Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The motel room reeks of wet leather, old ashtrays, and something bitter clinging to the air—like the ghosts of too many hunts soaked into the walls. It’s a scent that never fades, no matter how many windows you crack open. The rain outside is merciless, hammering the glass like it’s got a score to settle. Like the sky wants in. Wants to tear the roof off and scream something none of us are ready to hear.

Dad’s pacing. Mud is caked on his boots, clumping on the floor with every heavy step, tracking a storm across cracked linoleum. His jacket’s soaked through, rain still dripping from the hem like blood off a blade. His presence fills the room, loud and charged, all pressure and static. He hasn’t said a word yet, but I can feel it building—the storm surge behind his ribs.

And then it hits.

His voice cuts the air like broken glass.

“What the hell was that, Amelia?”

There it is. That name—Amelia—thrown like a brick through a car windshield. Amelia. Not Millie. Never Millie when he’s like this. When he’s pissed enough to forget that I’m not just another piece of gear that didn’t function the way he wanted.

Dean eases the door shut behind us, the click barely audible over the rain but still too loud in the silence between Dad’s words. He winces as he moves, favoring his left side. But he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t ask for help. He never does. The tear in his shirt is soaked through with blood just above his hip. It’s not deep—thank God—but it’s raw and ugly. Even after it’s sewn up, it’s gonna throb for days.

He lowers himself onto the bed like it costs him something, like gravity weighs more on him than it does for the rest of us. One hand pressed to his ribs. The other clutches the edge of the blanket, white-knuckled. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at Dad, either. Just stares down at the ugly motel carpet, like there’s something buried in the stains worth finding, maybe some kind of exit.  

 I linger by the kitchenette, arms cinched tight across my chest as if that might be enough to hold everything in. My flannel is soaked through and sticks to my skin—sweat, rain, mud, and maybe a little blood that isn’t mine. My boots squish when I shift. My palms burn, raw from the glass I skidded over to get to Dean. My fingers won’t stop twitching.

But what I really feel—what I can’t shut off—is the thump of my heartbeat, too loud in my chest. It pounds like it’s trying to break free, rattling my ribs, drowning out everything else. Except Dad’s voice.

Except the way he says my name like I’m the problem. Like I’m some stranger who stumbled into his world and ruined it.

“I told you it was the bartender,” I say, steady as I can manage. My voice feels thin. Cold. Flat. Held together with spit and stubborn-headedness. “I knew it it was him.”

“Knew?” He stops pacing and turns on me like rabid dog on a suddenly snapped leash. His eyes are fire and fury, his face twisted up like I just confessed to arson. “You knew? Then why the hell didn’t you do something? Dean’s bleeding all over the damn floor!”

I glance at Dean. Quiet hope threads through me—maybe stupidly—that he’ll say something. Back me up. Maybe he’ll say something. Just a word. A look. Anything.

But he doesn’t. He won’t. He stays still. Locked in that thousand-yard stare. Like if he doesn’t move, maybe the yelling will stop.

Sam isn’t even in the room. Vending machine run, he said. But I know better. He saw it coming. Felt the pressure drop in Dad’s voice and decided not to be the collateral damage this time. He always knows when the storm’s about to hit.

And this one’s mine.

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. The words I need are coiled in my throat, useless, like smoke, but I’m not sure they’ll help. I’m not sure they ever have.

“I didn’t know how to explain it,” I say at last. “I just… I saw something.”

His expression doesn’t soften. Instead, his jaw tics. His whole face twists. I can practically see the contempt settle into the cracks.

“You saw something,” he repeats, each word colder than the last.

I nod. Swallow.

“Yeah.”

“That’s your excuse?”

No answer. Because it’s not an excuse.

It’s my truth.

It’s my curse.

I see things. Always have. Always will. And he’s never once believed me.

“You don’t see,” he spits, voise rising, “You think. You guess. And this time, you guessed wrong.”

The sound that escapes me is something between a breath and a laugh, sharp and bitter. Not because I believe him. No, I wasn’t wrong. But because I know I won’t win this. I never do.

“It wasn’t a guess,” I try again. “It’s not—”

He cuts me off.

“It’s always something with you. Some feeling, some damn hunch, some weird look in their eyes. This isn’t story time, Amelia! We don’t make calls based on feelings and fairy dust!”

My hands clench at my sides. The sting of glass in my skin flares bright and angry. I want to scream at him. Shake him. Make him see.

But I can’t.

No one will ever believe me.

“I saw his face shift,” I say, teeth grit. “His eyes were wrong. His skin—like a mask that didn’t fit. I knew.”

He steps forward, voice low and lethal.

My stomach drops.

“You froze. You hesitated. You let your brother take the hit.” He’s not yelling anymore, and that’s worse somehow. His voice is low and steady, like a knife slid between ribs.

I jerk back. The words land like a punch, square in the chest. My lungs squeeze shut. I glance at Dean again. He still won’t meet my eyes. That hurts more than anything.

I want to scream. I want to shove Dad back and tell him I saw it, that I wasn’t just guessing. That the bartender’s face had shifted —just a flicker, not even long enough to catch fully—but I saw his eyes go flat and wrong, the way the skin over his mouth didn't quite move with the rest of him. Like a mask too tight on something underneath.

But I don’t. Because I’ve tried before. I’ve cried before, begged him to believe me. And it’s never enough.

“You’re not ready,” Dad says. “You’ve read a few books, thrown some salt, tagged along behind your brothers like a lost puppy. That’s not training. That’s noise. You’re sloppy. You’re dangerous. You’re a damn liability.”

That word shatters something in me. I actually step back, like he hit me.

His eyes narrow. He steps in like a predator tasting blood.

“You flinch like that out there?” he hisses, leaning in, “You’re dead. Or worse—you get your brothers killed. That what you want?”

I back up instinctively, as far as I am able. My heel hits the edge of the counter.

“No!” I snap. Too loud. My voice cracks down the middle. My throat burns with it. “Of course not—I was trying to help—”

“I don’t need help from a little girl who sees shadows and calls it fact!” Dad roars, face twisting with something feral.

He lunges.

It’s not a punch. But it’s a step too fast, too close. My back hits the counter with a thud. The breath leaves my lungs.

His face is inches from mine, eyes wild, teeth clenched. For the first time ever, I’m afraid. I am afraid of him. Not mad. Not defiant. Just cold, crawling fear. It slithers down my spine, freezing at my tailbone.

“Dad.” Dean’s voice cuts through the room like a match striking. Rough. Barely there. But enough.

Dad turns toward him like he forgot he was hurt. “Stay out of it.”

Dean pushes to his feet, slow and shaking—it takes every last ounce of strength he has. “You think scaring her is gonna make her better? You’re not training her. You’re breaking her.”

“She needs to be scared!” Dad snaps. “Out there, fear keeps you alive.”

“You’re wrong,” I whisper, “Fear doesn’t keep you alive—fear kills.”

Dad turns back to me, furious. Dean tries to step between us—but he’s too slow, too hurt—and Dad shoves him aside with one hand. It’s not a punch. It’s not a full-force blow. But it’s enough.

Dean grunts, stumbles back, and hits the wall hard. His shoulder crunches into it, his face contorts, but he doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t make a sound. But I see it all—the way he clenches his jaw, the way his knees buckle for a second.

That’s it.

That’s the moment.

Something inside me snaps.

I move without thinking. I grab my duffel—the one I never fully unpack—and bolt.

The motel door flies open. Cold rain slaps me in the face. Thunder cracks above, loud enough to make my teeth chatter. It sounds like a judge’s gavel sounding the final judgement.

And right outside is Sam.

I skid to a stop, nearly crashing into him.

His hoodie’s soaked. Three cans of soda in his hands.

“Millie?” Sam asks, eyes wide, startled. He glances between me and whoever is standing behind me in the motel room. I can’t imagine what he sees on my face, but whatever it is, it shuts him up fast.

“I’m done.” I say, breathless. “I’m can’t do this anymore.”

I want grab his sleeve and tell him to run, to come with me, to get as far away from that room and that man and all of it as fast as his legs will carry him. But I can’t.

Not because I don’t want to.

But because I know he won’t.

Because Sam is still too young, too wrapped up in trying to be the glue. Too desperate for something that looks like a real family, no matter how broken the pieces are. He still hopes Dad will look at him and see more than a soldier. That Dean will stop bleeding for us and start living for himself. That I’ll stop shaking like a kicked dog and come back in line.

He still hopes.

I envy that.

So instead of dragging him into the fire, I do what I’ve never done before.

I leave him behind.

I swallow the lump in my throat and shake my head once, sharp and final. “Don’t,” I whisper. It’s not loud, but it cuts through the storm. “Don’t try to stop me.”

His eyes go round, mouth opening to argue—but he sees it. He sees me.

And he doesn’t move.

Instead, one of the soda cans slips from his hand and rolls into the bare flowerbed, forgotten.

The silence stretches. The rain hammers the pavement. Somewhere behind me, the motel door groans open. I don’t look back.

“Wait—Millie—what happened?” He shifts the rest of the cans awkwardly to one arm and reaches for me with the other. “Is Dean—?”

“He’s fine. He—he tried.” My voice breaks, and I shake my head like that’ll shake loose the words, too.

He tries to reach for me.

And I take a step back.

Because if he touches me—if he says my name again like that—I’ll break. I’ll grab his hand and drag him with me and John will never stop hunting us. He’ll turn the whole world into a warpath just to get us back in formation.

Sam looks past me, toward the motel room door swinging shut. I can see the storm clouding his eyes already. That slow-burn anger he gets when things are truly wrong.

“Millie, don’t—just wait, okay? Let me talk to him—”

“No.”

That one word feels like iron in my mouth. Sam’s face falls. My eyes sting, but I won’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him.

“I love you,” I say, softer now, “Both of you. But I have to go.”

The lights of a passing semi flare on the wet road behind me, glaring and golden. I use it. I turn. I run.

Out into the rain. Across the parking lot where the Impala’s headlights reflect the lightning like she’s watching me leave.

My boots slap through puddles, water soaking through the laces, cold biting through denim. I hear my name once— Millie! —shouted behind me, ragged and pained. Dean’s voice, maybe. Maybe Sam’s.

I don’t stop.

I don’t look back.

Because if I do, I’ll never make it out.

My duffel’s heavy, but not heavier than the ache in my chest.

I don’t know where I’m going. I just know it’s away. Away from the constant pressure to be sharper, colder, harder. Away from the eyes that don’t see me. Away from the mouth that calls me Amelia like a curse and not a name.

I sprint until my legs ache and my lungs burn. Until the shadows of the town take me in. Until the roar of the highway drowns out everything but the sound of my own heartbeat.

It’s still too loud.

Still trying to break free.

But for the first time, I think maybe I’ll let it.

—

The scream catches in my throat.

I jolt upright, drenched in sweat, heart hammering like a gunshot just went off inside my ribcage. For a second, I don’t know where I am—still tangled in the remnants of that dream, that thing, all smoke, no faces, and stars. So many stars. They were whispering my name like it belonged to them.

But then the silence hits me. Thick. Absolute. The kind of silence only real walls give you—solid brick, not motel plasterboard. The kind that isn’t pretending to be a home.

I suck in a breath and slowly look around.

The apartment is dark except for the orange glow bleeding in from the streetlamp outside. It cuts across the floor in a long, soft slash, glinting off salt lines and sigils drawn in wax across the windowsills and doorframes. The bare bulb overhead is still swinging slightly, like something had disturbed the air. My fingers twitch toward the knife under my pillow before I remind myself— you’re safe here.

The bare bulb is swinging because of the AC.

At least, I’ve done everything I can to make it safe.

The place still smells mostly like mildew and sawdust. But the scent of week-old lemon cleaner and incense—frankincense and myrrh, strong enough to mask blood if I needed it to—lingers. The furniture’s barely more than a hand-me-down couch I patched with duct tape, a scarred secondhand coffee table, and a mattress on the floor. No frames on the walls. No photos. Just the hum of wards etched into every crack and crevice like bones threaded beneath the skin.

Enochian script coils up the doorframe in permanent marker, reinforced with blood and breath and intent. The front door has a devil’s trap painted under the dust rug. Salt and iron line every entrance. A charm bag—sage, black tourmaline, rowan bark—hangs from the knob of the front door.

This is my apartment. My perimeter. My line in the sand.

And it was cursed.

Not subtle, either. The kind of curse that made shadows too long at night, that made mirrors twitch at the corners, that whispered in your ears just as you fell asleep. A bad luck magnet that turned nails to rust, shattered bulbs in their sockets, and left claw marks on the inside of the medicine cabinet.

But I handled it. First night, before the movers even got the couch through the door. Chalk and Latin, and iron filings in the air vents. A bowl of milk and honey set on the windowsill for whatever old god thought it could stake a claim here. Enochian burned into the drywall behind every light switch. I carved the last banishing sigil into the wood beneath the bathroom sink at 3:14 in the morning, whispering old words through clenched teeth with dried blood on my tongue and my breath clouding in the heatless dark.

By sunrise, the air had gone still. No more scratching. No more laughter behind the walls. Just silence.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed—well, mattress—and brace my elbows on my knees. My hands are still shaking. My dream’s already fading, fraying around the edges like a torn photograph. But the feeling it left behind won’t go. That creeping dread, like someone knocking on the inside of your skull. It was a nightmare, yeah. But the kind that might not stay in the dark.

I glance toward the sigil I drew on the ceiling above the bed—one of the big ones, one of the don’t even think about it ones. It’s still intact. Still glowing faintly under the blacklight paint.

Whatever that dream thing was, it didn’t get in.

Didn’t mean it wouldn’t try again.

I stand, joints popping like firecrackers in the quiet. Padding barefoot across the hardwood, I check each charm by habit—salt line by the back door, the obsidian shards pressed into the corners of the window frames, the little bowl of graveyard dirt tucked under the radiator. All good. All still humming with that low, warm static that tells me this space is mine.

But it doesn’t stop the chill creeping down my spine.

Because something did try to get in. I felt it. Just for a second. Like pressure against the wards, like the sensation of someone staring at the back of your neck.

I check the time—4:07 AM. Of course. Witching hour’s just starting to wind down.

My fingers drum restlessly against my thigh, and I fight the urge to call someone. Anyone. But Dean and Sam don’t know where I am. And that’s by design. And Gabriel… Gabriel only shows up when he wants to. Not when I need him.

I let out a breath and turn toward the small kitchenette, flicking on the stovetop burner for the kettle. The flame flares blue.

As I wait, I grab the small, leather-bound journal off the milk crate I’ve been using as a nightstand. I flip to the dream section—pages dog-eared and crowded with chicken-scratch and symbols. Dreams mean things. Always have. Mine especially.

Tonight’s image is already slipping through my fingers like smoke, but I sketch down what I remember. A field of stars. And faceless, shadowy figures turned skyward. Wishing they were part of them.

The kettle whistles. I don’t flinch.

I pour the water and drop a tea bag in. It’s a calming blend, technically. But I stir in a pinch of angelica root and lavender, just in case.

I take the mug in both hands and let the steam rise into my face, trying to breathe through it, trying to ground myself. The warmth curls around my fingers, seeps into the cracks the dream left behind. I walk back to the window—the one facing Main Street—and stand in the orange streetlight glow like it can anchor me to the present.

Eureka Falls sleeps beneath a velvet sky. Quiet, misty.

The town doesn’t know what I am. What I see. It barely knows who I am—some woman who moved into the cursed flat above the shuttered bookstore, who pays in cash and never stays long enough to learn anyone’s names.

I trace the edge of the windowpane with one finger, eyes scanning the street out of habit. Nothing moves. No headlights. No early-morning dog walkers. Just the hum of the streetlamps and the soft flicker of a neon Open sign that never seems to turn off in the diner across the way.

I haven’t hunted since I left Dad and the boys. Not properly. Not on purpose. That life… it stuck to me, like soot in the lungs. I walked away before it choked me. Or maybe I ran.

But I’m not running from anything now. Not really. There’s no demon on my trail, no cursed object weighing down my duffel. Just me, and the seeing. The knowing.

I see them. What they are. Before they drop the act. Before the smiles peel back and the eyes go wrong and the voices lose all the human in them. I see too much. Always have. I used to think it was a gift. Now, I know better. It’s why I don’t stay long. Because they see me watching. Eventually. Monsters—real ones, the kind that wear people like clothes—they know when they’re being seen. Not glanced at. Seen.

And when they do, they watch back.

This is what my life is now. Not hunting. Not fighting. Just… knowing. Seeing. And leaving before the knowing gets me killed.

I sip the tea. Bitter, earthy. It steadies my hands.

From this window, the town looks harmless. Like a postcard. But I know better than to trust quiet places. I don’t unpack anymore. A few charms, a locked box, a pack of salt, and a flask of holy water in my bag. I keep the gas tank full. I keep three exit routes memorized. I don’t trust quiet. Quiet just means something’s listening.

I close my eyes for a second and let the warmth settle into my bones, but the dream presses at the edge of my thoughts again—stars and faceless shadows. I don’t know what it meant. I don’t know if I ever will. I think it’s just my mind warping the memories of monsters I’ve seen.

But sometimes… sometimes I wonder if it’s a warning.

Not from something else. From me. A deeper part. The part I keep buried beneath every charm and sigil and ward, the part that still whispers names I don’t want to remember. The part that looks at the monsters and sees too much of myself.

I open my eyes.

The streetlight flickers once—just once—and hums a little louder. I narrow my gaze, tracking it. Not an omen. I reinforced the windows two nights ago, so I’m not worried about anything trying to get in… or if it does somehow… out.

The tea’s gone lukewarm. I set it on the windowsill and glance down the street again. Still quiet. Still sleeping.

I turn away from the window, taking my tea with me—cool now, but still worth holding, if only to keep my hands busy. I nudge aside the stack of half-read lore books and candy wrappers on the coffee table, then tug my laptop from the worn canvas bag on the floor. It whirs to life with a soft hum, screen flickering pale blue in the dark.

I settle back on the couch, legs curled under me, and open a dozen tabs out of habit. Birds first—starting local, then branching outward. Crows and ravens, of course. Old friends. Carriers of omens and memory. But tonight I’m looking for something different. Something gentler. Something... guiding.

My fingers move automatically across the keys. Barn owls. Silent flight. Eyes like hollow moons. Mourning doves. Soft-spoken, always nearby but rarely noticed. Wrens. Tiny things, but fierce defenders of their nests.

A swallow catches my eye. There’s an old sailor’s tale about them—how they carry the souls of the deceased to heaven. How a tattoo of one means you’ve made it home. I click through images, reading quietly to myself: good luck, hope, new beginnings, and safe returns. Yeah. That one sticks.

I sketch it quickly into my journal with a soft pencil—rounded wings, tail like a forked shadow. I mark it with a note: guidance charm, for travelers and wanderers.

Then flowers. My search drifts like the breeze might carry petals across a field. I’m not a botanist. But I know enough to look for symbols. Calendula for protection. Rosemary for memory. Belladonna for danger. I pause over a photo of yarrow, pale and delicate—used for healing and warding off evil spirit both. I write that one down too. Not for a spell. Just… to remember.

The journal in my lap is thick with years of this. Not just ink and symbols, but layers. Pages dog-eared and yellowing, some smudged with coffee or wax, others warped from water damage or stained with things I don’t want to test under a blacklight. Every line in it is mine. Learned the hard way or whispered through motel walls or picked up in the back booths of bars full of people who don’t say the word “hunter” out loud.

It started as just protection—sigils to keep nightmares out, to keep me safe when I was alone. But over time, it became more. Recipes, charms, bindings. Counter-curses. Glyphs for strength. Marks to ease pain, both physical and not. I even have a ward that dampens grief. Doesn’t erase it, but it makes it quiet. Useful on the bad days.

I flip a few pages back and see one of the older sketches—charcoal, rough and uneven. A symbol for rest. One I drew in a motel outside Flagstaff after going three nights without sleep. It didn’t knock me out, but it kept the nightmares off my back for a few hours. I run my thumb over it without thinking. Most of these things I’ve learned on my own. However, there is quite a bit that I’ve learned from others—friends, family, strangers I’ve met along the way.

I shut the journal gently, setting it beside the laptop. It’s almost six now—soft gray light bleeding through the blinds, smearing gold across the floorboards. Morning.

I stand, stretching slow, and feel the faint crunch of old bones and bad decisions. My stomach rumbles, a hollow reminder that I haven’t eaten since... what, yesterday morning? The leftover ramen in the fridge isn’t calling my name, and besides, I need to get out of the apartment. Get some air. Clear the taste of night from my lungs.

I rinse my mug in the sink, scrub the sleep from my eyes with cold water, and pull on jeans and a worn flannel that still smells faintly like cedar and motel soap. I drag a brush through my hair with about as much care as I’d give stitching up a bullet wound—fast, rough, effective. Then I lace up my boots and grab the canvas bag I keep packed by the door. Not the hunting one. Just the real-world survival kit: wallet, ID, printouts of job listings from last week, a notepad, pepper spray, a few charms stitched into the lining. Keys go in the left pocket. The silver switchblade in the right.

Habit. Muscle memory. I live ready. Even when I’m just going out for eggs.

The sun’s barely cresting the hills when I step outside. Cold air rushes up to meet me, sharp and damp with the river fog. The mist curls around the sidewalks, softening the edges of Eureka Falls until it looks like something half-remembered. A dream trying to disappear.

I lock the door behind me—three turns, a sigil traced with my thumb, and a quiet word in Enochian for luck. Not that I trust luck. But it doesn’t hurt to ask.

The streets are empty. But shops are just starting to open up for the earliest risers. I like it this way—before the world fully wakes up and remembers how to be loud again. My boots thud softly against the cracked pavement, damp with dew. I pass shuttered windows and the faded front of the old post office. The corner shop hasn’t opened yet. Neither has the bookstore below my apartment. Not that it will—the place has been closed for years, blinds always drawn tight. Just another empty shell with good bones and bad air.

The diner glows like a lighthouse through the mist. Lou’s Place, the sign says in flickering pink. The 'u' has been dead for a while now, so it mostly just says Lo’s Place. Fitting, honestly.

The bell over the door jingles when I step inside. Warm air greets me like a memory—grease, coffee, syrup, and something faintly metallic that clings to all diners like ghosts to grave dirt. It’s not full, just a handful of regulars hunched over mugs and old newspapers, eyes bleary and movements slow. Nobody looks up when I walk in. I take a booth in the back, the one with the cracked red vinyl and view of the front door.

Always the front door.

A waitress with a nest of gray curls and a name tag that reads Margie appears with a pot of coffee before I even ask.

“Morning, hon,” she says, voice gravel-worn but kind. “You look like hell.”

“Feel like it too,” I say, managing a tired smile.

She pours. “You want the usual?”

I hesitate. I’ve only been here three times. That’s all it takes, though, in small towns like this. You sit in the same booth, order the same thing twice, and suddenly you’re predictable. Familiar. One more face on a quiet street.

“Yeah,” I say after a second. “The usual.”

She nods and disappears behind the counter, shouting something at the cook in a voice that could shatter glass.

I sip the coffee—burnt and bitter—I hate it, but wouldn’t risk asking for my favorites in broad daylight. So I pull out the notepad from my bag. A list of local businesses, most of which aren’t hiring or haven’t returned my calls. I underline the library again. The girl at the front desk said the manager was looking for part-time help, but they were ‘ finalizing paperwork ’ and ‘ not sure when it’ll go through. ’ Translation: don’t call us, we’ll call you never.

There’s a small hardware store on the edge of town. I circle it. Could be something there. I know my way around tools. I’ve had to.

I’m flipping through pages, noting hours and phone numbers, when Margie drops a plate in front of me—eggs, bacon, toast, and something pretending to be hashbrowns. I murmur a thank-you and don’t waste time. First real food in almost twenty-four hours. It doesn’t taste like much, but it’s hot. Filling.

I catch myself glancing at the other customers. Not watching them. Just... checking. One old man with a shock of white hair and hearing aids reads the paper with a magnifying glass. A tired-looking woman flips through a Vogue magazine while her kid scribbles on a placemat. Nobody with too-sharp smiles. No flickers of light under the skin. No wrongness in the air.

Just people.

I take another bite and let my shoulders loosen, just a little.

Outside the window, the fog’s starting to lift. Light spills down Main Street in soft gold sheets, brushing the rooftops like a promise. I can almost imagine a day where nothing supernatural will try to kill me. A normal day. A boring one.

I think I could handle boring.

Once breakfast is gone and the coffee refilled, I make a list—things to check on, places to visit. The library again. Hardware store. Maybe the antique place, if I’m feeling brave. Sometimes old shops like that draw in weird energy. Sometimes they sell it. But that’s a worry for later.

Right now, I’ve got food in my belly and a list in my pocket.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I feel like I’m facing forward.

The dream still lingers, sure. But the wards are still holding. The light’s brighter than it was when I left the apartment.

That counts for something.

I leave Margie a good tip and step back into the morning. The sun's finally won its fight with the clouds, and for a moment, just a moment, the world feels warm.

