afraid to get too close.

Dean stared at it.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look surprised.

The creature didn’t speak—not with a voice, not with words. But the message still came, pressing into their minds like a nail through soft wood. Thoughts warped into meaning, meaning twisted into pain.

"You weren’t meant to be here. The dead do not return. You’ve broken it, Dean."

John stepped forward instinctively, raising his gun. His jaw was tight. His finger hovered over the trigger. But Dean raised a hand without turning.

“Not yet.”

John didn’t like it, but he held.

Dean took a slow step toward the thing. 

“You’re me,” Dean said quietly. “Or… you were.”

The Faceless Hunter flickered.

Like static across an old television screen, its body pulsed between forms. In one blink, it was dressed like Dean. In the next, it was something older, something darker—fragments of memories and pain stitched together by grief.

Its reply split the night open.

"The piece you left behind. The part that screamed too long. You moved on. I didn’t."

Andy didn’t understand the words, but he felt the weight of them settle on his shoulders like a shroud. Cold. Heavy. Familiar in the way nightmares sometimes are—something buried, but never forgotten.

John was watching Dean now, eyes narrowed. His hands gripped the gun tightly, though the barrel was beginning to lower.

“What the hell does that mean, Dean?” he asked, his voice low and steady. Not angry—just afraid to hear the answer.

Dean didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes on the Hunter, reading it. Or remembering it.

Then, slowly, he spoke.

“It’s a remnant,” he said.

A soul splinter. He didn't say.

The Hunter stepped closer. The air turned colder. Its skin shimmered, almost translucent now, revealing jagged impressions beneath—images of a younger Dean curled in on himself, bloody knuckles, raw throat, crying in silence, forgotten in the void. A loop of pain and rage and waiting.

"You forgot me," it whispered into their minds. "You abandoned me."

Dean’s shoulders tensed.

“No,” he said. “There’s a difference.”

The fire hissed as the Hunter twitched.

John looked at Andy. “What the hell are we looking at here?”

Andy’s throat was dry. "Don't know..."

“Yeah, well, it’s looking to kill someone now,” John muttered.

Dean shook his head. “It doesn’t want to kill me.”

The Hunter’s face split open, not with a mouth, but with the memory of a scream.

"I want to come home."

The words hit Dean like a hammer. He stepped back.

“I can’t... I can’t bring you back,” he said. “You’re not supposed to exist.”

"Neither were you."

Dean looked down at his hands.

“Then maybe… maybe you’re right.”

Andy’s eyes widened. “Dean—”

But Dean had already stepped forward again.

“You’re part of me. And you’re in pain. But if I bring you back—if I let you in—I don’t know what that’ll do to either of us.”

"Then let's both fade."

Dean hesitated. 

Dean knelt low to the dirt, jacket sleeves rolled up, fingers already stained with ash and blood. His movements were fast, practiced. Each line and curve he etched into the earth was purposeful—this wasn’t John’s style. Not methodical. Not careful.

This was ritual combat.

He carved spirals within circles, harsh edges and mirrored runes, symbols that shimmered with red heat before fading again like dying embers.

He didn’t need notes.

Didn’t pause to think. .

It was all muscle memory now.

Andy stood nearby, unsure at first, but his instincts kicked in fast. Dean would lift a hand, and Andy would already be moving—handing him the copper powder, then the blade, then the salt. No orders given. No questions asked.

He was learning by watching. Moving like an apprentice born in fire.

Dean’s voice dropped to a low chant, half-whispered syllables that didn’t belong to any language Andy knew. The runes on the ground began to glow faintly, breathing with red light. The fire behind them flared once. Then dimmed.

That’s when the Hunter began to scream.

It didn’t have a mouth—but Andy still heard it.

He heard it in his chest, in the marrow of his bones. A soundless, psychic shriek, like a pressure wave tearing through every memory you didn’t want to remember.

The Faceless Hunter convulsed violently, its form stuttering and twitching, flickering like a dying signal.

It lunged at Dean—

And hit the trap.

The moment its foot crossed the central sigil—carved in blood, lined in salt, sealed with a single handprint from the living soul who’d cast it—the whole thing ignited. Not with fire, but with force. A ring of red-hot power burst upward, slamming into the creature like a wall of sound and light.

The Hunter screamed louder, the dirt churning beneath it as it fought the pull. But it couldn’t escape.

Dean stood firm. His boots planted. His eyes narrowed.

“You’re not me anymore,” he said, voice like a knife unsheathed. “You’re just the burn mark.”

The Hunter reached toward him with a twitching, ruined hand—but it was already unraveling. Its body folded inward, sucked toward the center of the sigil like paper into flame. Limbs twisted. Shadows peeled back. Light bent.

And then it was gone.

Just smoke.

And frost.

Andy couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

He stood in stunned silence, the cold biting his cheeks, his fingers trembling not from fear—but from the sheer gravity of what he’d just witnessed.

“That thing…” he started, eyes locked on the empty space where the Hunter had vanished. “It was you?”

Dean didn’t look at him.

“Was,” he said simply. 

John stepped forward, slowly holstering his weapon.

“You wanna explain what the hell that means?” he said, voice tense. “Because I’ve seen a lot of monsters, Dean. That wasn’t like any of them.”

Dean wiped his hands on a rag, smearing blood and ash into the fabric until it was dark and sticky. He took a long breath before answering.

“It doesn’t matter what it was,” he said, quiet but firm. “What matters is there’ll be more. Things that don’t belong here. Not from the lore. Not from the books. Not from before.”

John frowned. “You’ve been holding back.”

Dean looked up at him, calm but unapologetic.

“You’d do the same.”

John’s jaw worked for a second. “You’re my son.”

Dean met his eyes. “Exactly.”

There was a beat of silence. And for once, John didn’t have a comeback.

Andy watched Dean quietly wrap the warding bracelet tighter around his wrist—thick iron-thread and carved obsidian—then slide a silver-bladed knife into his boot. He checked the weight of his gun. Clipped a flask of holy oil back to his belt.

Then he started walking toward the Impala.

The fire flickered weakly behind them. The trap sigil still smoked faintly in the dirt, like something sacred had been burned there. Maybe it had.

Andy didn’t follow immediately.

He was turning it over in his mind—everything he’d seen.

Everything Dean had done.

This man… this man wasn’t just a hunter.

He wasn’t just ex-military. 

He was something else entirely.

He’d watched a piece of himself die. A piece that had clawed its way back into existence. That had begged. Screamed. Reached.

And Dean had ended it without blinking.

That wasn’t coldness.

That was courage.

That was sacrifice.

Andy whispered to himself as he took one last look at the still-smoking ground, the ash, the symbols that still glowed faintly beneath the frost.

“No one’s ever gonna believe I saw this.”

The Impala’s engine purred as it came to life. Andy jogged to catch up, sliding into the backseat just as Dean shifted into drive.

They didn’t speak for a while. The tires crunched over gravel and leaves, the trees thinning as they made their way back toward the main road. Somewhere behind them, the forest slowly returned to its silence.

Dean kept his eyes on the road.

And then, just loud enough for Andy to hear:

“This was just the start,” he muttered. “Things are gonna get weirder.”

Andy leaned back against the seat, heart still thudding in his chest.

Weirder, he thought.

God help them.

The Impala purred quietly in the driveway, hood still warm, paint glinting beneath the wash of pale afternoon light filtering through the trees.

Dean had gone inside the gas station diner five minutes ago, muttering something about needing caffeine or else he’d turn into a Wendigo himself.

He hadn’t locked the car.

John noticed.

Dean never left the Impala unlocked.

Not unless he wanted something found.

John stood near the front bumper, arms crossed, eyes tracing the curve of the familiar chassis. The car looked the same. Black, clean, built like a tank. But the interior told a different story now. New maps. New sigils scrawled faintly across the dash. That faint smell of ozone and old blood. The comforting staleness of road trips, but sharper. Edged.

He moved around to the back.

Popped the trunk.

Didn’t even hesitate.

He didn’t feel guilty. Not really.

He’d raised that boy.

Trained him to shoot, to fight, to salt and burn the world if he had to. He’d buried him—God help him, maybe more than once.

He deserved answers.

The trunk lifted with that familiar creak.

At first glance, the setup was what he expected—organized chaos. But then the details caught him.

Blades etched with runes John didn’t recognize. Not Latin. Something older. Something that hummed faintly if you stared too long.

A short-barreled shotgun modified with attachments John had never taught—cooling glyphs, something like a trigger rune burned into the grip. The kind of craftsmanship that didn’t come from a hunter’s garage. This was arcane, precise. Surgical.

A duffle bag sat half-zipped in the corner.

John hesitated—then unzipped it.

Rock band t-shirts. New, and clean. Some old—Metallica, Zep, AC/DC. Classic Dean. 

Then... smaller things.

A child’s hoodie. Bright red. Soft. Small enough for a five-year-old, maybe six. A sticker still clinging to the inside tag. John touched it and felt something like static crawl down his spine.

Further down—teen-sized jackets. One denim, one waxed canvas. Worn elbows. Not Dean’s size. Definitely not Sam’s.

John’s hands hovered.

Then froze.

He reached under the false panel—same place Dean had always kept the real good stuff, back when hiding from him meant layering traps within traps.

His fingers touched leather.

Dean’s journal.

Thicker now. Its spine cracked, pages swollen with ink and time. Weathered, battered. The paper curled like it had sat near too many fires. It looked ancient and recent at the same time.

He flipped it open.

Recent entries. Dated just over a year back.

“12/03/02 — Reaper didn’t recognize me. Good. Keeping low. No sign of Amara, but something’s off with the sky.”

“12/28/02 — Rugaru in Utah. Gone feral faster than expected. Doesn’t fit the pattern. Andy froze—didn’t blame him. Blood’s blood. Cleaned up.”

“01/17/03 — Ghoul nest in Flagstaff. Andy handled himself. Tracking tremors. Can’t be Jack. Still too early.”

John blinked.

Reaper?

Amara?

Jack?

None of those names meant anything to him. But the tone… it was Dean’s voice, sure—but sharpened. Fractured. A hunter who’d lived through things no one had written down.

He kept reading.

“The Empty is listening. Feel it when I sleep. Like someone’s standing just past the edge of the bed. Don’t speak its name. Don’t think too hard.”

“Avoiding Kansas. Too many ripples. Sam would know. Cas definitely would.”

“Met a Grigori near Boone. Said it remembered ‘my light.’ That’s not comforting.”

John’s hand tightened around the journal.

Grigori?

The Empty?

He flipped forward.

More entries. Scattered. Almost manic in places. Pages filled with diagrams, sigils, side notes written in a cipher that looked hastily invented. Monster names he’d never heard:

Whithernest. Shadowworms. Waking Godblood.

Then, across several pages—scrawled in sharp, angry ink:

“DON’T TELL SAM. NOT YET.”

Underlined. Repeated.

Over and over.

John closed the journal fast, too fast.

The silence of the woods pressed in. Not threatening—just still.

He stared at the trunk’s contents, heart pounding against his ribs.

The weapons weren’t just tools anymore. They were relics of something John hadn’t prepared him for.

The clothes… those weren’t for Dean. They were for someone else. Plural. A life Dean wasn’t sharing. Couldn’t share.

And the journal…

That was a war diary. Not just of monsters, but of memory. Of rules rewritten. Realities frayed. Names and creatures that didn’t exist in John’s world—but clearly did in Dean’s.

And that phrase—Don’t tell Sam—burned hotter than anything else.

He snapped the trunk shut.

Wiped his hand over his mouth.

Dean had left the Impala unlocked.

He wanted him to see it.

But not everything.

And definitely not to understand it.

Footsteps approached behind him. Dean’s boots on gravel. Easy stride. Paper coffee cup in hand.

