Embedded Files
The house that remembers. The man who refuses to forget. And caught between them, Nellie finds herself balancing the weight of blood, the sharp edge of memory, and Sam’s steady hand reminding her she doesn’t face it alone.
Word Count: 15.5k
TW: contains discussions of SA, depictions of harassment, and mentions of abuse. emotional/angst. use of mild language.
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The Impala cruises along the two-lane stretch of highway, its low rumble blending with the radio murmuring a soft classic rock station. The air inside the car is easy, comfortable, the kind of silence that comes from familiarity rather than distance. Nellie sits slouched in the passenger seat with her boots propped on the edge of the dash, scrolling through her phone while humming faintly off-key to the music.
Sam smirks at her humming and shakes his head. “You know you’re butchering that, right?”
She shoots him a sideways grin. “It’s called artistic interpretation, Sam.”
“Pretty sure Dean would’ve called it a crime.”
That earns him a laugh, light and genuine, and for a while, they just drive like that, trading small comments —the kind that don’t mean much but keep the mood light. It is almost easy to forget why they are out here, almost like any other road trip.
But then the first sign for Lockhart – 10 miles flashes past, and the air shifts.
Nellie lowers her feet from the dash. Her smile fades. She leans her elbow against the window and rests her chin in her hand, eyes fixed firmly on the horizon.
Sam doesn’t say anything at first. He just lets the silence settle, giving her the space to feel it.
Another sign. Lockhart – 5 miles.
She tugs her sleeves down over her hands, fidgeting with the frayed cuffs. The closer they draw, the tighter her jaw becomes, until her reflection in the glass looks almost like a stranger: wary, braced.
“You’ve gone quiet,” Sam says finally, keeping his tone gentle, casual, like they are just talking weather.
She shifts in her seat, tugging her jacket tighter like she could armor herself with fabric. After a long silence, she replies, “Feels like walking straight into quicksand.”
His grip tightens on the wheel, though his tone stays calm. “You’re not walking in alone this time.”
For a moment, she just sits there, jaw clenched, staring straight ahead. Then, slowly, her shoulders ease, not much, but enough. The closer they draw, the sharper the familiarity cuts. She now shifts restlessly in her seat, pressing her forehead to the cool glass.
The Lockhart water tower rises up on the horizon, its blocky painted letters cutting against the sky. Nellie stiffened, fingers tightening on the seatbelt across her chest. She knows this road. Knows the crooked fence posts leaning into the ditches, the half-collapsed billboard that still promises “FRESH PEACHES – 10¢,” the rusted mailbox with the name long since worn off. It isn’t warm, it isn’t nostalgic. It is claustrophobic. Every landmark claws up a memory she doesn’t want. A thousand car rides with Eleanor behind the wheel, smoke curling from her cigarette, the sting of perfume sharp enough to make Nellie’s eyes water.
Her chest tightens. She doesn’t miss this place. She never has.
Lockhart isn’t home. It is a wound.
The road narrows as they enter the outskirts. Familiar storefronts flicker past: the gas station where Eleanor used to leave her waiting outside in the Texas heat, the laundromat that always smelled of bleach and mildew, the diner where she’d scrubbed dishes for under-the-table cash when she was fifteen.
Nellie’s nails dig into the fabric of her jacket sleeve. Lockhart isn’t just Eleanor’s town; it is Eleanor, a map of her cruelty stitched into every block, every cracked sidewalk. She’d lived her whole life here. She’d died a thousand little deaths here, too.
Her stomach churns, breath shallow. “I hate this place,” she whispers, so quiet she isn’t sure if she meant Sam to hear it.
But he did. His hands stay firm on the wheel, his voice steady. “Then we make this trip about you. Not her. You’re not a kid anymore. You’re not alone. This time, you’re here on your terms.”
She lets the words settle, heavy but anchoring.
Her silence hangs heavy, and Sam lets it stretch, the low hum of the engine filling the space. But after a few minutes, he clears his throat lightly, careful. “You know,” he says, tone almost casual, “Dean once spent two hours chasing a black dog in Nebraska… turned out it was just a really mean Great Dane.”
Nellie blinks, startled out of her spiral, glancing over at him. He smirks faintly at the memory.
“He tried to play it off, of course. Said he ‘knew the whole time.’ But I caught him buying the kid who owned it a soda so he wouldn’t tell anybody.”
A laugh escapes before she can stop it, a short, sharp sound that cracks the tension sitting in her chest. “Seriously?”
He nods, grin deepening. “Oh yeah. And there was the time he got locked in a morgue drawer. Full-on zipper bag, toe tag, the whole deal. Claimed he was ‘just testing the locks.’”
She presses her hand over her mouth, shaking with laughter she hadn’t expected. “I can’t tell if that’s terrifying or hilarious.”
“Little bit of both,” he admits. “That was kind of his thing.”
For a moment, the darkness of the town recedes, replaced by the warmth of their shared humor. Nellie leans back in her seat, shoulders easing just a little, while Sam keeps weaving story after story. Dean crashing through a rotting floor mid-argument. Dean trying to bluff his way through a priest disguise and forgetting half the prayer. Dean swearing he could outdrink a crossroads demon and regretting it for three days.
His voice is steady, not trying to erase the nerves in her, but to remind her that she isn’t walking into this alone. She lets the sound fill the spaces her fear wants to consume. She finds herself laughing softly, shaking her head, the knot in her stomach loosening if only for a breath. Her gaze drifts back to the window, the houses growing closer now, the streets more familiar than she wanted them to be, even in the dark of the evening. Her pulse picks up, but the panic isn’t all-consuming. Sam has put a crack in it.
The Impala turns down the street that leads toward her old neighborhood. The humor fades from her face, but some of Sam’s steadiness lingers, grounding her as the shadow of the Branscomb house draws closer with every mile. They soon turn onto a street Nellie had once ridden her bike down a thousand times. The closer they get, the heavier her chest feels, like every familiar crack in the pavement presses down on her ribs. And then it appears.
The Branscomb house.
Even though the night now surrounds them, Nellie can tell that it hasn’t changed much. The same weathered siding, the same porch sagging slightly at the corner, and the same set of blinds crooked in the front window. But seeing it again is like a gut punch, sharp and unyielding. Every scar of her childhood seems stitched into the wood and brick.
Sam pulls the car to a stop at the curb and cuts the engine. The sudden silence roars in her ears. He doesn’t move, doesn’t unbuckle, doesn’t reach for the door. He just sits with her, waiting.
She grips the edge of her seat, staring out the passenger window at the house. Her breath quickened, shallow and uneven. Part of her wants to bolt, to tell Sam to turn the car around, to never come back. Her stomach churns so violently she thinks she might be sick.
The silence stretches so long that he almost believes she is going to call it off. That he’ll have to put the car back into gear and find another way to get what they need. But then Nellie’s hand goes to the door handle. Her shoulders tense, her jaw sets tight, and she pushes it open. The air outside is heavy and thick, like the whole town presses down on her all at once. He follows her lead, climbing out after her, but he keeps a careful step behind. This is her ground to cross, her ghosts to face.
Her feet carry her forward, each step weighted but deliberate, pulling her toward the porch she used to dread walking up. She doesn’t look back at Sam, doesn’t say a word. And despite the fear clawing at her ribs, she walks toward the front door. The porch creaks beneath their weight, the wood smells faintly of rot, the paint curling back from the columns like old scars. Neither of them knows what they are walking into. If the police had ever come asking about the missing Branscombs, if curious neighbors have sniffed around, or if the coven still has eyes on this place. From the way the house sags into itself, it appears that whatever attention it had received was fleeting. Forgotten, like the family that once lived inside.
Nellie reaches for the doorknob. Her fingers brush the cold metal, but she freezes there, hand hovering, trembling. The silence presses down, broken only by the distant buzz of cicadas. Her hand lingers, shaking harder now. After a moment, she lifts her other hand, swiping quickly at her eyes before the tears can really fall. She pulls in a shaky breath, as if trying to steady herself against a tide too big to fight.
Sam’s voice comes low, gentle. “You okay?”
Her hand still clings to the knob. Slowly, she turns her head toward him, and the tears she’s tried to hold back streak freely down her cheeks.
“I feel everything,” she whispers.
The words hang heavy between them, her voice breaking on them. Her psychic senses, sharper now than three months ago, throb at the edge of her mind: the house bleeding grief, cruelty, and her mother’s darkness. It is like walking into the Rag Man’s mill all over again, except this isn’t just a ghost. This is Eleanor. This is home.