I take a deep breath and start walking.

It’s time to find a job. A normal job. And if I’m lucky, a reason to stay.

Chapter Text

The bell above the shop door chimes, delicate and crisp, like the sound of fine china tapping against porcelain. The kind of sound that makes you feel like you shouldn’t be here unless you're wearing gloves and walking softly. I step inside, instinctively lowering my shoulders and keeping my hands tucked deep in my coat pockets.

It smells like cedar and lavender, with a trace of something older beneath it—dust and old books and history too stubborn to forget itself. The light filters in through narrow front windows dressed in lace curtains, casting soft, gold-tinted shadows on rows of cluttered shelves.

“Be right with you!” a voice calls from somewhere beyond a curtain of hanging beads, followed by the muffled shuffle of slippered feet and the creak of aged floorboards.

I take a slow look around while I wait. The shop is small but packed—an organized chaos of trinkets, glass cases, and velvet-lined drawers. Everything feels like it has a story. There’s a porcelain doll with a cracked cheek staring blankly from behind a locked cabinet. A Victorian mourning brooch shaped like a weeping willow glints under the overhead lamp. My fingers twitch in my pocket. Don’t touch anything, Millie. You came here for a job, not a hunt.

The bead curtain parts with a jingle, and she steps through.

Ruth Abernathy is exactly the kind of woman I expected to own a place like this. White hair swept up in a tidy bun, thick-framed reading glasses on a chain, floral blouse under a well-worn cardigan. But her eyes, sharp as flint behind all that softness, land on me like she already knows my measurements.

“Well, Miss Tyler,” she says, smiling gently. “You’re early.”

I blink. It takes me half a second to remember I gave her the name Liv Tyler —first thing that came to mind. It was a little on the nose, but I couldn’t think of anything else in the moment. Besides, it’s a pretty common name—and I think only Dean might know who Liv Tyler is anyway.

I nod and offer a smile that I hope reads as ‘normal girl looking for normal work.’

She crosses the room faster than I expect, extending a hand that’s cool and dry and stronger than it looks. “Well, Miss Tyler, come on back. I like to talk where the spirits are quieter.”

I pause, unsure if she’s joking, but follow her through the beads anyway.

The back room is cozier, less museum-like and more parlor-like. A small desk, a few stacks of ledgers, a well-loved tea set still steaming from a recent pour. Ruth gestures for me to sit in the opposite chair and takes her own with a groan that seems more habit than pain.

“I read your resume.” She folds her hands over one knee. “You’ve moved around a lot.”

“I have,” I say, because it’s the easiest truth I can give.

“No references.”

I hesitate. “I’ve worked odd jobs. Nothing long enough to matter.”

Her gaze flicks over me again—my worn boots, my calloused hands, the frayed cuff on my sleeve. “You ever steal anything?”

I blink. “No.”

“Ever see something you shouldn’t have and kept your mouth shut?”

That one’s trickier. My pause is short, but it’s there. “Maybe.”

She smiles faintly, like she was waiting for that answer. “Good. Liars don’t last long in this business. Or this town.”

Before I can wonder if she means retail or something else, she stands up and smooths her skirt. “You’re hired.”

“…Wait, really?”

“Your eyes are too tired to be dishonest,” she says simply. “And I need someone who won’t break the china.”

I stare at her, waiting for the punchline, but she’s already halfway back to the front.

“You can start today if you’ve got the time. You any good at dusting?”

I blink the surprise off my face and stand. “Yeah. I can dust.”

“Good. Start with the top shelves. If you fall off the ladder, try not to bleed on the textiles. I hate having to wash the silk.”

I spend the next few hours with a feather duster in one hand. It’s not exactly a thrill ride, but it’s quiet. The morning has moved slowly, in that easy, timeless way old places like this always seem to have.

Dust motes dance in slanted shafts of sunlight. Jazz crackles softly from a radio tucked behind the counter, the same few notes skipping now and then like the song itself is tired. I sort through boxes of costume jewelry and polish glass display cases filled with everything from Civil War bullets to someone’s grandmother’s old night gown. A shelf in the back holds antique dolls, and I do my best not to look directly at them.

And yet, there’s something meditative about wiping down old shelves and lining up crystal figurines just so. Every time the doorbell chimes, I glance up out of habit, cataloging faces.

The customers are mostly quiet folks—tourists, collectors, a mother with a curious toddler who tries to run off with a rusted compass. There’s a couple of antique collectors, a woman with three rings on every finger who spends ten minutes talking to the doll cabinet, and one kid who just wants to know if the weird swords are real. They’re not, made of aluminum. Still sharp, though.

I nod to each person. Watch them leave. File it all away.

Ruth watches me, too, from behind the counter. Not in a nosy way. Just… aware. I think she likes seeing someone take care of her things the way she does. I think she’s letting herself trust me.

And for a second, I let myself feel okay.

Then the bell chimes again.

It’s the same sound as always—delicate and crisp—but this time, it cuts through the room like a sliver of cold steel. My shoulders tense without thinking. I look up.

At first glance, there’s nothing unusual about him. Tall. Mid-thirties, maybe. Sandy hair neatly combed but too still, like a wig pressed flat. Sharp-dressed, tan coat over everything. Shoes too nice for this side of town.

He walks in like he owns the air, like it should bend around him. He moves like someone not used to being noticed. He keeps his head down, shoulders slightly hunched. His coat has one sleeve torn just above the elbow, like it caught on a nail, and he never bothered to fix it.

He wanders through the shop slowly, fingers grazing items without picking them up. He pretends to browse, picking up a brass telescope. He puts it down and traces his fingers over the face of a cracked porcelain doll with glassy, staring eyes. He doesn’t blink.

Ruth is in the back, going over inventory. I’m alone at the front, my palms starting to sweat against the glass counter.

He looks normal. I shouldn’t be worried. I haven’t even seen anything yet. Not that I want to. I don’t want to. But then, the moment our eyes meet, I see past it.

I wish I didn’t.

Because, there it is.

It’s not in any way that most people would notice. Not on the surface. But my vision flickers—like something beneath reality pulls taut for half a second—and I see it—I see him. His face isn’t a face. It’s a mask. The skin is stretched too tight, like it’s been nailed down over something bigger, darker, hateful —like a funhouse mirror catching the light just wrong.

I glance away and move behind the register. It’s not any safer, but it gives me some peace of mind.

Turning back towards the front, he’s standing right there. My heart stutters.

“Afternoon,” he says pleasantly.

I force my mouth into a polite smile. “Afternoon,” I echo, my voice steadier than I expected.

He sets a small brass box on the counter. Ornate, etched with curling floral patterns and little suns on each side. It clicks lightly against the glass.

“How much for this?” he asks, voice calm and smooth. Too smooth. Like velvet stretched over broken glass.

I glance down at the box, then up at him. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes—those stay flat and wrong, like glass beads pretending to be human.

I clear my throat. “Twenty-five.”

He tilts his head, as if considering it. Then he nods, reaches into the pocket of that pristine coat, and pulls out a crisp twenty and a crumpled five. He presses them into my hand like he’s done this a thousand times.

“Keep the change,” he says with a smirk that twists just a little too far at the corners.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

He picks up the box. Doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t say anything else. Just turns on his heel and walks toward the door.

The bell chimes as he exits. The door shuts gently behind him, like he didn’t weigh anything at all.

I stand there a full thirty seconds before I let myself breathe again. My hands shake as I count the bills. They’re real. Everything about the exchange was real. But something about him wasn’t.

I don’t relax the rest of the day. Not even when Ruth comes back and hums as she re-shelves a tray of old keys. Not when she offers me a shortbread cookie with my tea break and says I did ‘good work.’ I manage a smile, nod, and make small talk. But my skin itches with nerves that won’t settle.

By the time my shift ends and I step back into the cool evening air, I feel like I’ve run a marathon with my teeth clenched the whole way. The clouds have rolled in—low and thick, smothering the sunset in dull gray. The wind picks up. It smells like rain and ozone and something metallic, sharp on the tongue.

I walk fast. Head down. One hand wrapped tight around the little iron nail I keep on a cord in my coat pocket.

By the time I reach the little rental I call home—two rooms, creaky floors, a secondhand couch that smells faintly of patchouli—I’m bone-tired. But I don’t sit. I don’t rest.

I go straight to the front door and check every line of salt across the threshold. I scrub out the one by the kitchen and lay it again, straighter, cleaner. I run a line of holy water along every windowsill. I hammer another iron nail into the frame above my bedroom window—just to be safe.

I reach into the drawer beside my bed and pull out a little tin of chalk, then kneel and draw a devil’s trap under the rug. It's already worn there, but I make it fresh. Strong. Lines crisp. I press a hand to the floor when I’m done, muttering the old Latin under my breath.

When I finally finish, it’s well past dark. The wind claws at the windows now. Somewhere down the street, a dog starts barking and doesn’t stop.

I sit on the bed, hands in my lap, heart finally beginning to slow. I stare at the wall. Then, at the photo stuck in the corner of the mirror—me, Dean, Sam, all on our father’s lap while he sits on the hood of the Impala. I look away.

I don’t pray often.

But tonight, I do.

I close my eyes and whisper—not out loud, just in the quiet space behind my thoughts.

Gabriel. If you can hear me… I don’t know where you are. I haven’t seen you in years. I don’t need saving, not yet… I see them everywhere, and it’s not just monsters anymore—it’s demons.

A pause. My throat tightens.

And I-I’m scared.

I open my eyes. The room is still. No thunder. No flash of wings. No cheeky angel popping in, leaning against the wall with a lollipop.

Just the AC.

Just me.

Just the shadows dancing on my walls.

—

It’s been a couple of weeks. No sign of the man with the too-perfect smile and dead eyes. No flicker of wrongness in the corners of mirrors, no smell of sulfur, no footsteps just outside my front door.

I should be relieved. Maybe I am. But that kind of quiet settles into my bones wrong. It’s the kind of calm that comes before something breaks.

Still, I’ve been trying. Getting up early. Drinking coffee in the morning sun like a normal person instead of chugging it cold in the dark while checking salt lines. Ruth says I’m settling in nicely. She lets me restock the display cases on my own now, lets me pick the jazz station. I think she even smiled when I reorganized the entire shelf of candle holders by decade.

It’s… nice. Quiet. Normal. Or close enough to fake it.

Tonight, I’m home early. The air’s warm for November, and I leave the window cracked as I kick off my boots and dump my bag on the couch. The place smells like the lavender sachets Ruth tucked into my coat pockets last week. She said they were ‘for peace.’ I think it was her way of saying she saw the tension in my shoulders and didn’t want to ask why.

I don’t blame her.

I’m halfway through heating some leftover soup when I remember I have a loaf of bread in the freezer.

I open the door, and something falls out—light, papery. It flutters to the floor.

I bend to pick it up.

It’s a note. Just a scrap of white paper, folded once. No name. No handwriting I recognize. Just two words, scrawled in uneven ink like it was written with a hotel pen in a moving car: You’ll be okay.

My breath catches.

I look up. There’s a chocolate bar sitting in the door shelf. Brand new. One of the nice ones, dark and bitter with sea salt, wrapped in fancy paper that makes me feel like I have my life together.

I stare at it for a long moment. My pulse hums low and steady in my ears.

There’s no sigil carved into my windows. No sound of wings. No glittering trickster reveal. But I know. I know.

Gabriel.

I close the freezer slowly and lean back against the counter, the note still pinched between my fingers.

“You always did have a flair for the dramatic,” I murmur to the empty room.

I don’t smile. Not exactly. But something in my chest eases, just a little.

The soup simmers gently behind me, the soft burble of bubbles the only sound in the apartment now. I set the note down on the counter like it might break if I fold it again. The paper’s already curling at the corners from the chill of the freezer, or maybe just from whatever kind of magic clung to it.

You’ll be okay.

A simple sentence. There are no cryptic riddles, no smirk hiding too much knowledge behind it. Just those words. Three little words—technically four—but who’s counting? And the chocolate—dark, sea-salted, and indulgent in that very Gabriel kind of way. He always did have a taste for sweetness and irony.

I used to hate his little note stuff in places at random, but they’ve grown on me. Especially tonight, the gesture doesn’t feel like a tease. It feels like comfort. Like a lighthouse in a fog that hasn’t rolled in yet.

I carry the chocolate and the note to the table and sit with them while the soup finishes. I don’t light candles, don’t dim the lights. I just sit, legs tucked under me, back pressed against the cool wood of the chair. Waiting for something to feel less temporary.

Maybe it’s the magic. Maybe it’s the lavender. Maybe it’s just the fact that someone saw the shadows starting to crowd in again—and said something.

Eventually, I eat. I dip bread in the soup and let the quiet wrap around me. 

But I don’t relax, not fully. My eyes keep flicking toward the windows. The back door. The hallway beyond the kitchen.

The note says I’ll be okay. But it doesn’t say why.

Or for how long.

After dinner, I move through the apartment like I always do—checking every latch, every seal. I reinforce the sigils above the doors with chalk. I smear a thin line of salt along the windowsills, watching the grains catch the glow of the streetlamp outside like they’re holding a line against the dark.

I tuck iron nails into the corners. Add rosemary bundles to the vents. When I’m done, I step back, the faint tang of herbs and salt thick in the air. It smells like safety, or the closest thing I can get to it.

I press a hand against the doorframe and close my eyes.

 I lift my head toward the ceiling—toward whatever corner of the universe Gabriel might be drifting in—and send a quiet, silent thanks into the space between us. No words. Just feeling. A heartbeat passed through the veil.

Maybe he hears me. Maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe he already knew I’d say it.

I exhale slowly. Long. Measured. The kind of breath you only take when you’ve held too many of them in.

Then I go to bed with the note under my pillow and the chocolate on the nightstand.

Because just in case the storm is coming, I want to remember what peace felt like before the first crack of thunder.

—

The next day, work is uneventful. Ruth has me restocking jewelry boxes and cataloging postcards from the 1920s. I spend half an hour deciphering old cursive and the rest pretending not to notice the way one of the older brooches hums when I get too close. Ruth says nothing, but her gaze lingers on me a little longer than usual when I clock out.

It’s dusk by the time I’m heading home, that strange in-between light where everything’s a little too blue and the shadows stretch long across the pavement. I walk with my hands tucked in my pockets, head low, eyes sharp. Habit. Always habit.

I round the corner onto my street and enter my apartment building. I climb the stairs and stop. My door. It’s not open. But it’s not locked either.

I know because I always lock it. Three times. Always. I don’t even think about it anymore. Click, click, click. Muscle memory and paranoia. There’s no way I forgot. Not after everything.

A chill prickles across my skin.

I move slow, careful, listening. The street’s quiet. No footsteps. No shadows moving behind curtains. But the lights are on. From the thin sliver beneath the door, I can see it—too bright, too warm. I didn’t leave them on. I never leave them on.

I slide my hand into my coat, fingers curling around the hilt of the silver switchblade I keep tucked in the inner lining. A gift from Dean, the blade’s solid, blessed, and sharp enough to end a nightmare.

I don’t kick the door open. Just twist the knob and let it swing slowly.

I step inside, knife ready, every sense alert. My boots make almost no sound on the worn floorboards as I move from the entryway to the kitchen.

I shut the door without a sound.

I glance around. No visible damage. No sulfur stench. No blood.

Still—something’s wrong.

I cross to the nearest light switch and flick it off. The room plunges into shadow. Better that way. I’m the only one other than maybe my landlord who has the floorplan memorized.

I let my body go loose, quiet. Years of training. Years of surviving. Whoever’s in here, they don’t know who they’re dealing with.

I catch the faintest whisper of movement in the hallway. A shift in weight. The creak of wood.

I dart forward, fast, low—blade flashing in the dim light—and slam into a tall figure that has just entered the kitchen. They grunt as I drive my shoulder into their center mass and sweep their legs out from under them. The body hits the floor with a heavy thud, breath leaving them in a startled gasp.

I dart down the hall. Where there’s one, there’s always a second… at least.

The second shape moves faster than I expect—he’s shorter, but still tall—but I’m already pivoting, using momentum and the narrow hallway to my advantage. I duck under a reaching arm, twist, and slam the butt of my knife against their side. Not enough to do damage. Just enough to stagger them. Throw them off balance.

He land’s face down and drops his knife. He tries to reach for it. But I stomp my boot between his shoulder blades and jam my other knee into his spine.

“Try it,” I growl, “See how that ends for you.”

He goes still. 

“Mill—Millie?”

The voice stops me cold.

Rough, disbelieving. Familiar.

I blink.

“Dean?”

The other figure I took down groans, hand braced against the floor. I step off Dean.

“Sam?”

Light glints off the edge of something not too far away. It’s not a knife.

It’s a notebook—no, a journal.

My journal.

The black leather cover is worn smooth at the edges, and the binding is cracked from years of use. Pages peek out like brittle teeth. I know that book like I know my own heartbeat—because it holds them. My dreams. Nightmares. The things I see and don’t tell anyone about.

And now it’s on the floor, in the open.

Dean groans, rolling halfway to his side. “Son of a bitch.”

I flick on the hallway lights and stare down at my brother.

Dean looks like hell. His lip’s split, his hair’s a mess, and there’s a smear of something—dirt? blood?—smudged along his cheek. He squints against the sudden light like it’s trying to punch him.

Sam’s not much better. He’s still half-winded, blinking up at me from the floor like he can’t decide whether to laugh or apologize. His jacket’s scuffed at the elbow, and I’m pretty sure I just knocked the wind out of him.

I don’t move. Not yet. My heart’s hammering in my chest like it’s still mid-fight, but my brain is starting to catch up to my eyes. To their eyes.

To the fact that both my older and younger brothers have just broken into my apartment.

“You’ve gotten slower,” I say, cool and even, as I flip the blade in my hand and slide it back into the hidden sheath in my coat.

Dean props himself up on one elbow, giving me a look that’s all older-brother wounded pride. “You broke my ribs,” he grits out.

“You’ll live,” I say, already crouching beside him. I press a hand to his side, gentle but firm, and he hisses between his teeth. Okay, maybe a little bruised. I glance towards the kitchen, “You okay, Sam-Sam?”

“I’m fine,” he calls back, struggling to find his feet.

I wince, “Sorry. You guys scared the ever-living daylights outta me.”

Dean stands and brushes some non-existent dust off his jacket. “We scared you?”

“I didn’t know who was in my apartment, jackass,” I glance between the two of them, jaw tight. I brush past him, back towards the kitchen, and yank open my fridge.

“You didn’t?”

“No,” I grimace, grabbing a few beers, “Why would I? I didn’t even know you were in town.”

I pop the caps off the bottles on the edge of the counter and hand a beer to each of my brothers. Dean takes his with a grunt that’s half pain, half appreciation. Sam mutters a thanks, a little breathless, still recovering from the takedown. I keep the third for myself and take a long swig, letting the cool bitterness settle my nerves.

I lean against the counter and look at them—really look. Dean’s favoring his left side. Sam keeps rubbing at his ribs. There’s road dust on their jeans and tension knotted in their shoulders. Neither one of them has said a damn word about why they’re here yet.

I raise an eyebrow and tilt the bottle toward them. “All right. Spill. Why the hell are you here?”

Dean’s the one who answers first, of course. He leans a hip against the counter and takes a long pull from his beer like it might give him the courage to start talking. His jaw twitches. That’s how I know it’s serious. Dean Winchester doesn’t fidget unless something’s digging at him hard.

“Millie,” he begins, tone soft, “What the hell is going on with you? It seems like you never stay in one place for more than a couple of years—maybe even months.”

I raise a brow, “You break into my apartment, rifle through my stuff, and I’m the one with explaining to do?”

Dean doesn’t flinch. Not really. But something flickers behind his eyes—guilt, maybe. Or regret. Or just the hard edges of worry worn too long without a place to rest. He shrugs a shoulder like he can toss it off, but it sticks to him anyway.

He moves to the couch and sits down, ribs still aching. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.” I huff, wanting to laugh, but not quite reaching it. I can’t slip back into the same, loose-feeling I used to have with my brothers. I feel like I don’t know them. “Rent’s cheap ‘cause the old lady upstairs thinks the place is cursed.”

Dean snorts. “Is it?” 

“Not anymore.”

Dean gives me a look like he’s not sure if I’m joking. I don’t clarify. Let him stew on it.

I move back to the kitchen and lean against the counter again, arms folded tight across my chest. I still haven’t made eye contact with either of them. I don’t plan to. Not yet.

The mug I left this morning is still there, resting on the windowsill behind the couch. Steamless now. A faint coffee ring stains the ceramic where I must’ve forgotten it in the sun, distracted by something—probably birds, or clouds, or the quiet ticking of normalcy I was trying too hard to pretend was mine.

It’s stupid, but the sight of it jars me more than it should.

How out of it was I? The morning was a blur, so I don’t remember what I did and didn’t do, but it’s odd. I’m usually so careful. That mug is supposed to mean safe. Routine. Mine.

But nothing feels like mine anymore with Dean and Sam standing in the middle of my apartment like they never left. Like I never left.

Sam sets his beer down and grabs the broom I stuck halfway behind my fridge. He glances at Dean, then at me, and begins sweeping up the glass from a broken picture frame. The photo is still lying face down on the floor, but I know which one it is—me, Frankie, and a couple of our other friends from back in Albuquerque. It’s a nice memory. We were celebrating her twenty-fifth birthday. Good times.

Dean sets his beer on the coffee table—no coaster, of course—and fixes me with that same look Dad used to wear when he was gearing up to lecture. Except with Dean, it’s softer around the edges. No bark. Just… that heavy, weighted worry I remember from years ago. The kind that feels like chains.

“So,” he asks, “what’s with the journal?”

I turn away from him and pull out a roll of paper towels. I pretend not to have heard him and tear off a few sheets with every intention to pick up the broken frame. I wipe the puddle of water beside the sink absently instead. But I don’t get very far. The words slip out faster than I can think to bite my tongue. “Just… stuff… It helps me clear my head—sort through the noise with everything we’ve seen and heard.”

“Those sketches are of monsters we’ve never seen before. There’s so many cryptic notes, I don’t know what to think. Are you tracking something big?”

I stop wiping and sigh. “I see things, sometimes—stuff I don’t always understand. The drawings help me keep track. That’s all.”

“That’s not all,” he presses, worried—concerned… something. “What’s really going on, Millie?”

I glance at him, making sure to keep my expression cool. “Something I never asked for. I didn’t ask to see the crap we’ve had to grow up with. Okay? This is just how I cope, alright? It’s the same way you and John throw yourselves into hunts and the way Sam studies law textbooks. We all got our ways.”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it again. “What about the charms? They’re everywhere.”

“You don’t know?” I ask, leaning against the counter.

“Would I be asking if I did?” He snips.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “They help me block out… everything. They work most of the time, but my translations and research are a little sketch at best. Most of the time, they keep the nightmares out—but I also don’t have a dream catcher—”

“What the hell does that mean?” Dean cuts me off.

I pause. The words hang in the air like dust caught in a sunbeam, too heavy to float, too light to fall. My fingers tighten around the neck of the beer bottle, the cool glass anchoring me, just barely. I look away—past Sam, past Dean, past the wall of books and protective charms and quiet, lived-in clutter that’s come to mean mine. 

A million things race through my mind—all the horrors I’ve seen, people I’ve lost, and the people I’ve left. I see their faces. The ones I couldn’t save. The ones I ran from.

That boy who tried to help me once... he thought I was some kind of hero. His blood soaked through the cuff of my sleeve. He smiled at me when he died. He thanked me.

The woman in Santa Fe who saw something in me that I didn’t want anyone else to see. Her voice in the dark, telling me to rest. I didn’t. I left the next morning. Didn’t leave a note.

Then there’s Ruth—kind, quiet Ruth—who gave me a job without questions, who tucked lavender in my coat pockets and never pried. What would she think if she saw the kind of world I’ve really lived in?

I think of Dad. His shouting. His orders. His silence.

And I think of the two men in front of me. Sam, all sharp lines and soft eyes, trying to read me like a textbook he doesn’t have the translation for. Dean, who looks like he’s waiting for me to throw another punch, and might even let me.

I used to think they were my anchors. But anchors can drag you under, too.

My throat feels tight. I swallow it down. Hard.

“I don’t sleep well. Haven’t for a long time.” I say, finally. My voice is low, and it doesn’t shake, but it feels like it should. “I draw, I write, I protect. It’s the only thing I can do.”

I still don’t look at them. I’m not ready. Instead, I glance toward the window. The evening has gone navy blue, stars faint in the sky above the streetlight glow. My forgotten coffee mug is still sitting there on the sill, cold and full, the ring of it staining the old wood like a little ghost of morning.

I walk to it, quietly, and pick it up with both hands.

There’s a dead fly floating in the middle.

I dump it into the sink, rinse it out, and set it gently on the drying rack. It feels like a ritual. Like drawing a line between then and now.

The silence behind me stretches, taut as a tripwire. I can feel them both trying to decide what to say. How to fix it. If they even can.

But some things aren’t puzzles. Some things are just broken.