“You touchin’ my car, old man?” he asked casually, eyebrow raised.

John didn’t answer right away. Just nodded toward the passenger door.

“You keep it unlocked,” he said. “That’s new.”

Dean took a sip of coffee, didn’t flinch.

“Yeah. Guess I’m getting soft.”

John studied him.

Tried to match the man in front of him with the one whose journal he’d just read.

He couldn’t.

But he knew this much: Whatever had happened to Dean, it wasn’t over.

And whatever Dean was preparing for… they weren’t ready for it.

Not even close.

Chapter Text

Too bad John didn’t stick around.

Sometime after midnight, without a word, John was gone: no note, no phone number, just tire tracks in the dirt and a kid left staring at an empty space. Dean knew that kind of abandonment all too well. And when Andy muttered that maybe he should’ve gone with the grumpy hunter 'He looked lonely', Dean felt a quiet twist in his chest.

So, he did what he always does when someone’s been left behind he brought Andy home.

Only, “home” meant the bunker. And “home” already meant a half-dozen other kids who weren’t expecting company. Jack and Jesse, the six-year-old supernatural tag team, were curious but cautious. Jane, kind but watchful, tried to make Andy feel less like the new guy under a microscope. Alicia and Max Barnes were split, Alicia full of questions, Max pretending not to care. And Jo Harvelle… Jo wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

Jo had been under Dean’s wing, learning the ropes early, pushing herself to prove she was ready. Now she was staring down something huge graduation. An honest-to-God milestone in a life where most hunters don’t get milestones. She was proud, sure, but also restless. And this brand-new addition to their odd little family? It was one more shake-up right when she thought she had her footing.

Andy, for his part, didn’t know what to do with all of it, the underground fortress, the handful of other teens and kids, the fact that Dean Winchester apparently had… a pack. He’d never been in a place where people looked out for each other without wanting something back.

It’s been an adjustment. For all of them.

Andy’s learning to live with people instead of ghosts. Jack and Jesse are deciding if he’s more “weird dog” or “annoying older cousin.” Jane’s helping him find his footing. The Barnes twins are running bets on how long it’ll take him to open up. And Jo… Jo’s wondering what comes after graduation, and whether she’s ready for it.

Because in this life, change is the one thing you can count on.

And for Dean Winchester’s growing family, change has only just begun.

July 1st 2002

The garage smelled faintly of oil and cold metal, the kind of scent that settled into your clothes and clung for hours. Dean Winchester leaned over the workbench, hands busy checking the latches on his weapons case. The bench light caught the curve of the machete blade as he ran a cloth along it, giving it one last polish before setting it aside with a clink.

It wasn’t a complicated hunt.

At least, it wasn’t supposed to be.

Dean had found the case a few towns over—a simple salt-and-burn if he was lucky. Ghost, maybe a low-tier ghoul if things got spicy. He told himself it was just to keep sharp between the real heavy hitters, but the truth was, downtime made him restless.

A spare clip slid into his palm, and he tucked it into the duffel with practiced ease. In his head, he was already halfway through the case: check EMF, find bones, burn bones, grab a burger on the way home.

“Going somewhere?”

Dean didn’t even glance up.

The voice was too familiar, half challenge, half tease. When he did look, Jo Harvelle was leaning against the doorframe like she owned the place, a faded canvas duffel slung over one shoulder. Her boots were scuffed from recent hunts, hair tied back, and she had that gleam in her eye—the one that meant he wasn’t going anywhere alone.

“No,” Dean said flatly, which in Winchester meant yes, and don’t push it.

Jo just raised an eyebrow. “Cool. Then you won’t mind me tagging along.” She stepped inside before he could answer, the thud of her bag hitting the concrete echoing through the garage.

Dean set down the silver bullets he’d been counting. “Jo-”

“Don’t even start,” she said, unzipping her bag to show off her own neatly-packed arsenal. “I’ve been holed up here too long. I could use the field time. And before you say it, I’m not here for training wheels.”

Dean’s mouth opened to reply, but another voice cut in.

“Hey, what’s the plan? You guys going somewhere fun?”

Dean groaned.

Andy Gallagher strolled in like he was late to a barbecue, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, the beginnings of a grin tugging at his mouth. He looked more at home in the bunker than most of the people actually living there, but this, Dean in full hunt prep mode was clearly his idea of fun.

“Neighborhood’s real big, huh, Gallagher?” Dean said dryly.

Andy shrugged. “Happened to be in the area.”

“This area?” Dean said, gesturing around the bunker garage. “Right. Totally normal coincidence.”

Andy gave him an innocent look that didn’t fool anyone. “What can I say? Word travels fast when there’s something brewing.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, suspicion confirmed.

He wasn’t taking a bus full of rookies on what was supposed to be a quick job. But then like a spark catching he remembered the Wisconsin case. A blip he’d noticed weeks ago: weird EMF spikes in some nowhere rural town. It had been sitting on the back burner, not urgent enough to move on, but not so boring he’d ignored it entirely.

Maybe…

Dean leaned back against the workbench. “Alright. I’ve got something for you two.”

Jo crossed her arms. “You’re letting us come?”

“Not exactly,” Dean said, voice going smug. “You’re going without me.”

Andy’s grin faltered. “Wait—what?”

“You heard me. Little rural town in Wisconsin’s got EMF readings popping up like bad pop songs on the radio. Could be nothing. Could be something sneaky. Either way, perfect field test for Tweedledee and Tweedledumber.”

Jo’s arms tightened. “We don’t need babysitting—”

“Exactly my point,” Dean said, cutting her off. “You’re gonna figure it out together. No one’s in charge. This is a team effort.”

Andy shot Jo a quick sideways look. “Define together.”

Dean smirked. “Means you share the wheel, the research, the risk. No pulling rank, no leaving the other behind. You two have different styles. Make it work.”

Jo made a face like she’d just been told to hug a porcupine. “You do realize his style is… what, exactly? Improv and luck?”

Andy gestured toward her. “And yours is what? Lecture until the monster dies of boredom?”

Dean clapped his hands once, sharp. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Jo scowled at him. “Why are you enjoying this?”

“Because I want updates three times a day—no arguments, Joanne.”

Her jaw tightened. “The full name thing’s getting old.”

Andy smirked. “I think it suits you.”

She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Dean tossed Jo the keys to one of the bunker’s spare vehicles. “Don’t wreck it. And remember—team effort.”

Jo caught the keys one-handed. “Fine. But if we come back with matching injuries, I’m blaming you.”

Dean just grinned, already picturing the inevitable snark-filled reports he’d be getting. “Good luck, kids.”

They spent the next hour packing the car. Jo checked the weapons twice, stowing the shotguns beneath the tarp in the trunk and making sure the salt and iron rounds were easy to grab. Andy spent more time fiddling with the EMF reader, holding it up like a toy, until Jo swatted his hand and told him to put it away.

“You know this is serious, right?” she asked.

Andy snorted. “Yeah, and we’ll be fine. Dean wouldn’t send us out if he thought we’d die.”

Jo’s brow arched. “You sure about that?”

Andy hesitated. “…Eighty percent.”

By the time they rolled out, the sky was just starting to darken, the orange light fading behind a thick bank of clouds. Jo drove, naturally—Andy had been too slow to call shotgun in time to grab the wheel.

The first leg of the drive was quiet, at least until Andy pulled out the playlist Dean had loaded onto an old MP3 player.

Jo groaned at the first guitar riff. “Seriously? We’re doing his music?”

“Driver picks, passenger shuts their piehole,” Andy said in a perfect imitation of Dean’s voice.

Jo nearly swerved into the shoulder. “Say that again and I’m stabbing you in the eye.”

Andy grinned wider. “Team effort, Jo. Team effort.”

Meanwhile, back in the bunker, Dean returned to the garage after they left. The quiet was immediate and deep, the way it always was when a hunt pulled someone else out into the world. He leaned against the Impala for a moment, running through a mental checklist of everything they’d packed.

He wasn’t worried—not exactly. Jo could handle herself. Andy had instincts, even if his delivery was unconventional. But still… they were his responsibility now. His people.

Dean pulled out his phone, already setting a reminder for their first check-in. Three times a day. No excuses.

Out there, they were on their own. But here—Dean would be listening.

---

The bunker garage was quiet enough to hear the faint drip of water somewhere in the far corner, the low hum of the overhead lights, and the metallic click of a gun magazine sliding into place.

Dean stood at the open trunk of the Impala, its black paint still holding a low sheen despite the dust settling in from the last drive. He reached in, rearranging the arsenal in the false bottom with an almost obsessive precision—rifle tucked parallel to the shotgun, spare rounds stacked in their box, silver blades in the far slot.

On the surface, it looked like any other pre-hunt ritual.

No different from a hundred times before.

That’s what he wanted it to look like.

It wasn’t.

There was no case file spread across the map table. No coordinates circled in red. No call from Bobby, no cryptic text from some hunter two towns over. Just Dean, packing gear into the trunk like muscle memory, because having his hands busy was the only way to keep his head from spiraling too far.

The kids thought he was heading out for another solo run—something quick and dirty, maybe a salt-and-burn, maybe just checking on a hunter contact. He didn’t correct them.

Hell, it was easier this way.

The truth was… this trip wasn’t about a hunt at all.

Dean closed the trunk halfway, then paused, leaning both palms against the cool metal. The recent run-in with his dad—God, that had been a mess—had kicked up more dust in his brain than he’d thought possible. Seeing John again, in this timeline, not yet the half-broken man Dean remembered… it had been like stepping back into a childhood photograph, except he wasn’t the kid anymore. He could see every flaw now, every crack in the frame.

And with that came memories. Not the ones he liked to keep polished and safe—those rare good days with John were locked away like treasure. No, what came back were the ones he’d tried to bury. The ones that had “failure” written across them in black ink.

One memory in particular refused to leave him alone.

Adam Milligan.

Dean’s other little brother.

The one who, in the original timeline, had been left unprotected. Left behind.

He still remembered the kid’s face. The disbelief in his eyes when Dean and Sam had shown up—not to save him, not really, but to use him. They’d made sure he knew he wasn’t part of “the family business.” And in doing that, they’d left him out in the cold.

Dean shut the trunk fully, the thunk echoing in the garage like a gavel drop. He leaned against the car, arms folded, eyes fixed on nothing.

He could still hear his father’s voice, clear as day, like a ghost standing right beside him: Protect your family. The sting was sharper now, knowing he’d failed that order in every timeline before this one. Adam hadn’t been protected not from the supernatural, and sure as hell not from Heaven’s plans.

In this year, Adam was twelve. Just a kid. Too young to be anywhere near a monster, let alone an archangel. But Dean knew better. Being a Winchester meant “safe” was a lie you told yourself to sleep at night.

Dean ran a hand over his jaw, the rasp of stubble loud in the silence. He knew how Heaven worked. He knew how Michael worked. Once Dean and John were off the table as vessels and they would be, one way or another, Michael would start looking for Adam.

And when that happened… Dean didn’t have to guess how it would play out. He’d seen it. Adam, trusting Michael, welcoming him in because no one had ever told him different. Because Dean and Sam had made him feel like an afterthought.

That part hurt worst of all.

Dean let out a low breath, rubbing the back of his neck. The kid had trusted the only person who offered him a place at the table. That trust wasn’t Adam’s fault.

It was Dean’s.

Mostly Dean’s.

Twelve years old.

Probably in middle school right now, maybe struggling with math, maybe daydreaming about getting his driver’s license someday.

Completely unaware that the universe had him penciled in as Plan C for an archangel apocalypse.

Dean had seen too many kids get dragged into this life without a choice. Hell, he was one of those kids. But Adam had been different—he’d had a shot at normal.

And they’d blown it for him.