Her hand slides from the doorknob, shaking. She turns her face toward her uncle. Before he can ask again if she is okay, she reaches for his hand. The moment her fingers close around his, it is like something inside her cracks open. Not deliberate, not controlled. Her gift, raw and untamed, surges between them. Sam sucks in a sharp breath. It isn’t like when spirits brushed his mind in the past. This is deeper, heavier. A tide of emotion slams into him, staggering his balance.
Rage burns through him first, low and steady, the kind that doesn’t flare up and vanish but lingers like embers choking a room with smoke. Eleanor’s anger, simmering and endless. Every sneer, every cruel word unsaid but carried in the air. Then comes the hollowness. A cavern where warmth should’ve lived, only it never has. His chest tightens as he feels the yawning void of withheld love, of arms that never open, of affection that never existed. And underneath it all: Nellie. A child’s terror woven through every memory. The sound of her mother’s footsteps in the hallway, the way her stomach knotted waiting for the door to creak open. The crushing disappointment of wanting a mother who would never be one.
Sam staggers, clutching her hand tighter. His vision blurs as flashes hit him.
A little girl curled on a bed, fingers digging into a pillow.
Shadows stretching across the wallpaper.
The steady, cold certainty that no comfort was coming.
He realizes with a gut-punch that this isn’t just what Nellie is sensing now. This is her. What she’d lived. What she’d buried. His throat tightens until it hurts. He thinks of his own childhood: Dean’s hand on his shoulder, his brother’s constant shield against the dark. And then he thinks of his niece, alone in this house, weathering storms with no shelter.
Nellie blinks hard, as if waking from a trance, and quickly pulls her hand back. The sudden loss of contact makes the air between them feel colder. She wraps her arms around herself, shoulders curling in tight, her gaze dropping to the porch floorboards.
“Sorry,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to—” She cuts herself off, biting her lip, trembling as if ashamed of what has spilled out. The walls she had slowly taken down over the last three months slam back up in an instant. For a moment, she looks like the girl who had shown up at his door: quiet, uncertain, and apologetic for taking up space.
Sam’s chest aches at the sight. He can still feel the echo of her pain reverberating inside him, heavy and raw. To see her shrink now, as if she has burdened him with too much, makes his heart crack in two.
“Hey,” he says gently, crouching slightly to meet her eyes. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize.”
She shakes her head, refusing to look at him, her voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to push it on you. I just… it just happened. It was so heavy... I shouldn’t have—”
He cuts her off, voice firmer but still steady. “Nellie. You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t force it. And even if you had — I’d still want to know. I need to know what you’ve been carrying.”
Her throat works like she wants to argue, but no words come out. She just looks away, arms wrapped tighter across her chest.
He straightens but keeps his voice low, calm. “Three months ago, you knocked on my door looking for answers. For family. You’re not a burden. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”
She flinches at the words. Not because she doesn’t want to hear them, but because they cut against everything she’s been taught to believe. She blinks rapidly, trying to steady her breath, her face still turned from his. Her fingers tremble on the doorknob, but this time she doesn’t pull back. She draws in a shaky breath, squares her shoulders, and with a soft click, turns the handle. The door creaks open, the sound sharp and hollow in the quiet street.
The Branscomb house breathes her in like it has been waiting. The air inside is heavy, stale, carrying the faint scent of dust and something sharper beneath it: old smoke, old rot, old memory.
Sam stays close behind her, silent, steady, his presence a tether. But he doesn’t move past her. He lets her be the first to step inside.
Nellie crosses the threshold. Her boots land on the same worn rug she’d stumbled across three months ago, terrified, Eleanor’s voice echoing in her ears. She remembers the way her mother had smiled as she brandished the kitchen knife at her, the way the shadows in the corners had seemed alive, whispering. She remembers Sam bursting through the door, the world tilting, her powers flaring for the very first time. Now the house is quiet. Too quiet. But it isn’t empty.
Every step forward makes her chest tighten, her senses prickling with a low hum she hasn’t been able to name before. Three months ago, it had been static in her head, half-glimpsed shadows. Now it is sharper, clearer, voices lingering just out of reach. Anger. Pain. The lingering echo of her mother’s cruelty clung to every wall. Her throat goes dry, but she pushes forward anyway, deeper into the house. Her hands brush the back of a chair, the edge of a table; familiar and foreign all at once. She stops in the middle of the living room, her gaze flicking around the space that had been the center of her cage for twenty years. The furniture sits untouched, like Eleanor might come striding in at any second. A dish is still on the table. A throw blanket is folded on the couch. Frozen in time. The night she finally left.
Her eyes flick over every corner like the house itself might lunge at her. The silence presses down heavily, full of ghosts without bodies. She swallows hard, then finally asks, “Where do we start?”
Sam’s gaze lingers on her, measuring the tremor in her voice, the way her shoulders stiffen under the weight of the memories. He keeps his tone steady, gentle. “Not upstairs. Not yet. We’ll take it slow. Start here.” He nods toward the room they are already in. “Living room first.”
She gives a shaky nod and lowers herself onto her knees near the coffee table. Her hands hesitate for just a second before she starts searching, moving coasters, rifling through magazines that Eleanor had let pile up, and lifting the thin throw blanket draped across the couch.
He moves with practiced efficiency, tugging drawers open, tapping along the floorboards, running his hand along the mantle. He crouches by the bookshelf, checking behind frames and paperbacks, then moves to the couch cushions, pressing his hands down. Something crinkles.
He pulls a cushion up and frowns. Tucked into the seam is a small, cloth-wrapped bundle, knotted tight with twine. He holds it up between his fingers. “Hex bag.”
Nellie flinches but leans closer. The smell hits her first, something acrid, like herbs left to rot. Inside the thin cloth, faint dark stains marred the fabric. It looks old, poorly made, and almost lazy in its construction.
“Not the work of someone careful,” Sam mutters, his hunter’s eyes scanning it. “Sloppy. Could be a throwaway, something meant to spook or cause minor trouble.”
Her throat tightens as she stares at the little bag. The thought that it had been sitting on their couch while she lived here makes her stomach twist.
He catches her expression. “We’ll get rid of it later. Just means we’re looking in the right places.”
She takes a breath and nods, though her fingers still dig into her jeans where her hands rest. If this is the kind of thing hidden in plain sight, she can only imagine what they might find elsewhere.
The kitchen looks frozen in time. Same yellowed linoleum, same chipped counters, same crooked cupboard door that never quite shut. To anyone else, it is just an old house’s kitchen. But to Nellie, the air is thick with echoes. Her stomach twists as she steps inside. The smells come back first: the faint sour tang of spilled wine, Eleanor’s perfume that has never really smelled like flowers. Then the sounds, slamming cabinet doors, her sharp voice cutting through the house, Roger’s muffled curses.
Her eyes land on the floor near the fridge. The stain has faded a bit, but she doesn’t need to see it clearly to know exactly what it is. Her throat closes. She remembers the weight of the knife in her hand. The heat of her mother’s blood. The terror that hadn’t even registered until afterward, when the silence fell. She grips the edge of the counter, trying to ground herself.
Sam is quiet, giving her space, but he moves through the kitchen with the same methodical care as before. He pulls open drawers, checking under the sink, and finally tugs down a tin can from the top shelf. Something rattles inside. He pops the lid and dumps it onto the counter, another small bundle of twine-wrapped cloth rolling out. He frowns and pulls a second one from the corner behind the stove. Both are poorly made, with uneven stitching holding them together.
“Same as in the living room,” he says, setting them down. “Amateur work. Definitely Eleanor’s.”
Nellie forces herself to look. The hex bags sit there, pathetic in their construction, like everything else her mother has ever touched, half-finished, careless, but still dangerous. Her voice is quiet when she speaks. “She thought she was powerful. Always talked like she was above everyone else. But she was never good at it. Never good at anything.”
He turns to her, his expression softening. “Doesn’t matter how sloppy they are. Even a little magic, used the wrong way, can hurt people.”
Her hand presses flat against the counter again. She nods, but her gaze drifts back to the floor. The faint brown stain seemed to pull at her, a reminder of how far things had gone the night before. Sam follows her gaze, and his chest tightens. He’s seen a lot of bloodstains in his life, but none carry this kind of gravity. Not for him. Not for her.
Nellie’s arms fold tight across her chest, a shield against the weight pressing in on her. After a moment, she whispers, “What do you think they did with her?”
He tilts his head. “Who?”
“Her body,” she says, finally glancing at him. Her eyes are sharp, wet, haunted. “Why? To hide evidence? Or for something worse?”
He exhales slowly; the kind of breath that says he’s thought about it too. “I don’t know. Either way, it’s not the kind of thing we can answer standing in this kitchen. But we will figure it out.”
