CHAPTER 1 | The Knock at the Door

Family doesn't always knock gently. Sometimes, it shows up on your doorstep with questions, a name, and eyes that echo ghosts from the past.

Word Count: 5.1K

TW: mild language, brief mentions of death and abuse

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    The doorbell rings. Sam looks up from his laptop, fingers pausing mid-keystroke. A low hum of wind moves through the open window behind him, rustling the edge of an old, dog-eared paper on his desk. He frowns. No one was supposed to come by today. Outside, the street is quiet—too quiet. No car doors, footsteps, or distant hum of a delivery truck. Just that low whisper of wind and the uneasy silence pressing against the walls. He hasn't felt it in years—that prickle at the back of his neck, like the universe has just shifted its weight and is looking directly at him. The last time he'd felt it, Dean had been beside him, smirking with a sawed-off in hand, ready for whatever stepped out of the shadows. That memory ghosts through him as he stands.

    The room around him is unassuming, filled with soft light, the subtle clutter of a retired life: a half-finished cup of coffee, a couple of dog toys near the door, notes and printed forms scattered across the table. Just another quiet day working from home—notating paperwork, writing emails, dodging phone calls. And yet… his gut says otherwise.

He moves toward the door, careful and slow, not out of fear—but out of old, worn habit. His heart thuds in his chest, steady and sharp, like it used to before a hunt. The floor creaks beneath his weight. He pauses with his hand on the knob. A deep breath. Then he opens the door.

    A young woman stands on the porch, backlit by the early afternoon sun. She looks to be in her early twenties, with dirty blonde hair falling around her shoulders in messy waves. Her green eyes lock onto his with something between hesitation and resolve. Her arms are crossed loosely across her chest, not in defiance—but like armor. Sam's pulse skips. She doesn't look threatening—but she doesn't look like someone selling solar panels.

    "Can I help you?" he asks, his tone low, careful.

    She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. "Uh… yeah. I hope so. My name is Eleanor Branscomb. I'm looking for Sam Winchester."

    The name hangs in the air like a whisper from the past. Sam blinks, then narrows his eyes. "You're looking for me?"

    She nods. "Yeah. I hope you don't think this is weird. I… I found your name while searching for my father. His name's Dean Winchester. I think he's your brother." Her voice wavers, like she'd practiced it a dozen times but still isn't sure it would land. Her fingers clench around the strap of her bag, knuckles white.

Dean.

    Hearing the name out loud is like stepping into a memory—sharp and sudden. Sam's chest tightens, and his stomach drops with a familiar tension. He's heard things like this before. People show up with stories, names, and half-truths designed to crack open trust just wide enough to cause damage. Demons. Shifters. Liars who look you in the eye while they twist the knife.

    His jaw sets as he takes a breath. "Dean Winchester," he repeats slowly, his tone guarded.

    Eleanor nods again, more hesitant now. "I know this must sound… strange. I never knew him. I mean, I didn't even know who he was until a couple weeks ago. I just found out… about him… and I want to meet him. Since you were the only living relative with a listed address, I thought you might know where he is."

    Sam observes her, every instinct sharpening. Her story tracks—on the surface—but trust is earned, not handed out. Still, something about her feels... unpolished. Real. Not crafted. After a long pause, he steps aside. "Come in."

    She crosses the threshold like she is entering holy ground, careful and quiet. Sam doesn't offer small talk. He moves toward the kitchen without a word. The living room is warmly lit and decorated with quiet normalcy—framed photos on the wall, the smell of brewed coffee lingering in the air. Nellie stands awkwardly as if waiting to be told where to go.

    "Couch is fine," Sam mutters, already halfway to the cabinets.

    The young woman sits at the edge of the cushion, her back straight, bag still on her shoulder. Her eyes scan the room, trying not to look like she is. In the kitchen, Sam reaches behind a stack of mugs for the small, dented silver flask. The action is muscle memory. He turns on the sink, fills a glass, and mixes the holy water carefully. Casual. Controlled.