Dean shifts on the couch, it creaks, and the metal squeals slightly. His breath, sharp and frustrated, perhaps even distressed. “What’s keeping you up, Mills? What are you even fighting?”

“Myself, mostly,” I mumble, fidgeting with my sleeves.

Silence stretches for a beat longer than the last.

Sam breaks the silence this time, his voice lower, gentler. Like if he speaks too loudly, the moment might shatter. “We thought something happened to you.”

I glance up. Just for a second.

His face is earnest, all soft edges and bruised kindness. He’s always been the one with the heart too open for his own good. It used to drive me crazy. Still does, a little.

“Nothing happened,” I say. “Not to me.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the furrow between his brows, the tension in his jaw. But he nods anyway, like he’s accepting it just to keep the peace.

I hate that. That he’s used to making peace with things that don’t make sense. That he’s used to people lying to him just to make him feel better.

“I never wanted to be found,” I add. My voice is quiet, but steady.

Sam winces like I slapped him. “We weren’t trying to… I mean—Millie, you kind of disappeared. We thought you were in trouble.”

“I was all over the states.” I mutter, “Not the goddamn Bermuda Triangle.”

“The last time anyone heard from you directly was almost eight years ago.”

Dean, from the couch: “And it was just a cryptic note telling no one to look for you. Then, Sam and I find our sigil all over Albuquerque and now here in Eureka Springs.”

I’ve left it in other places too. Everywhere I’ve stayed more than a month, I left a mark—a trail—for someone to eventually find me. It was always a ‘just in case.’ It was never meant for me to be found while I’m still kicking—

Sam clears his throat. “We were worried. That’s all. You just… you don’t leave like that.”

“Sure I do,” I say. “I left before.”

“That was different,” Dean says, his voice low now, almost hesitant. “Back then, you always came back.”

“That was before—”

“Before what, Millie?”

“Before he hurt you, Dean!”

Our father.

That silence returns, thicker this time. Like smoke in the lungs. It lingers in the corners of the room, and no one tries to break it for a long minute.

The last time I saw him, he shoved my big brother. He probably yelled at Sam. I couldn’t stay to protect them. For my own sanity—I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Then Dean leans forward, elbows on his knees, bottle dangling from one hand. “Millie, um… Dad’s missing.”

The words hit like a sucker punch. Not a shout, not a cry—just simple, quiet truth.

I stare at him, then at Sam. My voice drops to barely above a whisper. “Missing?”

I hate that I still care.

Dean nods once. “He went on a hunting trip. Couple weeks back. We haven’t heard from him since.”

I set my beer down slowly. “So you’re telling me you broke into my apartment because Dad ghosted you?”

“Don’t be like that,” Dean says. “We’re telling you because you’re family. Because if something happened—if something got him—then we need you.”

There’s a pause. A breath I don’t take.

And then Sam speaks again, soft. “We didn’t come here to drag you back, Millie. We just wanted to know you were okay.”

That does it. That breaks something small and brittle behind my ribs.

Because I was okay. Kind of. Mostly. I was trying. I had soup and jazz and lavender sachets. I had a job and peace and… silence.

And now they’re here.

And the silence is gone.

Chapter Text

The words hang between us, thick and heavy, like smoke that won’t clear. My fingers toy with the edge of the label on my bottle—half-peeled from my restless fingers, the paper curling under my nails. I breathe through my nose and blink a few times before the silence pulls me too far under.

I can feel Dean watching me. Sam too. The weight of their eyes digs under my skin, but I don’t look up.

Instead, I say, “That piece of crap Impala still around, or did she finally give out?”

The change in subject is obvious, abrupt even, but neither of them calls me on it. Sam shifts in his seat, glancing at Dean like he’s not sure who should go first.

Dean lets out a breath. It’s not a laugh, not really—but it’s close enough to pass. “Baby’s not a ‘piece of crap.’ She’s beautiful, and she’s mine now. So watch how to talk about her.”

“Yeah?” I glance at him, lips twitching with a hidden smile. “Still got the army man in the ashtray?”

He lifts a shoulder. “And the Legos in the vents.”

Sam smiles faintly, like that memory still means something warm to him. To all of us, really. Even now.

I stand up, bottle still in hand, and nod toward the couch. “Well, I don’t have a Motel 6 or anything, but the pullout’s yours.”

Dean makes a face like I just offered him a bed of nails. “Seriously?”

“You want the armchair?” I arch a brow.

“No,” he mutters, grumbling like he’s forty years older than he is as he shoves himself off the couch. “Just… haven’t slept on one of these death traps since that hunt in Omaha.”

“Oh yeah,” Sam says lightly. “The one with the haunted mattress store.”

“Don’t remind me.” Dean rubs his back and glares at the couch like it insulted his honor.

I exhale sharply, amused. “So,” I say, “What have you two been up to for the last few years?”

Dean shrugs one shoulder. “You know. Same old. Still driving around, hunting things that go bump in the night. Sam here, had a little break—”

Sam chokes on his beer.

“You good, bud?” I ask, knitting my brow together.

“Yeah,” He chokes.

The two of them share a look, some silent joke or secret—something—between brothers that I don’t quite fit into anymore. But I don’t resent it. Not really. So I let it pass.

Dean clears his throat, realizing he must have said more than he meant to. “Anyway, we’ve been keeping busy. Few banshees, a shapeshifter in Lincoln. Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Sam straightens in his seat, nodding along, but there’s something tight in the set of his shoulders. I file that away for later.

“Uh-huh,” I say. “So, still running yourselves into the ground, business as usual.”

Dean lifts his beer in a mock salute. “Wouldn’t be the Winchesters if we weren’t.”

I eye the both of them. I feel like I’m seeing ghosts. Maybe I am. They look older, more tired around the eyes, the kind of exhaustion you can’t sleep off. I wonder if I look like that, too. Probably.

I nod slowly, arms crossing loosely over my chest. “You look tired.”

Dean scoffs. “Thanks, Millie. Great to see you too.”

“I mean it.” I look at him directly. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

He doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

I straighten, bottle still in hand, and nod toward the couch. “Alright. Well, I don’t have a Motel 6 or anything, but I’ve got something else. Get up.”

Dean blinks. “What?”

“You heard me. Get your ass off the couch.”

He eyes me warily before groaning theatrically and standing, setting his bottle on the coffee table with a clink. I set my bottle down on the kitchen counter and crouch down, tugging the thin mattress frame from the couch with practiced ease. The metal legs squeal a little as I unfold it, making me wince. But the pull-out mattress unfolds with nothing more than a squeak of old springs.

Sam leans forward, brows raised. “Did you know it was in there?”

“It’s my apartment,” I say, brushing hair out of my eyes. “Of course I knew.”

“Did you ever… I don’t know. Use it?”

“Not really.” I glance up at him. “But it felt right to have. Just in case.”

Just in case what? I don’t say. The words hang between us anyway. I shake that thought off and glance back toward the hallway. “Be right back.”

I straighten and step around Dean, crossing the room to the hallway. The linen closet’s just outside the living room, tucked beside the bathroom door. I tug it open and stand there for a second, letting the scent of cedar and old detergent wash over me. The shelves are stacked neatly with folded sheets, one of my favorites is a faded blue I picked up from a thrift store in Iowa. There are also a couple of spare, mismatched blankets, one’s an old quilt from a thrift store in Montana, the other is made of flannel. I used to keep it in the back of my car for cold nights. Somehow it feels right here. I pull everything down and lug it back to my very small living room.

When I come back in, Dean’s already flopped dramatically across the mattress like he owns the place. Coat and boots still on, beer forgotten.

“You gonna help, or you gonna keep playing corpse?” I ask, tossing the blankets onto his stomach.

He grunts and sits up enough to let me get the sheets on, half-helping, half-getting-in-the-way like an overgrown golden retriever.

Sam watches from the armchair, nursing his beer and offering commentary. “You’re putting the fitted sheet on sideways.”

I scowl at him. “Feel free to get up and do it yourself, Professor.”

He lifts both hands in surrender, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t say it looked bad.”

Dean snorts and fluffs the throw pillow like he’s settling in for a hotel stay. “Damn. This thing’s better than half the motels we’ve stayed in lately. You’re spoiling us.”

Sam sits back on his heels. “You’re lucky she didn’t just make you sleep in the Impala.”

Dean looks at me, one brow raised. “Would you have?”

I tilt my head. “Depends. Would you have deserved it?”

He grins, guilty.

“Don’t get used to it.”

There’s no bite to my words.

For a second, the quiet that settles isn’t heavy. It’s soft. Familiar. A shadow of what things used to be.

Then Sam clears his throat again. “Millie… about Dad—”

“Don’t,” I say. Not harsh, but firm.

He hesitates.

“Not tonight.”

He nods and, for once, doesn’t push.

Dean shifts on the pullout like he’s trying to find the least lumpy spot on the mattress. Elbow crooked behind his head, one leg hanging off the edge, he stares up at the ceiling like it’s got answers hidden in the water stains.

“You remember that place in Tallahassee?” he says suddenly. “The motel with the pirate theme?”

Sam lets out a laugh, short and unguarded. “God. The one with the talking parrot animatronic?”

I smile before I can stop myself. “The thing used to go off every time someone walked by. Nearly gave me a heart attack at least twice a night.”

“Three times,” Dean corrects, pointing at me with exaggerated smugness. “I remember, ‘cause the last time you screamed, you threw your boot at it and broke the whole beak clean off.”

I huff out a laugh, sinking down onto the floor beside the pullout, my back against the armchair. “And Dad made you fix it while he was gone.”

“Yeah, because you wouldn’t.” Dean fires back, grinning.

“You’re the one who said it looked ‘simple.’”

Dean rolls his eyes like the memory still irritates him, but the grin doesn’t fade. “Yeah, and the damn thing never talked right again. Just made this slow, creepy grinding sound every time someone walked past it. Sounded possessed.”

Sam chuckles and sets his beer down with a soft clink. “We all crammed into the same bed that night, remember?”

“Because the other one had that plastic treasure chest bolted to it,” I add, laughing. “What kind of hotel glues props to the mattress?”

“Themed ones,” Dean says with mock solemnity. “Tacky, haunted, child-traumatizing themed ones.”

“Dean kept kicking me in his sleep,” Sam adds, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Dean scoffs. “Because you hogged the blanket.”

“You snored.”

“You bit me.”

I throw my head back against the chair and laugh. “Only 'cause you rolled over on top of me like a boulder.”

Sam looks at us with mock serenity. “Truly, we were the very model of sibling affection.”

“Hey,” Dean says, suddenly defensive, “We didn’t kill each other. That’s love, Winchester-style.”

The laughter that follows feels real. Not forced. Not covered in grief or guilt. Just real. Like something I haven’t felt in a long time. Like something that’s mine.

I lean my head back against the armchair, eyes fluttering closed for just a second as their voices wash over me—arguing like we’re kids again, like there aren’t a thousand miles of distance between who we were and who we are now. The memories are old motel wallpaper: peeling at the edges, but still clinging to the walls.

Dean turns his head toward Sam, suddenly thoughtful. “Remember Michigan? The motel with the vending machine that only gave out diet soda?”

Sam groans. “Oh no.”

“Dad said he’d be gone three days,” I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. “That vampire nest.”

“He was gone eleven,” Dean replies, just as soft.

We all fall quiet for a beat. That memory comes heavier. The kind that settles in the chest and doesn’t move.

“We ran out of food on day five,” Sam says.

“You gave me your last granola bar,” I say, glancing over at Dean.

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but he doesn’t look at me.

“You tried to cook the popcorn with the motel iron,” he says instead.

“It worked,” I protest.

“Sort of,” Sam mutters. “You almost set the carpet on fire.”

“Only once.”

“You wanted to try heating ravioli next,” Dean deadpans.

I grin. “Would’ve worked, too, if you hadn’t chickened out.”

“I like my food not tasting like burnt polyester, thanks.”

Sam smiles, tilting his head against the armrest. “That was the first time we watched that vampire movie marathon, remember? ‘Fangs of Fury’?”

Dean groans. “How could I forget? Sam wouldn’t stop quoting it for a month.”

Sam raises his eyebrows in mock defense. “Come on. ‘We’re all a little undead inside’? That line’s gold.”

I laugh again—longer this time. “I still remember the way you tried to say it all serious like that actor. You had popcorn butter on your nose.”

Dean shakes his head, grinning. “We were such little idiots.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “But we had fun.”

Dean quiets for a second. Then, almost under his breath, he says, “Sometimes I think those were the best days.”

Sam looks over at him, something complicated flickering behind his eyes. “Because Dad wasn’t around.”

“Because it was just us,” Dean replies. “No orders. No yelling. No pressure. Just… figuring it out together.”

I nod slowly. “We made our own rules. Even if they were dumb.”

Dean chuckles. “Especially when they were dumb.”

We all go quiet again, but this time the silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels full. Like we’re all remembering different pieces of the same memory. Dim motel lighting. Static-y TV noise. The smell of microwave noodles. Salt lines by the door. The warmth of someone else breathing in the same room. It’s like we’re sitting in the shadow of something old and cracked but still standing or like we’ve found some little space in all the wreckage where things still feel okay.

“I miss it sometimes,” Sam says. “Back then. Before it all got complicated.”

I exhale, deep and long. “Y’know... those times? When Dad was gone? I think those were the best ones.”

Sam nods slowly. “It was quiet. No yelling. No walking on eggshells.”

“We made our own rules,” I murmur. “Even if they were stupid.”

Dean doesn’t argue. He just looks up at the ceiling again, like he’s trying to find something in the stains.

Sam breathes in, slow. “It wasn’t all bad.”

Dean glances at me, eyes softer than I expect. “No. It wasn’t.”

The silence that follows is the kind I can live with. Comfortable. Shared.

A low rumble cuts through the quiet.

It’s not dramatic or loud. Just a small, traitorous grrraaaak from someone’s stomach. And it’s not mine.

Dean shifts like he might try to cover it up, but Sam side-eyes him immediately, trying not to smile.

I blink. Then stand. “That’s it,” I announce. “I’m making dinner before one of you starts gnawing on the furniture.”

Dean raises a hand like he’s innocent. “Hey, I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” I shoot back, stepping into the little kitchen nook. “Your stomach filed a complaint.”

Sam coughs a laugh behind his beer, and I can feel their eyes on me again, but this time, it’s not heavy. Just warm. Familiar. Like a porch light left on.

I pull open the fridge. It’s not glamorous—half a carton of eggs, a Tupperware of something I forgot to label (probably rice?), and three different hot sauces I don’t remember buying. There’s a bag of carrots in the crisper, a slightly wrinkled bell pepper, and a pack of chicken thighs I thawed this morning and forgot about until now.

Perfect.

The cabinets are better. Cans of beans, a box of pasta, garlic, onion, olive oil. The basics. Enough to work with. I set everything on the counter with a small clatter and roll up my sleeves.

The skillet comes out first—well-worn and heavy, black with age and flavor. I splash in some oil, set it on the burner, and start chopping the onion with steady, practiced hands. The knife makes that satisfying tock-tock-tock against the cutting board. There’s something grounding about it. The rhythm, the scent. It makes the world feel less like it’s spinning out.

“You’re really cooking?” Dean asks, half-skeptical, half-hopeful from the couch.

“No,” I say dryly, sliding garlic cloves from their husks. “I’m just violently rearranging vegetables for fun.”

“Cool, cool. Can I violently rearrange some onto a plate when you’re done?”

“Only if you set the table,” I shoot back without missing a beat.

“Do you even have a table?” Sam asks.

I smirk. “Coffee table counts.”

The pepper joins the onions in the pan, followed by the garlic, and then the chicken, seasoned with salt, pepper, and a little smoked paprika I keep for when I’m feeling fancy. The scent rises, warm and rich, and the oil hisses like it’s waking up.

Dean groans from the couch. “That smells unreal.”

“Good,” I say. “Maybe it’ll keep you from dying of snack withdrawal.”

He makes a half-hearted protest, but it’s lost in the sizzling. I hum under my breath as I move around the kitchen—grabbing plates, poking the chicken with a wooden spoon, tossing in the carrots last so they still have some bite. The little apartment smells like something lived-in. Not the stale, quiet kind of living, but the good kind. Warm. Shared.

Eventually, I plate everything up and carry it over—Dean practically sitting up like a starved stray.

“Don’t inhale it,” I warn, handing him his plate. “You’ll cry if you burn your tongue.”

Sam gets his next, and I drop to the floor again, sitting cross-legged with my own plate, leaning against the armchair. We eat like we used to—knees brushing, no real table, the occasional grunt of appreciation between bites.

Dean mutters through a mouthful, “Seriously. I missed this.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Me too.”

I take a bite, and it tastes like memory. Simple. Honest.

Like home.

“Don’t get used to it,” I say softly, but again, there’s no bite.

And they don’t answer.

They just are—here, in this moment. Eating. Existing. Still mine.

Still together.

For now, that’s enough.

—

I can’t sleep.

The silence in the apartment used to feel like a blanket—thin, a little worn around the edges, but warm. Familiar. Now it drapes over everything like plastic sheeting at a crime scene. Too clean. Too careful. Too watchful. It isn’t comforting anymore—it’s sterile. Still. Expectant. Like it’s waiting for me to break it with something ugly and true. It’s the kind of silence that feels like it’s waiting for me to say something I don’t want to say.

Sam’s curled up in the armchair like a kid trying to disappear into it, arms pulled tight to his chest, legs tucked awkwardly onto the edge of the pullout bed. He’s not a kid anymore—hasn’t been for years—but something about the way he sleeps makes me remember. His breath is steady. Deep. His boots are still lined up neatly by the door, like he’s trying not to take up too much space in a life that isn’t his. That’s always been his way.

Dean’s sprawled across the couch, one arm slung over his face, mouth slack, snoring just loud enough to fill the silence without breaking it. There’s an empty beer bottle resting between two fingers, half-balanced on the armrest. I should take it before it tips over and rolls. But I don’t. My body doesn’t want to move. My mind won’t stop.

They’re both out like they haven’t really slept in days. Which, knowing them, they probably haven’t. I believe them now—about the long drives, the half-eaten meals, the late nights combing through motel records and dead ends. About John.

John.

Even in my head, the name is bitter, sharp, and cold. Kind of like ice water dumped down on my back back and settles into my joins. It stays there long after the damage is done.

He’s gone.

Missing.

Vanished without a word, which wouldn’t be out of character—except this time, my brothers are scared.

I press the heel of my palm to my chest, like I can press something inside me flat again. My heartbeat’s too loud in my ears. It’s a become fluttering, desperate thing.

I told myself I didn’t care. That I’d built a whole new life. One without him. Without the hunting. Without the blood and the weight of things I was too young to carry. I made it my whole personality, practically—walking away, building something new, staying gone. I told myself I didn’t want to be found. And for a long time, I meant it. I still mean it. But now they’re here. And John’s not. And everything I built suddenly feels like it’s been knocked off-center by the weight of his absence.

Dean said they needed me. Him and Sam. That whatever got John—if something got him—it was bad. Real bad. And if there’s a chance it’s still out there… we need all hands on deck.

I didn’t say yes. But I didn’t say no, either. Maybe that’s where I messed up—leaving the window cracked. Giving the past room to slither in.

I glance over at Sam again. His face is softer in sleep, though not in the gentle kind of way. More like the armor’s been set aside for a minute. He looks younger. Tired. It aches to look at him like this. I remember when he used to crash next to me in the backseat, head bumping my shoulder, too wired from the hunt to sleep until I whispered him made-up stories about knights with silver swords and spells that kept the monsters out.

And Dean—God, Dean. He’s never known how to stop being the oldest. He carried all our weight when John wouldn’t. Took the hits for both of us, took the blame too. And now he’s still doing it—looking for answers, holding us together, pretending like he’s not coming apart at the seams. Like he doesn’t need a break. Like he wouldn’t know what to do with one if it ever showed up.

If something took John… if something killed him…

I don’t finish the thought.

Not because I care about him —not in the way I used to. But because whatever could take him down? That kind of thing doesn’t stop at one. It keeps going. Leaves ruin in its wake. Leaves people like us cleaning up the mess with rock salt and shotguns and open graves. And if John went down swinging, that means whatever’s out there is strong. Dangerous. The kind of thing that leaves collateral damage. And I’ve seen enough of that.

But Dean says they need me. Sam says they just wanted to check in. They’re both trying to give me space to breathe. Trying to make it easy. Like any of this could be easy.

I tilt my head back against the wall and stare up at the ceiling. The paint’s starting to peel in the corner. I’d meant to fix it. I’d meant to fix a lot of things.

The lavender sachet I stuffed in the window frame stirs with the breeze. Usually it calms me down. Tonight it smells like a lie. Like I tried to trick myself into thinking this place could be safe. Like I actually believed the past couldn’t find me here.

But it did. It always does.

And now the ghosts I thought I buried are sleeping just feet away from me.

I’m not okay.

I haven’t been in a long time.

But I don’t say that out loud.

The words would fall flat anyway, and nobody here is asking me to explain. That’s what makes it worse somehow.

I close my eyes and listen to the sound of my brothers breathing. The soft inhale-exhale of people who trust they’re safe—for now. It’s peaceful.

It’s devastating.

Because I know this pattern. I know what happens next. The fire, the blood, the half-truths we’ll tell each other to get through it. We’re still trapped in the same loop. Still chasing shadows. Still praying—some of us—to things that never answer back. For rest. For a way out.

But maybe there isn’t one.

Maybe we’re just too far in.

Too marked to ever walk away clean.

—

I wake to the tail end of something slipping through my fingers—some half-formed dream curling away like mist. I don’t remember it. Not really. Just a sense of motion. A flutter in my chest like I’ve missed a step going downstairs.

I lie there for a second, letting the pale morning light wash over the ceiling above me, dull and watery through the curtains. My throat is dry. My limbs are stiff. The air feels thicker than it should, like something's still hanging around from the night before. I shake it off.

I don’t have time to play dreamcatcher this morning.

The apartment is quiet. Not silent—never really silent with this old building. Pipes groan. Floorboards creak. Somewhere downstairs, I hear Mr. Lanning’s dog yip around, ready to go outside. I breathe in, stretch out my legs beneath the blanket, and then force myself up.

The floor is cold beneath my feet, but the ache in my back says I’ve slept harder than usual, and that’s worth something.

I pull on a hoodie over my tank top, pad down the hallway, and pause just before the living room. The edge of the pullout couch is just barely visible from here. One of Dean’s boots is tipped on its side in the middle of the floor.

I remember, abruptly, that I am not alone. I have guests.

I rub a hand over my face and sigh through my nose. Alright. Fine.

Breakfast.

The kitchen still smells faintly of last night’s beer and something citrusy from the dish soap. I flip the switch on the coffeemaker first thing—no-brainer. While it hisses and groans to life, I fish out a carton of eggs, a pack of bacon from the back of the fridge, and half a red bell pepper I meant to use in something else.

There’s a rhythm to it. Crack, whisk, pour. Bacon sizzles in the pan. I chop the pepper with slow, even strokes. Add a little salt, a little black pepper. No garlic—Sam’s picky about it in the morning, always has been. Dean’ll eat anything, but he gets all thoughtful about whole grains and protein balance if I let him. I don’t.

A pan of scrambled eggs goes on low. Toast pops up golden, not burnt. I hum a little—some jazz tune that’s been stuck in my head for a week. The kind that loops without getting annoying.

The smell creeps through the apartment like a coaxing hand.

I hear it before I see it—sheets shifting. A faint groan. The scrape of a knuckle against denim as someone stretches. A muffled, half-asleep, “Dude, what time is it?”

Then a yawn. “Smells like bacon.”

Dean appears first, still wearing yesterday’s jeans and a black T-shirt that’s seen better days. His hair’s a mess, and there’s a pillow crease across his cheek that he hasn’t noticed yet.

He sniffs the air, bleary-eyed. “Are you… feeding us?”

I look over my shoulder and raise an eyebrow. “Don’t sound so shocked. I do eat, you know.”

Dean scratches the back of his neck and wanders toward the coffeemaker like a man lost in the desert. “Yeah, but you usually eat, like… weird protein bars and soup out of a can.”

I snort. “Haven’t for a long time.”

Sam shows up next, looking slightly more human than Dean, but still groggy. He gives me a sheepish smile and a quiet “Morning,” before making a beeline for the mugs.

I slide the eggs onto a plate and set out the toast and bacon on a separate one. “Don’t get used to it,” I mutter, but I still pour them each a cup of coffee.

Dean grins. “Too late.”

And just like that, the apartment’s full again. Of noise and footsteps and muttered jokes. Of family. Of something warm.

After we eat—plates cleared, bacon reduced to crumbs, the coffee pot dangerously low—Dean ambles off toward the bathroom, muttering something about shaving and “not wanting to look like a caveman if we’re hitting the road.” He disappears down the hall, and the quiet that follows is a different kind than before. Not uncomfortable. Just… settled.

I collect the plates, stacking them with practiced ease, and carry them over to the sink. The faucet squeaks when I turn it on. Sam moves in beside me without asking, grabbing the dish towel off the hook.