Nellie’s jaw tightens. “You think it could’ve been… used for something? Like—like dark magic?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t want to lie to her, but he also doesn’t want to feed the terror already coiling in her chest. Finally, he replies, “It’s possible. But whatever the purpose was, it doesn’t change what happened here, Nell. You survived her. That’s what matters.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, but her gaze drifts back to the faint stain anyway. Her voice is barely audible. “I just want to know. I need to know.”
He reaches out, steady but gentle, setting a hand on her shoulder. “And we will. Maybe not here. Maybe not today. But we will.”
They move out of the kitchen and into the narrow hall, the air still heavy with everything that had been dredged up. The closet door under the stairs looms in front of them, paint peeling a little around the knob, the frame slightly crooked. Sam goes for the knob, but stops when he catches the way Nellie is staring at it. Her face has gone pale, her arms wrapped tight around herself, and she isn’t moving closer.
“What is it?” he asks softly.
Her throat works before the words come out, thin and uneven. “She used to lock me in there. After… after she’d had enough.” Her eyes flick toward him for a moment before snapping back to the door, like it is a living thing that might slam shut on its own. “I’d sit in the dark for hours. Sometimes longer. Couldn’t tell what was worse: the closet or waiting for her to open it again.”
His jaw clenches, anger flashing hot in his chest, but he keeps his tone steady. “You don’t have to go in. I’ll take it.” He offers a faint smile. “Besides, it’s small. Two people crawling around in there would just get awkward.”
She gives a shaky huff of a laugh, but her arms don’t loosen.
Sam crouches and opens the door, the hinges creaking in protest. The smell of dust and old wood rushes out, stale and suffocating. He ducks inside, his flashlight beam cutting across scuffed walls and warped shelves. It is as cramped as he expects, the kind of place that seems to swallow the air right out of your lungs. At the very back, tucked into a corner behind a pile of forgotten shoes, he spots it, another one of Eleanor’s clumsy hex bags, stitched with uneven hands, stuffed with herbs and bones that had long since dried.
“Got another one,” he mutters, carefully lifting it out with two fingers. He straightens, ducking back out into the hall and holding it up so Nellie can see. She doesn’t step closer, but she nods, her face set. Watching him carry it feels like reclaiming a little piece of power she’d lost every time that door had shut on her.
They turn their backs to the hall closet and move towards the stairs. Nellie’s hand skims the banister as she starts up, her steps deliberate but heavy, like every rise carried its own weight. Sam follows a step behind, watching her shoulders square in that way she does when she is trying to look steadier than she feels.
“How you doing?” he asks gently.
“I’m okay,” she says without looking back. Her voice is calm, but he can hear the strain beneath it, the kind that doesn’t come from walking.
He lets his words come steady, grounding. “You’re doing good, kiddo. I know this isn’t easy, but I’m proud of you for pushing through.”
At the landing, she finally glances back at him, her lips twitching into something small and fragile, not quite a smile, but close. “Thanks.”
They pause in the upstairs hall, two doors looming on either side: one leading to her old room, the other to Eleanor’s. Sam tips his chin toward hers. “Want to start with your room? Gather your things first?”
Nellie’s eyes linger on the door, a flicker of longing there. A chance to delay, to take the smaller blow before the heavier one. But she shakes her head, jaw tightening. “No. Let’s just… get it over with.”
Together, they cross the hall and step toward the master bedroom. It hasn’t changed. The stale air clings heavy in her throat the moment she walks inside, carrying with it the familiar, unwelcome scents — stale wine lingering in the carpet, cheap jasmine perfume clinging stubbornly to the curtains.
Her chest tightens. She used to bring folded laundry into this room, run the vacuum under her mother’s sharp eye. Always in and out, never lingering. Now, she is standing in the middle of it, every detail pressing in on her.
Sam moves toward the dresser first. He eases open the top drawer, rifling through socks and scarves until his hand brushes something stiff. Pulling it free, he holds up another hex bag, stuffed carelessly. He sets it aside on the nightstand.
Nellie drifts toward the vanity, her fingers hovering above a jumble of cheap jewelry. Oversized rings, gaudy necklaces tangled together, earrings missing their mates. She recognizes some of them immediately. Eleanor used to rattle through these pieces every weekday before work, as if a splash of sparkle could mask the hangover she wore like another accessory. Nellie pulls her hand back before she touches anything, the memories sharp enough without the weight of contact.
Sam crosses to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer. Inside lies an empty wine bottle tucked on its side, a half-crushed pack of cigarettes, and another poorly knotted hex bag. He picks it up, shaking his head. “She was sloppy,” he mutters, setting it beside the first.
Nellie stops in front of the closet door, staring at the edge of Eleanor’s favorite pair of heels poking out from the shadows. She remembers the sound of those shoes on the hardwood, a sound that had always meant trouble. She swallows hard, keeping her hands at her sides.
He catches her expression but doesn’t comment, just steps up beside her. “Closet’s next,” he says softly, giving her the choice of leading or hanging back.
She lets out a breath, steadying herself, and steps inside. It smells of dust and perfume, the cramped space lined with clothes. Skirts and blouses sag from bent wire hangers; the perfume is so thick in the fabric that it stings her nose. Sam crouches, pushing aside a stack of shoe boxes and laundry baskets. Nothing. Just the clutter of a woman who lived more for appearances than substance.
“Not much here,” he mutters, shifting to the back. He runs his hand along the paneling until his fingers find the slight seam. He pressed once, then again with more force, until the wood gave a soft groan. A small square of panel pops out from the wall, revealing the dark interior of the attic.
Nellie’s pulse ticks up as the stale, attic air drifts out, dry and bitter.
Sam reaches up, pulling the panel of the wall and laying it against the clothing rack. He glances over his shoulder. “You okay?”
She nods, even though the crawlspace made her throat feel tight. This isn’t a place tied to her memories, not really, except for that one day, three months ago, when her world cracked open. She’d found this space then, along with everything she hadn’t wanted to know about her mother.
Sam goes first, ducking into the crawlspace. The air is thick with dust; the beams charred faintly from where the altar was smashed earlier. Broken jars, bits of stone, and snapped candleholders littered the floor, scattered like the aftermath of a storm.
“Looks the same,” Nellie says quietly, crouching at the entrance.
“Mostly,” he replies, brushing a pile of papers off a half-splintered board. His brow furrows as he holds one up to the beam of his flashlight.
It is a sheet of yellowed notebook paper, the pencil lines rough but deliberate. A single symbol stares back at them: a half-closed eye, inked dark as if whoever drew it pressed hard, over and over.
Nellie freezes. She knows it instantly. “That’s the one,” she whispers. “The one from my dream.”
Sam’s mouth tightens. He folds the paper carefully, sliding it into his jacket. Then he shifts aside a loose plank, prying it up with his hand. Beneath, a small cache of books sits wedged into the shadows. The spines are cracked, titles faded. Grimy old texts on folk magic, scraps of witchcraft theory scrawled in the margins.
He sets them aside. “Looks like she had more tucked away than I thought.”
Nellie stays near the opening, watching him sift through the debris. The crawlspace doesn’t hold her mother’s perfume, or the sound of heels, or the sting of fists. Just dust and the echo of secrets she hadn’t been meant to know. It feels colder than the rest of the house, though, and heavier.
They climb back into the closet, books under Sam’s arm as he brushes dust from his jacket. He glances at his niece, her face pale in the dim light. “We’ve got enough here to point us somewhere. Maybe even to them.”
She exhales shakily, looking past him toward the dark gap of the crawlspace. “Then let’s get out of here.”
He shuts the closet door behind them, brushing dust from his hands. “Alright,” he says gently, his voice low so it doesn’t echo too much in the hollow house. “Time to pack up what you want to take.”
Nellie hesitates, then nods. Her steps slow as she crosses the hall to her old room. The door creaks as it swings open.
The room is bare in a way that speaks volumes. Not just because she’s been gone three months, but because it has never really been hers. A couple of old classic rock posters cling to the walls, corners curled and edges peeling, half-covering the chipped wallpaper beneath. On a shelf sit a few worn paperbacks — Shakespeare, Dickens, Brontë — their spines cracked from use. Beside them, a stack of jewel cases: classical music and rock CDs, and her battered handheld CD player.
Nellie crouches, tugging a duffel from under the bed. The zipper screeches as it opens, and she begins folding in some clothes, slipping in the books and CDs as if reclaiming the pieces of herself that still matter.
Sam leans on the doorframe for a moment, just watching. He realizes he hasn’t truly looked at this room since he came through months ago. Now, the details land heavier. The empty walls. The closet that misses its door. He remembers how she’d reacted downstairs, staring at the hall closet door like it could close on her again. She probably removed this door after being locked in the downstairs closet so many times. This was perhaps the sense of control she ever had in this house.