This time, though… this time was different. Dean wasn’t just going to wait for the hammer to fall. He could get ahead of it. Talk to the kid. Keep him on the radar. Maybe even keep him far enough out of the supernatural’s shadow that Michael would never find a foothold.

The question was how.

John was still alive in this year. And whatever else Dean thought about the man, John would protect Adam. But telling John meant telling him about the future, about Michael, about how his oldest son had already lived through more apocalypses than most people had hot dinners.

Dean didn’t trust John to take that news without trying to control it.

And then there was Kate—Adam’s mom. Dean barely knew her.

Dean wasn’t sure what he’d say to Adam when he got there.

He wasn’t even sure Adam would want to hear from him. But he was damn sure he wasn’t going to let another year slip by without doing something.

No more leaving the kid to figure it out alone.

He killed the lights in the garage, the Impala’s polished curves going shadow-black in the dimness.

The click of the lock echoed behind him as he headed for the war room.

From now on, Adam wasn’t just a name in his memories.

He was family.

And this time, Dean intended to act like it.

Chapter Text

Dean pulled into the shadowed parking lot of a modest motel just outside Windom, Minnesota, and killed the engine.

The Impala, his faithful old girl, sat under the flickering neon “Vacancy” sign like a watchful sentinel. He ran a hand along the hood, the metal cool beneath his fingers, and for a moment, he considered driving on. He could keep going, keep the kid at a distance, keep everything neat and tidy.

But he couldn’t.

Not this time.

If Kate Milligan saw the Impala, she’d think of John, and Dean wasn’t ready to deal with that. Not yet. Not while he was still trying to figure out how to make this right. So the car stayed put. Dean pulled on his worn leather jacket—well, not tonight; tonight he went simple: a KISS t-shirt, jeans, no jacket to hide the scars on his forearms, the ones that spoke louder than any words ever could. If someone took one look at him, they’d think twice. Not that he wanted to intimidate anyone unnecessarily—but sometimes, it helped.

He grabbed a duffel with a few essentials, checking the contents quickly: weapons, EMF detector, a few holy trinkets, and a notebook.

Nothing heavy.

This trip wasn’t about hunting.

Not really.

The motel office clerk gave him a brief nod, probably figuring he was just some drifter passing through. Dean didn’t bother with conversation.

He only needed a bed for a few nights and a place to lay low.

Dean moved through the town almost invisibly, taking advantage of small diners, late-night coffee shops, and the edges of parking lots. He watched Kate Milligan’s routines: the exhaustion in her shoulders as she came off a night shift, the way she forced a smile when she saw Adam, her careful attempts to be present during the day despite fatigue gnawing at her. She was trying. He could see it in the little things: how she arranged the kitchen, made sure the papers were stacked neatly, the way she lingered in Adam’s doorway for a few extra seconds before leaving. She was doing her best. And Dean silently admired her for it. She reminded him a little of Mary—strong, protective, carrying more weight than she should have to.

Adam. The kid.

Dean’s chest tightened every time he saw him. Twelve years old, just a little older than he’d ever imagine. He was lanky, with hair that fell in soft waves over his forehead, and he had the stubborn tilt to his jaw that Dean recognized immediately. A Winchester stubborn streak, untrained, untempered, but there. He also carried his mother’s features: sharp eyes, careful movements, subtle expressions that betrayed intelligence and caution. Dean noted it all, quietly, mentally cataloging the kid: independent, strong-willed, self-sufficient.

It was a strange mix. Adam looked like Sam but acted more like Kate. Dean’s stomach twisted with a pang of guilt. All the things he had done (or failed to do) for Adam before were written on his conscience in bold letters. He’d treated his little brother like collateral damage. Like Sam came first, like Adam’s existence could be a secondary concern. And now he was here. Twelve. Small. Vulnerable. And entirely alone more often than not.

Adam’s day-to-day routine was predictable, and Dean made it his business to learn it. The kid had a paper route. Dean found him early one morning, pushing the heavy paper cart down the quiet streets, each step deliberate, each paper stacked carefully. He smiled faintly. Better than Sam’s “magic phase,” he thought Sam had been chasing rabbits and illusions at that age. 

Dean followed from a distance, careful to stay hidden behind parked cars, diners, and the occasional alley. Adam’s mom worked nights, leaving him alone for stretches during the day. Dean noted the small precautions Adam took: locking doors, peeking through windows, carrying keys on a loop around his wrist. The kid had built-in defenses, but he was still just a kid. A Winchester kid. That combination alone made him a target.

And targets never get easier with age in this world.

The first real incident came on a Tuesday.

Dean was leaning against a lamppost, watching Adam finish a delivery, when he noticed movement in the corner of his eye. Three older boys, a year or two ahead, waited near the intersection. Dean could see the smirks, the deliberate slouches, the way they sized up Adam like a pack of wolves.

Adam walked straight into their path, oblivious to their intentions or perhaps just stubborn enough not to care. The boys shoved him lightly at first, knocking his papers to the ground. He stumbled back, tried to push them away, but his arms flailed like loose wires. Each punch, each swing went wide. He was small, wiry, and though he fought with determination, he had no leverage.

Dean’s jaw tightened. 

Without thinking, he crossed the street.

The boys froze mid-step when they saw him. Tall, broad-shouldered, the t-shirt clinging to arms marred with scars, forearms exposed. Dean didn’t shout, didn’t make a move. He just walked. The air seemed to shift around him.

“Kid,” Dean said calmly, crouching slightly to scoop up the papers. “How much for the paper?”

Adam blinked, confused, but answered quietly.

The three older boys, seeing the scars, the eyes, the sheer presence, froze in place. One muttered something under his breath, and they retreated, glancing over their shoulders, muttering. 

Dean stood and handed the papers back to Adam. The kid’s hands shook slightly, not from fear, but from disbelief. He had seen men shove and hit him, but none had stood there like a wall behind him. None had made the bullies back off with nothing more than a look.

“Thanks,” Adam muttered, finally, not sure whether to keep walking or run inside.

Dean nodded once. “You’re welcome.” He didn’t linger. Didn’t offer advice. Didn’t lecture. Just walked back to the edge of the street, eyes on the retreating boys. Once they were gone, he let out a slow breath.

Adam watched him go, unsure of what had just happened. 

That night, Dean sat in the dark motel room, replaying the day in his head.

He watched the small town flicker beneath the streetlights through the dusty window. Kate would be home soon, winding down from her shift, and Adam would be inside, finishing homework, preparing for the next day.

Dean’s stomach ached.

He’d been wrong before. He had failed Adam before. He had left him vulnerable, and in that absence, the boy had found solace in the worst possible place: Michael. Dean’s chest tightened at the thought. The idea of Michael touching Adam, guiding him, teaching him… it was like a knife twisting in his gut.

Not this time. Not if Dean could stop it.

Dean leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. The kid was young, but capable. Strong-willed. Dean saw the potential. And he also saw the cracks, the loneliness, the constant pressure to be self-sufficient, the small scars of a life already hard.

He had a long road ahead, figuring out how to protect him without overstepping, without making him resent the interference. He couldn’t show up as Dean Winchester, the hunter. He had to be someone else. A quiet guardian, a shadow, a presence Adam could trust without knowing why. 

Tomorrow, he thought, he would follow him again. See more. Learn more. Protect more. And maybe, just maybe, start finding a way to make things right.

Because family wasn’t something you preached about. Family was something you fought for. And Dean Winchester? He was ready to fight.

Dean had a routine now, as much as he hated admitting it.

Every morning since he rolled into Windom, Minnesota, he parked himself at the same breakfast diner, the one tucked into the corner of Main Street. It wasn’t much just a long stretch of cracked linoleum floors, a jukebox that never worked right, and tables polished so often the varnish was wearing thin but it gave him exactly what he needed: a clear view of Adam Milligan’s paper route.

From the booth near the window, coffee steaming in front of him, Dean could watch the kid pedal past on his bike, a canvas bag stuffed with rolled-up newspapers slung over his shoulder. Adam was methodical, quick. He moved with the quiet focus of someone who’d been doing the job a while someone who knew every house, every doorstep, every dog on the block that might try to bite his ankle.

Dean took a bite of pie apple, fresh, the kind that tasted like somebody’s grandma had baked it that morning and let the sugar and cinnamon distract him. He wasn’t usually one for sweets before noon, but this place? This place made pies worth getting up for. Besides, it gave him a cover. A guy eating pie and coffee in the morning didn’t stand out.

“Another refill, hon?”

Dean looked up.

The waitress, early forties, curly hair piled into a messy bun, stood with the pot in hand and a smile she probably gave every regular.

“Yeah,” he said, sliding his cup forward. “Keep it coming.”

She poured, nodding at his empty plate. “You’re gonna make a habit of pie for breakfast.”

Dean smirked. “Don’t tell my doctor.”

She chuckled, shaking her head as she moved down the line of booths. Dean wrapped his hands around the mug and leaned back, eyes drifting back to the window. He told himself he wasn’t staring. He told himself this was just recon, the kind of surveillance he’d done on a hundred hunts before.

But deep down, he knew better.

Eventually, the bell over the door chimed, and Adam walked in.

The kid wore his paper route bag like a badge of honor, the strap cutting across his chest as he pulled out folded papers and dropped them onto tables with a practiced rhythm. People greeted him absently “Mornin’, Adam” like he was part of the scenery. Adam answered with nods, polite but distant.

Dean sat up straighter, pretending to thumb through the menu he already knew by heart.

Adam stopped at his table, pulling out a paper.

He placed it carefully in front of Dean, his movements cautious. His eyes flicked up, meeting Dean’s for the briefest second.

Dean felt it like a gut punch.

The kid looked at him not suspicious, not afraid, but searching. Like he was trying to place a face he’d seen before, like he was looking for something he couldn’t name.

Dean forced a small smile, the kind that didn’t show teeth. He reached into his wallet, pulled out a bill far bigger than the cost of the paper, and slid it across the table.

“Keep the change,” he said quietly.

Adam blinked at the money, then at Dean again. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, ask a question, maybe but the words never made it out. He just nodded, slipping the bill into his pocket before moving on to the next booth.

Dean watched him go, coffee cooling in his hand.

The waitress came back around, eyes flicking toward Adam as he left another paper by the door. She leaned slightly toward Dean. 

The waitress studied him for a moment, then smiled like she’d read more than he wanted to give away. “Another slice of pie? On the house this time. You look like you could use it.”

Dean exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Maybe later.”

She moved on, and Dean sat there with his untouched coffee, eyes on the door where Adam had just exited.

The kid was gone, already back to his route, back to being twelve and alone in a world that didn’t know how much weight he carried.

Dean swallowed hard. He hadn’t come here to talk. Not yet. But every time Adam looked at him like that—searching, waiting—Dean’s resolve cracked a little more.

For now, all he could do was sit in the corner booth, buy the paper he didn’t need, and make sure Adam’s world stayed quiet a little longer.

Adam Milligan would’ve told you his life was boring.

Not bad, not miserable—just boring. It was always him and Mom, the same house, the same routine. School, paper route, the occasional baseball game on TV when Mom wasn’t too tired. He had friends, sure. The kind you saw at recess, traded baseball cards with, sometimes rode bikes with in summer.

Nothing about his life screamed “special.”

And maybe that was okay.

He used to dream about his dad. Back when he was little, he used to sit by the window and imagine a shadowy figure walking up the path, someone tall and strong who would come inside, smile, and tell him you’re my boy. For a long time, that dream kept him going. But eventually, it got embarrassing. He stopped asking Mom about it. Stopped hoping. He told himself he didn’t care anymore.

Then, months before his twelfth birthday, something changed.

He’d begged his mom one night just once more to tell him about his father. He remembered blurting out the words at the dinner table, spaghetti cooling on the plates: “What was he like? Where is he now?” He didn’t expect an answer.