When he returns, he hands her the glass, deliberately flashing the silver ring on his finger. She accepts it, her fingers brushing his. No flinch. No burn. She sips without hesitation. That doesn't prove she is harmless—but it meant something. Sam sits across from her, still watching. Still waiting.

    "So, Eleanor—"

    "Call me Nellie," she interrupts quickly, too quickly. There is something raw in how she says it, like her full name scratches at something she hasn't dealt with yet.

    Sam gives a slight nod. "Alright. Nellie. Tell me a bit about yourself."

    "I live in Lockhart, Texas. My mom's also named Eleanor, so I go by Nellie. I work at the diner down the road and do some odd jobs here and there. Nothing exciting." She shrugs, trying to sound indifferent, but Sam can hear the nerves in her voice. "It's a quiet town."

    He nods slowly, filing away details for later. "And you just recently found out about Dean?"

    Nellie sets the glass on the coffee table, her gaze flicking to the rug. "Yeah. A couple months ago. My mom… she never wanted to talk about him. Made him sound like someone I didn't need to know. But I wanted answers. So, I took one of those DNA kits." She pauses. "Didn't expect it to lead me here."

Sam studies her. The holy water test hadn't revealed anything—and she hadn't flinched at the silver ring. No supernatural reaction. But he knows better than to let his guard down completely. Still… something in her eyes reminds him of someone he never thought he'd see again. "Do you have the results?" he asks carefully.

Nellie bobs her head, her fingers fumbling slightly as she digs into the bag slung across her shoulder. She pulls out a slim folder and holds it out to him, the hesitation in her movement almost apologetic.

    Sam takes it, flips it open, and scans the pages. His eyes move line by line—trained, deliberate. Government logos. Lab results. A match flagged in bold. It looks real. Almost too real. He'd seen his fair share of papers like this—most of them fake. Hell, he'd made more than a few in motel rooms with Dean and a busted laminator. Back then, it had been about getting through locked doors, posing as agents, bluffing his way past local cops. Now? He isn't sure if he wants these papers to be authentic—or not. His fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the folder. Its weight is heavier than it should have been.

    "This…" he mutters, mostly to himself, "this all looks real." He looks up at her—really looks—and this time, his suspicion gives way to something more complicated. "Dean… really is your father."

    Nellie's breath hitches. Her shoulders ease just slightly like she'd been holding her muscles tight the entire drive here. "So… can you tell me where he is?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper. "Is he okay?"

    Sam's throat tightens. Here it is. The moment the truth will hit her harder than any monster ever could.

    "I'm not going to lie to you," he says, voice low and honest. "Dean passed away a few years ago."

    The words fall heavy in the room. Nellie freezes, then looks away, like the news has short-circuited her thoughts. She stares at the floor, lips parting slightly. The relief that had started to bloom just moments ago shatters like glass.

    "He's… dead?" she says as if trying to make her mouth form the shape of a truth she doesn't want.

    Sam nods. "Yeah. It was hard. For everyone. But he was a good man. Lived life on his own terms—fiercely."

    Nellie blinks quickly, but a tear slips down her cheek anyway. She brushes it away angrily, shaking her head. "I never even got to meet him," she speaks softly. "He never knew I existed."

    Sam leans back slightly, staring at her—not just at her, but into her. That same grief he'd seen in Dean. That stubborn strength wrapped in sadness. She looks like she is holding herself together by a thread. The silence between them stretches out. Heavy. Unspoken things floating in the air—what might have been, what is lost too soon.

    Then, quietly, Nellie stands. She adjusts the shoulder bag strap and casts her eyes on the floor. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I didn't mean to waste your time. I'm just gonna go."

She turns quickly, heading for the door like it is the only solid thing left in the world.

    "Wait."

    Sam is on his feet before he knows he's moving. He reaches out and gently catches her wrist. She flinches, startled—but doesn't pull away. Her eyes flick up to his, wide and brimming with confusion. Realizing himself, Sam immediately lets go, his hand falling back to his side.

    "I'm sorry," he says, his voice softer now. "I just… I didn't want you to leave like this."