The neglect is layered. Not the chaotic mess of a kid’s room, but a hollowed space where personality has been pressed flat. It stings, knowing she’s grown up in a place that never let her really be. And yet, he thinks of her room back at the bunker, how she’s thrown herself into making it her own. Shelves with her favorite books, a quilt she’d picked out, little things that warmed the cold stone walls. She’s carved a home for herself there, where she’s never had one here.
Sam pushes off the frame and begins searching, more methodical now. He checks drawers, pulls back the thin curtains, and scans the corners where dust thickens. Finally, he lifts her mattress, and something slides into view.
Another hex bag.
He frowns, setting it on the bedspread, then ducks into the closet. It is a little more than an open alcove now, but near the back, he finds another bag, tucked deep into a corner. He carries it out, comparing the two under the dim light.
These aren’t like the others.
The stitching is tighter, cleaner. The herbs inside don’t rattle loosely, and the symbols inked on the fabric are crisp, practiced. Not Eleanor’s sloppy scrawl.
“Find something?” Nellie asks, pausing with a shirt in her hands.
Sam turns both bags in his palms. “Yeah. Hex bags. But… not like the ones downstairs.”
She comes closer, peering at them. She frowns. “These look… better. Way better.”
“Exactly.” His jaw tightens. “These aren’t your mother’s work. Someone else made these.”
Her throat bobs. “The coven?”
“Most likely,” he replies. He tucks the bags into his jacket pocket with the rest of them. “Or another witch who helped her out. Either way, it means Eleanor wasn’t working alone.”
For a moment, Nellie stands still, one hand on the half-packed duffle, the other brushing the old posters by her bed. The room seems to shrink around them, years of silence and neglect pressing in.
Sam catches her eye, his voice steady but warm. “Let’s take what’s yours. The rest? It stays here.”
Once Nellie finishes packing, they head down the stairs. They don’t speak as they make their way through the house and out into the backyard. The grass is overgrown, weeds pushing up between cracked stone pavers. Sam sets the hex bags down on a flat patch of dirt, pulling his lighter from his pocket.
“We’re keeping one of the ones from your room. We are burning the rest.” With a few flicks, flame licks the fabric, and the herbs inside begin to sizzle and pop.
“Let me,” Nellie says softly.
He looks at her, at the resolve in her face, then hands the lighter over without question. She crouches low, touching the flame to the second bag, and watching it catch. Smoke curls upward, acrid and sharp, carrying with it the remnants of whatever dark intentions have been sewn inside.
They both stand, silent, as the fabric blackens and collapses into ash.
Then Nellie freezes.
Her spine goes rigid, breath catching. Her gaze sweeps the tree line at the edge of the yard, eyes wide, like a deer spooked by the breaking of a branch.
Sam’s hand immediately drops to the pistol at his hip. “What is it? You see something?”
Her voice is low, careful. “I think… someone’s here.”
His pulse spikes. Every instinct screams at him to get her out, now. “Who?”
Nellie’s eyes keep tracking, scanning the shadows. She swallows. “The second I lit the bags… I felt it. Like eyes on us. Watching.”
He shifts his stance, ready, scanning the dark with her.
She blinks hard, tension easing just slightly. “But I think they knew I noticed. And now… they’re gone.”
He doesn’t waste another second. He steps to her side, a steadying hand pressing lightly against her back, guiding her firmly toward the Impala. “We’re done here.”
Nellie glances back once at the dying fire, at the house silhouetted against the night sky. Then she climbs into the passenger seat, the duffle in her lap like a shield.
Sam slides behind the wheel, eyes still flicking to the mirrors as he starts the engine. Gravel crunches under the tires as they pull away, the Branscomb house shrinking into the distance, swallowed by the dark. Neither spoke until the road curved back towards the highway. Sam had promised her earlier that day they would stay in a motel the next town over, not wanting to keep her in Lockhart longer than necessary.
The motel feels more comfortable than the house they left behind. Stale coffee and bleach faintly drift through the room, the thin curtains rattling against the air conditioner as Sam pushes the door shut behind them. He doesn’t waste a second, pulling chalk from his bag, he starts sketching protective sigils across the windowsills and along the doorframe. Nellie, without needing to be asked, grabs the chalk and begins tracing them low along the walls and baseboards.
Neither speaks, the silence heavy but purposeful. When Sam finishes the last sigil, he sets the chalk down, exhaling slowly.
“That’ll hold,” he says, more to himself than her. He turns to where she is finishing her last chalk mark, her movements slow, tired. “Why don’t you get some rest, kiddo? We’ll dig through the books tomorrow. It’s been a long night.”
Nellie wipes her hands on her jeans and gives a faint nod. The quiet clings to her in a way Sam recognizes, not just fatigue, but the weight of being back in Lockhart, of setting foot in that house again. She doesn’t argue. Just slips off her boots and grabs some clothes from the duffel she brought from the bunker. After a quick shower, she returns and curls up on top of one of the beds, tugging the blanket around her shoulders like armor. Within minutes, her breathing evens out, lashes resting against her cheeks.
Sam leans back against the table, arms folded, watching her. The images from earlier replay in his mind in an unshakable loop: Nellie’s tear-streaked face on the porch, the way her hand in his had spilled over those raw memories like an open wound. Her silence in the kitchen, her eyes fixed on the faded bloodstain. The too-small closet door she couldn’t cross, the neglected corners of her childhood room. And finally, that flicker in the backyard, that shift in her body when she knew someone was watching them. Sam trusts her instincts. If Nellie says someone was there, someone was there. He scrubs a hand down his face, throat tight. She’s been through enough tonight. The last thing she needs is more shadows following her.
He glances back at the bed, at the girl who is already breathing deep, asleep despite it all. His chest aches with a mixture of pride and dread. She’s faced down ghosts and cursed objects. But nothing compares to walking back into that house. And still, she hasn’t broken. Dean would’ve called that a Winchester move.
Sam stays awake a little longer, listening to the motel’s hum and the faint sound of Nellie shifting in her sleep, keeping watch until the weight of exhaustion finally pulls at his eyes.
• • •
The sun has barely crested the horizon, but already the Texas heat presses at the thin motel curtains. Sam nudges the door open with his shoulder, balancing a cardboard tray of coffees and a bag of breakfast sandwiches. The smell of bacon and eggs fills the room as he kicks the door shut behind him. He stops short.
Nellie is seated at the little table by the window, hair pulled into a loose braid, the chain of the amulet peeks out from her clasped palms. Her eyes are closed, lips pressed into a line, like she is deep in concentration.
He sets the food down quietly, watching as her fingers shift. A faint warmth flickers against the dingy motel light, and when she finally opens her hands, he sees it. The delicate white glow of the tiny etched sigils on the pendant disk, pulsing softly and alive.
“Nellie…” Sam’s voice carries both surprise and caution. “What are you doing?”
She blinks up at him, as though surfacing from somewhere deep, and offers a slight shrug. “Last night got me thinking. About whether the amulet was really keeping me hidden the way it should.” She turns the pendant slightly in her hands, light glinting across the runes. “So… I figured out how to charge it. To boost it.”
He pulls out a chair, dropping into it with more weight than intended. “You figured out how to power the sigils?” He shakes his head, incredulous. “The last time I saw you do something like this, you lit up half the warded room in the bunker without even knowing it.”
She offers a sheepish half-smile. “Yeah. I’ve been practicing. Just little things. Trying to… I don’t know. Connect better. This time, I knew what I was doing.” She tilts the pendant again before letting it fall against her chest, the glow fading back into stillness.
Sam studies her carefully, his hunter’s instinct immediately shifting to concern. “And how do you feel after doing that?”
Her fingers flex once against the tabletop. “Some tension in my hands. A little pressure in my head. But that’s it. Nothing bad.”
He leans back, still astonished. “Nell… that’s not nothing. You just powered an entire warded object like it was a damn battery. Hunters spend their lives looking for someone who can even sense sigils, and you’re—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head again, but this time his mouth tugs into a small, proud smile. “You really are something else, you know that?”
She glances down at her hands, cheeks warming. “Or maybe just weird.”
He pushes her coffee toward her with a soft huff of laughter. “Weird’s part of the job description.”
They unwrap the breakfast sandwiches in silence at first, the hiss of coffee cups opening filling the space. Sam steals glances at Nellie between bites, still thinking about the glow that had shimmered in her hands minutes ago.
“So,” he says finally, leaning back in the chair. “You wanna tell me how you figured out how to do that? Powering sigils isn’t exactly a beginner move.”