He didn’t expect her to pick up the phone the next day.

And he definitely didn’t expect John Winchester to show up in person just days before his birthday.

The man was everything Adam had imagined and more. He oozed mystery. He knew random facts about the strangest things—military history, weapons, folklore. He had this restless energy, like he was never standing still even when he wasn’t moving. But at the same time… he could just lift Adam up like it was nothing. At twelve, Adam felt too big for that, but John did it anyway, with one arm, like it was nothing.

And somehow, he still did all the “dad” stuff. He took Adam to a ball game, bought him nachos and soda, cheered until his voice went hoarse. He took him shooting once, let him hold a rifle under strict instructions. He taught him a little about cars, hands greasy as they leaned over the hood together. For a month, Adam had what he thought was normal life—what it was supposed to feel like to have a father.

And then he was gone.

John left with barely more than a goodbye. Adam didn’t press too hard. He told himself John was some kind of secret agent, like in the movies—here one day, gone the next, protecting the world. That story made it easier. That story kept the numbness at bay. But when the weeks stretched into months, Adam stopped expecting him to come back. Stopped waiting for the phone to ring. It was like before, only worse, because now Adam knew what it felt like to have a father around. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop wanting it.

The summer after, July, hot and sticky and loud with cicadas, Adam started noticing someone.

He wasn’t sure when he first saw him.

Maybe outside the diner.

Maybe on the corner when Adam was delivering papers. But the guy stood out. Mid-twenties, maybe, sharp green eyes, and this heavy presence that made Adam think instantly of his dad. Not the same man but the same mysterious, cool aura, like he belonged to a world Adam wasn’t allowed to see.

The guy never approached him.

He just… was there.

Sitting in the corner booth at the diner. Drinking coffee like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Eating pie for breakfast, which Adam thought was kind of funny, kind of awesome. And whenever Adam dropped a paper off at his table, the guy paid more than he should’ve, sliding bills across the table with a quiet, “Keep the change.”

Adam would look at him and feel this weird itch in his chest. Like he was supposed to know him. Like he was supposed to say something. But what? Who are you? Why are you watching me? Are you like my dad?

Every time he thought about asking, his throat locked up. So he just nodded, pocketed the money, and moved on.

But deep down, Adam felt it: the same buzz of excitement he’d felt when John showed up before his birthday. The feeling that maybe, just maybe his boring life wasn’t so boring after all.

At first, Adam told himself he was imagining it. The guy at the diner was probably just some passing person with nothing better to do than live off caffeine and pie. A regular. People like that existed.

But then… he kept showing up.

Always in the same booth, the corner one where you could see the whole street through the windows. Always with a mug that never seemed to empty. Sometimes a plate of pie, sometimes bacon and eggs, but always there. Watching the world go by.

Or watching Adam.

Adam wasn’t sure. But the thought gnawed at him until he couldn’t just ignore it.

So he decided to test it.

The first time, he slowed his pace as he walked by, clutching the strap of his paper bag tight to keep from looking nervous. He set the paper down on the table like normal, slid it forward until it bumped the guy’s coffee. “Morning,” Adam muttered, pretending like he had somewhere else to be.

The guy, Dean, the waitress had called him once lifted his eyes from the paper already in front of him. Not Adam’s delivery, but some old newspaper he’d been pretending to read. His gaze flicked up, quick but sharp, like he saw more than Adam wanted him to.

Then, without missing a beat, Dean set a couple of bills on top of Adam’s delivery. More than enough to cover it. Again.

“Keep the change,” Dean said, voice low, casual, like it didn’t matter. Like Adam didn’t matter.

But Adam could feel his eyes on him as he walked out.

The next day, Adam lingered. Not much, just an extra beat or two. He leaned on the back of the booth, fiddled with the strap of his bag, pretended to shift the papers around inside. He was waiting, half-expecting Dean to say something, to ask him why he was hovering.

Dean didn’t.

He just looked up, met Adam’s eyes like he was expecting him, then went right back to his coffee.

Another overpaid tip on the table.

Adam left with his stomach buzzing like soda bubbles.

By the end of the week, it turned into a game.

Day four, Adam “accidentally” dropped one of the papers and took longer than he needed to pick it up.

Day five, he hung back by the window after delivering, leaning down to wipe imaginary dirt off his sneaker. He could feel the man’s gaze prickle at the back of his neck. Not heavy, not threatening, just there. Always there.

It was weird. If someone else had been watching him like this, Adam would’ve been creeped out. But Dean wasn’t some stranger on the street. He was… different. The way he carried himself, the way he blended in and stood out at the same time, it was the same feeling Adam got when his dad had been around. Like there was something bigger under the surface, some secret world just out of reach.

On day six, Adam finally pushed it.

He slid the paper onto the table, then stood there instead of walking off. “You know,” Adam said, voice cracking just slightly, “if you keep tipping me this much, I’m gonna start thinking you’re trying to buy something.”

Dean froze mid-bite of his pie. Slowly, he set the fork down. Then he tilted his head, just enough to give Adam a sideways look. His eyes were green, sharp, like he’d seen more than most people would in ten lifetimes.

“I like good service,” Dean said evenly. “What, you don’t want the cash?”

Adam flushed. He shoved the bills into his pocket anyway. “I didn’t say that.”

Dean gave the barest twitch of a smile, then went back to his pie.

Adam walked out, heart pounding in his ears, thinking, Okay. Definitely watching me.

And for some reason, instead of scaring him, it only made Adam want to know more.

Chapter Text

July 30th 2003

Dean Winchester had been in Windom, Minnesota long enough to know the rhythm of the place. Small town, too quiet on some streets, too loud on others when kids were out from school. The kind of place that looked normal on the surface but carried little shadows in the corners if you looked close enough. And Dean always looked.

He hadn’t come here just for pie and nostalgia. He was hunting the kind of thing that didn’t make the newspapers, the ghouls. The same ones that, in another lifetime, had crawled their way into his little brother’s house and taken Adam and his mother from the world.

Dean didn’t intend to let that repeat.

Not this time.

Not on his watch.

But he couldn’t just storm in and start gutting monsters without drawing attention. So he scouted. He watched. He memorized who belonged on what block, which cars never moved, which houses seemed a little too dark for too long. At night, he combed the back roads and the local graveyard, salt and iron at his hip.

And during the day, he kept an eye on Adam Milligan.

The kid didn’t know it, but he’d been circling Dean like a stray cat for the better part of a week. It was almost cute-if it wasn’t so obvious. Dean had survived decades of hunts, angels, demons, and worse, so hearing the squeak of bike tires a street over wasn’t exactly subtle surveillance. Jack and Jesse, two five-year-old half-monster rugrats back at the bunker, could tail him better than this. And they had the excuse of powers.

Adam was just… determined.

Dean smirked to himself when he caught the shadow of the kid’s bike coasting past the edge of the hardware store parking lot. Every time Dean changed direction, Adam’s little detours followed. If he ducked into the diner, Adam slowed his route. If he checked out the back of the church grounds, Adam’s wheels crunched the gravel a minute later.

Dean wasn’t annoyed. If anything, he was impressed. The kid had guts. Dumb guts, sure, but still.

And if he was going to follow him around like this, maybe it was time to give the boy something to chew on. Because Dean had seen Adam’s scuffle with those neighborhood punks the week before. Arms flailing, legs kicking with no coordination. He’d gone down hard, chin-first, all wild heart but no technique. Dean had stepped in before it got worse, but he hadn’t forgotten it.

“Paper-Boy,” Dean muttered under his breath as he spotted the bike slowing again at the corner of Main. He tugged his jacket tighter, weighing whether to call him out now or let the kid sweat a little more.

He decided on now.

Dean walked into the alley behind the laundromat, leaned against the wall, and waited. Sure enough, the clatter of a bike chain and the squeak of brakes followed. Adam coasted to a stop, pretending to fiddle with his front tire.

“You know,” Dean called out, voice carrying easily, “for a guy who’s supposed to be on a delivery route, you’re doing a hell of a lot of circles.”

Adam froze. Then slowly, like prey caught in headlights, he looked up. Dean raised a brow.

“I’m… taking the scenic route,” Adam said defensively.

Dean snorted. “Scenic. Right. That why you’ve been trailing me since Monday?”

Adam’s ears went red. He opened his mouth, shut it, then shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Maybe. You’re kinda hard to miss.”

Dean pushed off the wall, closing the distance in a few easy strides. He stopped just short of Adam’s handlebars and crouched slightly, bringing himself to the kid’s eye level. “Listen, kid. If you’re gonna tail somebody, you gotta learn to do it right. I could hear those squeaky brakes from half a block away.”

Adam’s grip tightened on the bars. “I wasn’t-I wasn’t spying or anything.”

“Sure you weren’t.” Dean smirked. Then, before Adam could bolt, he added, “Relax. If I thought you were trouble, you’d know it. You just… suck at keeping quiet. And you fight like crap.”

That got Adam’s pride bristling. “Hey! I don’t-”

“You do,” Dean cut in smoothly. “I saw you throw down with those bullies the other day. Good heart, no skill. You swing like a fish outta water. You want them to stop pushing you around? You gotta give ‘em a reason.”

Adam blinked, caught between indignation and curiosity. “…And you’re supposed to know how?”

Dean let the smirk soften into something closer to a grin. “Kid, I know a thing or two. C’mere.”

He stepped back, motioning Adam off the bike.

Suspicion flickered across the boy’s face, but stubbornness won out. Adam dropped his kickstand, climbed off, and squared his shoulders like he was ready for a challenge.

Dean raised his hands. “Alright. Rule one: stance. You plant your feet like that again, you’re asking to get knocked over. Spread ‘em out. Bend your knees. You’re not a tree, you’re a spring-ready to move any direction.”

Adam adjusted, awkwardly mirroring him. Dean circled, nudged his elbow, tapped his ankle with his boot until it was right.

“Better. Now, fists. Don’t curl your thumb inside. You like breaking bones? No? Then keep it outside, right here.” He demonstrated, slow and deliberate. “Hands up, chin tucked. Think less ‘flailing scarecrow,’ more ‘I’m ready to actually hit something.’”

Adam rolled his eyes but copied him. The stance was clumsy, but it was better.

Dean grinned. “Not bad, Paper-Boy.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Earn yourself a cooler nickname, I will.”

For the next half hour, Dean drilled him on basics. Footwork. Blocking. How to pivot into a punch without toppling over. Adam caught on faster than Dean expected—quick learner, stubborn as hell, all raw energy. He stumbled, cursed under his breath, but he kept resetting, kept trying.

By the end, sweat streaked the boy’s forehead, his hair sticking damp against his temple. But his stance looked less like a flailing scarecrow and more like someone who might actually land a hit.

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “See? Better already. Next time those punks come around, they’ll think twice.”

Adam looked down at his hands, then back up at Dean. For a second, the kid’s guard dropped. “Why are you… doing this? Helping me?”

Dean paused. The answer pressed at the back of his throat, heavy with things Adam couldn’t possibly understand yet-family, bloodlines, angels, regrets piled high enough to crush a man. He couldn’t tell him that. Not now.

So he just shrugged. “You remind me of somebody I used to know.”

Adam squinted, like he wanted to pry more, but Dean ruffled his hair before he could.

“Go on, Paper-Boy. You still got a route to finish. And don’t trail me next time unless you fix those damn brakes.”

Adam scowled, pushing his bike forward. But there was a spark in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, a little bit of pride, a little bit of fire.

Dean watched him pedal off down the street, the chain rattling, the squeak of the brakes still loud as hell.

“Kid’s hopeless,” Dean muttered with a fond shake of his head. “But maybe not for long.”

Then he turned back to the shadow work—the real reason he was in Windom. Because while Adam was wobbling his way into better footing, something darker was moving under the town.