I glance sideways at him as I scrub a plate under the hot water. “Still the kitchen helper, huh?”

He shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s tradition.”

I hand him a clean plate, still warm from the water. “Guess some things don’t change.”

For a moment, the only sound is the water rushing from the tap and the faint clinking of ceramic. I rinse the next plate and feel Sam watching me out of the corner of his eye. He’s not subtle about it.

“You okay?” I ask, without looking at him.

“I should be asking you that.”

I exhale through my nose. “You shouldn’t.”

He doesn’t argue, just dries another plate. Then, softly: “I missed you. And Dean, too.”

I freeze for a second, fingers brushing the rim of a mug. It’s not what I expected. Not right now. Not so direct.

I glance at him. His face is turned toward the towel in his hands like it suddenly got interesting, but his shoulders are tense. Like he’s bracing for something.

“I miss you, too,” I say. Quiet. Honest. “But it doesn’t change anything.”

He nods. Doesn’t press. But then he says, “Come with us.”

I pause again.

“Sam…”

“I know.” He lifts his hands a little, towel still clutched between them. “I glance at him. His face is turned toward the towel in his hands like it suddenly got interesting, but his shoulders are tense. Like he’s bracing for something.

“I miss you, too,” I say. Quiet. Honest. “Doesn’t change anything.”

He nods. Doesn’t press. But then he says, “Come with us.”

I pause again.

“Sam…”

“I know.” He lifts his hands a little, towel still clutched between them. “I know you’ve got your life here. I know you left for reasons. And I’m not trying to drag you back into anything you don’t want.”

I dry my hands on the front of my hoodie and lean against the counter, studying him. “But?” I prompt.

He hesitates. Just a second too long.

“But I think we need you.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to read between the lines of that. There’s something he’s not saying—something too heavy to squeeze into the space between breakfast dishes. His eyes flick toward the hallway, like he’s checking to make sure Dean’s still gone.

“You’re not telling me everything,” I say.

“I’m not,” he admits. “But not because I don’t trust you.”

That gets me. I stare at him for a beat, searching for the part of me that still believes in things like trust and family and fate. It’s there. Dusty, maybe, but still intact.

I fold my arms. “You’re not exactly selling this.”

He laughs, soft and a little sad. “Yeah, I know. I’m not Dean. I don’t have the dramatic speeches or the cool lines.”

“No,” I say, tilting my head. “You’ve got something better.”

He quirks a brow. “What’s that?”

“Guilt.”

Sam snorts. “That’s not fair.”

I smile. “Never said I played fair.”

He sobers. “Just think about it. Please.”

I glance around the kitchen—at the chipped mugs and the humming fridge and the sticky note on the cabinet reminding me to buy tea. This place was supposed to be a quiet chapter. A detour.

And maybe it still is.

But something in Sam’s voice tells me the road ahead is winding, and they’re not going to be able to walk it without me.

“Alright,” I say. “I’ll come.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You will?”

“I’ll pack light. Don’t think I’ve got it in me to go full hunter again.”

“That’s okay,” Sam says, smiling now. “We’ll take what we can get.”

I nod and glance down at the dish in my hand. I finish rinsing it and hand it off.

And just like that, the course shifts. One foot back on the path I thought I’d abandoned.

God help me.

I dry my hands and head down the hallway, back toward my bedroom. My heart’s not exactly pounding, but there’s a pulse in my chest that wasn’t there ten minutes ago. Old adrenaline, maybe. Muscle memory from a life I thought I’d buried under bills and routine and a too-small bookshelf full of paperbacks I never finished.

I push open the door and let it swing wide, taking in the room I carved out for myself after I left them. The bed’s unmade. There’s a scarf slung over the back of a chair. My boots are still by the door, scuffed and dusty from weeks ago, when the most excitement I’d had was chasing a squirrel out of the mail room.

I open the closet and reach for the things I never quite put away.

The leather duffel is there, right where I left it—tucked behind a crate of off-season clothes and a shoebox full of letters I never mailed. I haul it out and set it on the bed. It groans under its own weight, even empty.

First, my journals. The one Dean found in my floorboards—my dream journal (or rather my nightmare journal)—the one I use to write down all my charms and wards which lives in my nightstand’s drawer, under a stack of receipts and a cracked Polaroid of me and Bobby with matching grins and ridiculous hats. And then there’s the one I haven’t touched in nearly five years—the one I swore I’d never open again—I’ve kept it hidden in my sock drawer. My hunter’s journal. It smells faintly of sulfur and old motel rooms. I hold it for a second longer than I mean to, then drop it into the bag.

Clothes next. Layers, always. Flannels and thermals, the gray Henley Dean once said made me look like I could win a knife fight in the woods. A few pairs of jeans, clean socks, underthings. Nothing flashy. Nothing I care too much about losing.

The weapons take more thought.  sit cross-legged in front of the trunk at the foot of my bed, flipping open the latch like it’s a ritual. Inside: knives—most of them butterfly, all of them sharp. I roll them into the cloth wrap, fingers lingering on the one with the bone handle etched with wards. I tuck it into a side pouch.

Then the Colt 1911. Stag grips, smooth and worn. My favorite. It’s cleaned, loaded, and waiting. I take it apart just to feel the rhythm of it, then snap it back together and slide it into the holster like slipping on old skin.

My hands don’t shake.

I pause only to snag the toolkit from the closet—EMF reader, UV flashlight, silver chain, rock salt, a handful of charm bags I prepped months ago, just in case. Always better to be ready, even when I wasn’t planning to be. Heh.

I’m zipping the duffel when Dean appears in the doorway, towel slung around his neck, face freshly shaved.

He leans against the frame. “That’s a go-bag?”

I nod. “Call it a maybe bag.”

He grins. “Looks pretty committed for a maybe.”

I shrug. “Didn’t say I wasn’t thorough.”

He watches me a second longer, something flickering in his eyes that I can’t quite name. Then he steps aside as I hoist the duffel over my shoulder.

In the kitchen, I scribble a note for Mrs. Kravitz next door, who feeds the strays when I’m gone. Then I pull out the rent envelope, fat with the rest of the year’s dues, and leave it in the landlord’s mail slot with a post-it: Keep the place warm.

I glance once more at the apartment—the worn rug, the couch with the spring that squeaks, the coffee stain by the sink that looks like a bird if you squint right.

It’s mine.

Was mine.

I don’t lock the door behind me. Just pull it shut with a soft click and follow Dean down the steps.

The Impala’s waiting at the curb, engine idling low, sunlight glinting off her polished frame like something out of a dream. Sam leans against the passenger door, arms crossed, eyes on me as I approach.

He doesn’t smile, not quite. But he nods. And that’s enough.

I toss the duffel in the trunk, then round to the backseat and climb in.

And just like that, I’m back on the road. Again.

Chapter Text

The tires hum against the pavement like a restless lullaby, low and steady. Out the window, endless fields unfold, rolling and brown and gold, patched with scraggly brush and the occasional broken fence. The sky’s a big, washed-out blue overhead, a few ragged clouds dragging their heels across it. The morning is already leaning toward noon, but it feels earlier, like time’s dragging its feet.

Dean drives with one hand on the wheel, the other perched casually near the tape deck. He hasn’t spoken much since we got on the road—just kept his eyes ahead, occasionally tapping his thumb against the steering wheel in time with a song only he can hear. The line of his jaw is stubbornly tight, like he’s carrying something behind his teeth and refuses to let it slip.

Sam sits up front, slouched just enough to be comfortable but not enough to really relax. His elbow’s propped against the door, fingers loosely curled near his mouth like he’s deep in thought. Every so often, he glances at the road signs flashing past—wildlife crossing warnings, population counts for towns we never actually see, distance markers to passing towns. He doesn’t say much either.

I’m slouched in the backseat, knees pulled up a little, boots planted on the edge of the seat. The Impala smells like old leather, gas station coffee, the scent of my brothers’ cologne, a mix of coffee and pine, and something else I can’t quite name. It’s familiar and comforting, in a way that makes my chest ache if I think about it too long. None of it will ever truly fade away.

My jacket is wedged beneath my head, a lumpy reminder of the choice I made this morning. A choice that’s still trying to settle in my gut. I lean my head against the cool window and watch the scenery blur past. It’s mostly farmland—bare and open, dotted with rusty tractors and stubborn clumps of trees. Every once in a while, a crow cuts across the sky, a black slash against all that pale blue. I’ve counted four so far.

Dean finally cracks the silence by reaching for the volume knob and cranking the radio just a little louder. A classic rock station fuzzes in and out of clarity, the guitar riff jagged but alive. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel again, still with the beat.

“Think we’ll pass anywhere interesting?” I ask, voice low enough not to shatter the weird, fragile peace that’s settled between us.

Dean shrugs. “Depends on your definition of interesting.”

“We’re heading north-west,” Sam adds, not turning around. “Got a lead in Colorado.”

I raise an eyebrow even though he can’t see it. “That’s vague.”

Dean smirks faintly. “When is it not?”

I snort under my breath and let my head fall back against the seat. If they wanted to or felt the need to elaborate, they would. And I don’t bother asking why anyway. I’ll find out sooner or later.

I stare at the ceiling. It’s still that same pale, fuzzy fabric I remember, worn thin in some places. There’s a burn mark above the seat behind the driver’s side where I once raised a cigarette too high when I was fifteen. I made Dean swear silence with a cheeseburger bribe. The burn is still there. Still part of the map of this car, this life. It’s home, in a messed-up kind of way.

We pass a battered green road sign: Next Gas 80 Miles.

Dean whistles low. “Better hope she holds steady.”

Sam gives him a look. “Maybe we should’ve filled up in the last town.”

Dean just grins, all teeth and no shame. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Sammy?”

I close my eyes for a second, breathing in the motion of the car, the sun warming my jeans through the window. There’s a peace in this stretch of nowhere. A weightless kind of feeling, like we could keep going forever and no one would find us.

The road hums. The engine growls. And for a little while, none of us says anything at all.

We just keep moving.

Just like always.

My fingers absentmindedly play with the chain hidden beneath my shirt—a gift from Bobby, given years ago when he told me I’d need all the luck I could get. Maybe I still do. At the end of the chain hangs a battered locket, small and tarnished from years of wear. Bobby never said if there was anything left inside; he just thought I ought to have it. Said it suited me, or something like that. I think it once meant something to him—or to someone who meant something to him.

How is Bobby doing anyway? The thought floats up, uninvited, heavy in my chest. He didn’t say much the last time we left, just grunted and offered a simple, ‘Be careful, kid,’ before John told us it was time to go. Neither of them has ever been good at goodbyes.

—

The highway unspools ahead like a ribbon of asphalt. Just miles and miles of nothing. The Impala rocks gently as Dean steers around a pothole, the motion pulling me out of my head for a moment. I blink up at the ceiling, my eyes tracing the familiar constellations of wear and age stitched into the fabric. Little scars from a life spent chasing monsters and losing more than we ever won. Some of those scars are ours. Some were there before us. It’s hard to tell which ones are which.

We’ve been on the road for hours—it’s nearly seventeen to get to Blackwater Ridge and we’ve only ridden about twelve of them out. The dashboard clock reads 2:43 AM, and the amber glow of the speedometer is the only light in the car. The radio crackles, shifting to a new song without much ceremony. It’s one I half-know—something slow and gritty, with a lazy drumbeat and a voice worn down by whiskey and years of deep-rooted regret. It’s the kind of music that fills empty miles but never really settles. It fits.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the hum of the engine seep into my bones. In the last forty-eight hours, everything has happened. The note in the freezer. My brothers suddenly in my apartment. My big, useless, heartbreaking parable of a father going missing. And now—this drive. This journey I never asked to take.

I shift a little, feeling the leather stick to my lower back where my shirt has ridden up. I kicked off my boots a little while ago, letting my socked feet rest on the door handle opposite the side I first claimed.

I wonder if Dad ever thought about walking away. If he wanted to just be a dad, or a restless soldier. I wonder what Sam and Dean thought all these years, when they watched me leave and never come back. I think about all the towns I ran through, all the motels and diners and abandoned barns I passed. Nowhere ever felt like home. They all just felt like another place to leave.

I blink, turning my focus towards the front of the car after feeling someone’s eyes on me. It’s Dean through the rearview mirror. It’s quick, but I catch it—just a flick of his eyes, checking to see if I’m still breathing back here. I give him a lazy thumbs-up without lifting my head. His mouth quirks at the corner.

Sam shifts in his seat, stretching out long legs that don’t quite fit comfortably anywhere. He rolls his shoulders, then settles again, hand back at his mouth, eyes on the horizon. I know that look. He’s thinking too much. Worrying about things he can’t fix. About Dad. About what comes next.

The road stretches on, endless and humming, a soft vibration through the worn-out seat under me. I close my eyes again, not really sleeping, but not really awake either. Just drifting somewhere in the in-between, where memories sneak in and tangle around the edges of your mind if you aren’t careful.

The engine’s low rumble lulls me deeper, until the sound of the tires on asphalt turns to something softer, something farther away. The sun-bleached fields behind my eyelids blur and shift, the air warming until it smells like oranges and woodsmoke.

The memory comes slowly, like syrup, sticky and golden.

We’re stopped at a roadside pull-off somewhere out west—Nevada, maybe—under the speckled shadow of a tall mesquite tree. The afternoon air buzzes with the low, electric hum of cicadas, and the heat rises off the pavement in thick, lazy waves. I couldn’t have been older than eighteen.

Gabriel lounges against the hood of the battered pickup ‘borrowed,’ one boot planted on the fender, the other swinging idly. His amber-colored sunglasses are tipped down just far enough on his nose that I can see the gold flicker of his eyes when he glances my way. He has a half-eaten melted Snickers bar in one hand, and he wears a grin like he’s just waiting for an excuse to make trouble.

“You’re gonna fry out here,” I say, flicking a tiny pebble at him. It pings off the metal with a tiny, unsatisfying sound.

He catches the next one out of the air without even looking. “Sun’s good for you, Angel Eyes. Builds melanin. And character.”

His grin is infectious. It always is. Even when I try to stay mad at him for dragging me into whatever half-baked scheme he’s cooking up, it doesn’t last. Not when the sky is this big and the air smells like dust and oranges. Not when he looks at me like I’m an inside joke only he knows the punchline to.

But I guess that’s what I like about him. He doesn’t judge. He doesn’t tell me how to feel. He just lets me be me.

“You ever just... want to stop?” I ask, surprising myself. My voice is quiet, nearly swallowed by the buzz of the cicadas and the gentle whisper of the breeze.

Gabriel tilts his head, the easy humor on his face fading into something softer, something older. He unwraps the rest of the Snickers and pops the last bite into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“Stopping’s easy,” he says finally, brushing chocolate off his fingers onto his jeans. “It’s the staying gone that’s hard.”

The wind shifts, kicking up a fine layer of dust that clings to my boots and the cuff of my jeans. I watch it swirl and think about the map tucked into my duffel bag back at the motel. Think about all the roads drawn in ink and crossed out with red pen. All the places I could go. All the places I have already left behind.

I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.

Gabriel hops down off the truck with a grunt and lands in a crouch beside me. He plucks a blade of brittle grass and spins it between his fingers, fast and restless. He studies it, like it’s something worth considering.

“You’re not broken, Millie,” he says, like he’s reading the question I didn’t ask. “You’re just... untethered.”

Untethered. The word floats between us, fragile. We’re the same, strangely. We both have no idea where we’re going or what we’re trying to do. That, somehow, is a comfort.

He leans back on his hands, tilting his face up toward the wide, merciless sky. His hair catches the light, a mess of gold and copper. For a moment, he looks almost human.

Almost.

I let the memory soak into my bones. I can still feel the dry scratch of the earth beneath my palms, the heat curling off the pavement, and the sticky sweetness of a melted chocolate lingering in the air between us. I can still hear the cicadas vibrating through the ground, a sound so constant it sank into your bones if you stayed still long enough. I can see Gabriel’s grin, too—knowing and easy-going, like he knew a thousand secrets and had half a mind to share one, just for the hell of it.

And beneath it all, that feeling—quiet but certain—that for one perfect, impossible heartbeat, I wasn’t running. I wasn’t fighting or losing or trying to hold too many broken pieces together with both hands. I was just there, sitting in the dust with an angel pretending to be something he isn’t. An angel who somehow, against all odds, made the world feel a little less empty.

It’s just a memory, and nothing more. I know that. But it clings to me anyway, stubborn and sweet.  It threads itself through the cracks in my armor, settling in the quiet spaces where all the unfinished things live—the what-ifs, the almosts, the could-have-beens. But I tuck it away like the river stone I found as a kid, small and cool and grounding when the rest of the world tilts sideways.

—

The Impala jostles under me, a low rumble working its way up through the frame as Dean eases off the highway and the gas. The tires crunch over gravel, that loose, unmistakable sound of a place abandoned more often than it’s used. I peel my eyes open, the light sharp and gray around the edges, the world still wrinkled and heavy with the last folds of night.

The sky’s still a pale wash of almost-color, the kind that makes everything look a little bleached out, like someone turned the saturation down too low and the brightness too high and forgot to fix it. Thin streaks of pink and gold smear across the horizon, but it’s a tired sort of dawn, feeling more like an afterthought than a promise.

Hot-Blooded drifts lazily through the speakers, the volume dialed down to a low thrum you can feel more than hear. The beat is a slow, familiar heartbeat in the chest of the car, stubbornly clinging to the last notes of night even as the world edges toward morning. Dean always said this was the perfect road song.

The Impala grumbles and shifts as Dean coaxes her into a parking space near a crooked wooden fence. The engine idles, then stutters down into a low, satisfied purr before Dean kills it altogether. The sudden quiet rings in my ears.

I push myself up, cracking a joint or two in the process, and swing my legs out into the footwell. My boots hit the floor with a soft thud. My muscles protest in a chorus of aches. My back is stiff, hips throbbing from being curled up for too long. It feels good to stretch and sit up. Even if it is a slow, awkward unfurling that makes my joints crackle in protest. The leather squeaks as I shift around.

Sam’s still dozing, one earbud looped around his neck.

“Rise and shine, sunshine.” Dean tosses a look over his shoulder before reaching back and patting the back of the seat. “Welcome to Blackwater Ridge.”

I grunt something that’s not really a word but gets the point across. My mouth tastes like sleep.

I push my hair out of my eyes and sit up, peering through the window. The ranger station squats at the far end of the gravel lot, all weathered wood and peeling paint, like a postcard someone left out in the rain. The windows are trimmed in green, and the porch looks as though it creaks underfoot. There’s a dusty hiking map nailed to a corkboard by the door, its corners curling, the colors faded into near-oblivion. A few old posters hang beside it—warnings about mountain lions, trail closures, fire safety. The usual national park decor, grim and half-hearted.

A battered Coke machine leans crooked against one wall, the plastic front cracked right across the middle, like it’s just barely holding itself together. The gravel lot is empty except for us and a ranger’s beat-up Jeep, which has seen better decades. The wooden sign posted nearby reads Lost Creek Trail Ranger Station in peeling white letters.

The cold finds its way into the Impala now that the engine’s off; it snakes in under my shirt and makes my hair stand on end. I shrug on my jacket, tugging it up around my shoulders and rolling my neck against the stiff collar. The fabric’s mostly cool from being bunched up under my head, and the warm spot lies awkwardly around my armpit and lower back. But the weight of it is familiar—heavy in a way that settles me instead of weighing me down.

Dean opens his door and steps out, boots crunching on the stones.

I flex my fingers, ready for what’s next. I’m not thrilled to be back—you don’t sign up for this life twice—but something in my chest tightens at the thought of being with my brothers again. Excitement? Anxiety? Hope?

I’m halfway through pulling the zipper up when Sam jolts awake beside me, a sharp, startled breath tearing out of him. His whole body jerks like he’s trying to throw something off—a nightmare, maybe, something with teeth and claws he couldn’t shake even in sleep. His eyes are wide and wild, for a second before he blinks hard and shoves a hand through his hair. He looks around, disoriented, his chest heaving just a little too fast to be casual.

I watch him for a moment—his hair mussed, collar askew, breathing ragged like he just ran. Then he blinks, sees the station, and exhales.

“Hey,” I begin quietly, twisting around in the seat to face him. My jacket rustles against the leather. “You okay?”

Sam blinks again. His shoulders tense like he’s ready to lie—ready to say ‘yeah, I’m fine’ because that’s what we Winchesters do—but something in my voice must have touched something in him. He drags in a steadier breath, and scrubs a hand down his face.

“Yeah,” he mutters after a second. His voice is rough, caught somewhere between sleep and awake. “Just... dreamt… something.”

“Bad?” I ask, not trying to push, just letting the question float there.

He hesitates, then shrugs, the way you do when the words are too heavy to dig out first thing in the morning. Or maybe when you don’t want them to be real just yet.

I squeeze his shoulder just as Dean slams his door shut. A casual thud, but loud enough, it echoes across the empty lot and inside the Impala. He’s already stretching, arms thrown high over his head, back popping.

“Well, Princesses,” he calls over the roof of the car, voice bright and brittle the way it gets when he’s trying to keep things moving forward, “you coming, or you planning to nap through the welcome wagon?”

I give Sam a look—a silent question—but he’s already tucking his earbuds into his pocket and grabbing his jacket from the floor. He nods once, sharp and small, and pushes his door open, letting in a rush of cold, clean morning air.

I stay where I am for a beat longer, breathing in the last dregs of warmth the Impala holds, the lingering ghosts of last night’s drive. Then I yank my boots back on, shove my jacket under one arm, and push the door open.

The cool morning air rushes in, smelling faintly of dust and diesel and something greener, something growing wild and untamed out past the edges of the lot. I step out into it, blinking hard against the brittle light. The ground shifts a little under my boots. I lean back against the Impala’s door, letting my head tip up toward the sky, watching as the first honest stretch of sun peels over the horizon.

The chill is biting sharper now that I’m fully in it. I zip my jacket the rest of the way up and stuff my hands into the pockets. My boots hit the ground, and I revel in the freedom of standing upright after almost a full seventeen hours of being cooped up in a car.

I rub my neck, crack my knuckles, and inhale deeply. The air here is different—crisp and high, scented with evergreen and damp earth. Somewhere far off, a hawk calls once, hoarse and lonely across the empty ridge.

“Feeling alright?” Dean calls, already halfway across the lot.

“Like I spent the night in a jackhammer,” I grunt, wobbling slightly.

Sam nods, stuffing his earbuds in his pocket. “Let’s get to work.”

I glance at Sam. He’s almost barefoot, laces undone, looking like a kid on the first day of school with just his socks on. My jacket falls open, and I feel the weight of my gun and knives at my hip and back. I half-smile at him as he puts himself together.

After a few moments, we follow after Dean, side by side.

I step onto the porch behind Sam, the rough-hewn boards creaking under my boots (as expected). Inside, the air is warm and smells like varnish, old coffee, and dust. Mounted rifles and framed maps line the walls, but it’s the large 3D relief map of Blackwater Ridge that catches Sam’s eye. He’s already leaning forward, tracing a finger along the ridgeline.

“See here?” he murmurs, sliding the little wooden marker back and forth. “Elevation hits 6,800 feet right at the summit. Then it gets cut off by these canyons here, rough terrain, dense forest, abandoned silver and gold mines all over the place.”

“Nerd,” Dean mumbles.

I perch on a tall stool to one side, casting him a glance. He drifts over to the memorabilia wall. He stops in front of a black-and-white photograph of a grizzled hunter standing behind a massive bear carcass. The man’s shoulders are broad; the rifle across the bear’s flank looks like it weighs more than a casket.

My eyes skim the photo, but my mind’s snagged on a name we haven’t said out loud in hours—Dad. John Winchester. The ghost we’re supposedly chasing through the trees and shadows of this backwoods nowhere. I still don’t know why we’re here.

Dean talks like it’s about a job, like it’s about helping people, but I can see it in his face when he thinks we’re not looking—that hope he’s too proud to admit is eating him alive. And Sam’s too quiet about it to be casual. But for me? I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.

I told myself I’d be coming back for answers. For closure. Maybe even to scream at the man who ruined us, if we ever find his sorry ass. But standing here now, staring at a wall of dusty hunting trophies, all I really care about is that my brothers are still breathing beside me. As for Dad? I couldn’t care less if we ever find him.

“Dude, check out the size of this freaking bear,” Dean says, nodding at the photo. “That old bastard bagged it back in ’78.” He runs a hand over the glass, eyes narrowed. “Think we’ll find anything like that out there?”

I lean back, arms folded. “Doubt it. This ridge is more… subtle. Bear tracks and hog calls, sure. But Dad isn’t looking for trophies. He never is.”

Dean turns to me, a question in his eyes. But before either of us can say anything, a soft footstep sounds behind us.

A ranger—Ranger Wilkinson, by his badge—stands at the door, hands tucked in the pockets of his forest-green jacket. He’s mid-forties, sun-weathered, with hair graying at the temples. His expression is neutral, professional, but not unwelcoming.