She chews slowly, her gaze flicking down to the amulet resting against her shirt. “I just… remembered that night in the warded room at the bunker. When I accidentally juiced every rune on the walls without even meaning to.” She gives a small, crooked smile. “It scared the hell out of me, but it also stuck. I wondered if I could do it again, but smaller, controlled. So I tried. Turns out, I can.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Just like that?”
“Not just like that,” she corrects gently. “I’ve been reading. Some of the Men of Letters research on psychics. What they were, what they could do. Most of it’s old, dusty theory, but… it helped. Gave me ideas.” She pauses, her tone quieting. “I’m still scared of it, Sam. Every time. But if I’m gonna be a hunter, then maybe I can use it for good. I can use it to help.” Her thumb rubs absently over the amulet’s surface, like she is reassuring herself as much as him.
Sam studies her for a long moment, then nods slowly. “You know, a lot of people in your shoes would’ve shut it out completely. Pretended it wasn’t there. You’re leaning into it. That’s brave, Nellie.”
She huffs softly, almost embarrassed. “Or stupid.”
“No,” Sam said firmly. “Brave.”
Her lips twitch, trying for a smile. “Well… at least I don’t have to wear a tight spandex suit and have a cheesy catchphrase.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he reaches for his coffee. “Dean would’ve given you so much shit for that, even if it was just a joke.”
The humor warms the air between them, softening the weight of the morning. But beneath it, the truth lingers. Nellie isn’t just learning how to be a hunter. She is learning how to claim her place in a world that has nearly broken her.
Once they finish with their breakfast, they move on to the books found in the attic. The first book they laid out on the motel table is more of a battered notebook than a grimoire, its leather cracked, its pages warped from wine stains and careless use. Sam flips it open, careful not to let the fragile binding fall apart. It isn’t research in any proper sense. Instead, it is a chaotic mess of half-finished symbols scrawled in the margins, ritual fragments copied from who knows where, and long stretches of Eleanor’s handwriting that rambles between desperation and fury.
“Looks like she tried everything,” he mutters, turning a page covered in what appears to be protection sigils layered over each other until they were practically meaningless. “But she didn’t really understand what she was doing.”
Nellie leans over his shoulder, her arms folding tightly. “That tracks.”
Some pages read like a journal more than a spellbook. Rants about Dean filled whole paragraphs, Eleanor’s scrawl sharpening into jagged spikes of ink whenever she mentions his name. There are entries about Nellie, too, accusations that her daughter was ungrateful, useless, and weak.
Sam’s jaw clenches as he reads quietly. He shuts the book after a particularly bitter line and exhales through his nose. “None of this is useful, other than proving how far gone she was.”
Nellie is silent for a long time, staring down at the notebook as though it were a poisonous thing. Finally, she says, voice low, “It’s like she needed someone to blame. Dean. Me. Anyone but herself.”
He nods, pushing the book gently to the side. “Yeah. And it shows just how desperate she was. That kind of scattered obsession—it doesn’t make a witch stronger. It just makes them reckless.”
Nellie closes her eyes for a second, steadying herself. “Then let’s keep going. Maybe the next one isn’t just the rantings of a drunk.”
He reaches for the next stack; heavier volumes bound in cracked cloth and leather. These aren’t Eleanor’s scribbles. They carry weight, the neatness of copied knowledge, the tone of something meant to endure.
The first is unmistakably borrowed. Its inside cover bore a faint, faded inscription—some kind of library mark or ownership stamp that Eleanor had tried to scratch out but hadn’t thoroughly managed.
Sam’s thumb hovers over it. “This isn’t hers. Coven text, by the look of it.”
Nellie leans closer, brow furrowing. “You mean… she had connections?”
“Or someone gave this to her,” he replies. “Either way, it means she wasn’t just fumbling on her own. She had ties—maybe to whoever’s after you now.”
The pages are dense with diagrams. Circle workings, invocation sequences, and formulae far more advanced than anything Eleanor could’ve pulled off on her own. Even skimming, Sam recognizes the breadth of it: protections, bindings, rituals that tug at the edges of serious, dangerous magic.
The rest of the books are more common, the kind of beginner-level witchcraft texts you could dig up in dusty shops or by word of mouth. But the presence of that coven text shifted the entire picture.
Nellie sits back, hugging her arms tight across her chest. “So, it wasn’t just her. She knew someone more powerful than herself, or at least where to find information like this.”
He nods, closing the borrowed book carefully. “This doesn’t look like a regular coven. The kind that meddled in heavy ritual magic. Old families. Dangerous networks. People who wouldn’t blink at blood sacrifices if it got them what they wanted.”
She is quiet, processing. The motel’s dim light pools across the table, illuminating the scattered texts, her mother’s ramblings beside the cold, organized lines of true coven work. Two worlds are colliding, and she is caught in the middle.
Sam glances at her, reading the set of her jaw, the way her shoulders tighten. He softened his voice. “This gives us something. A direction. Whoever’s after you—they aren’t just random witches. They’re tied to this. To her.”
She swallows, nodding once, though her eyes stay on the coven text as though it might leap off the page. “Then we find out who they are. And we stop them.”
He flips methodically through the lesser spell books, muttering the occasional note under his breath. “Basic protection sigils. Binding charms. Nothing that screams advanced work…”
Across from him, Nellie has pulled the coven text closer, her fingers trailing over the inked diagrams. On the first page, her eyes snag on something faintly scrawled in the corner. A single letter.
“S,” she murmurs.
Sam looks up. “What is it?”
She angles the book toward him, tapping the faint but deliberate calligraphy in the margin. The letter isn’t just scratched in; it is stylized, flourished, like a mark of ownership.
“Someone signed this,” she says, frowning. “And… I don’t know. This style looks familiar.”
Her thoughts turn quick and restlessly. She straightens, scanning the motel table. “Where’s the hex bag you kept? The one from my room.”
He reaches into his duffel and sets the small, tightly stitched bag down between them.
She pulls the threads loose, careful but insistent, until the scrap of fabric with its inked symbols comes free. She spreads it flat, comparing it side by side with the book’s lettering.
He leans in, brows knitting. Several of the flourishes on the sigils curve the same way, loops and tails echoing the ornate “S” on the text’s front page.
“See?” Nellie whispers, her pulse picking up. “It’s the same hand. Whoever owned this book made this hex bag.”
He nods slowly, the gears already turning. “So Eleanor wasn’t working alone. She had a supplier. Someone with skill.” His jaw tightens as he glances back at the inked “S.” “And whoever they are, they left a signature.”
She swallows, eyes darting between the hex bag and the book. The letter seems to loom now, heavier than before.
Sam sits back in his chair, gaze darkening in thought. “Yeah. And if we can trace that signature… we might finally know who’s hunting you.”
Nellie pulls the coven text closer again, her thumb running over the heavy, age-worn spine. The pages smell faintly of mildew and old ink, a scent that makes her nose wrinkle but pulls her deeper. Most of the entries are written in tight scrawls of Latin, Greek, and languages she doesn’t recognize. Dense spells, rituals, half-coded notes. Her eyes snag on a small section near the back, where the handwriting shifts, less rigid, almost casual. A list. Short. Names stacked one after another.
She whispers them under her breath, “Alina… Marius… Corinne…” At the bottom, her breath catches. The name is written with the same stylized hand as the ornate “S” on the front page. Curves deliberate, sharp in places, too familiar now to ignore.
“Sam,” she says quickly, her voice pitched low. “Look.”
He leans over, scanning the page. “A roster?”
“Feels like it.” She taps the last name on the list, her fingertip hovering over the ink. Solene. The letters seemed heavier than the others, the flourish unmistakable.
“That’s it,” he mutters, the name settling like a stone in his chest. “Solene.”
Nellie sits back in her chair, the realization sending a shiver down her spine. “We have a name now.”
For a moment, they are both quiet, staring at the page as if the ink itself might rise up and explain the rest. Finally, Sam exhales, voice steady but edged with resolve.
“This is big, Nell. Whoever Solene is, she’s connected to your mother. To the coven. And if she’s still alive…” He trails off, jaw tightening. “Then she’s dangerous.”
She shuts the book carefully, almost as though she fears smudging the name. The weight of it lingers in her chest.
He rubs a hand across his mouth, straightening up, slipping back into that calm, practical gear Nellie has come to rely on. “We can’t stop here,” he says. “Names are good, but we need context. If Solene was important enough to sign her books and leave her mark in Eleanor’s house, then she left a trail.”
Nellie tilts her head. “You think someone wrote about her?”
“Not her directly, maybe,” Sam admits. He leans back in the chair, already thinking ahead. “But witches—cults, covens—they leave ripples. Local papers love strange stories, especially in smaller towns. Weird disappearances, unexplained accidents, even gossip columns sometimes drop hints. If Solene was tied to any of that, it’ll show up somewhere.”