And Dean had no intention of letting history repeat itself.

Adam couldn’t stop smiling.

It wasn’t the wide, open grin he’d flash when his mom teased him about being a “mama’s boy,” or when one of his friends cracked some stupid joke during a game. No, this was different. Subtle, crooked, tugging at his mouth when he wasn’t even trying. The kind of smile that sneaks up on you when something inside feels lighter, when some piece you didn’t know was missing finally slides into place.

He’d been riding his bike back from that alley with his bag of newspapers bouncing against his side, and he’d caught his reflection in a store window. That little grin was still there. He’d tried to wipe it off, he really had but it wouldn’t go. And the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

It was Dean.

There was something about the man.

Adam couldn’t pin it down, not exactly. Dean wasn’t like his dad. Not really. John Winchester, when he’d shown up had been… electric. Exciting. The kind of presence that made Adam feel like the world wasn’t just the same old routines. His dad knew things no other dad knew, carried himself like he belonged to some secret adventure club, took him to ball games and taught him to grip a wrench properly. But there had always been this… distance, too. Like John was only ever half here, half gone already. A shadow leaning toward the door.

Dean wasn’t like that. He didn’t have that heavy mystery pulling him away. Yeah, he had secrets, Adam could feel it in his bones but the way he carried them was different. He didn’t make Adam feel small for not knowing. Instead, Dean made him feel like maybe, one day, he could be let in.

And more than that Dean had this… reliability. That subtle protectiveness, that way of poking and teasing while also rewarding him when he got something right. Dean ruffled his hair, called him “Paper-Boy,” made fun of his lousy punches, but he’d also adjusted his stance, guided his fists, told him he was better already.

It felt… brotherly.

Adam had never had that before.

Growing up, it had always just been him and his mom. She was everything—his friend, his comfort, his constant. But sometimes, just sometimes, Adam had wondered what it might be like to have a sibling. He’d even asked for one when he was younger, point-blank at the dinner table: “Mom, can I have a little brother?”

She’d laughed so hard she’d nearly choked on her drink, shaking her head, saying something about him already being more work than three kids combined. She’d teased him about wanting someone to boss around or someone to cling to like the mama’s boy he was. Adam had groaned, denied it, but deep down… he really had wanted it. A sibling. Someone older, maybe, someone who knew the ropes, who could push him in just the right way and keep him safe when things got messy.

And now standing in that alley with Dean correcting his punches, calling him out for fighting like a “flailing scarecrow” for the first time in his life, Adam had felt it.

Not a father. Not like his dad, not exactly. But not just some cool guy hanging around either. Dean had that older-brother vibe, that rare mix of someone who’d tease you mercilessly one second and then step in front of a bullet for you the next.

The more Adam thought about it, the more his chest felt… strange. Full, in a way it never had before. Like something hollow inside him had been patched, or maybe like a new place was growing there.

He pumped his legs harder on the bike, the chain rattling, wind brushing his face. He tried to pretend it was just adrenaline, just excitement from learning how to actually throw a decent punch. But deep down, he knew.

It was Dean. Dean was doing this to him. Dean was making him feel like family.

Adam slowed when he reached his block, coasting to a stop at the curb before climbing off and dragging his bike toward the porch. His mom was still at work; the house was quiet. He leaned against the railing, still grinning like an idiot.

Maybe it was the aura. Both John and Dean had it—something mysterious, something that pulled people in. But where John’s had felt like a storm always on the horizon, Dean’s felt like… shelter. A place you could stand without worrying it would blow over.

Adam couldn’t explain it. Not fully. All he knew was that, for the first time in a long time, he felt something new. Something steady.

And as he leaned on the porch railing, the grin still tugging at his mouth, Adam realized—

He didn’t want it to go away.

Of course she noticed. Of course she did.

Adam should’ve known better his mom always clocked the tiniest changes in him. She always said it came with being a nurse, that she was trained to notice when something was “off.” But Adam knew better: she noticed because she was his mom. That meant nothing-nothing got past her.

For the last few days he’d been walking around like some fool who’d just won the lottery. Smiling to himself for no reason, zoning out at the dinner table, even whistling while he did his paper route. His mom let it go at first, giving him side-eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. But eventually she started hovering, asking little questions. “Good day, huh?” or “What’s got you so chipper, kiddo?”

He tried brushing it off, but his grin betrayed him every time.

So by the time she called him into the living room with that infamous tone, the one that made his stomach lurch like he was about to get a shot at the doctor’s. Adam knew he was in trouble.

“Adam,” she said, arms crossed, hair pulled back in her after-shift ponytail. She still had her scrubs on, which meant she hadn’t even changed before pouncing on him. Her eyes locked on him like laser beams. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

Adam froze. “Uh…” He tried to look casual, flopping onto the couch, but his voice cracked halfway through: “About what?”

She raised an eyebrow. The eyebrow. The one that had killed every lame excuse he’d ever tried to make since kindergarten.

“About,” she said slowly, “the mystery man you’ve been hanging around with.”

Adam’s heart plummeted to his toes. “What? Who?”

“Don’t play dumb, Adam Milligan. Mr. Jackson saw you at the park.”

Adam groaned out loud. Of course Mr. Jackson had to be involved. The guy lived across the street, retired early, and made it his life’s mission to monitor Adam’s every move. He called it “keeping an eye out.” Adam called it spying.

“Mr. Jackson said you were with some guy. Older. He said this man was teaching you how to… fight.” His mom’s mouth tightened, her tone sharpening. “Care to explain that one?”

Adam’s face heated. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh?” she shot back, tilting her head. “Because to me it looks like you’re sneaking off to meet some stranger, and now you’re throwing punches in the park. Which sounds exactly like the kind of thing I told you not to do.”

“I wasn’t sneaking!” Adam protested, hands flying up. “I was just… learning a few things.”

“From who, Adam?”

He swallowed, glancing at the carpet. “Dean.”

“Dean who?”

Adam bit his lip. He didn’t know Dean’s last name. He realized, with a small spark of panic, that he’d never asked. Dean had never offered. He just… was Dean. That had been enough.

His silence was answer enough. His mom’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly. You don’t even know.”

“I-he’s not a bad guy, Mom.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do!” Adam shot up from the couch, heart hammering. “He’s… he’s not like that. He’s just-he’s been helping me, okay?”

“Helping you do what? Get into fights?”

“No! Helping me… not get my butt kicked in fights.” Adam’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “He just-he showed me how to punch right. How to stand so I don’t look like a scarecrow waving in the wind. That’s all.”

Her frown didn’t soften. She folded her arms tighter. “Adam. I asked around. I know most people in this town. Nobody knows this man. Nobody.”

That hit like a punch in the gut. Of course she’d used her nurse connections. She knew half the town through the hospital, and the other half because she made friends with everyone eventually. If Dean was a stranger, she’d know it.

“Mom, he’s… he’s not dangerous,” Adam said, trying to sound steady, even though his chest felt tight. “He’s just… different. Like Dad.”

That made her flinch. Just the tiniest bit. But Adam saw it. Her jaw worked, like she wanted to argue, but something stopped her.

Finally she sighed, sinking into the armchair. “Honey. You can’t just trust someone because they remind you of your dad. You don’t even know him.”

Adam sat back down, stubbornness flaring. “I know enough.”

“Adam-”

“No, Mom. He’s not just some random guy, okay? He’s… reliable. Like… like family.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. And as soon as they did, his mom’s eyes softened-confused, worried, but softer. She didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at him, really looked at him, like she was trying to figure out how much of this was about Dean and how much was about John Winchester.

Finally she said, quietly, “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Adam swallowed hard, staring at his hands. “I know.”

Silence stretched between them. Not angry, not heavy-just… uneasy.

Then, to his surprise, his mom sighed and rubbed her temples. “Alright. I want to meet him.”

Adam’s head shot up. “What?”

“You heard me. This Dean. If he’s going to be around you, I want to meet him myself. Nurse rules. Mom rules.” She gave him a look that said it wasn’t negotiable.

Adam groaned, flopping back on the couch again. “You’re gonna embarrass me.”

“That’s my job.” She smirked, but only for a second. Her eyes were still shadowed with worry.

Adam felt his stomach twist, half from nerves, half from the thought of Dean actually facing his mom. Dean could take on bullies without blinking, but this? This might be the real fight.

And judging by her tone, Adam knew one thing for sure:

Dean had no idea what was coming for him.

Chapter Text

Dean had a habit of clocking things before most people even knew something was happening.

He was reading the morning paper, head bent low, coffee cup in hand, when he heard the familiar thud of bike tires outside, then the almost imperceptible shuffle of someone crossing the diner floor.

“Who did you kill?” Dean asked casually, not even looking up. His eyes stayed on the paper, the words blurring over him.

Adam froze mid-step, the grip on his seat tightening instinctively.

Dean’s voice wasn’t raised, wasn’t threatening, but he knew that tone. The one that meant trouble. The one that had gotten him into more sticky situations than he cared to count over the years.

Adam tried to maneuver around it, to keep his tone calm, to drop the topic gently, to make it seem like nothing was wrong. “Uh, nothing,” he said, almost breathless, trying to give Dean a chance to drop it.

Dean didn’t look up.

He just watched Adam from the corner of his eye. His expression was neutral, unreadable, but Adam felt it anyway the sort of judgment that could pin you to a wall without ever moving. He knew Dean didn’t take nonsense lightly. Not ever.

And then, with a sort of inevitability, Adam blurted out what he had been holding in for hours. Maybe days. “My mom… she wants to meet you!” he said, as if announcing the end of the world, his words tumbling over themselves, his shoulders tight and rigid across the seat from Dean.

Dean finally lowered the paper, his eyes scanning Adam carefully. Not with anger, not with judgment, but with that calculating gaze that made Adam feel like every single thought he had was under a microscope. He knew something about Adam’s outburst screamed urgency and maybe, just maybe, a little panic.

Dean leaned back slightly, running a hand over his jaw. “Okay,” he said slowly, like he wasn’t even registering the full emotional meltdown going on across the table. The word was simple, but it carried weight. It meant he was agreeing to something bigger than Adam had expected.

Adam’s face fell, mouth opening, closing, then opening again. “Wait… you mean… you’re actually going to-” He stopped himself, unsure if he could finish the sentence without sounding ridiculous.

Dean took a slow sip of his coffee, glancing at the paper again as if to regain some of the calm he carried naturally. “Look, kid,” he started, voice low, steady, “you worried about your mom, I get it. I’m not going in there to freak anyone out. We’ll handle this smart.”

Adam blinked, confusion and relief warring across his features. “Smart? You mean… you don’t just walk in and-”

“Blow her mind? Yeah, that’s right. I don’t do that. Not unless I absolutely have to.” Dean’s gaze softened just a fraction, and Adam noticed it, felt the warmth of it like a shield around him. “I’ve got plans, kid. Big plans. You, me, your mom… we’re gonna do this right.”

Adam swallowed, his heart still racing, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a little. He’d been terrified that Dean’s calm “okay” was going to mean a lecture, or worse, some kind of test he’d fail spectacularly. But no. Dean was steady. Reliable. Like he’d promised the first time they met.

Dean leaned forward again, elbows resting on the table, voice lowering further. “Now here’s the deal. I gotta figure out how to keep future contact with your mom smooth. Kate… yeah, she’s tricky. She’s smart. She’s sharp. You don’t want to burn bridges with her, trust me. We do this right, no screw-ups. Got it?”

Adam nodded vigorously, eyes wide. “I… yeah. I get it. Don’t mess up, don’t freak her out.”

Dean smirked faintly, the edges of his lips twitching as if he knew Adam’s panic but found it kind of endearing. “Exactly. That’s the spirit. And don’t worry… I’m gonna tell you the whole truth eventually. About me, about the family stuff… about why I’m really here.”