    Nellie's breath hitches, but she doesn't speak.

    Sam takes a careful step closer. "I know it's a lot. And losing a family member, you never got to meet… that's its own kind of pain. It lingers. And it burns." He paused, eyes never leaving hers. "You didn't waste my time, Nellie. Not even close."

    She blinks, her face crumbling just slightly like she doesn't know how to hold this moment.

    "I know I came off cold," Sam continues. "But when you showed up here, I thought it was some trick. I didn't know what to believe. My brother... he meant the world to me. And after losing him, I spent years trying to let go." His voice catches, and he clears his throat before finishing. "Then you showed up. A part of him that's still here. Still breathing. And if that's not worth holding on to…" He shakes his head. "Then what the hell is?"

    Her eyes shimmer again, and this time, she doesn't try to stop the tears.

    "How can you call me family?" she asks, voice cracking. "You don't know me. I'm just… some bastard kid from a name on a test. How do I know he would've even wanted to know me? How do you know?" She turns slightly, staring at the door like she still isn't sure if she should bolt. "How can I trust that any of this is real? That you're not just being nice out of pity? Or guilt? How can I trust anything?"

    Sam feels the ache in his chest deepens. He has seen that pain before. In himself. In Dean. In the mirror more times than he cares to admit.

    "Because I've been where you are," he says, voice low. "Wondering if family is something you're born with… or something you build. It's messy. It's hard. And it's real. If you'll let it be."

    Nellie's lips tremble. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, trying to breathe through it all. "I didn't come here looking for this," she replies. "I just… I wanted to see for myself. If he was real. That my mother may have been wrong."

    Sam offers the smallest smile. "He was. And I can tell you from experience that Dean was one of the greatest men I had the pleasure of knowing. I trusted him with my life. And if you want… I can tell you about him."

    She looks up, eyes swollen but steady. "You'd do that?"

    "Yeah," he says, nodding. "I've got time."

    Sam crosses the living room, his steps slow, deliberate. His fingers brush the dusty shelves before settling on a small, worn photo album tucked between old books. The leather cover, cracked with age, felt rough beneath his fingertips. He pauses, letting out a shaky breath. It had been a long time since he'd opened it. The album had been Eileen's idea — a way to capture the rare, quiet moments they once fought to protect. Family photos of the three of them fill most of the pages. But near the back, tucked between candid shots and fading Polaroids, are the pieces of a different life: memories of Dean, of battles fought and brotherhood sealed.

    He takes the album to the couch and sits next to Nellie, who has returned to her original spot. Her eyes are still a bit red from the tears shed, but she looks more hopeful and relaxed. Sam flips through the pages, his fingers shaking slightly with each page.

    "These are a few of the ones I have from when Dean was alive," he says reverently, handing the album to Nellie.

    Her eyes immediately scan them. There's a picture of Dean as a teenager, grinning mischievously at the camera. Another of Dean in his iconic leather jacket, standing next to Sam, both looking a little worn from a hunt. There's one of Dean smiling with a beer in hand, his arms around a group of people, clearly in a more carefree moment. Nellie pauses on a picture of Dean with his 1967 Chevy Impala, her fingers brushing over the photo's edges. For a moment, Sam sees bewilderment in her eyes, which is quickly replaced by a new wave of tears.

    "I kinda… look like him," she murmurs, almost in disbelief.

    Sam watches her, studying her reaction carefully but with an underlying sympathy. There's a bittersweetness to seeing Nellie realize the connection between her and Dean, a bond she never had the chance to experience while he was alive.

    "Yeah, you do," he agrees tenderly.

    This comment makes Nellie break her gaze on her father's face and look at Sam for the first time since seeing the photos.

    Sam continues, "Dean was always the kind of guy who could make a joke out of anything, even when things were tough. But underneath it all, he cared. He cared a lot."

    Nellie's voice cracks slightly as she speaks again, still holding the photos. She's clearly torn between grief and awe. "I wish I could've known him. I wish he was here."