She gives a slight nod, her fingers still worrying the edge of the page. “So… local archives.”
“Exactly,” he says, voice firm. “We hit the libraries. Newspapers, regional histories, and any town records we can get our hands on. If Solene operated anywhere near here, someone noticed—even if they didn’t understand what they were seeing.”
She shuts the book at last, setting it gently on the stack of Eleanor’s ramblings. A faint smile tugs at her mouth, nervous but resolute. “Guess it’s time to go dig through the dusty shelves again.”
Sam smiles back at her, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “Spoken like a true researcher.”
She grins faintly at that, a little spark of pride cutting through the morning heaviness. She grabs her jacket, and together they step out into the sunlight, ready to research something entirely different than monster lore and local ghost stories.
• • •
The county library is the kind of place time forgot. Old brick exterior, buzzing fluorescent lights, and a faint musty smell of paper that has sat too long in metal filing cabinets. The staff barely glance at them when Sam signs in for access to the archives, just points them toward a back room lined with microfilm reels and yellowing stacks of town newsletters.
Sam spreads out their notebooks on a long wooden table, dividing the tasks like a professor directing a study group. “Okay. You focus on the local paper runs from the seventies and eighties — obituaries, police blotters, anything strange. I’ll check property records and court filings. If there was organized witchcraft, it might’ve left a legal footprint somewhere.”
Nellie slips into the chair beside him and pulls the first heavy binder toward her. The pages smell of dust and ink, headlines blurring together — “Rotary Club Fish Fry,” “Local Football Team Advances,” “Unexplained Livestock Deaths.” She skims faster, circling phrases that tug at her instincts. A report of children seeing “hooded figures” on the outskirts of town. A pastor’s obituary, which was written just a week after half the congregation had mysteriously fallen ill. A blurb about fires breaking out in abandoned properties that had never been traced back to electrical faults.
Sam looks up from his stack occasionally, watching the way her pen moves almost unconsciously to mark specific entries. “You’re good at this,” he says after a while.
Nellie shrugged without looking up. “Patterns stand out. I just… know what to pay attention to.”
He files that away; whether it is her book-smart discipline or her psychic edge nudging her, it is working. He jots down the articles she marks, cross-referencing dates.
By the time the afternoon light slants through the blinds, they have a modest pile of notes: mentions of strange gatherings near riverbanks, unexplained illnesses with no apparent medical cause, and whispers of references in the opinion columns to “cults” meddling in the county’s affairs.
“Nothing concrete, no records of a Solene either,” he mutters, rubbing his forehead. “But too many coincidences to dismiss. If a coven was active here, they were subtle. Could be they moved on… or got stronger somewhere else.”
She leans back in her chair, stretching her stiff shoulders. “So, breadcrumbs, but no trail yet.”
“Exactly.” He gives her a small, approving smile. “Breadcrumbs are still progress.”
Nellie nods, her expression thoughtful. She stacks the binders back into a neat pile, though her mind is still turning over the words she’s read. Hooded figures, unexplained sickness, fires in empty homes. It all sounds familiar in a way she can’t name.
Sam shuts his notebook with finality. “Let’s grab some food, clear our heads. We can regroup tonight.”
“Works for me,” she replies, standing to gather their things. Her stomach growls in agreement.
• • •
The diner is the kind of place that hasn’t changed in fifty years. Red vinyl booths patched with duct tape, laminated menus with coffee rings pressed into the corners. Nellie sits across from her uncle, absentmindedly stirring sugar into her coffee. At the same time, he runs through their notes one more time. The quiet between them is comfortable, almost normal, until Sam’s phone buzzes. Eileen’s name lights up the screen. Sam glances at Nellie, then pushes back from the booth. “I’ll just be a minute,” he says, already heading for the door.
Nellie nods, wrapping her hands around her mug. Alone now, she lets her gaze wander, the flickering neon sign outside, the fry cook working the flat top, a pair of truckers talking loud enough for the whole place to hear. She lets herself breathe, shoulders easing back into the vinyl.
The door opens with a little jingle of the bell, and her eyes drift automatically to the sound.
Her stomach drops.
Rick. One of her mother’s ex-boyfriends.
He looks older, rougher around the edges, but his swagger is unmistakable. The same leather jacket, the same greasy grin. For a heartbeat, Nellie freezes. She is fourteen years old all over again. The diner walls press in like the walls of her old house. All she can think of is “Please don’t see me. Please don’t—”
His gaze sweeps the room. Landing on her. Recognition flickers, and his grin widens.
“Eleanor’s little girl,” he drawls as he saunters over, reeking faintly of cigarettes and cheap whiskey. “Well, ain’t this something?”
Nellie’s fingers tighten around the mug. Every nerve in her body screams to shrink, to disappear, but she forces herself to sit straighter, chin tilted up. “Rick.” Her voice is clipped, her tone cold. “Didn’t expect to see you around.”
“Small world,” he says, leaning a hand on her table like he owns it. His eyes rove over her with a familiarity that makes her skin crawl. “All grown up now, huh? Guess time flies.”
She swallows down bile. “What do you want?”
Rick chuckles. “Easy, sweetheart. Just being friendly. You look… different. Better, I guess.” His voice dips, the insinuation oily.
Her pulse hammers in her throat, but she forces her words out, steady and sharp. “Leave, Rick. Go bother someone else.”
That gets a bark of laughter. “Same mouth on you. Thought Eleanor would’ve beat that outta you by now.” He shakes his head like it is funny. “Guess not.”
Her hands tremble under the table, nails digging into her jeans. She is seconds from snapping back when the door swings open again.
Sam.
He spots them instantly, his steps quickening as he crosses the diner. “Everything okay here?” His voice is even, but his eyes lock onto Rick like a warning.
Rick leans back, smirk never fading. “Who’s this? Your boyfriend?”
Sam’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t bite. “I think you should move along.”
He snorts. “Figures. Should’ve guessed she’d be into older guys. If I’d known that back then…” His grin turns meaner. “I’d have stuck around.”
That does it. Sam steps in closer, broad enough to eclipse Rick from Nellie’s view. His voice drops, quiet but sharp enough to cut. “You’re done.”
Rick’s eyes narrow, but the weight of Sam’s stare — the kind that carries the promise of something he doesn’t want to test — finally makes him scoff and back off. “Fine. Not worth the trouble anyway.” He shoots her one last lingering look before turning toward the door.
The bell jingles again, and he is gone.
Sam turns back, his anger simmering just below the surface. “Who was that?”
Nellie stares at the table, throat tight. “Can we just… get this to go?”
He hesitates, then nods. He raises a hand for the waitress, never taking his eyes off his niece.
She keeps her gaze fixed on the scratched laminate, the ghost of Rick’s grin burning into her mind, her hands trembling in her lap where no one can see.
The drive back to the motel is short, but it feels longer with the silence stretching between them. Nellie presses herself against the passenger door, her eyes fixed on the passing blur of neon and headlights, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Sam doesn’t press her, but he doesn’t miss a thing.
Back at the motel, he sets the food out on the little table, trying to pretend it is a typical lunch. Nellie pushes fries around her carton without taking a bite, her mind clearly elsewhere. He sits across from her, watching.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “Nellie… who was that man?”
She stiffens, eyes fixed on the table. Too long a pause. He tilts his head, voice careful but firm. “Let me guess — one of your mother’s boyfriends?”
Her breath hitches, then she gives the smallest nod.
He leans back, giving her the space to continue.
“He was around when I was fourteen,” she says at last, voice low and flat. “Dated my mom for almost a year. He… he was worse than most of them. Mean. Always looking for a reason to hit me. Didn’t matter what I did — if I looked at him wrong, if I spoke too loud, sometimes if I didn’t say anything at all.” Her fingers twist in the hem of her shirt, knuckles white. “I used to count the bruises, just to remind myself it wasn’t all in my head. And seeing him today—it was like being fourteen again. I could feel every one of them.”
His jaw works, but he keeps his voice level, steady. “Nellie…”
She shakes her head quickly, as if to shut down the sympathy before it could start. “I just—being around him again, even for a minute, it made me feel disgusting. Like I’d never gotten away at all.”
Sam moves, pushing his chair back and sitting closer, resting a hand gently on her arm. His tone was quiet but unshakable. “Listen to me. You’re not disgusting. And none of that was your fault. You were a kid, Nellie. You didn’t deserve any of it.”
Nellie swallows hard, eyes glassy, but doesn’t look up.