Adam felt his chest tighten again. The way Dean said it, calm and certain, made the stakes real. He knew this wasn’t just a casual meeting anymore. This was bigger than any paper route, bigger than any fight in the park.

Dean leaned back one last time, scanning the diner like he was mapping out the room for potential trouble spots. He didn’t say it out loud, but Adam felt it in the way he shifted slightly in his chair: the kind of awareness that only came from years of dealing with things most people didn’t even know existed.

Adam’s stomach did a flip, half excitement, half nerves. Meeting his mom, finally bridging that gap between secrecy and honesty, was huge. And Dean… Dean’s presence made it feel like maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be a disaster.

Dean glanced at him one last time over the rim of his coffee cup. “You ready for this, Paper-Boy?”

Adam swallowed hard, nodded, and managed a shaky smile. “Yeah. I think so.”

Dean’s smirk returned, that older-brother-like half-smile that somehow calmed Adam without a single touch. “Good. ‘Cause we’re going in there smart. Together.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Adam wasn’t terrified of what came next. He felt… prepared. And maybe, just maybe, like he wasn’t doing it alone.

The paper crinkled under Dean’s fingers as he folded it slowly, leaning back in the booth. Outside, the sun climbed higher, casting warm light over the streets of Windom. Inside, Adam’s heartbeat slowed just enough for him to catch it, and the boy realized: for the first time, having Dean around wasn’t scary. It was… right.

And whatever came next with his mom, with the meeting, with the truths he wasn’t ready to hear yet… Adam knew one thing for certain: he wouldn’t have to face it alone.

Adam’s paper route had taken forever.

Or at least it felt that way.

Every block seemed longer than the last, every house a little further than yesterday. He had tried, desperately, to delay it, to make it seem like normal morning traffic, but the truth was, every pedal stroke was a countdown to the moment he had been dreading and anticipating in equal measure.

Dean didn’t rush him. He walked beside him on the curb for a few blocks, arms crossed, watching silently, occasionally offering a “keep it steady, Paper-Boy” or “don’t wobble like that,” as if this were just another day in a diner. But Adam knew better. Dean’s calm, controlled presence was deliberate teaching, observing, guiding without breaking stride.

Finally, the last paper was delivered. Adam heaved a sigh of relief and pedaled the rest of the way home, Dean trailing behind with a casual gait. By the time they reached the small, cozy house on the edge of town, Adam’s legs were wobbly, his chest heaving, and his stomach was knotted tight.

Dean walked up the porch steps, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a mysterious black duffle bag in the other. He didn’t let Adam see inside the bag, keeping it slung low and tight against his hip. Adam wanted to ask, to peek, to know what secrets this strange man had brought into their home, but Dean’s gaze met his briefly, calm and unflinching, and the question died in his throat.

As soon as they stepped inside, the air changed. Sharp. Dangerous. A shot rang out.

Adam froze, heart in his throat, eyes wide. His mom, Kate Milligan, had the shotgun raised, barrel aimed straight at Dean.

“Who the fuck are you?!” she barked, voice steady, rage and fear tangled together.

Adam blinked in shock. His mom was swearing. His mom was holding a gun. His mom, who had hated weapons and violence, who had spent her life saving people and avoiding danger was pointing a loaded shotgun at a stranger in their living room.

Dean didn’t flinch. Not a muscle. Not a twitch. He understood instinctively the mix of fear and protection that radiated off Kate. He’d seen it before, in countless forms, in children, in friends, in Sam, in the kids at the bunker. He understood what it meant to have a stranger near someone you loved, to have to protect them, and to confront the unknown without hesitation. He raised his hands slightly, but his voice was calm, measured. “Easy. I get it. I’m not here to hurt you. Not your son, not you. My name’s Dean Winchester.” He paused, letting it sink in. “John Winchester’s firstborn.”

The room went deathly silent.

Adam’s mouth fell open. “Wait… what? You’re… you’re my brother?” His voice shook, disbelief catching in every word.

Kate’s eyes widened, the barrel of the shotgun trembling slightly in her hands. “John… has a child?!” she demanded, disbelief and fury mingling with confusion. “You’re telling me my son has a half-brother, and you’ve just… shown up?”

Dean’s gaze flicked between them, steady, unshaken. “Yeah. I know this is a lot. Believe me, it’s a hell of a lot to take in. But I’m not here to mess up your life. I just… want to make sure Adam’s safe. And well… I figured it was time you both knew the truth.”

Adam’s mind reeled. Half-brother. Real brother. All the pieces, the strange pull he’d felt to Dean, the way Dean had looked out for him, the way he’d taught him to defend himself… it made sense in a way Adam hadn’t even realized.

Kate lowered the gun slightly, still tense, still wary, but the initial shock and rage were giving way to something else curiosity, incredulity, a need to understand. Her arms were crossed, the shotgun still in her hands, but not raised. “And… you just came here, expecting me to accept this?” she asked, her tone sharper now, more controlled.

Dean shrugged, one side of his mouth twitching into a lopsided grin. “I wasn’t expecting acceptance. Just a chance to talk. To explain. I figured, worst case, I get a shotgun to the chest, and I deserved it.”

Adam took a step forward, his voice small but insistent. “Mom… he’s not lying. Dean’s… he’s been helping me. Teaching me stuff. Watching out for me. He… he’s like a… a brother should be.”

Kate’s eyes softened slightly at Adam’s words, though suspicion still lingered. She studied Dean, the stranger in her home who claimed to be connected to her family, watching how he held himself, noticing the unshakable calm in his eyes.

Dean lowered the duffle bag to the floor, letting it rest against his boot, and gestured subtly toward the wine bottle. “We can talk, share a drink. I know I’m a stranger, but I’m not here to hurt anybody. I just… want to make sure you know what’s coming, and that Adam has someone watching out for him.”

Adam’s chest swelled with something he hadn’t recognized before relief, a strange sense of rightness. The pull he’d felt all week, the warmth, the weirdly comforting aura Dean carried… it all made sense now.

Kate exhaled sharply, lowering the shotgun fully, though her grip remained firm. “Alright,” she said slowly, cautiously. “You’ve got two minutes to explain everything. From the beginning. Who you are. Why you’re here. And don’t leave anything out, Dean Winchester.”

Dean’s grin widened faintly, unshaken by the tension in the room. “Fair enough. Let’s start at the beginning.”

Adam watched them, heart racing, stomach knotting, but for the first time in his life, he felt a strange, steady confidence. He wasn’t alone. Not anymore. And for the first time, he felt like maybe, just maybe, everything was going to change but in a way that finally made sense.

Dean glanced at Adam with a wink that was half reassurance, half brotherly mischief. “Don’t worry, Paper-Boy. I got this.”

And Adam couldn’t help but believe him.

Dean had learned over the years that some conversations required patience, especially the ones that could either shatter a life or save it. Kate Milligan wasn’t just some stranger; she was Adam’s mother.

So he started slow.

First thing he did was take the shotgun away.

Not forcefully, not with attitude just calmly, gently. Even he could tell Kate hated holding it. Her fingers tightened around the stock, knuckles white, but her stance softened slightly when Dean’s hands took it from hers. “Trust me,” he said simply, setting it aside on the corner of the coffee table, “you don’t want to be holding that any longer than necessary.”

Kate didn’t smile, but the tension in her shoulders eased fractionally. Dean had learned that even small gestures of consideration mattered, and that was the first step toward the real conversation.

He led her and Adam to the living room. Dean placed the duffle bag on the coffee table and unzipped it slowly. Adam’s eyes followed every movement, curious, cautious, unsure what was inside. Dean carefully removed a few of the items: salt, vials of holy water, a crossbow, a few small blades but the centerpiece was a worn leather-bound journal, pages frayed at the edges, notes written in Dean’s careful, angular handwriting.

He set it in front of them, his expression softening. “I’ve been keeping this… since I got here. For both of you. It’s a record, yeah, but it’s also… guidance. Things you might need to know, questions you might have. There’s no easier way to say this, so I’ll just… say it.”

Adam’s chest tightened. Something in Dean’s tone told him this wasn’t about petty rules or neighborhood gossip. This was serious.

Dean cleared his throat and began. “Mary… that’s my mom, and Sam’s… she died when we were young. Killed by a demon. John… our dad, he went on a… well, a revenge tour, really. Tracking down that demon, making sure it never hurt anyone else. We did things things we shouldn’t have to do to survive, to protect each other.”

Kate’s eyes widened, but her posture stayed strong. Adam could feel her grip tightening slightly on the couch cushions.

Dean continued, his voice steady. “Then there’s Sam. My little brother, the second son. Brilliant kid. Going through school, pre-law. You’d like him. He’s… practical, determined, smart as hell. And, Adam…” Dean’s gaze softened as it fell on the boy across from him, “you’re not going to join this life. Not unless you want to. But you need to know about it, because it’s in your blood. Our blood. And we have enemies. People, things… creatures. Ones that won’t care if you’re twelve or twenty.”

Adam swallowed hard, trying to wrap his mind around it. He’d known about his dad, vaguely, in pieces. But this-this was a storm of information, too fast, too big, too impossible to process all at once.

Kate’s expression shifted from disbelief to something slower, measured. She leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing as she considered his words. “When I met John… he had injuries like nothing I’d ever seen. Not just cuts or bruises… weird injuries. Different. Supernatural.”

Dean nodded. “Exactly. And you can trust me when I say, I’ve lived through the same things. I know it’s hard to believe, but… it’s real. And it’s dangerous. That’s why I’m telling you now. Not to scare you, not to pull Adam into something he’s not ready for… but because it’s coming, one way or another.”

Adam had been silent for most of the conversation, eyes wide, thoughts racing. Anger was one of the first emotions that hit him anger at his dad for not being there, for leaving, for putting him in a life he’d never asked for. Anger at Dean for dropping in with so many revelations at once, for shaking his world so violently. But underneath it all, there was a flicker of something else—curiosity, awe, a strange relief that someone finally understood the complexities of his family, someone finally seeing the boy as more than just “Adam Milligan, mom’s kid.”

Dean watched Adam carefully, recognizing the emotions flicker across his face. “I know this is a lot, kid,” he said quietly, voice softer now. “Anger, confusion… all normal. I’d be pissed too if I were in your shoes. But you gotta know, I’m here to help. Protect. Not take over your life. And if you stick with me, we’ll get through this—together.”

Kate’s gaze softened slightly, though her arms remained crossed. “I don’t know if I can fully believe any of this,” she admitted, voice low, “but… I trust you’re telling the truth. For Adam’s sake, if nothing else. I’ve seen enough of John to know there’s something extraordinary out there.”

Adam let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The weight of everything, the Winchester family, the supernatural hints, the legacy he’d never asked for pressed down on him, but somehow, Dean’s calm presence made it manageable.

Dean leaned back, tapping the journal lightly. “Start with this. Read it when you’re ready. It’s all in there my notes, experiences, advice, the kind of things I wish I had someone tell me when I was your age. We’ll go slow. You’ll get it piece by piece. And when the time comes, you’ll know what to do.”

Adam’s hands hovered over the leather-bound journal, reluctant yet drawn to it. He could feel the gravity of what it represented truth, legacy, danger, and protection all wrapped up in one bundle.

Dean’s eyes flicked between Kate and Adam, and for the first time in a long while, a small, satisfied smile tugged at his lips. He’d planted the seeds. Now it was up to them to grow, in their own time.

And Adam? He was quiet, yes, but deep inside, his anger and confusion started to twist into something else curiosity, cautious hope, and the faintest glimmer of belonging.

Adam sat hunched forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers laced tight like he was holding himself together. His mom was next to him, one leg pulled up, her hand resting on the cushion between them.