    His voice softens, his tone full of empathy. "I know. It's not easy. But you have a piece of him with you now. His blood. His legacy. He never got the chance to be your father, but that doesn't change the fact that he was a part of your life, even if you didn't know it."

    Nellie swallows hard, her emotions raw. She looks at the photo again, letting the image of her father sink in, finally accepting what Sam has told her. She pauses, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her lips despite her sadness. A small smile forms as she whispers, "He was... handsome, huh?"

    Sam chuckles softly, the first genuine warmth in his voice since they started talking. "Yeah, he had his moments."

She lets out a breath, her smile fading as the weight of the conversation presses down on her. She looks back at Sam, her voice more serious now but still a little shaky. "Was he happy?" she asks

    Sam blinks caught off guard. He had been ready for the usual questions — favorite color, hobbies, old habits. He has a dozen polite half-truths ready to go. But this? This is harder. For a moment, he considers lying. Painting a simple, clean version of Dean’s life. But something in Nellie's face — the aching hope there — makes him hesitate.

After a silent moment, Sam answers, "Yes, he was. Sure, there were rough times, but he was happy. He got to do what he loved, up until the day he died."

    Nellie's lower lip trembles. She turns her gaze back to the pictures as if they are providing a source of comfort for her emotions. She finally nods, feeling a sense of comfort she hadn't anticipated. She wipes her eyes, trying to regain composure, but a quiet sense of peace is settling in, even amid the pain.

    "I'm glad," she says. "I can live with knowing he lived a good life. With a family that loved and supported him."

    Sam notices the pain in her voice, knowing there is more to her words than she lets on. She has that same look Dean had at her age, older than she is due to what she experienced throughout her life.

    Nellie seems to notice his gaze and clears her throat, trying to figure out how to continue. "Um, so, what more can you tell me? Like, what did he do for work?"

    "Dean was a firefighter," Sam replies coolly. "And he was damn good at it too. He really liked helping people and making sure they were safe."

    She smirks a bit. "Figures. He seems the type."

    "Yeah. He was. Unfortunately, he did not make it after a particularly nasty call. It was supposed to be a simple job, but it got out of hand quickly. And he didn't make it."

    Nellie's hand brushes the edge of a photo as she listens to Sam. "I'm so sorry. It must have been hard to get that call."

    Sam swallows. He knows he can't tell her about how Dean really died. He can't tell her about the vampire hunt that went wrong. He was right there when he saw life leave his     brother's eyes. Instead, he just nods solemnly. "It was very difficult. But he died doing what he loved. And I can live with that."

    Nellie nods in agreement as she looks at Sam with sincerity. "Thank you. For, you know… telling me about him. I feel like… I don't know; maybe I didn't know what to expect, but I just… needed to know."

    "You're welcome." Sam pauses a moment, then continues. "Dean would've wanted you to know if he had the chance. But I'll keep helping you. I know this a lot. If you need anything-anything at all-I'm here."

    Nellie takes one last look at the photo, then says, "I'm glad I found you."

    Sam watches her, feeling the weight of the situation. He's hesitant, but there's an unspoken understanding between them. She's just started this journey, and Sam knows it will be hard for her. But he's ready to help her through it, just like he always did for Dean.

    He waits for her to ask another question, but instead, she closes the photo album and hands it back to him. She looks like she does not know how to proceed from there. So, Sam decides to take the initiative and gently breaks the silence. "So... I know it's a lot to take in. But I'm glad we're talking. I know you probably have a million questions. About Dean, about the family... I get it. But I'm also curious. I don't know much about you or your mom."

    Nellie tenses at the question, a slight hesitation in her eyes. She looks down at the rug as she gathers her thoughts. Sam watches her closely but gives her space, not pressing her. Whatever she is about to say, he can tell it has a heavy weight to it.

    Finally, after a beat, her voice a little strained, she says, "There's really not much to know about me. I haven't done much, to be honest. I mean, I've lived in Lockhart my whole life. I graduated high school with honors. I still live with my mother."

    "What's she like?"