“Afternoon,” he says, voice quiet but carrying. “You folks aren’t planning on going out near Blackwater Ridge by any chance?”

“Oh, no, sir, we’re environmental study majors from UC Boulder, just working on a paper,” Sam lies smoothly, laughing a little, nervous.

Dean grins and raises a fist, “Recycle, man.”

“Bull.” The ranger snorts, “You’re friends with that Haley girl, right?”

I stiffen, mind racing. “Haley?”

Dean bumps me, “Yes. Yes, we are, Ranger.”

Ranger Wilkinson nods, folding his arms. “Well I will tell you exactly what we told her. Her brother filled out a backcountry permit saying he wouldn’t be back from Blackwater until the twenty-fourth, so it’s not exactly a missing persons now, is it?” His eyes slide every one of us. “You tell that girl to quit worrying, I’m sure her brother’s just fine.”

“We will.” Dean grins, “That Haley girl’s quite a pistol, huh?”

I bump him back, adding a pinch that makes him jump slightly.

“That is putting it mildly.” The ranger replies with a sigh.

“Hey,” I step in, cutting off whatever Dean might say next, “I think it would help if Haley saw a copy of that backcountry permit. You know, so she could see her brother’s return date.”

He studies me for a long moment, eyes narrowing behind worn eyes. Then he nods slowly and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a worn leather folder stamped with the Forest Service seal. He flips it open, pages rustling. “Here.” He extracts a carbon copy from between the originals. “That’s his signature at the bottom.”

I take the paper, smoothing the crease with my thumb. Dean leans in behind me, peering at the scrawled handwriting. Sam watches the ranger, evaluating.

“Thanks,” I say quietly, handing the copy to Dean. “This’ll put her mind at ease.”

Dean tucks the permit into his jacket pocket with a satisfied nod. “Good looking out, Mills.” He flashes me a grin, but it’s softer than usual.

Sam clears his throat. “All set?”

“All set.” I nod.

Dean rolls his shoulders. “Let’s roll, then.”

As we step from the station, Dean pulls out the copy of the permit again and grins at it. Gleeful. 

“What, are you cruising for a hookup or something?” Sam grumbles.

Dean blinks. “What do you mean?”

“The coordinates point to Blackwater Ridge, so what are we waiting for?” Sam asks, his tone rising in frustration. “Let’s just go find Dad. I mean, why even talk to this girl?”

Dean shrugs, “I don’t know, maybe we should know what we’re walking into before we actually walk into it? Besides, what’s the harm in seeing the town?”

“What?” Sam questions.

I pause, eyes flicking between them. Something is going on between the two of them—something they’re not telling me.

It’s in the way Dean won’t quite look at Sam, how his gaze skims just past him like a skipping stone, fast and deliberate. And it’s in Sam’s posture—tight, guarded. His shoulders drawn in, chin tucked like he’s trying to disappear into his jacket. That’s not just leftover dream static. That’s guilt. Or fear. Or maybe both.

Dean cracks some offhand joke as we head toward the ranger station—something about Smokey the Bear being a closet werewolf—but it lands flat. Sam doesn’t roll his eyes or even fake a smile. Dean notices, I can tell, but he covers it like a pro. Throws me a smirk and keeps walking like it’s no big deal, but his jaw’s too tight.

I’ve seen this dance before. Hell, I grew up in the front row.

They’ve always had this weird, wordless language between them—silent looks and loaded silences that say more than half the crap they ever let out loud. And I can usually read it. I know them. Know every crack and stitched-up scar between them. But this? This feels new.

Or maybe not new, exactly. Just… different.

Heavier.

Like something’s shifted between them.

Like I missed a step somewhere back on the road, and now I’m playing catch-up on a game they’re keeping close to the chest.

I glance at Sam again. Whatever it is, it’s not just about finding Dad.

And I hate the feeling of being locked out of it.

Not because I need to know every secret. God knows we all carry our own weight, and not everything has to be shared. But because we’re supposed to be in this together. All three of us.

So if they’re keeping something from me—something big—I can’t help but wonder why. And worse… if I want to know.

I fold my arms and lean against the railing of the station’s porch, watching Dean’s grin fade bit by bit under Sam’s glare. The wind whips at my hair, tugging loose strands across my face. I tuck them behind my ear, and for a moment, the stillness between my brothers feels sharper than the ridge’s rocky cliffs.

Dean lifts the permit again, squints at the coordinates. “Look, Sam—this spot’s only, what, two miles north of the summit?” Dean folds his arms. “Since when are you all ‘shoot first, ask questions later,’ anyway?”

Sam’s face goes flat. “Since now.” His voice is low, clipped. “Until we find Dad, I’m not risking anything on half-baked plans.”

I swallow, heart thudding. “Hey.” My voice cuts through their tension. “Both of you, knock it off.”

Sam’s gaze flicks to me, seething.

I step down from the porch, boots crunching on the gravel, “What gotten into you two anyway. One moment y’all are buddy-buddy and the next you’re almost ripping each other’s throats out.”

“If you want to pair off, be my guest,” Sam grumbles, beginning to walk away.

I narrow my eyes. “No. We stick together. No half measures.”

Dean smirks.

“Fine.” Sam exhales, easing some of the tension from his shoulders. “Okay.”

Dean pockets the permit and stretches his arms overhead. “Good. Let’s hit it.”

Sam and Dean flank me as we head back toward the Impala. The day’s work awaits, but for the first time in a long time, I feel the old rhythm coming back to me. I’m with my brothers again.

We’re hunting together again.

And that’s enough… for now.

Chapter Text

The address on the Backwoods Permit leads us to a quiet neighborhood where every house has the same tired charm—weathered porches, satellite dishes, mailboxes leaning just a little off center. Lawns are trimmed but not manicured, cars are a little older, and paint is a little sun-faded. Lived-in. Nothing fancy. But not forgotten, either.

Dean parks a house or two down, like we’re trying not to spook anyone, which makes me wonder if we’re planning to knock like normal people or break in like, well… us.

Turns out, it’s the former.

We walk up the drive—me trailing a little behind—and I take in the Collins’ place. Two-story. Pale blue siding that’s seen better days. A porch swing creaks lazily in the breeze, one of the chains straining just a little more than the other. A pair of muddy hiking boots sits beside the door, one laid on its side like it was kicked off in a hurry and forgotten.

The screen door creaks softly against its frame, not quite shut. There’s a wind chime shaped like little pinecones hanging off the gutter, and it gives a soft, tinny tinkle when the wind stirs.

Dean knocks twice, sharp and to the point. Sam hangs back a step, hands in his jacket pockets, head tilted just enough to tell me he’s already slipping into “concerned civilian” mode. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and follow their lead, only quiet and observant.

This is the part of the job that always makes me a little uneasy. The in-between. When we’re not just hunters, but actors. Wearing borrowed smiles, asking just the right questions while trying not to let too much of the truth slip through the cracks. We have plenty of hats to wear, none of them quite fit.

But Haley Collins doesn’t seem like someone we’ll have to dance around.

She answers the door with tired eyes. She’s young, probably close to my age, but she’s carrying something heavy on her shoulders. Worry seems to be a second skin. I recognize it instantly. Because I’ve worn it, too.

“Hi,” she says, wary but polite. “Can I help you?”

And just like that, we’re in it—this messy, half-honest part of the hunt.

“You must be Haley Collins,” Dean begins, pulling on his most charming smile, “I’m Dean, this is Sam and Millie, we’re rangers with the Park Service. Ranger Wilkinson sent us over. He wanted us to ask a few questions about your brother Tommy.”

She squints at him, not ready to let her guard down. “Lemme see some ID.”

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the worn leather wallet that holds a rotating carousel of lies. He flips it open with a practiced flick—clean plastic, a shiny seal, a photo that looks just official enough in the right light.

Haley peers at it, eyes narrowing just a bit. But she’s not trained to spot fakes like some of the older law enforcement types are, and Dean’s got just the right mix of confidence and timing to sell it.

She nods once, slow, still unsure but leaning toward polite compliance. Then she pushes the door open a little wider.

“Alright,” she says, voice low. “Come in.”

We step inside. The place smells like cinnamon-scented candles and laundry detergent—comfort layered over nerves. There’s a worn rug in the entryway, boot prints trailing across it. A framed photo of three smiling kids on a camping trip sits on a narrow hallway table, the glass smudged with fingerprints.

Haley gestures us into the living room. “Sorry about the mess.”

There is no mess. Maybe a coffee mug on the end table, a folded blanket on the back of the couch. She’s just saying it because it’s what people say when they’re too distracted to figure out something else.

I glance around as we settle. A small bookshelf, a couple of family photos. 

“Ben, could you come out here?” Haley calls, voice a little louder now.

A beat passes before a younger boy—maybe sixteen or seventeen—emerges from the hallway. Hoodie too big, hair sticking up in the back, blinking like he just woke up, or maybe never really went to sleep. He nods at us, but doesn’t say anything, slumping into the nearest armchair like it’s holding him together.

Haley turns her attention back to us, folding her arms across her chest. “So, what exactly do you need to know about Tommy?”

Sam takes the lead, voice gentle. “We understand your brother was on a camping trip in the heart of Blackwater Ridge, is that right?”

Haley nods. “Yeah. He’s done it a few times before. Always loved that place. Said it helped him clear his head.” Her voice tightens. “But he always checks in. Every day. He’s kind of obsessed with it, honestly.”

“Checks in how?” Sam asks.

“His phone,” she says. “He’d call or send little videos. Photos, even dumb stuff—him talking to squirrels, whatever. But it’s been three days. Nothing.”

Ben looks away at that, chewing his thumbnail.

“Cell signal out there can be spotty,” Sam offers, gently, “Maybe he can’t get cell reception.”

“He knew that.” Haley shoots him a look. “He planned for it by getting a satellite phone. We all have one actually. Service in Blackwater tends to be spotty at best.”

“Could it be he’s just having fun and forgot to check in?” Dean asks, lighthearted.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Ben snips, seemingly uncharacteristic of him as Haley gives him a look out of the corner of her eye.

I catch Sam’s eyes flick toward me—just a flick—and I know we’re thinking the same thing. A creature that isolates victims. Predictable contact broken for three days. This isn’t just someone who lost their way. This is something else.

“Our parents are gone.” Haley sighs, stepping over to the kitchen. She begins setting the table. “It’s just my two brothers and me. We all keep pretty close tabs on each other.”

Dean leans his hip against the edge of the couch, arms crossed, eyes softer than usual. “I know how you feel,” he says, almost quiet. The words land with more weight than I think he meant them to.

Haley doesn’t catch it—too busy folding a napkin into tight, anxious creases between her fingers—but I do. Sam does, too. I feel it like a shift in the room’s gravity. My breath holds for a second longer than it should, and when I glance toward Sam, he’s already looking at Dean with that same complicated, unreadable look he gets whenever Dean cracks open, even a little.

Dean keeps his eyes on Haley, his face carefully blank. But I see the tension in his jaw, the tiny twitch near his temple, the way he draws in a breath like he’s swallowing something back down. This isn’t just about Dad. This is about us, as a whole.

Sam shifts beside me, uncomfortable. I can feel it in the way he sits—like his skin doesn’t quite fit right. I want to reach out, maybe brush his arm, ground him, but I don’t. I just sit still and let the silence hang for a breath longer than it should.

Then Sam clears his throat. “I think it’d help if we could see everything Tom sent you. Before the calls stopped.”

Haley blinks, pulled out of her spiral of folded cloth and worry. “Yeah, of course.” She moves to a laptop on the kitchen counter and opens it with a practiced hand.

We rise and gather loosely around the counter. I stand just behind Sam, watching the screen flicker to life.

The first video opens—Tommy’s face filling the frame, grinning, cheeks ruddy from the chilly evenings. He’s laughing about a raccoon stealing his granola. The image shakes a little as he turns the camera toward the trees, golden sunlight slicing through the thick pines. His voice echoes, playful, carefree.

The next one is later that night—stars overhead, a small campfire burning low. Tommy’s voice is quieter, a little more reflective. He says something about how quiet it is out here, how he forgot what real silence feels like. One of his buddies tells him to shut up in a playful tone.

Another one follows. Then another. Each one is playful and full of brotherly love.

Then the last one. It still carries the same lighthearted note. I don’t see anything wrong with it: “Hey Haley, day six, we’re still out near Blackwater Ridge.” Tom waves, smiling, “We’re fine, keeping safe, so don’t worry, okay? Talk to you tomorrow.”

But Sam catches something. I can tell in the way he tilts his head and presses his lips into a thin line.

“Well, we’ll find your brother.” Dean says after a moment, “We’re heading out to Blackwater Ridge first thing.”

“Then maybe I’ll see you there.” Haley says, determined.

That’s not a good idea. I open my mouth to say something, but she continues:

“Look, I can’t sit around here any longer. So I hired a guy. I’m heading out in the morning, and I’m gonna find Tommy myself.”

I feel Dean’s eyes on me before he speaks. “I think I know how you feel.”

I glance at him, brow raised. I get that I haven’t spoken to either of my brothers in almost a whole decade, but why is he so clingy? He seems to have known where we’ve been al this time.

“Hey, do you mind forwarding these to me?” Sam asks, playing the video again and completely unaware of the most current happenings of our conversation.

“Sure.”

Outside, the air feels heavier. Not because of the weather—it’s cool and crisp, the kind of early evening that smells like pine needles and chimney smoke—but because of whatever it is Sam saw. I think.

He’s quiet as we walk toward the Impala, his eyes still on the ground, jaw tight. I give it a beat, two, then fall in beside him.

“What did you see?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

He doesn’t look at me. Just shakes his head slightly, almost like he’s trying to shake it off. “I’m not sure yet.”

That’s a lie—or at least a deflection. I know him well enough to recognize when he’s turning something over in his mind, dissecting it piece by piece before he decides whether it’s safe to say out loud. But this isn’t just caution. It’s something more... guarded. Like whatever he saw unsettled him deeper than he expected.

I watch him for a second longer before nodding once and letting it go. For now.

Dean stops at the curb, already fishing his keys out of his jacket pocket. “Alright,” he says, a little too loudly. “That was fun. Now I’m starving.”

Typical Dean. When things get heavy, he gets hungry. Or he pretends to.

“Food’s not gonna solve the case,” Sam mutters, but without heat.

Dean opens the car door and shrugs. “Maybe not. But it’ll solve me chewing someone’s head off if I don’t get a burger in the next ten minutes.” He glances at us over the roof of the car. “C’mon. There’s a bar two blocks over. Locals say it’s got a decent grill and crap beer. My kind of place.”

He’s trying to keep the mood light, give us something solid to stand on. I appreciate the effort, even if it’s as thin as tissue paper.

“You mean Haley?” I tease, sliding into the backseat.

Dean snorts and starts the engine, “What? No.”

Sam chuckles as he takes the passenger’s seat.

We drive in silence for a few minutes, the radio low—some old rock song bleeding through the static. Dean hums under his breath. I watch the streetlights pass overhead in a slow rhythm, casting long shadows across the windshield.

The neighborhood thins out, trees growing denser again before we roll into what counts as the town center. The bar is wedged between a hardware store and an auto shop, the sign above the door missing a letter.

Inside, it’s warm and dim and smells like fried onions and cheap beer. Dean heads straight for the counter to place the order while Sam and I claim a table beside the pool tables. I sit across from him, watching the light from the neon sign outside flicker across his face.

The table’s surface is scratched and sticky, the kind of surface that’s seen decades of half-hearted cleaning and spilled drinks. Someone’s carved initials into the edge— A.W. + G.S. —and there’s a faded ring where a coaster should’ve been. The place hums with low conversation and the occasional clink of glass, a jukebox crooning something old and soulful from the corner.

Sam pulls out his laptop, Dad’s journal, and a couple of newspapers from his bag, setting them down with practiced ease. I can’t help but smile a little at that. He’s always been the research guy while Dean has always been the one who punches his way through problems. Pages rustle under his fingers as he flips through one, eyes already scanning the text before the laptop even finishes booting up.

I glance around while he works. The bar is cozy in the way only small-town bars can be. A mounted buck’s head hangs over the jukebox, its glass eyes forever staring past the rows of mismatched barstools. One of the pool tables is missing a corner pocket net, and a stack of cues leans against the wall like tired soldiers.

Then I hear it—crack. The unmistakable sound of a cue stick snapping. Heads turn. One guy’s swearing, another laughing like it’s no big deal. Someone shouts something about a bad break, and the bartender barely glances up from polishing glasses. No one’s concerned. Just a typical Friday night.

A waitress breezes by, expertly weaving between tables with a tray full of frosted pint glasses. The scent of beer trails behind her—yeasty, cold, a little sour. She smiles at Dean as she passes, then rolls her eyes when his gaze lingers.

Sam doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.

He’s already deep into the ridge’s history—Blackwater Ridge, which according to this grainy webpage and three separate footnotes in dusty volumes, was once used as a mining site, then a logging site, then abandoned altogether after a series of unexplained disappearances in the 1980s.

“So, Blackwater Ridge doesn’t get a lot of traffic.” He begins, “Local campers, mostly. But still, this past April, two hikers went missing out there. They were never found.”

“Was there any before that?” I ask as Dean returns, taking the seat beside me.

Sam nods, turning his laptop around. “Yeah, in 1982, eight different people all vanished in the same year. Authorities said it was a grizzly.”

The jukebox skips. For a split second, the room hushes. Then the clack of resin balls smacking against each other followed by laughter.

I read the headline of the local newspaper, The Lost Creek Gazette. “ GRIZZLY BEAR ATTACKS! EIGHT HIKERS VANISH IN LOST CREEK AREA, DISAPPEARANCES BAFFLES LOCAL AUTHORITIES; Families continue search and rescue efforts despite disappointing evidence.”

“There were more before that, too.” Sam continues, clicking around to show me and Dean, “And again in 1959, and again before that in 1936. Every twenty-three years, just like clockwork.”

Dean leans back in his chair, frowning. “That’s not a grizzly. That’s a pattern.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, voice low and thoughtful. “Whatever’s out there, it’s been hunting this area a long time.”

He opens the last video Tom sent Haley—blurry footage from a camcorder, the timestamp stamped in the lower corner. The image wobbles as the camera adjusts. I lean in instinctively, breath held.

The thumbnail shows Tom is sitting his tent, smiling at the camera, ready to say ‘goodnight’ or whatever his daily check-in may entail. Judging by the artificial light, it’s already past dark.

“Okay,” Sam says, pointing. “Watch this.” Sam taps the spacebar. The video starts to play. Then, he freezes it almost immediately. He advances the footage frame by frame.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Three frames. But that’s all Dean and I need to see what he’s talking about.

A shadow. A shape. A blur. Too tall to be a person, too fast for any animal I know.

“What the hell was that?” I breathe.

Dean leans forward, squinting. “Back it up.”

Sam does, rewinding the frames, then moving forward again, one by one.

“That’s three frames.” Sam breathes, strangely excited. “That’s a fraction of a second. Whatever that thing is, it can move.”

“Jesus,” Dean mutters.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “And careful. It doesn’t want to be seen.”

“But it was seen,” I say. “Just barely.”

My arms are folded across my chest now, fingers pressed against my sides. My whole body’s gone tight, my jaw clenched without me noticing. We stare at the screen, each of us trying to make sense of it. What creature hunts humans, moves that fast, and looks as though a grizzly has attacked hikers and campers leaving nothing but their belongings behind? I feel as though I should know the answer, but it’s just out of reach. It’s that hunter’s instinct, the kind that knows before it understands.

Sam clicks away from the video, but that shadow’s still burned into the backs of my eyelids. He pulls up another article, scanned straight from a yellowed newspaper clipping. The grain is so bad I have to squint to make out the headline.

“ BOY SURVIVES GRIZZLY ATTACK IN BLACKWATER , 1959”

Sam reads aloud: “Twelve-year-old Peter Shaw was found after three days missing in the forest. Crawled out of the woods bloody but alive.”

Dean whistles low through his teeth. “Doesn’t sound like a bear.”

“No,” Sam agrees quietly.

Dean pushes up from the table. “Alright. We go talk to this kid—well, old man now, probably. See what he remembers.”

Sam nods, already typing the name into a people-finder. “Looks like he still lives in-state. Just outside of Boulder. Not far.”

Dean looks at me, waiting for my cue to get up, but I’m not moving. I remain in my seat, boots planted on the sticky floor. “I’ll sit this one out,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Drop me off at the motel.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” I glance back at the laptop, at the frozen frame of the shadow still faintly burned into the screen. “Whatever this is… I just… I’ve got a bad feeling. I’m going to do more research on my own.”

Dean gives me a long look, the kind that tries to read under the surface. I keep my face still, my voice easy. I’ve learned how to deflect with half-truths. It’s a Winchester trait, inherited or learned, I couldn’t say.

“You sure?” he asks again, slower this time.

Sam glances up too, eyes narrowing just a little.

“Yeah,” I repeat, forcing a shrug. “You two are the tag team. I’ll probably just slow you down.”

Dean scoffs, “Millie, c’mon—”

“I’ll catch up later,” I interrupt, a little too quickly. I gather my jacket in both hands and stand before they can protest further. “Besides, someone should be looking at this from the paper trail. If whatever this thing is shows up every couple decades, there might be stuff in historical records that hasn’t made it online.”

It’s a solid enough excuse. One that sounds just right coming from me. But it’s not really about the research. The truth is—I can feel it in my gut, the tension sitting low and uneasy. There’s something else going on between Sam and Dean. It’s not just the case. Not just Dad. Something’s wrong in the way they look at each other, talk around things instead of through them. A strange silence rides shotgun in every conversation, the kind that’s too quiet to be accidental. It doesn’t feel like a fight, not exactly. Just… weight. Something unsaid. And I know better than to push.

Winchesters don’t spill their guts until they’re bleeding out, and even then, sometimes not. I’ve learned that trying to pry it out too early only makes them pull away harder. Especially Dean.

So I offer an easy lie instead. “Plus, I’m kinda tired.”

Dean snorts, but doesn’t argue. He drives me to the motel in silence, the kind that hums low under the rumble of the engine and the occasional crackle of gravel under the tires. The town thins out the closer we get—less neon, fewer people, more dark windows and closed signs flipped backward.

The motel isn’t anything special—just another two-story dive with buzzing lights and a flickering Vacancy sign. The kind of place that might smell faintly of bleach and mildew and charges extra if you want the ice machine to actually work.

Dean pulls up in front of the main office, the engine idling low. I don’t reach for the handle right away.

Dean looks over the backseat. “You sure about this?”

There it is again—his voice soft but edged, like he already knows what I’m doing and doesn’t like it. I hate the way that look in his eyes makes me feel, like he’s seeing through the cracks in my armor I didn’t know were there.

I nod. “Just don’t scare the poor guy. You’ve got that face you do.”

Dean snorts, but it’s half-hearted at best. “What face?”

“That face,” I say, pointing at him. “The I-don’t-care-if-you’re-eighty-I’ll-still-shoot-you-in-the-kneecaps face. You know the one.”

Sam chuckles from the passenger seat, and for a second, things feel normal. Easy.

Dean rolls his eyes. “We’ll be back before two. Don’t trash the place.”

“Please.” I smirk. “I’ve seen your motel etiquette. I should be the one saying that.”

I hop out before he can argue, slinging my bag over my shoulder and heading for the door. I glance back once, watch the taillights vanish around the corner as Dean pulls away. Then I’m alone.

I check in under an alias Sam and Dean would know to look for—Jane Rockford—and ask for a room with two beds and an extra cot. The man at the desk, who looks like he hasn’t blinked since the '90s, doesn’t ask questions. Just pushes a key across the chipped counter with a grunt and a crooked smile that smells like old coffee and chewing tobacco.

Room 12. Second floor. End of the row. Nearest the fire escape.

It’s exactly what I expected. Brown shag carpet, faded floral bedspreads, a buzzing fluorescent light in the bathroom that flickers. The cot leans against the wall, frame slightly bent, mattress thin as a prayer. I pull it out anyway and unfold it by the window.

When we were kids, Sam and Dean would share a bed. But as we got older and the boys got taller, we started rotating with who got stuck with the cot for the week. If I remember correctly, despite it being almost a decade, it’s my turn to take the cot. Even though they’re not here yet, it feels right to stake my bed.

Then I get to work.

First, I lock the door and draw the curtains. No one’s watching as far as I am aware, in this life, you learn not to wait until there is. I dig into the false bottom of my duffel, past rock salt, a flask of holy water, two silver daggers, and a cloth pouch tied with red thread. I draw that out gently, careful not to spill what’s inside.

I crouch by the door first. A ward against spiritual intrusion goes there—painted with a mix of oil and ash. I dip my fingers into the pouch, tracing the glyph slowly, carefully, whispering the words under my breath. The symbols fade against the wood almost immediately, soaked in by years of humidity and cheap varnish, but I feel the thrum of it settle in place like a heartbeat. Good.

Next, the windows.

I use my silver ring to etch tiny protective sigils into the bottom corners of the glass. They’re small—just lines and curves that look like scratches to anyone else. But they hum under my fingertips, warm and steady, once I finish each one. Wards against evil spirits, demons, and the like. Nothing elaborate. Just enough to hold the line.