Neither spoke for a while.

The weight of what Dean had left behind words, truths, the journal sitting heavy on the table lingered in the room like smoke.

Finally, Adam broke first. “So… I have brothers.” The word sounded strange in his mouth, both foreign and familiar, like something he’d always wanted but never dared to imagine. He glanced sideways at Kate, eyes uncertain. “Two of them.”

Kate’s lips pressed together, her eyes flicking to the duffle bag Dean had left behind. “Yeah. You do.” Her voice was soft, careful, but threaded with honesty. 

Adam leaned back, dragging a hand over his face. “Dean’s… different. Not like John. He feels solid. Like he means what he says. He didn’t even flinch when you had the shotgun in his face.” A small laugh escaped him, equal parts disbelief and admiration. “He didn’t even blink. Just… told us the truth.”

Kate gave a faint smile, though it was tired at the edges. “He’s steady, I’ll give him that. Reliable.”

“Yeah,” Adam muttered, nodding. “Reliable.” He stared at the journal again, jaw tightening. “But the supernatural stuff? Mom… that’s what scares me. He said he didn’t want me in that life, but if it finds him 'if it finds us' what if you get hurt? I can’t…” He trailed off, throat working. “I don’t want to lose you because of some demon or monster or… whatever else he says is real.”

Kate reached out then, her hand closing gently over Adam’s. His hands were bigger than hers now, but the gesture was the same as it had been since he was little—comforting, grounding. “Adam, listen to me. It’s always been you and me, hasn’t it?”

Adam swallowed, his eyes burning. “Always.”

“It’ll always be us, no matter what,” Kate said firmly, squeezing his hand. “Dean coming into the picture doesn’t change that. Not in the way you think. It doesn’t replace us, it adds. You have brothers, Adam. Family. More than I ever thought I could give you. And I know that scares you. It scares me too.”

She took a breath, her gaze distant for a moment, as if looking back years. “When I met John, I thought he was just… broken in normal ways. Secrets, pain, things he didn’t want to share. I thought his scars were the kind people make excuses for. But he was hiding demons, literally. That makes me angry, if I’m honest. Angry he kept that from me. From you. But Dean…” She shook her head slightly, focusing back on Adam. “Dean didn’t hide. He walked in here and laid it all on the table. That counts for something.”

Adam’s throat tightened as he listened. The ache in his chest grew heavier with every word. “So you believe him? About all of it?”

Kate hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I don’t know if I believe everything yet. But… I believe him. And I believe in you. We’ll figure this out together, like we always have.”

Silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t sharp or heavy. Adam leaned back into the couch, letting his shoulder brush against his mom’s. For all his confusion, anger, and fear, there was something solid at the heart of it—his mom’s voice, her honesty, her hand on his. That hadn’t changed. That never would.

After a long moment, Adam whispered, almost to himself, “Two brothers. A whole family I didn’t know I had.”

Kate smiled faintly, brushing his hair back the way she used to when he was little. “Then maybe it’s time we stop thinking it’s just us against the world. Maybe it’s us… and them. Stronger together.”

Adam didn’t answer right away, but his chest loosened for the first time since Dean had walked through the door. Maybe, just maybe, having brothers wasn’t such a bad thing.

Chapter Text

July 31st, 2003

Lebanon, Kansas

The Bunker

The bunker was too big when it was quiet.

The hallways echoed funny, like they were whispering to themselves, and the lights hummed louder than usual, and the rooms just… stretched. Way too much space for two little kids, even if one was a half-angel and the other half-demon.

Jesse was on the floor of the library, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling mural like it might blink. His legs kicked lazily in the air. Beside him, Jack was hunched over a coloring book Dean had left behind months ago, tongue sticking out as he tried to stay in the lines.

“Boooooored,” Jesse groaned, long and dramatic.

“You said that already,” Jack mumbled without looking up.

“I’ll say it forever. I’ll say it till my tongue falls out. Then I’ll just—” Jesse flopped sideways and pretended to choke. “Die of bored-ness. Then Dean’ll come back and be sad ‘cause you didn’t keep me alive.”

Jack’s crayon stilled. He looked up, blue-green eyes wide. “Don’t say that. Dean would be really, really mad.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll come back faster.” Jesse rolled onto his belly, chin in his hands. “When’s he comin’ back?”

Jack shrugged, shoulders tight. “Dunno.” He went back to coloring, pressing too hard until the crayon snapped in half. His lip wobbled.

Jesse watched him for a second, then scooted closer and poked his cheek. “Hey. Don’t cry. We can fix broken things. You always say that.”

Jack sniffled, nodding. “Yeah.” He picked up the smaller piece of crayon and clutched it like treasure.

They were both quiet a minute, the air heavy with the not-said things: Dean had been gone forever. A month, which was basically ten years in kid-time. Everyone else was gone too. Ash had left even earlier. Andy and Jo only dropped by to say hi and then zoomed off again. The Barnes twins got picked up by their scary mom because “school’s starting soon,” whatever that meant.

That left them with Jane.

Jane, who sat at the far table, books stacked high, a neat row of pens and sticky notes like she was building a tiny fortress. Her hair was tied back, her posture perfect, her focus absolute.

Jesse glared at her. “She’s so… plank-y.”

Jack giggled. “Plank-y?”

“Yeah. Like wood. Just sits there. Stiff.” He wrinkled his nose. “Should we call her… Wet Blanket instead?”

Jack covered his mouth, trying not to laugh too loud. “That’s not nice.”

Jane’s voice floated over, calm but sharp. “I can hear you.”

“Good!” Jesse yelled back. “Then you can stop bein’ boring!”

Jane sighed. She didn’t even look up. “Some of us have to study. Unlike some people.”

Jesse flopped back on the rug, arms spread. “Blah blah blah.”

Jack leaned closer, whispering like it was a big secret. “I miss Dean.”

Jesse’s eyes softened. He didn’t say it, but yeah. He did too. More than anything.

For a while, they just sat there, the bunker swallowing the silence again. Then Jesse rolled onto his side, eyes gleaming mischief. “What if… we just go find him?”

Jack’s head snapped up. “No.” The word was quick, almost automatic.

But her—his—eyes betrayed him. They sparkled, wide and hopeful.

Jesse grinned, sharky and catlike. “I saw that. You wanna.”

Jack shook his head furiously. “Dean said—Dean said no ‘splodin’ things without him, no runnin’ away—”

“Teleporting’s not runnin’,” Jesse interrupted. “It’s poofin’. Totally different.”

Jack chewed his lip. “He’ll be mad.”

Jesse sat up, bouncing a little. “He’ll be happy! We’ll surprise him. He’ll go, ‘Oh wow, good job, kids, you found me all by yourselfs!’ And then he’ll give us pie.”

“Pie?” Jack perked up.

“Chocolate cream.” Jesse dangled the words like bait.

Jack’s resolve wobbled. He hugged his crayon stub tight. “...Maybe just a little surprise.”

Jane’s chair screeched back. “What are you planning?”

Both boys froze.

“Nothing!” Jesse shouted immediately. Too fast.

Jane crossed her arms, hip cocked like Dean when he was unimpressed. “You’re whispering. You’re definitely planning.”

Jack tried to smile, all innocent dimples. “We’re just… um… thinking of games.”

Jesse ruined it with, “Teleport-to-Dean game.”

Jane’s eyes widened. “What? No! You can’t just—no!”

“Can too.” Jesse puffed his chest. “We’re awesome. Better than you.”

“That’s not—” Jane’s jaw tightened. She set her pen down slowly. “Do you know how dangerous that is? You don’t even know where he is!”

“Dean’s Dean,” Jesse said simply, like that solved everything.

Jack nodded. “We’ll feel him. Like… beacon.” He tapped his chest. “Heart.”

Jane pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re five. You cannot—”

“We’re five and a half,” Jesse corrected smugly.

Jane glared. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“Does too,” Jesse muttered.

Jack tugged his sleeve. “Jane… we just miss him. We wanna go home. He’s home.”

Something flickered in Jane’s face then — something soft, almost guilty. But it hardened fast. “No. You’re staying put.”

Jesse leaned close to Jack, whispering loud enough for her to hear. “She’s scared ‘cause she can’t do it.”

Jane’s nostrils flared. “Excuse me?”

“You only got, like, three powers. Aura-lookin’, cancel stuff, and—uh—party tricks.” Jesse waved his hands dramatically, making fake sparkle noises. “Tadaaa.”

Jack covered his mouth, giggling.

Jane’s cheeks flushed. “It’s not about powers. It’s about responsibility. Dean trusted me—”

“Dean trusts us too!” Jack blurted, sudden fire in his voice. He jumped to his feet, tiny fists clenched. “He said—we’re strong. He said we’re special. He said we can.”

The air buzzed around him, faint golden shimmer leaking out before he caught himself.

Jane stared, words stuck.

Jesse’s grin turned wicked. “Told ya.” He grabbed Jack’s hand. “C’mon. Before she tattles.”

Jane lunged forward. “Wait—”

But it was too late.

The air bent. Power rippled between the boys, Jesse’s dark spark twining with Jack’s bright glow. The library lights flickered. Pages rustled like a storm was passing through.

Jesse’s laugh rang out, wild and fearless. “Dean’s gonna kill us!”

Jack squeezed his eyes shut, heart hammering. “…Not if we find him first.”

And with a flash of light, they vanished.

Jane was left in the empty bunker, hair blown out of its neat braid, papers scattered across the floor.

She stood there, shaking, the silence crashing back around her.

“Dean’s gonna kill me,” she whispered.

---

Windom, Minnesota

Dean Winchester slept like a rock, which, given his life, was a rare, miraculous occurrence. The faint smell of motel coffee that wasn’t even close to worth drinking.

And then, pop.

The world exploded into chaos on top of him. Dean bolted upright like a jack-in-the-box possessed by holy hellfire, hitting the headboard with a thunk. His first thought: someone-something-was trying to kill him. But the panic only lasted a split second before the shapes revealed themselves.

Two tiny figures. Two very small, ridiculously grinning, chaos-engineered little monsters that could only be…

“JESSE! JACK!”

The words came out in a strangled yell, more exasperation than fear at this point, because honestly? He’d known these two little gremlins were dangerous, but landing on me out of nowhere? That was a new level.

“Dean!” Jesse chirped, bouncing up and down on his feet like a hyperactive jackhammer. “We missed you!”

“Dean!” Jack added, eyes shining like he’d just discovered fire or chocolate. Maybe both.

Dean scrambled off the bed, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes wide. “Castiel and your feathery ass better have an explanation for these two greying me at twenty!”

He paused, realized yelling at five-year-olds who were about to break his ribs was… not particularly effective. Jesse had already wrapped him in a hug so tight Dean was certain he’d lose a lung. Jack grabbed his other arm, leaning into his side like a furry little heat-seeking missile.

“Whoa! Whoa! WHOA!” Dean waved his arms like he could physically ward off hugs, but it was useless. They didn’t hear a word he said.

“Dean! Dean!” Jesse shouted again, because apparently saying his name once wasn’t enough. “We came to see you!”

Dean’s eyes darted around the motel room. The bed. The nightstand. The lamp. Holy hell, the lamp. None of it was anchored against small, chaos-powered, teleporting five-year-olds. “This… this is a motel, you little tornadoes! If an actual enemy—”

“Enemies are scary,” Jack said solemnly, cutting him off. “We don’t like scary. You’re our favorite.”

Dean blinked, momentarily stunned. “Oh, I’m your favorite, am I?” His voice, though sarcastic, had warmth underneath. They didn’t just miss him; they needed him. Needed Dean. Needed someone to be… well, Dean. And that, he realized, was kind of the most heart-melting and horrifying thing in the world.