    Hesitation once again fills her eyes, now spreading to the rest of her face. Nellie glances at Sam as if she is gauging her trust in him. There is another moment of silence before she speaks again. "Living with my mother… it isn't easy. She is… well, she isn't exactly mother of the year." She seems to want to speak more but doesn't know how to.

Sam sits up a little straighter, his gaze softening. He wants to make sure she feels safe talking to him. He nods slowly and replies, "You don't have to go into any details you're uncomfortable with. But... I'm listening. I just want you to know that."

    Nellie takes a deep breath, her eyes staying on the rug, but her voice gaining strength as she speaks. The words are a little harder to say, but she pushes through. She looks up at him, continuing, "She is... hard to live with. My mother has a lot of... anger. And she doesn't really hide it. She gets drunk, sometimes for days at a time. And when she isn't drinking, she is usually yelling at me about things that weren't even my fault. Like, I was the reason my dad wasn't around. Or that she couldn't keep a relationship."

    Sam's expression hardens slightly, though his eyes remain kind. He's always been a protector at heart, and hearing about Nellie's struggles only fuels that instinct. "I'm sorry, Nellie. That's... a lot for anyone to carry. No one should go through that, especially not someone who is supposed to love and care for you."

    She gives him a sad, half-hearted smile. "Yeah. But it's not like I had a choice. I can't just... leave, you know? I mean, she is all I have. Even when it feels like she hates me, I am still stuck there. I don't think she ever really wanted me... I think she hates me because of what I remind her of."

    Nellie looks away for a moment, trying to hold it together. Sam lets the silence linger for a few seconds, respecting her emotional space, before he speaks again. "She blamed you for things that weren't your fault," he says carefully, his voice full of sincerity. "It is not a fun feeling. Especially when it is someone you're supposed to rely on.

    Nellie shrugs, her eyes still cast downward, trying not to cry. She's been through so much, yet there's a certain strength in how she tells her story. There's also a deep sadness that she hasn't quite shaken off. "I don't even know what she was really angry about," she replies quietly, almost like an afterthought. "I think it was just the way she saw herself. She would always talk about my dad—how he never came back, how he never cared. But... I never knew who he was. How could I know? She never told me."

    She pauses momentarily, then shifts in her chair, gathering herself to continue. The hesitation she had earlier is replaced with vulnerability, and it is hitting like a freight train, almost like this was the first time in God knows how long she is speaking her mind.

    Nellie resumes her train of thought, saying, "And there were the guys. A bunch of boyfriends and a couple of husbands. Most of them were... they were not good. Some were just as bad as my mother; others just treated me like I wasn't even there. The whole time I was growing up, she was always bouncing between them, and I was just left to deal with whatever came next."

    Sam listens closely, his face full of empathy, his eyes never leaving hers as she speaks. He can't help but feel a growing sense of protectiveness for her. "That sounds... exhausting," he admits quietly.

    She flashes him a small, pained smile. "Tell me about it." She looks at Sam for a moment, then lowers her gaze. She seems to be weighing whether to continue or not. Finally, she speaks again, her voice quieter but more certain. "There was one person who... wasn't like the rest of them, though. Roger. My ex-stepdad. After he and my mom split up... he didn’t just disappear. He still called sometimes. Sent birthday cards. Made sure I was okay. He wasn’t perfect, but he made it feel like... maybe I mattered. Like I wasn’t just something my mom got stuck with.”

    Sam looks at Nellie, his heart aching for her, but he also feels a little grateful that someone in her life was there for her, even briefly. He nods, understanding the importance of having someone like that. "I'm glad you had someone like Roger in your life. It sounds like he cared about you."

    Nellie nods, a slight, wistful look in her eyes. It's clear she misses the stability Roger provided, even if it was fleeting. "Yeah, he did. He... kind of planted the idea that I should find my dad. Said it might help me understand some things. So, I did. But it turns out my mom was right about one thing... he never came back.

    He takes a moment, feeling the weight of her words. He could see how painful that must be for her. She's been carrying this burden of a missing father for so long, and now,

learning the truth, it must be overwhelming.