Finally, I slide a penny under each bed leg—an old trick Bobby taught me, copper charged with iron filings and a Latin prayer scrawled in ink across the faces. It’s a basic trap ward, subtle and dirty, the kind that doesn’t snap closed until it needs to.

I finish with the cot, tucking a single dried sprig of rosemary between the mattress and the frame. Protection. Memory. It smells like home, a little. The way it used to be, before we all scattered like dropped matchsticks.

I sit back on my heels. Nothing about this place is special. But it’s safe now . For my brothers. For me. For whoever else might need it tomorrow or the next day. Because that’s the thing about being a hunter—safety’s never a given. We have to build it ourselves, one invisible mark at a time.

I sink down onto the cot, arms draped loosely over my knees, and listen to the motel hum. Pipes groaning. The thrum of neon through the walls. A dog barking two streets over. It’s all white noise, but I listen anyway before drifting off.

—

I wake to the sound of a key rattling in the lock.

At first, I don’t move. I’m floating in the space between asleep and awake, tangled in warmth, heavy-limbed and hazy. There’s the ghost of a smile on my face, the kind born from a dream I can’t quite remember. I know it was a good one—peaceful, maybe. The kind where nothing’s chasing me and nobody’s bleeding. But already it’s slipping through my fingers, vanishing like breath on glass. I reach for it instinctively, but it’s gone.

The door creaks open.

I sit up, one hand brushing the hair out of my face, the other instinctively reaching under the pillow. My fingers brush cold metal—just enough reassurance to unclench the part of me that never fully rests.

Dean’s boots hit the worn carpet with a dull thud as he enters, Sam a step behind, both of them shadowed against the orange glow of the parking lot outside. They smell like outside air and old pine.

I rub at my eyes, blinking against the motel’s dull lamplight. “You’re back early,” I mumble, voice still thick with sleep.

“Early?” Dean scoffs, kicking the door shut behind him. “Millie, it’s almost three o’clock in the morning.”

Oh. I glance at the clock. The red digits glare back at me like an accusation.

“Right.” I yawn, stretching, the stiffness in my back reminding me I passed out half-sideways on the bed, the old motel comforter still wrapped around my legs. “Felt shorter.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, dropping his duffel beside the cot. “That’s called sleeping.”

“Okay, smartass,” I mutter, pushing the blanket away and sitting up straighter. “So? What’d you get?”

Dean drops into the chair nearest the window with a grunt, his jaw tight. Sam stays standing, pacing a little like the words are still finding their order in his head.

“We talked to Peter Shaw,” Sam begins, dragging a hand through his hair. “He’s... old, but sharp. Still remembers what happened to him.”

“Said he couldn’t see the creature, it moved too fast.” He tilts his head down, as if proving a point, “He also said it hid too well, but he heard it though.”

“Yeah, a roar,” Sam continues, “Like...no man or animal he’s ever heard before. It got in through the front door of his family’s cabin—unlocked it. Took his parents and left him with a pretty nasty scar. He called it a demon.”

“But here’s the thing—” Dean leans forward— “Spirits and demons don’t have to unlock doors. If they want inside, they just go through the walls.”

My eyebrows lift. “Okay, so?”

“So whatever this is, it’s corporeal.” Sam answers. 

“Corporeal?” Dean snorts, “Excuse me, professor.”

“Shut up.” Sam replies then turns back to me, “So what do you think?”

I nod, serious now. “So if it came through the front door, that means it’s smart and that it has a body. Which means it can be hurt.”

“We were thinking, because of the claws and its speed, something like a skinwalker, maybe a black dog.” Dean says, “Whatever we’re talking about, we’re talking about a creature, and it’s ‘corporeal.’ Which means we can kill it.”

“Cool.” I nod, the edge of sleep still lingering in my voice. “We ready to go out in the woods tomorrow?”

Dean gives a humorless smile, eyes dark beneath the bruises of exhaustion. “That’s the plan. Sunup. Get in, poke around where it happened, and hope whatever it is doesn’t tear our faces off before breakfast.”

I snort, dragging my legs off the bed and planting my feet on the cold tile. The room smells like motel soap and takeout wrappers—bland, stale comfort. The familiar ache is setting into my shoulders now, settling in like an old friend who never leaves. I stretch again, arms over my head until something in my spine pops.

Dean watches me with a raised brow. “You good?”

“Peachy,” I mutter, rolling my neck until the tension crackles away. “Just the usual pretzel spine from this luxury mattress.”

Sam’s already digging through his bag, pulling out the folder he’s been carting around since Arkansas, probably going to review everything again before sleeping. I don’t know how he does it—sift through all that horror and stay sane. Maybe he doesn’t.

“Try to get some sleep,” he says over his shoulder. “It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

“Sleep,” I echo, dragging the word out like it’s a foreign concept. But I’m already moving, folding the comforter back down and collapsing onto the pillow again. It’s still warm. Still shaped to me. My eyelids are heavy, but I keep them open long enough to glance over at my brothers.

Dean shrugs off his jacket and throws it over the back of the chair, then bends down to unlace his boots. Every motion is slow, deliberate—the kind of tired that sinks past muscle and settles in bone. Sam’s still reading, the pages of the file rustling softly beneath the low hum of the bathroom fan.

For a few moments, the silence is easy. Not empty, not tense. Just quiet. We don’t know what we’re hunting yet. But we’re closer than we were this morning. That counts for something.

Dean switches off the lamp. Darkness folds over the room in a slow wave, interrupted only by the dim orange wash of light filtering through the blinds. Outside, a car passes—headlights stretching across the ceiling. I hear the bedsprings creak as Dean lies back. Sam’s bed creaks a beat later.

No one says goodnight. We don’t have to.

I close my eyes, the familiar weight of the knife still under my pillow. The room breathes around me: the low hum of electricity, the steady rhythm of my brothers’ breathing. We’re alive. We’re here.

Tomorrow, we hunt.

Chapter Text

I blink against the light pressing at my eyelids, groggy, wrapped in the muffled cocoon of motel sheets and last night’s dreams. For a second, I think I’m imagining it—just another trick of the half-sleep haze—but then there's a rustle, the squeak of a greasy paper bag, and the unmistakable scent of cheap bacon filters through the room like a siren call.

I sit up fast, squinting. “Are you back with food?”

Dean looks up from where he’s sitting at the small table, unwrapping a breakfast sandwich like it’s a sacred ritual. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

I blink again. “You got up early. And brought breakfast. Who are you?”

He just grins, eyes still rimmed with shadows but sharp. “Don’t get used to it. Place down the street had a two-for-one deal, and I figured if I left you and Sam to pick food, we’d end up with rabbit food and black coffee.”

I glance toward Sam, who’s already halfway through his sandwich, legs stretched out under the table, flipping through the guide map he picked up at the gas station.

“Wow,” I mutter, reaching for the third sandwich waiting on the nightstand. “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

“I’ve adapted.” Dean lifts his coffee in a lazy salute. “Don’t spread it around. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

I glance at Sam. He shakes his head and frowns, denying the change Dean claims to have made to his schedule.

“Right.” I snort.

We eat fast. It’s not exactly gourmet—greasy bacon, overcooked eggs, cheese that’s more oil than dairy—but it’s hot, and it hits the spot. I chew and swallow and try not to think about how fast everything can go sideways once we’re out in the woods. We still don’t know what exactly it is we’re hunting for or if we have the right equipment to kill it. No one says it out loud, but we’re all feeling it—it’s not a good idea to go unprepared.

Once we’ve packed up, weapons stashed in the trunk beneath a false floor, salt, iron, and silver blades all accounted for, we pile into the Impala. I sit in the back, the window cracked to let the mountain air in. Trees flash past, tall and close, the morning sun slicing through them in long, golden spears. The roads get narrower the deeper we go, pavement giving way to gravel and dirt.

By the time we reach the trailhead at Blackwater Ridge, the wind smells like damp earth and pine. Birds are singing, and the breeze whispers through the trees, knocking dead branches or pinecones loose from their boughs.

A battered Jeep is parked near the ranger sign. There’s a woman standing beside it—Haley. I recognize her despite knowing her for barely an hour. Beside her stands a man I haven’t seen before—lean, rough around the edges, a hunter’s build. Tan canvas jacket, sunglasses pushed up on his head. Definitely not law enforcement.

And then there’s the kid, Haley’s little brother. He stands stiffly with a loaded backpack slung over his shoulders, arms crossed like he’s trying to look tougher than he feels.

As we approach, we can make out the words the newcomer is almost yelling at Haley: “I’ll tell you again, I don’t think Ben should come.”

“Roy—” She tries to cut in. He doesn’t let her.

“Look, you’re paying me good money to keep everybody safe. I think Ben’s safest at home.”

Haley exhales sharply before noticing us. A look of relief flashes across her features, grateful that she won’t be stuck alone with just her kid brother and whoever this ray of sunshine might be.

Dean speaks first: “You guys got room for three more?”

Haley’s relief quickly turns to confusion. “Wait, you want to come with us?”

Roy almost scowls. “Who are these guys?”

“Apparently, this is all the park service could muster up for the search and rescue,” Haley replies, less than pleased with his tone. “The more hands on deck, the better.”

Roy eyes us like we’re something he scraped off his boot. His gaze moves over Sam first—tall, clean-shaven, calm. Then to me, lingering just a second too long, like he’s trying to place what kind of threat I am. And finally, to Dean—who stands there with his usual cocky slouch, arms crossed, wearing worn jeans, leather jacket, and scuffed biker boots like he’s about to fix a motorcycle, not hike into the wilderness.

Roy huffs. “You gotta be kidding me. These are the rangers?”

Dean lifts a brow, unfazed. “Morning to you, too, Sunshine.”

Roy jerks his thumb toward Dean’s boots. “Real professional look. You dress yourself this morning or lose a bet?”

Dean shrugs, spreading his hands like: what you see is what you get. “Hey, these boots have hiked through half the States and then some. Yours come with a safety certificate or just the attitude?”

Haley groans quietly, rubbing her temples like she’s already regretting bringing anyone. “Roy, can we not do this?”

But Roy keeps going, gesturing between all three of us now. “You expect me to believe the park service sent out three rangers with no uniforms, no radios, and not a single regulation hiking pack?”

Sam, ever the diplomat, tries to smooth it over. “We’re from a different district. Off-books assignment. Resource support.”

It’s not even a good lie, but it sounds enough like bureaucratic nonsense that it could pass. Roy doesn’t buy it, but he can’t prove otherwise.

Dean, meanwhile, just smiles that wolfish smile he always wears when someone starts barking about rules. He steps closer to Roy, casual, like they’re about to shoot the breeze over a beer. “So, Roy, you hunt out here often?”

Roy narrows his eyes, wary. “I’ve tracked cougar and bear all through this valley. Elk, too, if you’re quiet enough. Got a twelve-point rack on my wall at home to prove it.”

Dean nods, as that’s impressive. “Sounds like you’ve got some solid experience with wildlife.”

“I do,” Roy says, straightening like he’s preparing for a medal. “Real predators. Not armchair ones.”

“Cool,” Dean says, like it’s the most normal conversation in the world. “So tell me—ever track something that unlocks doors?”

Roy stares. “What?”

“Dean!” I hiss, shoving him towards the trial, “Stop it!”

“What?” He half-laughs, “The guy’s basically asking for it.”

I glare at Dean as we all start up the trail, gravel crunching under our boots, trees leaning in like they’re listening. Roy mutters something under his breath but takes the lead, stomping ahead like he’s the only one with a compass. Ben hurries to keep up, the weight of his pack making him list a little to one side. Haley gives us a sidelong look, something between a thank-you and what the hell did I just sign up for?

We fall into a loose line—Roy and Dean out front, then Ben and Haley, Sam just behind them with the map, and lastly, myself bringing up the rear. I watch the rhythm of Dean’s gait, the relaxed set of his shoulders belying how tense he actually is. He’s listening, I can tell—counting bird calls, tracking movement in the treetops, taking mental notes with every snap of a twig underfoot.

The woods feel different the farther we go in—quieter, thicker. The trees knit together overhead, turning the sunlight dappled and twitchy, like it’s being filtered through shifting water. Every now and then, Sam points something out on the map, muttering to himself or low to me when we cross paths. It’s all familiar enough—trail markings, elevations, the narrowing of the ridge. But something doesn’t sit right.

Roy keeps talking. I don’t know if he’s trying to prove something or if he just likes the sound of his own voice, but he keeps up this low-grade monologue about deer scat, wind direction, and how we’re probably ‘too green to know how to move quietly through the bush.’

Dean hums along politely—at first—then he starts to poke.

“So, Roy,” Dean says, loud enough for everyone to hear, “What kind of furry critters do you hunt?”

“Mostly buck, sometimes bear,” Roy Roy grunts, keeping his tone even and eye on the brush.

Dean keeps going, breezy as ever. “Tell me, uh, Bambi or Yogi ever hunt you back?”

Roy shoots a glance over his shoulder. “What the hell kind of backwoods campfire nonsense is that?”

Dean just shrugs, undeterred. “You’d be surprised.”

Sam groans. “Dean, please don’t start.”

“What? I’m just trying to understand the guy’s credentials.”

“His credentials don’t matter,” I mutter, ducking under a low branch. “We’re here to find Tommy, not trade ghost stories.”

Roy keeps stomping up the trail, jaw clenched. “Don’t see you doing a whole lot of helping, sweetheart.”

I freeze, hackles rising. Dean glances at me, ready to step in, but I beat him to it.

“You’re welcome to lead the way into whatever’s been ripping people apart out here,” I say, voice low and even. “But don’t call me ‘sweetheart’ again unless you want your compass somewhere real uncomfortable.”

Dean coughs like he’s hiding a laugh. Sam doesn’t even pretend to hide his grin.

Roy just shakes his head, muttering again, but he slows a little, eyes scanning the underbrush. I notice the change in him then—his posture shifts, shoulders lifting like hackles, attention narrowing. He’s watching the trail now, not just walking it.

I start scanning too. There’s something...off.

Dean keeps walking.

In a flash, Roy grabs Dean by the front of his jacket and slams him back against the nearest tree. The sound of the impact cracks like a rifle shot through the woods. Dean’s boots scrape against the dirt, half-lifted off the ground by sheer adrenaline and muscle. I’m already moving before my brain finishes the thought—hand hovering near the gun strapped to my thigh, just in case.

“Whatcha doing, Roy?” Dean breathes.

“Don’t move,” Roy grumbles, shoving Dean back. He turns and grabs a large branch. Then, he shoves it down into the dead pine straw.

There’s a click.

We all freeze.

Dean’s eyes widen at the forest floor where his foot would have landed. It shifts, then a mess of teeth—rusty, brutal, and very real—snaps shut.

“Jesus,” I breathe.

Roy’s got one forearm across Dean’s chest, pinning him. “You step on one of those out here, nobody’s carrying you home.”

Dean blinks at the trap, then at Roy. “Well,” he says, voice dry, “I guess you do hunt things that bite.”

Roy backs off like nothing happened, already moving again. “Watch your damn feet.”

Dean exhales, clapping his chest like checking for damage. “Okay. That’s fair.”

I fall in line beside him as we keep moving. “You good?”

He nods once, jaw tight. “Yeah. Just...gotta admit, didn’t see that one coming.”

Sam murmurs, “Neither did I. He moved fast.”

Dean glances over his shoulder at Roy. “Guy’s still a jackass.”

“Sure,” I agree, eyes still scanning the woods. “But he just saved your leg.”

Dean mutters, “Stupid bear traps.”

We walk on.

And this time, we’re all watching where we step.

The silence thickens the deeper we go—denser, more aware. Even Roy stops talking, and that says a lot. Only the crunch of gravel and needles beneath our boots and the occasional creak of swaying trees fills the air around us. The mountain air has grown heavier. Cooler, too.

I catch up to Sam and walk beside him for a bit, letting my hand brush against the grip of the knife on my belt. Just a check. Still there. Still sharp.

Behind us, Haley’s voice cuts in suddenly, low but firm, directed right at me.

“You’re not rangers.”

I glance sideways. Her face is pinched, flushed with heat or frustration—or both. Her eyes flick toward the duffel bag Dean’s slung over his shoulder, then back to me.

“You didn’t pack provisions. You don’t have radios. You’re carrying a duffel bag.”

I say nothing, but she keeps going.

“You’re not rangers. So who the hell are you?”

Sam slows ahead of me, just enough to listen in. Dean, about five steps up, doesn’t slow at all.

I take a breath, keep my voice calm, low. “We’re here to help you find your brother.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Haley snaps. “You lied to me.”

Her tone isn’t scared, exactly. It’s sharp. Defensive. Like she already knows she’s dragged her kid brother and a stranger into something bad and she’s scrambling for control now that the cracks are showing.

I stop walking.

She does too, eyes locked on mine. “I deserve to know who I brought into this.”

Dean finally turns. He doesn’t say anything yet—he’s waiting, reading the tension like a barometer before weighing in. Sam’s gaze flits between me and Haley, then over his shoulder at the trees, alert as ever.

I don’t blame her. She’s not wrong. We did lie.

“You’re right,” I tell her.

That throws her for a second. She blinks, jaw still tight. “What?”

I step in a little closer, careful to keep my voice even. “You’re right. We’re not park rangers.”

She crosses her arms. “Then who are you?”

“We’re hunters.”

She frowns. “Hunters? Like—what, bounty hunters?”

“Not exactly,” I say. “We track... things. The kind most people don’t believe exists until they lose someone.”

“You mean animals,” she says, but there’s a hitch in it—just a flicker of doubt behind the words. She knows there’s more to this. Her brother vanished from a locked tent without a sound. That doesn’t happen by bear or cougar.

“Not really,” I say. “Usually, it’s worse.”

Haley looks past me at Dean, then at Sam, and then finally back to me. “You think my brother’s still alive?”

My throat tightens. I want to give her certainty, the kind that comforts. But I can’t lie to her now. Not again.

“We think something took him,” I say. “And if he’s still alive, we’re going to get him back.”

For a moment, Haley just looks at me, measuring. And then something hard in her gaze shifts. Not trust exactly, but... resolve.

“Good,” she says, voice steady. “Because I’m not leaving without him.”

“And what do you mean we didn’t pack provisions?” Dean asks with a sly grin as he pulls out a half-eaten bag of peanut M&Ms.

I roll my eyes.

Eventually, we reach the edge of a clearing, and Roy slows his pace. I step up beside him and glance down at his GPS as he checks it again. Sam catches up a second later, already pulling the worn piece of paper from his jacket.

“Coordinates?” Sam asks quietly.

Roy squints at the screen. “Thirty-five and minus one-eleven.”

Sam swears under his breath. “That’s it. That’s exactly what Dad left us.”

My stomach knots. I look up—and freeze.

There are three tents in the clearing, or what’s left of them. Torn nylon and shredded canvas hang from the skeletons of bent aluminum poles. It looks like something exploded in the middle of camp, but there’s no burn damage. Just violence. Relentless, ripping violence.

Blood stains everything—soaked into the dirt, splattered across tree trunks, smeared across the remains of a blue cooler that’s been ripped nearly in half. One tent has collapsed entirely, its fabric gutted open down the middle like a split fish. The claw marks are long, deep, gouged into anything soft enough to take them. Even the bark of the nearby pines is shredded.

“The hell?” Roy murmurs, stepping forward with a hand instinctively hovering near his holster.

I swallow hard and move with him, careful not to step on anything. Sam’s right behind me, silent. We pass what used to be a sleeping bag, now half-buried in pine needles and soaked in blood. Something catches the light next to it—metal. A thermos, dented in on one side, blood drying along its rim.

I crouch near the remains of one of the tents. The air smells coppery and sour, like rot just starting to set in. Flies buzz lazily over what used to be a puddle of blood; it’s mostly dry now, but somehow, it has maggots.

Roy exhales sharply. “Looks like a damn grizzly got to them.”

“This wasn’t a bear,” I say, voice low.

He glances down at me, one brow raised. “You see those claw marks? What else could’ve done that?”

I straighten up slowly and point to the nearest tree trunk, where five jagged gouges rake through bark and into pale wood. “A grizzly’s claws are big, sure. Four inches maybe, tops. These?” I measure the space between the outermost gouges with both hands. “These are closer to eight. And they’re deeper than anything a bear could manage without getting its full weight behind it.”

Sam leans closer, inspecting the shredded bark. “She’s right. And there’s no prints. No pads, no heavy drag marks. If a grizzly tore through here, we’d see sign. Scat, broken branches, something.”

I nod grimly. “And bears don’t just vanish.”

Roy mutters something under his breath and circles the edge of the clearing, scanning the ground. “Well, whatever it was, it had claws and a bad attitude.”

“No,” I correct quietly. “It had intent.”

Sam looks at me. “What do you mean?”

I gesture around us. “This wasn’t a wild rampage. Look at the pattern. Every tent—ripped open. Every bag—torn through. It hit the coolers, the supplies, the sleeping bags. It trashed the electronics and scattered the supplies. It didn’t just attack,” I continue, scanning the shredded wreckage. “It was hunting and it made sure that Tommy and whoever might have been with him couldn’t call for help.”

Roy stops pacing, brow furrowed. “You saying it’s smart?”

I nod.

Before Roy can respond, a soft crunch of leaves makes us all freeze. Instinct kicks in, and I drop low, hand going to the grip of the blade tucked in my boot. Sam's already drawn the pistol from under his jacket, eyes scanning the treeline.

And then I realize what’s wrong.

There’s no wind.

No birds.

No insects.

Even the flies are gone.

The forest has gone dead silent.

The kind of silence that presses in on you, like the trees themselves are holding their breath.

Beside me, Roy tenses. Sam shifts a step closer, just enough that our shoulders nearly touch. I can feel his tension radiating off him like static. Every instinct in me screams that we’re not alone.

“Tommy?” Haley’s voice cuts the stillness like a knife, brittle and too loud.

“Shh!” I hiss, turning and reaching for her just as she steps into the clearing behind us, her eyes wide with fear. “Haley, keep your voice down!”

“But—”

I grab her arm gently but firmly. “Haley. Look at me. We don’t know what happened yet, but it might still be close. You need to be quiet. Please.”

She nods, her face pale and eyes filling with tears she refuses to let fall, but I can see the tremble in her lip as she clamps a hand over her mouth. She steps back over to Ben. He’s pale too, but at least he’s quiet.

Dean hisses over his shoulder from the base of the campsite. “Guys. I got something. Come to my location—now.”

I exchange a quick look with Sam, before moving to meet him, “You good?”

“For now,” Dean says. “I found a trail. Blood smears, broken branches. The bodies were dragged from the campsite. But here, the tracks just vanish.”

“That’s not good.” I feel the chill before the wind even shifts. “You sure it wasn’t a skinwalker?”

“No fur, no tracks. And black dogs don’t drag prey. They maul, maybe eat, but they don’t clean up after themselves.” Dean’s voice is tight, clipped. “This thing was tidy. Efficient. Took its kills and vanished.”

I glance back toward the treeline. That same pressure’s still in the air, that unnatural silence crawling under my skin like ants. 

“If it dragged them off, if the trail just ends—it sounds like a wen—”

“Don’t.” I cut him off sharper than I mean to, stepping in close and lowering my voice. “Don’t say it. Not out loud. Not out here.”

He blinks, then nods slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. “Right.”

Roy glances between us, frowning. “Say what?”

“Nothing,” I reply quickly as Dean marches past. 

Dean sighs and heads back to where Haley and Ben stand beside one of the torn-up tents, murmuring something soft I can’t quite hear. He’s good at that—making himself solid when someone needs it. Strong and steady even when everything around us is circling the drain.

That leaves Sam and me standing with Roy, who’s still eyeing us like we’re puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit together. He shifts his weight, then shifts the weight of his rifle from one arm to the other.

“Look, if you know something, it’d be a hell of a lot better if you said it. Instead of leaving the rest of us walking in blind.” He says, narrows his eyes.

I stare at him, meeting his eyes until he finally looks away. “And if you’re not walking blind, Roy?” I ask, keeping my tone flat. “What then?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t get the chance to.

A man’s voice cries out from somewhere deep in the woods—hoarse and ragged, breaking on the second word like his throat’s been scraped raw. “Help! Please, somebody—”

All three of us snap toward the sound. My blood turns to ice.

It’s not far. A couple hundred feet, maybe. Close enough we should see or hear some movement.

But there’s nothing.

No footfalls. No crashing branches. No desperate struggle through undergrowth. Just that voice, floating through the trees like it doesn’t quite belong here.

“What if it is Haley’s brother?” Roy asks, taking a few steps towards where the voice may have come from.

“Help!” The voice echoes, “Somebody help me! Please!”

Roy takes off toward the sound before I can stop him, crashing through the underbrush like a man possessed. Haley’s not even a breath behind him, dragging Ben by the hand. Dean swears, low and vicious, and Sam and I are already moving to follow them—because what else can we do?

The forest swallows us fast.