“I need you to hear me,” he presses, softer now. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Her shoulders slump, and for the first time since the diner, she lets out a breath that sounds almost like release. She gives a slight nod, fragile but real.
The food sits untouched between them. Sam doesn’t care. He’d take silence and honesty over a thousand meals. He lets the silence sit a while, giving her time to breathe after what she’s just shared. But he knows they can’t sit in the heaviness forever.
Eventually, he speaks gently. “You up for more research after lunch?”
Nellie’s head lifts, eyes tired but clear. She considers it for a beat, then nods. “Yeah. I am.”
He studies her, like he half-expects her to take it back. But her voice carries quiet conviction.
“I remember what you told me,” she adds, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “To be a good hunter, you’ve got to face your fears to do what’s right. I don’t want to let him—” She stops, her jaw tightening. “I don’t want to let any of them have that kind of power over me anymore. And the library’s the last place Rick would ever be. So yeah. I’m good.”
His chest aches with a mix of pride and sorrow. He gives her a small nod. “Alright then. We’ll head back this afternoon, see what else we can dig up.”
For the first time since the diner, Nellie manages to muster a bare hint of a smile. Not much, but enough to show that she isn’t folding under the weight. She is pushing back.
• • •
The library is cool and still, light spilling through tall windows and cutting across rows of tables and the stacks of yellowed newspapers in bound volumes.
Sam sets down the stack of articles he pulled and slides one toward Nellie. She’s already settled in across from him, her hair pulled back loosely, sleeves rolled up, pen in hand. For a while, the only sound between them is the shuffle of papers and the scratch of her neat handwriting.
Sam catches himself watching his niece more than once. Just hours ago, she looked cornered and fragile in that diner booth. But here? Here she seems steady. Focused. Comfortable, even. He realizes it isn’t just that she is good at research. She likes it. She’s always been a bookworm, sure, but there is something more here. Like she’s found a rhythm that makes sense to her, a place where she isn’t just surviving memories but building something useful from them.
He leans back slightly, flipping through a town registry while stealing another glance. She is muttering half to herself as she connects dots between two different clippings, her brow furrows in concentration. For someone who’d been rattled not long ago, she looks at ease. Not running from the fear but channeling it into something productive.
And that strikes Sam, how much stronger she is than she gives herself credit for. He remembers her words at the motel: You’ve got to face your fears to do what’s right. She is doing it now, quietly, steadily, page by page.
“Here,” she says suddenly, sliding an article across the table, snapping him out of his thoughts. “There’s a string of unsolved deaths in the late seventies, all written off as accidents. Look — bonfires in the woods, strange symbols reported. Nothing proven, but…”
Sam takes the clipping, scanning it, impressed at the link she’s made. “Good eye,” he says.
Nellie gives a little shrug, hiding a flicker of pride. “Better than thinking about… other things.” She doesn’t look up when she says it, just flipping to the next stack of newspapers.
He doesn’t push. He just watches her work, the light catching in her eyes, and thinks, “She really is a Winchester.”
By the time they step out of the library, the last of the daylight is gone. The doors lock behind them with a heavy click, leaving the street washed in the amber glow of flickering lamps. Nellie carries the folder of photocopies they’d made, cradled against her like treasure.
Sam stretches his back, rolling his shoulders after hours of hunching over the table. He glances at her, sees how she looks lighter than she has all day. “You did good in there.”
She smiles faintly, the kind of smile that reaches her eyes but still carries a thread of self-consciousness. “Thanks.”
He lets a beat pass before adding, “Dean always said you gotta celebrate the little wins.” His mouth quirks with the memory, bittersweet. “So. What do you say? One drink, maybe a burger, at the bar down the street?”
She blinks at him, a little surprised, then her lips curve into something warmer. “You’re taking me to a bar?”
“You’re twenty-one,” he says with a shrug. “You’ve earned it. And no, this isn’t about drowning sorrows.” His voice softens. “It’s about celebrating progress. You’re not just doing the work, Nell. You’re good at it.”
Her chest tightens at that. For so long, progress had meant just surviving another day. But here, with her uncle’s quiet pride and the folder of clippings pressed to her side, it means something else. Something better.
She nods, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Alright. A bar it is.”
He grins. “That’s more like it.”
They start walking towards the Impala, the cool night air sharp against their skin. For the first time that day, Nellie feels more like herself again, not the girl reliving her nightmares, but the woman beginning to carve out who she wants to be.
• • •
The bar is exactly what Sam expects in a small town. Scuffed wooden floors, neon beer signs glowing against paneled walls, a jukebox humming classic rock in the corner. A couple of pool tables sit crooked under dim lamps, and the scent of fried food clings to the air, as if it has never left.
Nellie slides into a booth across from Sam, her eyes wandering over the space with a kind of cautious curiosity. “This ain’t so bad.”
Sam raised a brow. “A good bad, or bad bad?”
“Good,” she says quickly, then smirks. “I mean, this is basically how I imagine half of Dean’s stories went down.”
That tugs at something in his chest, but he lets it out as a soft chuckle. “You’re not wrong.”
A waitress drops off menus, and Nellie flips hers open with surprising confidence. “I’m getting the cheeseburger. Does this look like the place to order a salad?”
He gives her an approving look. “That’s something your dad would’ve said.”
She laughs, a real laugh this time, the kind that seemed to loosen the knot between her shoulders. “Okay, now you’re just stacking the Winchester approval points on me.”
“Maybe.” He leans back against the booth. “But you’ve earned them.”
They place their orders, and when the drinks come, he raises his glass. “To little wins.”
She clinks her glass against his, her grin a little sheepish but sincere. “To little wins.”
For a while, they just talk, not about covens or ghosts, but about lighter things. Nellie teases Sam about his outdated laptop and admits she once tried to memorize Shakespeare’s Hamlet just to prove a teacher wrong. Sam told her about a disastrous undercover job where Dean had nearly blown their cover because he couldn’t keep a straight face while pretending to be a health inspector.
It isn’t normal life, not really. But it is as close as they are going to get. And for Nellie, it is enough.
She leans back in her seat, warm from the food and the easy company, and thinks, “This is what being a Winchester must have felt like sometimes. Fighting the darkness, yeah… but finding light in the in-betweens.”
Sam catches her smiling to herself. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly, though her smile lingers. “Just… thanks for this.”
He gives a small nod, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Anytime.”
They continue chatting, both sliding into a place that Sam finds familiar, and Nellie is only beginning to enjoy. By the time he suggests another round, she volunteers to grab it.
“I got it,” she says, sliding out of the booth. There is a new confidence in her step, one born of her uncle’s steady pride and the feeling that she is finally doing something right.
Nellie leans on the counter, waiting for the bartender to take her order. For the first time all day, her shoulders aren’t knotted tight. She did well in the library. Sam had told her she’d earned the right to celebrate. And maybe she believes it. Just a little.
Then she hears it. That voice.
“Well, look at this. Didn’t expect to see you here, little Ellie.”
Her body goes rigid before she even turns. She knows that voice: slurred, mean, dragging up years she tried to bury. Slowly, she turns her head. Rick, with that same cruel smirk, spread across his mouth.
Her stomach drops. She grips the edge of the bar until her knuckles whiten. “Leave me alone, Rick.”
He chuckles, stepping closer, breath sour with alcohol. “What, no hug for your old pal? We didn’t get to finish our little talk earlier.” His eyes drag over her, lingering in ways that make her skin crawl. “You got prettier, you know that? Not a scrawny little brat anymore.”
Her throat feels tight, but she forces the words out, sharp. “Go away.”
He grins wider, like he is enjoying her discomfort. “Don’t be like that. We had fun, didn’t we? Back when—”
“Stop.” The word cracks out of her before she can stop it. She turns, desperate to get back to Sam, but Rick’s hand shoots out, clamping around her arm. His grip is iron, bruising.
“You think you’re too good to talk to me now? Your boyfriend can’t save you this time, sweetheart.”
For a split second, she is fourteen again. The living room reeking of whiskey, her mother screaming in the background, Rick’s shadow stretching long against the wall. His voice calling her “sweetheart, ” “darling, ” and “girl.” That same hand gripping too tight.
Her breath stutters. She tugs hard, but he doesn’t let go. Panic sparks in her chest.
Then—
“Let her go.”
Sam’s voice cuts through the haze. He is already there, tall and solid, his eyes sharp with a fury Nellie hasn’t seen before. He wedges himself between them, prying Rick’s hand free from her arm.
Rick just laughs, but there is no humor in it. “Oh, I get it now.” He looks Sam up and down, then sneers at Nellie. “Should’ve figured. You like the older ones, huh? Hell, if I’d known that back then, maybe I would’ve stuck around.”