Jesse plopped onto the bed next to him, bouncing slightly like it was a trampoline. “You shouldn’t leave us for so long, Dean!”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know. I shouldn’t. But let me tell you something-” He stopped, because Jesse was already poking him in the ribs. “-OW! Hey! That’s-”

Jesse giggled like Dean had just told the best joke in history. “We missed using our powers too!”

Dean froze.

His brain flashed back to the countless times he’d let these two run wild in the bunker, teleporting around, blasting imaginary monsters, practically creating small-scale chaos in training exercises that were sometimes only mildly dangerous. He’d been lenient because he loved seeing them happy. Now… motel rules. No chaos allowed.

“You two are about to break something-probably everything,” he warned, although he was smiling despite himself.

“Dean!” Jack’s voice carried the pure, gleeful note of a child on a mission. “We can’t wait!”

Dean exhaled, surrendering. Fine. If you’re going to land on my head and hug me like a pair of miniature wrecking balls, then fine. Just… fine.

He dialed Jane on his cell while keeping one arm around Jesse and the other on Jack, who had inexplicably climbed onto his lap. “Jane,” he said, trying to sound authoritative over the din. “Listen, kiddo, don’t freak out, okay? You’re not in trouble. The boys… uh, they’ve come to see me.”

Jane’s voice crackled over the line. “Dean, I-”

“Hold down the fort,” Dean interrupted, more softly now, because he realized the guilt creeping in. “I shouldn’t have left you guys for so long. Looking after these two isn’t your responsibility, especially these two. You’ve done fine, really. Don’t worry about them.”

There was a pause, then Jane’s voice: “Just… try not to destroy anything else.”

Dean laughed, a low, warm rumble that hadn’t been heard in a while. “Yeah, kiddo. I’ll… try.”

He hung up and looked down at the tiny chaos engines currently wrestling over his hair. Jesse had apparently decided Dean’s head was the perfect climbing wall. Jack was tugging on the blanket, trying to pull Dean down onto the floor for reasons Dean didn’t want to understand.

“Seriously,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I leave for a month, and you two go full-on… full-on apocalypse mode. I… I didn’t even teach you this much chaos in a week.”

Jesse tilted his head, big grin plastered across his face. “You taught us, Dean. You just didn’t let us do it all the time.”

Dean sighed, pretending to be stern. “Well, now you’re gonna get it all at once. Lucky you.”

Jack, leaning against his chest, nodded eagerly. “Yes! All at once!”

Dean flopped back onto the bed, the boys still clinging to him like burrs. He muttered under his breath, “Oh god… this is like babysitting two pint-sized tornadoes while trying to nap.”

And yet… he couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face. He let them hug him, let them giggle and poke and tug at his hair. He’d missed this. He’d missed them. And yeah, maybe he’d yelled at them, maybe he’d threatened to call Castiel and have the angel explain the cosmic disaster they’d just created… but none of that mattered.

Because right now, in this tiny, messy motel room, surrounded by two of the happiest little gremlins on the planet, Dean Winchester finally felt… home. 

Chapter Text

Dear Faithful Readers

It's come to my attentions that people have started to notice, (unfortunately)

I don't edit any of my works, none of them! I wrote and I post as soon as I'm done. I use a grammar app that auto corrects if I spell something wrong, so I never have to worry about wrong spelling and it also Capitalizes my words and adds commas, full stop etc... It helps for most of the time, sometimes it autocorrects too much at something I wrong intentionally that why, butt that not why I'm writing this. I am writing this so you guys can know, I'm never editing anything, nor do I want an editor or someone else working on my fiction.

This way of writing is not all very productive, but I prefer it, which brings me -us- to the posting schedule. I am weird, very weird and specific, I never like to update on a random date - personal tick on mine, me even staring this fic on the '2025-01-28' was on an impulse to get me to start officially pushing myself. I prefer to post on the 1st or 5th or 10th (or 11th) or 15th or 20th (or 22th) or 25th or 30th (you guys get the point, it's fine if you don't) but me posting on these dates it's like a check point, if I miss the date even by minutes, I'll be posting the chapter on the next check point or sometimes I'll post after a week to build suspension (or if my brain is refusing to give me ideas) I know it's a weird system and preferably I don't want to tell you guys I'm posting on a fixed date because that's unnecessary pressure on me and a promise I don't want to break. 

This Fiction work is for FUN!!! I wrote this because one of my person Dean/time-travel/Children-collected-like-Pokémons fiction was no long posting even know there's no new post - at first I hesitant not because of failure blah blah blah, because I didn't want to start writing again (IM A ONE TIME GENERATIONAL PAPER TO FACEBOOK TO WATTPAD TO AO3 WRITER - I'M BARELY 20 YEARS OLD YET - started writing at thirteen) all of my previous work were successful as well as cringey but at some point I fell out with writing and reading - just generally anything with fiction. I discover AO3, three years back and it helped me love reading again, especially when I met a loving community as this, so I haven't posted anything until this year (had lots of drafted work that I usually deleted as a form of therapy etc...) But this was the Fandom/Works of SUPERNATURAL that got me to wanting to post again and this community although we tend to get depressing and angst it was welcoming, and I knew posting anything under it would be well received. I am not going to lie, I was not just rusty when first writing but lazy, this is my comfort fanfic so I wrote at a pace that suited myself at the time but real me aka Author me hates that I'm continuing to write this way aka not editing and, on my end-note I told you guys to leave a comment on how you feel, I hate criticism, but as a writer I need it so my head is straight and so when one of my reader, Bless Them was analysing every sentence and words, it was a face up call -Let's get this straight, I'm a Uni Student, studying IT, writing is a hobby of mine but a small passion because I want to be a director if the opportunity ever arises in my poor life- but I do like my work to be straight and sensible regardless because I'm dumb and passionate, especially about this WORK.

So to get things straight and sorted, I'll be taking a BREAK and sorting out my early chapter and overall chapters because they need a timeline and consistency.

Yours Faithfully, Author

P.S. Thank You for the Love and Support, you've shown me. And to those who wish to create fanwork inspired by my Fiction, I give my consent, just credit me - so more people can find this fanfic and love it like you do. See You guys on October 30th (Halloween/Samhain)

Chapter Text

United Sates

Cottonwood Country

Windom, Minnesota

Family Restaurant

2nd August 2003

Dean Winchester had seen a lot of weird things in his life.

Demons, angels, the actual literal Devil wearing his brother's face. But watching Jesse Turner and Jack Kline demolish a mountain of pancakes like they were competing in some kind of cosmic eating contest? That was a new flavor of surreal.

"Dude, chew," Dean muttered, reaching across the sticky Formica table to nudge Jack's elbow. "You're not a wood chipper."

Jack looked up, syrup smeared across his chin, eyes wide and innocent in that way that made Dean's chest ache. "I am chewing."

"No, you're inhaling." Dean grabbed a napkin and tossed it at him. "Use that. You look like you lost a fight with a beehive."

Jesse snorted, not bothering to look up from his own plate. "You've been gone a month, Dean. A month. What did you expect? Jane's idea of a balanced meal." He paused, fork hovering dramatically. "Do you know what that is? Pb and j. Every. Single. Day."

"Hey, PB and J is a classic-"

"For babies," Jesse interrupted, pointing his fork like a tiny weapon. "We're practically grown now. We have standards."

Dean bit back a smile and took a sip of his coffee, black, bitter, syrup dripped down Jesse’s chin and Jack made a sincere attempt to drown his bacon in whipped cream. The booth was chaos: sticky fingers, sugar rush, and those twin grins that could level him faster than any hellhound.

They’d teleported straight into his motel room that morning: no warning, no knock, just bam, miniature divine-and-demonic glowsticks at six a.m. Jesse had been sassier than usual, Jack uncharacteristically blunt, and both clearly pissed that Dean hadn’t been home in over a month.

Dean had opened his mouth to yell, but the words never made it out. They’d both looked too damn proud of themselves for pulling it off.

"Table manners," Dean said, mostly because he felt like he should. "You two are like feral cats."

"You love us," Jesse shot back, mouth full.

"Unfortunately."

Jack beamed at him, bright and unguarded, and Dean had to look away before the kid saw too much. Before he saw how much Dean had missed this, missed them. How much it scared him, caring this much about something he could lose.

Winchesters didn't get to keep good things. That was the rule. But these two sticky disasters were still here, still looking at him like he hung the moon, and Dean was trying like hell not to screw it up.

"So," Jesse said, leaning back in the booth with the kind of casual grace that reminded Dean way too much of the demon this kid could've become. "What are you even doing here? Because I checked the local papers. No omens, no weird deaths, no sulfur. So unless Windom, Minnesota suddenly became the hot spot for low-key haunting..."

"Yeah," Jack added, tilting his head in that unnerving Cas-like way. "You were too quiet. You only get quiet when you're hiding something."

Dean shifted, suddenly very interested in his coffee. "Can't a guy just take a drive?"

"No," they said in unison.

Jesse leaned forward, invading Dean's personal space with zero shame, all impish grin and sticky fingers that were way too close to Dean's leather jacket.

“You two ever heard of personal space?”

Jesse grinned. “You mean emotional avoidance? Yeah, we’ve heard.”

Dean shot him a look sharp enough to carve wood. Jesse didn’t even flinch. Little demon spawn-literally-and somehow more immune to intimidation.

"You're dodging. Which means it's either embarrassing or sweet. My money's on sweet."

"Get your syrup hands away from me, you little gremlin."

The boys giggled and Dean felt his resolve crumbling. He tried for his best Dad glare, the one that had worked on Sam when they were kids, but it was useless. These two had him figured out.

"Fine," he grumbled. "I'm checking on someone, alright? No big deal."

Jesse's eyes lit up. "A someone someone?"

Dean choked on his coffee. Jack looked entirely too smug for a kid who was basically God 2.0.

"Not like that, you pervs. Jesus." He set his mug down harder than necessary. "Kid brother. His name's Adam."

The table went quiet. Not the awkward kind of quiet, but the weighted kind—the kind that said family, the kind that said we get it. Jesse's grin softened into something almost genuine. Jack's expression shifted, concern flickering across his features.

"We didn't know you had another brother," Jack said carefully.

"Yeah, well. It's complicated." Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "Long story. But he's... he's a good kid. Normal life, normal problems. I just check in sometimes. Make sure he's doing okay."

Dean looked down at his coffee, watching the ripples. "His mom didn’t know about the life. Neither did he, until recently. I’ve been easing him into it."

"We can meet him, right?" Jack's voice was hopeful, eager in that way that made Dean's stomach twist.

"Uh-"

"Come on," Jesse added. "We're your family. He's your family. That's like, basic math."

"It's not that simple." Dean could feel himself deflecting, building walls. "Adam doesn't know about... all this. Monsters, angels, the apocalypse we stopped that one Tuesday. He's got a normal life, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"So you just watch him from far away?" Jesse's voice was softer now, less teasing. "That sounds lonely."

Jack nodded. “It doesn’t make sense to keep families separate. Especially if they’re all good people.”

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Instead, he watched the two of them: a Nephilim and a Cambion, kid who could crack the planet in half if he sneezed wrong and a kid who could bend reality with a thought. Right now, though? They just looked like kids. Sticky fingers, messy hair, arguing over the last piece of bacon like it was the end of the world.

This was what he'd been fighting for. Not just saving the world from whatever big bad was lurking around the corner, but this, these small, impossible moments of peace. The kind of normal that shouldn't exist for people like them but somehow did anyway.

Cas would've loved this. The thought hit Dean sideways, unexpected and sharp. Cas would've sat here with that soft smile, would've probably stolen food off Jack's plate and gotten into a weird philosophical debate with Jesse about the nature of free will. Would've looked at Dean with those impossibly blue eyes and said something annoyingly profound about family and choice and-

Nope. Not going there.