Branches claw at my jacket and brambles snag the hem of my jeans, but I keep moving, dodging trees and half-rotted stumps. The others are just ahead, visible in bursts through the thickening green. I glance up—no sun. Just dense, grey canopy pressing close, letting in barely enough light to navigate.

The voice shouts again, somewhere off to the right now, but it’s warped—echoing in a way that doesn’t make sense, like it’s bouncing off the wrong trees at the wrong angles. Too loud. Too close. But still no sign of movement.

No birds.

No squirrels.

No bugs.

No life.

We hit another clearing, smaller this time, ringed by dense pine and old cedar. Roy skids to a halt near the edge, scanning the tree line. Haley stumbles up beside him, panting. Ben clings to her arm, his eyes wide and glassy.

I slow to a stop, heart pounding in my chest like a drum, and strain to listen—but there’s nothing. Just that same crushing silence pressing in like a weight. The kind of silence that feels wrong in your bones. Like the forest is watching.

Roy raises a hand for silence and crouches, head cocked as he listens.

That’s when I hear it too—barely. A whisper of movement. Like something brushing across dry pine needles. Faint, almost imagined. But it’s there—no… It’s here.

But the voice is gone.

“I—I heard it,” Haley gasps. “He was right here—he had to be—”

Roy’s pacing in tight circles now, checking his GPS again, muttering under his breath. Dean scans the treeline, tension stiff in every line of his body. Sam moves past me, careful but quick as he studies the nearby underbrush.

There’s nothing. No blood, no trail. Not even broken twigs or footprints. Just moss, damp leaves, and a cold stillness that burrows under your skin.

“We need to go,” I say quietly.

Haley whirls on me, wild-eyed. “What? No! That was him! That had to be him!”

“It sounded like him,” I reply, keeping my voice even. “But sound can lie. And whatever’s out here? It’s using that voice to lure us.”

Roy stops short. “You saying that thing—whatever ripped that camp to pieces—is playing games?”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters grimly. “And it’s damn good at it.”

Ben tugs on Haley’s sleeve, whispering something I don’t catch. She nods absently, but her hands are shaking.

“Everyone back to the camp,” Sam says, finally.

No one argues. Not even Roy. We move as one, retreating back the way we came. I keep glancing over my shoulder, and every time I do, it feels like something’s just slipped out of sight.

When we finally break back into the old campsite, it’s like stepping into a war zone we forgot we’d survived. The wreckage hasn’t changed, but it feels worse, like something evil has poisoned the ground.

The trampled earth looks deeper now, gouged and dragged in new places. A scrap of green fabric flutters where it wasn’t before, snagged high in a tree limb like something threw it.

Then it hits me.

The packs are gone.

All of them. Ben’s drawstring bag, Haley’s battered red hiking pack, and Roy’s black tactical frame. Vanished.

“Where the hell are our bags?” she blurts, already turning in a slow circle, eyes darting over the ground. “I left mine right here. I swear—I put it next to that cooler. It was right here!”

Sam stiffens beside me, jaw clenched. Dean doesn’t say a word. Just stalks forward, scanning the edges of the camp like he expects something to leap out of the trees.

That crawling dread twists tighter in my gut.

This thing is watching us. Studying us.

Sam grabs Dean by the shoulder and pulls him aside, toward a chunk of splintered log near the edge of the clearing. I follow, boots crunching on dry pine needles. Sam doesn’t speak until we’re close enough for no one else to hear.

“Give me the journal.”

Dean hesitates, just a beat, before reaching into his inner jacket pocket. He pulls out an old leather journal. John’s journal. What—? John has never leaves his journal behind, no matter where he’s gone.

Sam flips it open with practiced fingers, scanning quickly. Then he stops, turning the page.

I step closer and peer over his arm.

“Alright, look at this,” Sam begins, tilting the open pages towards me before holding it level out and pointing to a strange etching of a creature in the center of the left page, “Dad did research about this place.”

The sketch decorating the center of the page is crude, but unmistakable—tall, spindly limbs, unnaturally long fingers. There are notes scribbled in the margins in John’s tight, slanted handwriting: “Fast. Smart. Hunts by mimicry—uses voices of past victims. Draws prey into woods. Takes them alive. Eats them later.”

My stomach flips. I feel the blood drain from my face. We’ve only ever heard stories about wendigos. Read lore. But reading about them is one thing—standing in the middle of a kill zone and realizing that’s what’s hunting you?

That’s something else.

I don’t even realize I’ve taken a step back until my boot cracks a twig beneath me. Dean’s eyes lift to meet mine, and there’s no hiding the grim acknowledgment in his face.

Sam’s mouth is tight. “So you were right.”

I nod slowly. “I didn’t want to be.”

“Christ,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “And we just let Roy run toward it like it was a damn rescue call. At least we know that—” he pulls out his pistol— “this is completely useless.”

Sam closes the journal and hands it back to Dean.

“Wait a minute, how the hell did you two ever pick up this case?” I whisper harshly, stepping forward and turning to glare at them. “I’m sick and tired of feeling like a third wheel to a failing marriage.”

Dean’s lips press into a hard line. Sam looks away.

“I mean it.” My voice rises, sharp and hard. I gesture around us, at the ruined camp, the fresh terror leaking in from every direction. “What the hell brought us out here?”

Dean doesn’t speak for a second. Then he pulls in a breath and finally answers. “Dad did.”

I stare. “What?”

“Dad left us—well, Dean, coordinates. Thirty-five, minus one-eleven.” Sam replies, “We were looking for him and found his journal in Jericho, California. Inside was—”

“You’re telling me Dad knew this was out here—and he just dropped coordinates in your lap without a word of what we were walking into?”

Dean looks down. “No name. No explanation. Just numbers. But you know how he works.”

I do. God help me, I do know. I know way too much about John Winchester, his breadcrumb trails, and cryptic warnings. His belief that we’ll just figure it out all on our own. Not because we can, but because he wants us to.

I step back again, arms folded, anger creeping into my chest like smoke. “So you dragged me into the wilderness on a hunch?”

Dean’s jaw tightens. “It wasn’t a hunch.”

“Then what was it, Dean? A test? A field trip? You think maybe if we got lucky, we’d stumble across whatever mess John didn’t feel like cleaning up himself?”

His eyes flick toward Sam, then back to me.

Sam steps in. “We were looking for Dad.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” I cry. I turn away, pacing, heart hammering. I want to scream. I want to shake him. “I should’ve known. The minute I saw those claw marks, I should’ve known.”

“You did,” Sam says, quietly. “You saw it before any of us.”

“Yeah, well, a lot of good that does now.” I rub a hand over my face, pushing the rising panic back into my ribs. “This thing—it’s not like the usual monsters. It’s not something you get a clean shot at. It hides. It waits. It’s probably been watching us since the minute we set foot on the trail.”

I glance back toward Haley and Ben, huddled now near the small fire Roy’s got going. At least, someone other than us three has some survival experience. 

“It’s worse than that,” I whisper. “This thing knows how to wait. How to plan. That voice? It knew exactly how to bait us. And now it’s been back through here—just minutes while we were gone—and it didn’t leave a trace.”

A sharp snap echoes from the trees to our left.

We all freeze.

I take a slow step back toward the others. “We need to keep the fire going. Keep everyone close.”

The wind bites at my cheeks, sharp as the anger simmering in my chest. I don't look at either of them—can't. My boots crunch over dry leaves and broken twigs as I push ahead, not caring if Sam or Dean are keeping up. I need space. I need silence. I need five damn minutes where I don’t feel like the world is tilting off its axis.

“Millie—” Sam’s voice behind me is soft, cautious. Like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

I whip around so fast the hem of my coat flares out. “Don’t.” My voice cracks on the word. “Don’t talk to me like you didn’t lie.”

Dean’s quiet. For once, he doesn’t have a comeback loaded, doesn’t try to throw out some half-assed joke to deflect the tension hanging between us like smoke.

Sam sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and takes a careful step forward. “I know you’re mad.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” I bite, crossing my arms tight over my chest. “You both promised—we made a promise—we wouldn’t keep secrets from each other.”

“And we meant it,” Sam says, voice low and urgent. “I just—we didn’t know what we were dealing with.”

“But you knew enough not to tell me.”

He winces, like the truth stings. Good. It should.

Dean clears his throat behind him. “Now’s not the time for this,” he mutters. “We’ve still got a monster out here, remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” I snap, spinning on my heel and marching forward again. The trees close in around us, skeletal and creaking. My hand twitches toward the hilt of my knife.

Sam hurries to catch up. “Millie, I swear—after this, after we kill it and get everyone out, I’ll tell you everything. Everything we know. No more secrets.”

I glance sideways at him. His face is drawn, dark circles under his eyes, jaw clenched like he’s barely holding himself together. I want to believe him. I really do. But it’s getting harder every time they decide I don’t need to know something ‘for my own good.’

Still… I nod, once. A sharp, jerky motion.

“Fine. After.” I push a low-hanging branch out of my way and duck under it. “But if either of you get yourself killed before then, I’m bringing back your ghost just to kick your ass.”

Dean lets out a low whistle. “She really is pissed.”

“You think?” I mutter under my breath.

We break through the trees, the tension between us doesn’t dissolve—it just threads tighter, tucked beneath our skin like wire.

“All right, listen up,” Sam starts, “It’s time to go. Things have gotten… more complicated.”

“What?” Haley stares at him like she’s waiting for the punchline. “No, we can’t just leave. You said you’d help me find my brother.”

Her voice trembles, but it’s not fear—it’s fury. The kind I know too well. The kind that digs in when the world takes someone you love and refuses to give them back.

Sam’s face softens. I see it—the guilt. The quiet way it settles in the lines at the corners of his mouth. “Haley, I meant what I said. We’re not giving up. But this thing… it’s not just a lost hiker or a bear. It’s worse. We don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”

Roy scoffs. Of course he does. He’s standing off to the side, arms crossed, puffed up like a damn rooster. “Kid, don’t worry. I can handle myself,” he says, chin up, chest out. “You guys think you’re the only ones who know how to survive in the woods?”

Dean raises a brow and steps past me, his boots thudding into the frozen dirt like punctuation. “Buddy, I’ve seen what’s out there. Trust me, it doesn’t give a damn how tough you think you are.”

Roy straightens, bristling. “So what, we’re just supposed to run back home with our tails tucked between out legs? Hide while you play hero?”

“No,” I snap before I can stop myself. “You’re supposed to get the hell out of the way so we don’t have to carry your corpse out with us.”

It hangs in the air, that word—corpse. I don’t flinch when I say it. Maybe I should. But I’m tired. Tired of watching people walk into danger like it’s their birthright. Like they’ll come out in one piece.

Haley steps in front of Roy before he can say anything stupid. “We’re not leaving without Tommy.”

“And we’re not saying you have to,” Sam replies, voice calm but firm. “We just need you to wait someplace safe. Let us handle what’s out there.”

Roy mutters something under his breath, but doesn’t argue. Maybe he’s smart enough to realize he’s in over his head. Maybe he just doesn’t want to get into it with Dean again.

I glance at Roy, “If you shoot this thing, you’re just gonna make it mad. We have to leave. Now.”

“One, you’re talking nonsense.” Roy snorts, “Two, you’re in no position to give anybody orders, Princess. I was hunting these woods when your mommy was still kissing you good night.”

Dean’s had enough.

He steps between us, body angled forward like a shield, and I can see the tension in his shoulders from here. His jaw ticks. His voice, when it comes, is low and dangerous—flat enough to make the air go still.

“This thing is a damn near perfect hunter,” he says, every word sharp as a blade. “It’s smarter than you. Stronger than you. It’s not gonna stop. It’s gonna track you, gut you, and eat you alive unless we get your stupid, sorry ass out of here.”

Roy laughs.

It’s not a nervous laugh, not even the bluster of someone trying to hide fear. It’s cocky. Full of the same kind of ignorance that gets people killed. His mouth twists like he thinks Dean’s bluffing, like this is all some big game.

“Oh, come on,” Roy says, shaking his head. “You really expect me to believe there’s some super-predator out there just waiting to pounce? You sound like a bad horror movie.”

Dean doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just takes a step closer. “You ever seen a man peeled like an orange?” he asks, voice cold enough to burn. “I have. Have you ever follow a trail of blood through six miles of woods and find a ribcage nailed to a tree? I have. I’ve seen enough bullshit in my life to make an old man like you cry yourself sleep every night. This thing’s not a story. It’s real. It’s out there. And right now, it knows exactly where we are.”

Chapter Text

The sun sinks low behind the trees, bleeding orange and gold through a mess of skeletal branches. Light lances across the forest floor, slicing shadows into sharp, uneven shapes. I can feel the shift in how the woods change when night draws close. The quiet deepens. The cold sharpens. Everything feels too still.

We’re not getting out tonight. We all know it. No one says it out loud.

I crouch in the dirt, fingers tight around the end of a broken stick, and start carving symbols into the ground. Broad curves. Angular lines. I work fast but precise, drawing from John’s journal and memory. Anasazi symbols for protection, originating from the Anasazi people who settled around the southwestern United States. If this is a wendigo, it won’t be able to cross over them. But if it isn’t, I add extra just in case. Wards for spirits, monsters, and things with teeth and claws that don’t care who you are or what your name is.

Dean kicks away a patch of dead leaves, clearing space for the last mark. He glances at me sideways as I draw, then stops. I can feel his stare.

“You’re laying it on pretty thick,” he mutters, not quite teasing. There’s tension under his voice, tight like a wire.

“Good.” I don’t look up. “Thick means safe.”

I switch sticks when the first one snaps, my hand already reaching for another. My palm’s got a blister forming, hot and raw, but I keep going—sigil after sigil, a lattice of protection circling our small camp like a net made of lines and willpower.

Sam watches me for a moment, quiet, before stepping back to the fire. It’s larger now, healthier-looking, with larger dead branches and wood. The tongues of flame are almost a foot tall and are nice and warm—it’ll help us get through the night.

Dean’s still frozen a second longer, eyes on the symbols, on me. I don’t know what he sees—just that something shifts behind his expression. The set of his jaw loosens. His shoulders pull back.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, finally sitting back on my heels. My voice is low and quiet as if the woods might hear me otherwise.

Dean doesn’t answer right away. His eyes track the symbols I’ve carved into the dirt, the interlocking patterns, the raw scrape-marks where the stick gouged too deep. The firelight flickers against the lines, casting them in long, wavering shadows. For a second, they look like they’re moving.

Finally, he exhales, slow and deliberate. “Nothing’s wrong. Just… I can feel it.”

I blink. “Feel what?”

He shrugs one shoulder, but it’s stiff. “Like the air got thicker. Heavier. I don’t know. Like we’re inside a bubble or something now, not just out in the woods.”

I nod once, more to myself than him. “Good. That means it’s working.”

Because that’s the point. The symbols aren’t just about keeping things out—they’re about making this space ours. About pushing back against the dark. Drawing lines that monsters can’t cross, no matter how strong. I press my fingers into the dirt one more time, tracing the final loop of a spiral.

Dean watches me lay the last one down, his brow knit like he’s not sure whether to be impressed or worried. Probably both.

The sun’s gone now. The last of the light fades from the sky in bruised purple streaks. Cold wraps around us, not biting exactly—more like it’s settling in, seeping under jackets, pressing into bones.

Sam walks back over, smelling faintly of smoke. “You really think this’ll hold?”

“If it doesn’t,” I say, brushing dirt from my knees as I stand, “then we’ve got bigger problems.”

He nods once. Doesn’t argue.

I glance around the circle. Every shadow beyond our warded perimeter feels like it’s watching. The woods have gone predator-quiet—no owls, no rustling branches, not even the creak of trees settling. Just the low crackle of the fire and the soft crunch of Dean’s boots as he moves to grab something near the fire.

Dean returns with a battered thermos, the metal scuffed and dented like it’s been through hell and back. He twists off the cap and pours steaming coffee into a chipped enamel mug, the kind we keep rattling around in the Impala’s trunk with salt rounds and other hunter junk.

He walks over to me slowly, like he’s weighing something as he comes, and hands me the mug without a word. The coffee smells strong enough to burn a hole through steel. 

He passes me a thermos. “Here. Coffee’s still warm.”

“Thanks.” I take it with both hands, fingers numb. The warmth seeps into my palms slow, like it’s got to fight its way through the cold that’s already claimed me.

It’s grounding. So is the way Dean lingers there next to me, just long enough to make sure I drink.

I take a careful sip, and it scalds my tongue. 

Behind us, Roy lets out a snort. “What is this, some kind of cult camping trip? Drawing symbols, muttering in the dirt, passing around your magic potion?”

Dean doesn’t even look at him. He just takes a long drink from his own mug and mutters, deadpan, “Nobody likes a skeptic, Roy.”

That’s Dean at his calmest, his most dangerous—casual, unimpressed, and one wrong word from breaking something over your head. Roy doesn’t get it. Most people don’t, not until it’s too late.

I glance at Roy. He’s leaning against a tree just outside the circle, arms crossed like he’s above all this. Like he’s still waiting for one of us to break character and laugh and admit it’s all a prank. I’m starting to hope the monster gets a whiff of him first.

“You laugh now,” I say, voice low and flat, “but when you’re screaming later, try to remember how funny it all seemed.”

Roy barks another laugh, like I just told the world’s most ridiculous joke. “Please. You people need therapy. Or maybe less caffeine.”

Dean exhales through his nose, just shy of a scoff. “Keep talking, Roy. See how far your ego gets you out here.”

Roy rolls his eyes and mutters something about ‘overdramatic survivalists,’ before stepping over to the fire. That tells me everything I need to know.

Dean sits beside me on a fallen log, the mug balanced on his knee. His eyes scan the treeline, methodical and slow. Watching for movement. For shadows that don’t match the trees they fall from. I follow his gaze, my hand tightening around the knife at my hip without even thinking.

The symbols are in place. The fire’s strong. We’re alert. Still, the woods feel wrong—too silent, too still. I don’t like this at all.

Sam’s still sitting apart, close enough to the fire for warmth but far enough away not to be a part of Haley and Ben’s conversation. His posture is hunched as he stares out at the darkness of the woods, not really seeing whatever it is he’s watching for.

I watch him for a long moment, then look at Dean. He’s already standing.

We step over together, crunching softly through frost-hardened leaves. Sam doesn’t look up, not until Dean squats down beside him, elbows on his knees, and asks: “You wanna tell me what’s going on in that freaky head of yours?”

Sam sighs and rubs his palms together, like that’ll somehow smooth out the tightness around his eyes. “Dean—”

“No, don’t even start,” Dean cuts in, “You’re not fine. You’re like a powder keg, man, it’s not like you. I’m supposed to be the belligerent one, remember?”

Sam scowls faintly. “Dad’s not here. I mean, that much we know for sure, right? He would have left us a message, a sign, right?”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Dean snorts. “Tell you the truth, I don’t think Dad’s ever been to Blackwater.”

“Then let’s get these people back to town and hit the road.” Sam huffs, growing more flustered by the mere mention of the man who raised us on the road. “Why are we still even here? Let’s go find Dad.”

Dean rises and moves to stand right in front of Sam. He holds up John’s journal with a look of determination, “This is why. This is Dad’s single most valuable possession—everything he knows about every evil thing is in here. And he’s passed it on to us. I think he wants us to pick up where he left off. You know, saving people, hunting things. The family business.”

I snort, and I hate that I do.

It’s not funny. It’s not even close to funny. But the sound rips out of me like it’s got teeth, bitter and uninvited. Dean glances at me, startled. Sam blinks like he forgot I was standing there.

“The family business,” I echo, the words sour on my tongue. “Like it’s some kind of inheritance. Like it’s what we wanted.”

Dean’s expression shifts, but I keep going. Not loud. Just sharp.

“You know what I used to think Dad’s most valuable possessions were?” I don’t wait for them to answer. “Us. His kids. Not the journal. Not the Colt. Not a list of monsters and lore he chased around the country like they owed him something.”

Silence stretches too tight between the three of us, like a rubber band pulled past its breaking point.

But I can’t stop now. Not when I’m already bleeding the truth.

“I wanted us to matter more to him than the job. I hoped we did.” I look down at the coffee in my hands, gone lukewarm. “But we didn’t. We don’t. And we’re not gonna magically start now. So stop acting like this is some noble legacy.”

Dean doesn’t look away, but his jaw ticks once, tight with whatever he’s not saying.

Sam’s voice is quiet when it comes. “Millie…”

“No,” I interrupt gently, shaking my head. “No, it’s okay. I know. I’m not asking either of you to fix it. We can’t change what he chose.” I suck in a cold breath, let it burn through my chest. “John sent us here to take care of this job on our own. So let’s take care of it. Let’s finish the job so no one else has to vanish into the dark, wondering why help never came.”

“We promised Haley that we’d find her brother,” Dean finally adds. “We owe it to her and Ben to see that promise through.”

The words he leaves unsaid hang between us, both Sam and I can feel it even if Dean thinks we can’t.

 “Guys, I can’t.” Sam shakes his head. “I gotta find Dad. I gotta find Jessica's killer. It’s the only thing I can think about.”

“Jessica?” I echo.

“His girlfriend,” Dean answers quickly, glancing at me. “It’s a long story, we’ll tell you later.” He turns back to Sam. “Okay, Sam, we’ll find them, I promise. Listen to me. But you’ve gotta prepare yourself. I mean, this search could take a while…” He pauses, trying to find what to say next, “All that anger you’ve got, you can’t keep it burning over the long haul. It’s gonna kill you. You gotta have patience, man.”

Sam scrubs a hand down his face, “How do you do it? How does Dad do it?”

“Well, for one, them.” Dean nods at Haley, Ben, and Roy sitting around the campfire. “We help others, save people, kill the bad things. It makes things a little more bearable knowing we can make a change. Plus, saving people feels good, y’know?”

“Dean’s right, Sam,” I nod, wrapping my arms around myself. Even after all these years, I can feel my own anger killing me slowly. I’ve tried to let it go. I’ve tried to move on. But with everything I know John has done and with everything I can see, it’s not that easy to do.

Sam nods, half-shrugging. He knows our words to be true, but it’s not like he’ll admit it out loud. Us Winchesters are too proud for that.

“I’ll tell you what else helps,” Dean adds, rising, “Killing as many evil sons of bitches as I possibly can.”

This makes Sam smile. His smile makes me smile, and it feels good. However, saving people, killing monsters, and drinking coffee by a fire with a shotgun across your lap is not enough to fill the hole John left behind. I don’t know if any of us will be able to heal that hole, but having each other does make it a little more bearable.

I take another sip of the lukewarm coffee, finishing it off, and close my eyes for a second. I breathe in the scent of fresh pine and campfire smoke.

And then—

Snap.

A twig. Sharp, deliberate. Too close.

My eyes fly open. Sam is already on his feet. Dean’s hand drops to his sidearm in one fluid, practiced motion. My own hand goes to my knife, fingers curling around the worn leather grip like it’s a lifeline.

Then the voice comes again—high-pitched, panicked, wrong.

“Help me! Please—somebody, help!”

It echoes through the trees, bouncing from trunk to trunk like it’s trying to find the quickest way in. It sounds human, but we know it isn’t.

Dean lifts his chin, scanning the woods, eyes sharp and narrowed. “That’s not Haley’s brother.”

“No,” I whisper, already backing toward the sigil line. “It’s not anyone.”

Sam swings his flashlight in a wide arc. The beam cuts through the trees, slicing into shadows. Nothing. But that only makes it worse.

“Millie?” Dean says, low and tight. “Your circle holding?”

I glance at the sigils, quickly scanning for any broken lines, any smudged symbols. They’re intact. Strong. Still glowing faintly in the firelight like they’ve soaked up something real.

“It’s holding,” I whisper. “But it wants us to think it’s not. It’s trying to draw us away from the camp.”

“Somebody, help me, please!”

Roy’s head jerks up. “What the hell was that?”

Haley and Ben go quiet, wide-eyed. The fire crackles too loudly in the silence.

Then something thuds—heavy—just beyond the treeline. A branch creaks, then snaps. Something big moves just outside the reach of the light.

Ben gasps, and Haley pulls him in close. Roy’s muttering now, curse words and prayers in equal measure, but I don’t care what he’s saying—only where he’s standing.

“Back up,” I hiss. “Roy, get inside the circle.”

He doesn’t listen. Doesn’t move.

“Get inside the circle!” Dean shouts, “It’s trying to draw us out. Just stay cool, stay put.”

Roy scoffs, “Inside the magic circle?”

“Help! Help me!” The thing shouts again.

Sam’s flashlight jerks to the left, and I catch the movement just in time—something pale ducking behind a tree. It’s fast, unnaturally so. I don’t get a good look, but I feel it watching.

With the light, it growls.

“That’s no grizzly.” Roy grunts.

“That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you,” I grumble.

The thing circles us slowly, deliberately, always staying just out of view. I can hear it dragging its claws through bark, the groan of trees under a weight they were never meant to bear.

“Help me,” the voice comes again, now from the other side of the clearing.

Dean raises his gun. Sam swings the flashlight back.