    "I'm really sorry, Nellie," Sam says gently. "I know what it's like to not know that piece of your life. But I can promise you this—you're not alone now. You've got family who cares about you and we're not going anywhere."

    She swallows, her eyes wet with unshed tears. It's a lot to take in, yet Sam's presence feels like the first real sense of safety she's had in years. Softly, a tentative smile forming on her lips, she says, "Thank you, Mr. Winchester. That... means a lot."

    "You can call me Sam."

    The smile on her face grows wider. The atmosphere is a little lighter now, and Sam feels at ease. So many times, he thought her cover would break and turn out fake. But he was a hunter long enough to know when someone was faking, and there was too much vulnerability for this young woman to be lying. This is not how he expected this day to go, especially with the new addition to his family. He realizes that he needs this. He had mourned Dean and did what he promised; he moved on. And this feels like Dean's way of telling him he is still watching over him. And that makes Sam smile.

    Nellie breaks the sweet moment by looking at her wristwatch and realizing the time. The late afternoon sun shines through the front windows, slowly turning golden. She returns her gaze to Sam, the smile now sad.

    "I should be going," she says, standing to her feet. "I've got a long drive back, and I have the early bird shift at the diner."

    Sam nods understandingly. "I'll walk you out."

    He guides her back to the front door, stepping aside as he opens it. As she walks through first, he watches her with a thoughtful expression. There's a quiet, almost unspoken understanding between them.

    He hesitates momentarily, then speaks softly, "Hey, Nellie. Before you go..."

    Nellie pauses, turning back toward him. She's grateful for the time she's spent with Sam, but she can tell he's got something on his mind. She tilts her head, waiting for him to continue. She is slightly puzzled but open. "Yeah? What's up?"

    "Wait right there for a moment." Sam quickly makes his way back to the home office, where he was at the beginning of the afternoon. He grabs a small pad of paper and pen, scribbling down a set of numbers. He tears the sheet and returns to the front porch. He holds out the paper to Nellie.

    "I know you've got your life in Texas," he continues, "but I just wanted to say that if you ever need someone to talk to... don't hesitate to reach out. This is my number. That way, you've always got a way to get in touch, no matter what."

    Nellie looks at him, a little surprised but also touched. She hadn't expected this kind of offer, but now that it's here, it feels like a lifeline. She's been alone for so long, and even though she's been handling things on her own, the thought of having someone to rely on makes her feel less isolated. Nellie looks at the paper for a second, then up at Sam. She hesitates just briefly before she slowly takes the paper from Sam, seeing a phone number jotted down. Sam can tell she's always been used to figuring things out by herself, but now, she has someone fighting in her corner.

    She looks down at the wooden porch for a moment. "I don't want to be a burden or anything, but... I get it. I'll keep that in mind."

    Sam steps closer to her, his expression warm but serious. He sees how she's carried herself since he met her—tough but with that underlying loneliness, the kind that's hard to ignore. "You're not a burden, Nellie. Family doesn't work like that."

    There's a beat of silence between them, and the moment feels almost a little bittersweet. Nellie's used to being on her own, and part of her is reluctant to leave this small bit of warmth behind. But she knows this is a step forward, not just in knowing her family, but in not being so alone in the world anymore.

    With a teasing tone to break the moment, Sam tells her, "And if you ever end up in Kansas again or need a place to crash... you know where to find me."

    Nellie laughs quietly, a genuine sound, and for a second, Sam can see a bit of her carefree side that she doesn't often show. She has a playful smirk that looks all too familiar to him. "I'll keep that in mind," she remarks. "Maybe I'll bring some good ol' Texas barbeque."

    Sam chuckles, a lightness in his chest where the suspicion had been earlier that day. There's a quiet understanding between them now, something more profound than just acquaintanceship. They're family, and that means something.

    Nellie takes a couple steps towards the edge of the porch and then turns back and says, "Take care, Sam."

    "You too, Nellie. Stay safe." Sam stands there for a moment, watching her pull out of the in her car, feeling a sense of pride mixed with quiet hope. Maybe, just maybe, she won't have to walk through the world alone anymore.