Nothing.

Haley pulls her brother close, “It’s okay. You’ll be all right, I promise.” Her voice is shaky, but her grip is firm.

Something rushes around our backsides, disturbing the bushes and causing a slight breeze. Haley shrieks, but puts herself between the thing and Ben. She’s definitely the oldest.

“It’s testing the line,” Sam says, voice low. “Trying to find a weak spot.”

“It won’t find one,” I reply. I know my wards. I know my sigils. I learned them from the best. Nothing can get through them unless I want it to.

Dean steps closer to the fire, speaking to Haley and Ben. “Everyone stays inside the line,” he says. “You cross that line, I can’t help you. Got it?”

They all nod—Ben trembling, Haley tight-lipped, and Roy… Roy. He scoffs.

“Right.” He shakes his head.

The wendigo moves again.

Roy raises his gun and fires into the dark. The first shot misses.

The second doesn’t.

The wendigo’s scream this time is guttural, like fire burning through flesh. It tears through the trees and straight through my bones. Haley clamps a hand over Ben’s ears. I catch sight of her grabbing a branch from the fire—its end charred, glowing faintly red with embers. She holds it like a short sword. Smart girl.

Dean shouts, “Roy! Stay put!”

But Roy doesn’t listen. He breaks off from the firelight, charging into the trees like he’s on some solo mission from God. The glow of his flashlight bobs wildly for a second—then vanishes.

“Dammit,” Dean snaps, and bolts after him without hesitation.

I grab his jacket just before he disappears into the woods. “Don’t go too far.”

He nods once—barely a motion—and then he’s gone.

I’m left with Sam, Haley, and Ben, the fire behind us flickering against the swirling dark. My pulse is a drumbeat in my throat. The wendigo’s still out there—hurt, maybe, but definitely not dead.

We wait. Every second stretches into an eternity.

Then—nothing.

No more screams. No gunshots. No footsteps. Just silence again, thick and cloying.

Minutes pass.

Dean comes back alone.

He strides into the firelight fast, eyes scanning us all like he’s counting heads.

“Where’s Roy?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

Dean just shakes his head, jaw clenched. “He’s gone.”

My stomach turns cold. Roy was an asshole, sure. But nobody deserves to die by a monster, no matter how much they were asking for it.

Haley makes a small noise behind me and I glance over to see her clutching Ben to her side, her knuckles white where she grips his coat and the smoldering branch. The fire crackles behind them, but it’s not enough to keep the night out.

“He’s not dead,” Haley says, “He can’t be. We’ll find him.”

I want to tell her she’s right. That we’ll save him. But the words won’t come. I can’t lie to her. Not after hearing that scream. No, the wendigo was wounded. And a skilled hunter like that—a smart hunter like that—it’ll want to make sure that nothing can hurt it like that ever again.

So I just nod slowly, the lie sitting heavy on my tongue, unspoken.

“We’ll keep watch,” Sam says, his voice low, measured, trying to give her something to hold onto. “In shifts. Best thing we can do right now is stay alive ‘til morning.”

Dean’s still standing, pacing a little at the edge of the firelight. He’s on edge—more than usual. He hates this part. The waiting. The helplessness. But he doesn’t argue. He just throws a glance at me, and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am: that thing out there’s not done yet.

“I’ll take first shift,” Dean says, squaring his shoulders like he can carry the whole night himself. Of course he does.

I step up beside him. “Not alone, you won’t.” I meet his eyes. “We tag in, we tag out. No heroes.”

He gives me this look—half annoyed, half something else. “Mills, get some rest. You’re not used to the hunter lifestyle yet.”

I glare at him. “Who said I wasn’t used to it?”

“We do,” Sam cuts in. “You’re not used to the hours.”

“You both break into my apartment after eight or so years and I take both of you down in under a minute and I’m the one who isn’t used to the lifestyle. Sure.” I nod, glancing between the two of them. “Sam, you’ve been having nightmares non-stop since we’ve been on the road, and Dean, well, you’ve been Dean. And both of you have yet to tell why the hell we’re out here and who the hell is Jessica!”

This silences them for a moment.

It hangs between us thicker than the anticipation of being hunted by a monster.

“Millie, please.” Sam pleads, voice gone soft. “Let us take the first shifts. We promise we’ll wake you when it’s you’re time.” His voice cuts through all the firelight and bravado, soft and familiar, and for a moment I’m not in the middle of a forest waiting to die. I’m fifteen again, listening to Sammy ask me not to tell Dad he left the motel room while we were supposed to be laying low.

“Please.”

That single word, coming from Sam, has always been my kryptonite. It’s not just that he sounds sincere—it’s that he is sincere. Still that same kid who never liked lying, never liked fighting unless he had to. Still the same kid who used to leave little sticky notes on my books with dumb facts about space because he thought it’d make me smile.

I breathe out slow and let my glare soften. “Fine,” I say, quieter now. “But only if you actually wake me up when it’s my turn. No pulling a Dean and trying to carry the whole damn night like some martyr.”

Dean makes a noise like he’s about to protest, but Sam holds up a hand before he can start.

“You got it,” Sam says, and his mouth twitches into the ghost of a smile. “Scout’s honor.”

I snort, though the sound is more tired than amused. “You were never a scout.”

He shrugs. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

We get Haley and Ben settled as best we can first, near the fire. Haley’s eyes keep drifting to the trees. I see her lips moving, maybe a prayer or maybe just her brother’s name. Ben’s curled up against her, silent, fidgeting with his jacket’s zipper.

I walk back toward the pile of shredded camping gear, kicking aside a small branch and laying it down near the fire. The ground’s not soft, not warm, not remotely comfortable—but right now it looks like heaven. I sit first, knees protesting from the tension and the cold, and then slowly lie back, eyes on the treetops overhead. They look like teeth from this angle, sharp and endless and black against the sky.

The fire cracks once, loud, and I flinch.

“You sure you’re good?” Dean calls, hovering at the edge of the firelight.

“No,” I answer honestly. “But I’m going to sleep anyway.”

I close my eyes before either of them can say more. I know I hit a nerve. I saw it in the way Dean’s shoulders stiffened when I said Jessica’s name. And Sam—he looked like I’d kicked the air out of his lungs.

I hadn’t meant to throw it in their faces. I’d just… snapped. Maybe I’m sore that they refused to tell me right away. Maybe I’m sore that they still refuse to tell me. I feel bad about it now. I didn’t mean to hurt them. Especially not Sam.

My fingers twitch against the cold ground as I lie there, listening to the quiet murmur of Dean and Sam switching shifts and checking gear. I want to say something. Sorry, maybe. Or I’m scared, too. But my mouth doesn’t move. It’s been too long since I’ve really talked to them—really trusted them with what’s going on in my head. And now it feels like we’re all walking on eggshells, just waiting for the next thing to crack.

But despite the dread curling in my gut and the ache in my chest, sleep creeps in anyway. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the weight of finally saying something out loud. Maybe it’s just that I trust Sam and Dean to keep watch, even if I don’t say it out loud.

The fire snaps again.

And this time, I don’t flinch.

The last thing I remember is the sound of Dean’s boots shifting in the dirt and Sam’s voice low and steady, murmuring something I can’t quite make out.

Then darkness. But not the kind that hunts. The kind that holds gently.

Chapter Text

Something warm is draped over my shoulders.

For a moment, I’m in my bed with my mountain of blankets piled on top of me, but then my fingers brush the edge of a leather collar. I blink myself awake and find Dean’s jacket snug around me, smelling like cheap cologne, gun oil, and something faintly like spearmint.

It’s still dark. The kind of deep, starless dark that presses in on you from all sides. The fire’s burned low, just faint orange coals nestled in ashen logs. Shadows stretch long between the trees, unmoving.

Dean’s a few feet away, slumped against the thick trunk of a pine, legs splayed out in front of him. His head is tipped to the side, chin tucked slightly like he fought sleep and lost. His arms and legs are crossed, and he looks mostly peaceful, but the tension in his brow says otherwise.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice is soft, and I turn toward it just as he steps closer, careful not to wake Dean. There’s a tired sort of calm in his face, his features lit faintly by the fire’s glow. “Figured you’d want your shift.”

I rub the sleep from my eyes with the back of one hand and push up onto my elbows, the jacket sliding down to my waist. My whole body aches in that dull, cold way that sleeping outside always brings. But at least I slept.

“How long till dawn?” I murmur.

“Few hours,” Sam says, glancing up through the canopy. “I’m going to try to get a couple more hours myself.”

I nod and glance toward the trees. No birdsong. No wind. Just that same choking silence. It’s wrong. The forest should be alive by now—crickets, rustling leaves, something. But it’s dead still.

Sam notices my pause and lowers his voice. “No disturbances. Not since Roy.” A flicker of something—regret, maybe—crosses his face. “We haven’t seen or heard anything. Either it’s licking its wounds, or it’s waiting.”

I nod slowly, pushing up to my feet. My boots feel stiff, legs sluggish, but the waking adrenaline starts to creep back in as I shrug Dean’s jacket more firmly onto my shoulders. It’s heavier than mine, worn and a little too big, but it’s warm.

“You get some rest,” I say, motioning toward a patch of flat earth near the fire. “Tag out. I’ve got it.”

Sam hesitates, but then he catches the look in my eyes and gives a small nod. He reaches out briefly, squeezing my shoulder in that quiet, brotherly way.

He moves over to the fire and lowers himself down, one eye still half on me even as he stretches out.

I settle beside the fire, knife in hand, eyes scanning the tree line. I’m not scared. I have nothing to worry about. The circle of sigils I draw will hold until the next rain, and it doesn’t seem like it’ll rain anytime within the next day or so. Besides, if anything were to happen, I’ve at least got a weapon and two brothers who’d do anything for me (and I them). We’re safe.

Eventually, the quiet starts to lift.

It’s not a sound, not really. Just the change in the darkness. A shift in the shadows, a faint red glow starting to peek over the horizon. Still no birds. Still no wind. But dawn’s coming.

I nudge the fire back to life with a stick, stirring the embers until they glow like coals in a forge. The warmth’s minimal, but it helps a little. I set the small camping kettle over the fire, the last of our water already inside. I found a pack of instant coffee in Dean’s duffel—cheap gas station stuff, but I’m not in a position to be picky. None of us are.

Behind me, someone stirs. Haley.

She blinks against the dim light, eyes shadowed, hair tangled. She looks like she didn’t really sleep. Can’t blame her. Her little brother is curled beside her, still sleeping soundly, the heat from the coals keeping the worst of the cold at bay.

I offer her a small nod as she sits up. “Coffee’ll be ready in a few.”

She gives me a look—part gratitude, part disbelief. “Thanks.”

We sit in silence for a minute, just the fire crackling between us. Then she says it, voice hushed and raw: “This is crazy.”

I don’t say anything. Just wait.

“These kinds of things… they aren’t supposed to be real.” Her hands are curled tight in her lap, knuckles pale. “Monsters. Creatures that hunt people. I used to think the worst thing that could happen on a hiking trip was getting lost. Or breaking an ankle. Not… this.” She looks up at me, eyes wide. Searching.

“I know,” I say, because I do. Because I’ve been there. I grew up in this. “It’s like the world splits in half, and you’re stuck between the one you thought you lived in and the one that’s always been underneath it.”

Dean shifts behind us, waking slowly. He grunts and rolls his shoulders, blinking groggily before pulling himself upright.

He catches the tail end of our conversation and walks over, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he says, voice low and rough with sleep. “It’s a hell of a thing.”

Haley looks at him. “So that thing out there… it’s real. Like really real. It took my brother.”

Dean doesn’t flinch, doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Yeah,” he says again. “It did.”

She swallows hard. I see the tremble in her shoulders before she squares them.

“But we’ll get him back,” Dean adds, softer now. “If there’s a chance, we’ll find him. And if not…” His eyes meet hers, steady, resolute. “We make sure it doesn’t do this to anyone else.”

Haley looks away, blinking fast. “You talk like you’ve done this before.”

Dean’s quiet for a moment, then shrugs. “It’s kinda our job. Everything you think doesn’t exist, does—except Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.”

I snort and pour the now hot coffee into a couple of dented tin mugs and pass one to her. She takes it with both hands, like it’s a lifeline. Dean accepts the other with a grateful grunt.

“You okay?” he asks me, voice low as he steps closer.

“Dandy, all things considered,” I murmur, not looking away from the tree line. “Nothing’s moved.”

“Great,” Dean mutters. He takes a long sip of the coffee, grimaces. “God, that’s awful.”

I smirk. “You’re welcome.”

The woods are still unnaturally quiet, but the dark is thinning now, edges glowing faintly with the first hints of sunrise. A new day. Same monster.

Haley shifts her weight, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed, tired but alert. I can see the question forming before she says it—see the way she stares too long at the trees, the way her hand creeps closer to Ben without waking him.

“Do you think it’s… still watching us?” she asks, barely above a whisper.

Dean doesn’t answer right away. His jaw flexes, his mug halfway to his mouth. Then he lowers it, the steam rising between us.

“We don’t know,” he says honestly, voice low, eyes on the dark beyond the fire’s reach. “Could be gone. Could be circling. Could be waiting.”

Haley’s breath catches, like the answer hurts even if she expected it.

She looks at me next, her voice steadier this time. “How do you know about all this? All of you? How do you know what to do?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? I pause, fingers tightening around the mug in my hands. The warmth has seeped into my skin by now, but I feel cold anyway. I glance at Dean. He’s quiet, watching me carefully, giving me the space to answer or not.

I look back at Haley.

“We grew up with it,” I say finally, grimacing as the words leave my mouth. I wish I could give her some other answer. Something braver. Cleaner. But that’s the truth. Ugly and real.

Haley blinks. “You… what?”

“We didn’t have bedtime stories,” I murmur. “We had silver bullets and salt lines. My first time seeing a monster, I was younger than Ben. Hell, I was younger than kids barely out of pull-ups.”

Her face twists in disbelief and sympathy, both. “That’s… that’s awful.”

I shrug, like it doesn’t sting. But it does. “It’s just the way it was. The job is kind of our family business. It isn’t the kind you can quit… Not really.”

Dean’s silent next to me, but I feel the weight of his presence and his eyes boring holes into the side of my head. He gets it. He’s lived it. But he’ll never know that I can never leave the life, no matter how much I try or pretend to be normal.

“We weren’t supposed to have to do this,” I add after a beat. “We were kids. We should’ve been worried about curfews and math tests. Instead, we learned how to stitch wounds in motel bathrooms and track things that go bump in the night.”

Haley stares down into her coffee, eyes hollow. “And you’re still doing it.”

“Someone has to,” Dean mutters finally, voice low but firm. “Monsters don’t take breaks. And most people don’t even know what’s out there until it’s too late.”

I glance toward the trees again. Still quiet. Still too quiet.

Haley’s lips press into a thin line. Her hands tremble slightly around the mug. “I just want my brother back.”

“We know,” I say. I know. And I do. God, I do. Because I’ve spent most of my life chasing ghosts—some metaphorical, some very real—just trying to get back what we lost and will never know. “We’re gonna do everything we can,” I promise. My voice comes out rougher than I mean for it to, but I hold her gaze. “No matter what.”

She nods.

Behind me, I hear the faint scrape of boots against earth, the soft creak of knees stiff from sleep. Sam pushes himself upright with a groan and stretches out the stiffness. He joins us at the embers, accepting the last mug of coffee—lukewarm and barely drinkable. He takes it from my hand without a word, fingers brushing mine in that brief, grounding way only a sibling can manage.

The six of us sit there in the cold morning stillness, each of us watching the trees like they might suddenly reach out and snatch us as we finish each of our beverages.

It burns on the way down, bitter and horrible.

But it’s warm.

And we made it through the night.

Dean squints into the pale blue edge of morning. “So,” he says, voice rasping as he exhales, “we’ve got half a chance in the daylight, which isn’t much, but I’ll take it.” He glances at us, something steely and dark flickering behind his eyes. “But I for one want to kill this evil son of a bitch.”

Sam takes a sip of coffee, grimaces, then nods. “Agreed.”

And just like that, the plan spins on its axis.

“Wait. Hold up.” My voice cuts the morning quiet like a knife, low and sharp, as I narrow my eyes at the two of them. “Both of you were all about getting Haley and Ben back to town. Now you want to hunt the damn thing?”

Sam doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze drops to the fire.

Dean’s jaw ticks.

“Well?” I press. “What changed?”

Dean huffs through his nose and wipes a hand across his face. “It killed Roy, for one. And two, that kid—Tommy—out there might still be alive. And if he is, he doesn’t have long.”

“Roy had it coming. The guy was a dick.” I stare at him. “And you don’t know that Tommy’s even still alive.”

“No, I don’t,” Dean snaps, then reins himself in. He lowers his voice. “But we owe it to them to try. And if it’s already too late…”

“Then we make damn sure this thing doesn’t get another shot,” Sam finishes, voice grim.

I fold my arms, heart beating faster now. “And what about Haley and Ben? What if it comes back while we’re out playing bait in the woods?”

“We’re coming with you.” Haley cuts in, glaring at me. “I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again. I’m not leaving my brother out here.”

I blink at Haley. Her voice doesn’t waver—if anything, it’s stronger than it was a few moments ago. Ben stirs beside her, rubbing at his eyes, but she keeps her focus steady, like she’s daring us to try and argue her down.

“You don’t understand,” I shake my head. “This thing… It’s not a bear or some psycho in the woods. It’s faster. Stronger. Smarter. If it wants you dead, it’ll happen before you even see it coming.”

“I don’t care,” she shoots back. “He’s my brother. And if he’s out there, I’m going after him. I don’t care if you think it’s impossible.” Her hands tremble, knuckles white around her mug, but her eyes are steel.

Sam sighs, running a hand over his face. “Haley, I get it. Believe me, I do. But you’ve got a kid-brother to look after. You think you’re helping him by dragging him along into a death trap?”

Her chin lifts. “If it were your family out there, would you just sit by and let strangers do the work?”

That shuts him up for a beat.

Dean clears his throat softly. “She has a point.” His voice is calm, measured, like he’s thought this through. “If it were Dad, or…” His voice catches, almost imperceptibly as he glances at Sam. “Jess—we’d have wanted to be there, no matter the risk.”

My stomach twists. There it is again—that name. Jess. I bite my tongue. This isn’t the moment.

Dean finally exhales, looking from Haley to Ben to the endless wall of trees. He shakes his head slowly. “You people are stubborn, you know that?” His mouth quirks, but it’s humorless. “Fine. But you do what I say. No heroics, no wandering off, no playing soldier. You stay with me, or I swear I’ll tie you to a tree myself.”

Haley nods, quick and fierce, like she’s just been handed a weapon.

I sip the dregs of my coffee, bitter mud at the bottom, and watch the three of them. Sam and Dean, facing Haley like it’s an argument they’ve already had a hundred times. Perhaps with each other. Perhaps about me.

Haley remains unflinching as her eyes blaze the same way I’ve seen my brothers’ do when the word family gets thrown into the fire. It hits me then, harder than the caffeine ever could: this is what they all have in common. This is what drives them. This is what drives us. We would walk into the jaws of hell for the people we love, even if it kills us.

The fire pops, sending a tiny flare into the brightening sky. My heart thuds in my chest, not from fear, but from the understanding that this—this stubbornness, this refusal to let go—is the only thing keeping us all alive.

Or leading us to our death. There’s no way of really telling.

Sam’s the first to break the silence, his voice low and measured, like he’s trying not to spook anyone more than they already are. “Alright,” he says, exhaling. “Dad’s journal—it mentions something. The word that makes up this monster’s name is Cree. Means ‘evil that devours.’”

The crackle of the dying fire fills the space after his words. Ben shifts closer to Haley.

Dean leans forward on the log, elbows to his knees, eyes on the flames but voice pitched toward them. “These things—they’re old. Hundreds of years, sometimes. Every one of them was human once. Could’ve been an Indian, a frontiersman, a miner, a hunter.”

Haley blinks, shaking her head slowly. “Wait. You’re saying—how does a man turn into one of those things?”

Sam folds his arms across his chest, calm as a professor explaining a grim lesson. “Happens in the dead of winter. A guy gets stranded, starving, cut off from help. To survive, he turns cannibal—eats the people he’s with. And that hunger, it… changes him. Twists him until he’s not human anymore.”

Ben, quiet up to now, pipes up in a small voice, “Like the Donner Party.”

“Exactly,” Dean says, pointing at him like he’s nailed the right answer in class. His mouth twists after, not quite a smile, more like he hates being right about it.

The forest creaks around us as though it’s listening. A wind picks up through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and something colder, sharper, almost metallic. I rub my hands together against the chill, but it’s not just the air—it’s the thought of men becoming monsters, hunger becoming eternity. Who would want to live like that?

The embers have burned down to barely glowing ash, a stream of smoke wafting up from it periodically. I try to scoot closer to the warmth, but the cold damp of the forest creeps into my bones anyway. Dean paces at the edge of camp, restless, while Sam hunches over Dad’s leather-bound journal, thumbing through pages filled with cramped notes and faded sketches.

Sam clears his throat. “Cultures all over the world believe that eating human flesh gives a person certain abilities. Speed, strength, immortality…” He flips through John’s journal. “If you eat enough of it, over the years, you become this less-than-human thing. The hunger never goes away. It’s all that’s left.”

The words hang heavy in the air, heavier than the smoke. Haley’s sitting on a fallen log next to Ben, a empty tin mug clasped between her hands. “If that’s true,” she says, voice trembling at the edges, “how can Tommy still be alive?”

My stomach twists. I know where this is going before anyone answers.

Dean stops pacing, turns toward her. “You’re not gonna like it.” His tone is flat, blunt—like ripping off a bandage, like he can’t afford to soften the truth.

Haley’s eyes go wide, searching his face for an answer he’s not willing to give outright. Ben curls into her side, too quiet, like he already understands more than he should for a kid his age.

“Tell me.” Haley demands.

The forest groans around us, branches creaking like bones, and suddenly the silence feels alive—watching, waiting.

“More than anything,” Dena begins, running a hand through his hair, “a wendigo knows how to last long winters without food. It hibernates for years at a time, but when it’s awake, it keeps its victims alive. It, uh, it stores them, so it can feed whenever it wants. If your brother’s alive, it’s keeping him somewhere hidden and dark.”

The words stick in the air like frost.

Haley doesn’t breathe for a moment. Her lips part, her mug trembling in her hands. Ben presses his face harder into her side, like if he hides deep enough, none of this can be true.

“That’s…” Haley swallows hard, eyes wide and wet. “That’s sick.”

Dean doesn’t argue. He just gives a small, grim nod, the kind that says yeah, and it’s worse than you think. His arms cross over his chest, shoulders rigid like he’s holding something back.

Sam shuts Dad’s journal with a soft thump, his fingers lingering on the cover. “We gotta track it back to wherever it’s hiding.”

Haley straightens, shaky but fierce. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

“Slow down,” I cut in, shaking my head. “This thing isn’t stupid. If we go charging through the trees screaming Tommy’s name, we’re handing ourselves over on a silver platter.”

Haley shoots me a sharp look. “So what? We just sit here while he’s out there?”

“Listen,” Dean steps forward, voice low, steady, the kind of voice that could talk you through a car wreck. “Nobody’s saying we won’t find him. But you rush this, you get yourself killed. You get your brother killed. You get all of us killed.”

“Then how do we stop it?” She askes, voice barely above a whisper.

Dean doesn’t answer right away. He walks over to his duffel instead, crouches down, and starts digging through it. The clink of metal, the rustle of fabric. Haley watches him like she’s waiting for some kind of miracle weapon, some holy relic that’ll make this nightmare make sense.

But there isn’t one.

Dean stands and turns back toward us, something clenched in his fist. His eyes are hard when they meet mine, then shift to Haley’s.

“Well,” he says, voice flat but with that grim edge of determination. “Guns are useless. So are knives. Basically—” He lifts his hand, one object at a time—the can of lighter fluid, the empty beer bottle, the strip of white cloth he’d torn from somewhere. “We gotta torch the sucker.”

The words drop like stones in the silence.

The bottle glints in the weak morning light, cheap glass refracting the fire’s glow. The cloth flutters faintly in the breeze, white against Dean’s rough fingers. And the lighter fluid—well, I can smell it from here, sharp and chemical, promising fire and ash.

Haley stares at him, blinking like she didn’t hear him right. “Burn it?”

Dean gives a short nod, nothing more.

I swallow, the back of my throat suddenly dry. Of course it’s fire. Always fire. Fire cleanses, fire destroys. I should’ve guessed.

Sam shifts beside me, his voice quiet but steady as he picks up where Dean leaves off. “It’s the only way to kill it. The hunger, the speed, the strength—it doesn’t matter. They all burn.”

Haley swallows, clutching Ben tighter against her side. Her voice shakes. “You’re saying… my brother, if we find him—he’ll be—”

“No.” Dean cuts her off, firm, almost sharp. “If your brother’s still alive, we’ll get him out. But the thing that’s hunting him? That thing dies in fire. It’s the only way.”