Her stomach turns to ice. The humiliation hits like a slap, shame and rage crashing together so violently she thinks she’ll choke on it.
Sam’s jaw clenches, fury burning hot in his eyes. He steps closer, voice low and dangerous. “Back. Away.”
Rick doesn’t move. He smirks, daring, cocky with the liquor in his veins. “What’s he gonna do, huh? What’s he gonna do when I—”
Something in Nellie snaps.
She moves before she thinks. Twisting his arm behind his back in a motion Sam had drilled into her during training, she slams him against the tall bar with a crack that silences the chatter around them. Rick curses, struggling, but she shoves harder, pinning him there.
Her voice shakes, but she forces it loud, loud enough for the whole bar to hear.
“Try it again. I dare you. Because if you do, everyone in here is gonna know you like getting handsy with fourteen-year-old girls.”
The words hang in the air, heavy, final. Gasps and murmurs ripple through the crowd. Rick freezes. His face flushes scarlet, part rage, part humiliation, but he stops fighting.
Nellie shoves him forward, letting him stumble free, and turns away without another word.
Her chest heaves as she pushes past the crowd, Sam right behind her. She doesn’t stop until the night air hits her face. Then, with the adrenaline crashing, she doubles over on the sidewalk, vomiting shakily against the cracked pavement. Sam is there instantly, steadying her, brushing her hair back with a hand that is firm but gentle. He didn’t say anything. Just stayed with her until it passed.
When she finally straightens, trembling, he pulls the car keys out of his pocket. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
She nods weakly, not trusting her voice, and lets him guide her to the car. The confidence she felt in standing up to Rick has already drained away, leaving her raw and shaking. But somewhere beneath the nausea, deep in her bones, she knows she’d taken something back from him tonight. For the first time, she isn’t that fourteen-year-old girl anymore.
The drive back to the motel is silent. Nellie stares out the window, knuckles white against her jeans, the rhythm of the passing streetlights blurring into a dull hum. Sam doesn’t push. He keeps one hand steady on the wheel, the other clenched loosely against his thigh, watching her out of the corner of her eye when he thinks she won’t notice.
Inside the room, she goes straight for the bathroom without a word. He hears the water run a moment later, the pipes groaning like they are protesting. He sits at the small table with the stack of articles they’d printed at the library, spreading them out in front of him. He isn’t really reading them, just trying to give her space.
The shower runs long, but when she finally emerges, her hair damp and pulled back, she looks more composed. Still pale, still rattled, but steady on her feet. She glances towards Sam, where he is half-heartedly looking at an article.
“You don’t have to pretend,” Nellie says softly.
He looks up, eyebrows raised.
“That you’re reading,” she clarifies, sitting down across from him. Her fingers toy with the edge of a paper napkin, twisting it into little curls.
He doesn’t argue; he simply folds the article and sets it aside, giving her his full attention.
For a long moment, she says nothing. Just picks at the napkin, her jaw tight. Then the words tumble out, raw and sharp.
“When I was fourteen, and my mom was with Rick… it wasn’t just the beatings.”
Sam’s shoulders tense up, but he stays quiet, letting her keep control.
Her fingers now pick at the cuff of her sleeve. Her eyes stay locked on the tabletop.
“He thought he was getting a two-for-one special when he dated my mother. And he… he cashed in. More than once.” Her voice cracks, but she pushes on. “It never got further than—than touching. But it was enough. Enough that sometimes I prayed he’d just hit me instead. A beating was easier.”
Her chest tightens. He wants to break something. Wants to drive back to that bar and put Rick through the wall. But Nellie is still talking, and she needs to.
Her hands tremble now, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. “And it wasn’t just him. There were others. A couple of her boyfriends thought they could get away with it. But he was the boldest. The worst.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and the tears finally fall.
Sam’s heart breaks with her. He thinks of the girl she had been, small and defenseless, with no one to stand between her and the monsters in her own home. He thinks of Dean and how furious his brother would have been, how gutted.
“We should’ve been there,” he whispers, his voice low and aching. “Dean and I. We should’ve saved you from all of it.”
Nellie shakes her head, sobbing harder now, but the self-disgust in her expression cuts him deeper than anything. She curls in on herself, like she wants to disappear.
That is when he moves. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask. He rises, comes around the table, and pulls her into his arms. She folds against him immediately, her sobs breaking free against his shirt. He holds her tight, one hand at the back of her head, the other bracing around her shoulders like he can shield her from every blow, every handsy touch, every cruel word she had endured.
“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, over and over, his voice rough but steady. “You’re safe. And none of that was your fault. None of it.”
She cries until her breathing hitches, until she sags against him, wrung out but lighter. He just holds on, his own eyes wet, jaw clenching against the grief and anger churning inside him. For tonight, he doesn’t need answers, and she doesn’t need to be strong. For tonight, he just let her be his kid.
Nellie’s sobs have quieted into ragged breaths. She stays pressed against her uncle, the steady weight of his hand on her back anchoring her in place. Then, after a long silence, her voice breaks through, small and shaky.
“I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
Sam leans back enough to look at her, brows knitting.
“At the bar. When I—” She gestures weakly, miming the twist of his arm. “I wasn’t trying to… I just wanted him to stop.” Her eyes brim again, guilt washing over her face. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey.” His voice is firm, cutting off the spiral before it can gather steam. “You did the right thing.”
Her gaze darts up, searching his face, as if she expects disappointment. Instead, she finds nothing but steady conviction.
“He grabbed you. Scaring you.” He shakes his head, voice heavy with certainty. “And you stood up for yourself. After everything he put you through, Nellie, that took guts. I’m proud of you for it.”
She blinks, startled, like the word proud doesn’t belong to her.
He gives a faint, weary smile, though his eyes still carry the weight of everything she told him. “You’ll figure out pretty quick that monsters come in all shapes. Ghosts, demons, vampires… they’re bad enough. But sometimes? Humans are the scariest monsters we’ll ever have to face. And you handled one tonight.”
The words hit Nellie harder than she expected. For the first time since walking out of that bar, some of the weight in her chest loosened. She lets out a shaky breath, nodding once.
Sam’s arm tightens around her shoulders, grounding her. “You’re not alone in this anymore. Not ever again.” He gives her one last squeeze, then returns to his chair with a sigh. “We’ve done what we can here. First thing in the morning, we’re heading out to Louisiana. There’s someone there who can potentially help us out. There’s even an old Men of Letters site. We need more information on this coven that’s chasing you.”
She blinks at him, a little startled. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He gives her a small, gentle smile, yet firm. “Tonight… you faced more than enough. You don’t need to keep reliving Lockhart and everything tied to it. We leave it behind us. We keep moving.”
Nellie exhales shakily, relief mixing with the ache still burning in her chest.
“For now,” he continues, standing, “you rest. You’ve had a long day. Research, standing up to Rick, all of it. You’ve earned some sleep.”
She hesitates, then manages a whisper: “Thank you… for being here.”
Sam’s smile deepens, soft and warm. “Always.”
He turns off the light, giving her space, but even in the dark, she can feel the weight of his care. Steady, unshakable, like an anchor she hadn’t known she needed until now.
• • •
The motel room is quiet except for Nellie’s steady breathing, soft and even in sleep. Sam sits at the small table, watching her for a moment longer, making sure the exhaustion has finally claimed her. Then he stands, careful not to creak the floorboards, and slips outside into the cool night air.
The phone feels heavy in his hand as he scrolls to Eileen’s name. He hesitates, not because he doesn’t want to tell her, but because he isn’t sure he can get the words out without breaking. Still, he presses the call button.
She picks up quickly, her voice warm and immediate. “Sam? Everything okay?”
He lets out a breath that is half a laugh, half a choke. “We’re okay. She’s okay. But… It’s been a day.”
There is a pause on the line, her concern sharpening. “What happened?”
Sam presses his free hand to his forehead, dragging it down as if the motion could steady him. “We ran into one of Eleanor’s old boyfriends.” His jaw clenches at the thought of Rick leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “Twice, actually. Once at the diner, once at a bar. He was… he grabbed her.”
Eileen doesn’t answer right away, but he can imagine her expression: that mix of anger and protectiveness she got whenever someone got hurt.
“She stood up to him, though,” he says, voice softening despite the bitterness in his chest. “Used one of the moves I taught her. Put him on his ass. I was proud of her. But afterward…” He trails off, throat tightening.
“Afterward?” she prompts gently.
He swallows, blinking hard against the sting in his eyes. “She told me more about what he did. Back then. When she was fourteen.” He leans against the brick wall of the motel, voice dropping. “It wasn’t just Eleanor who abused her. It was some of her boyfriends, too. This guy was one of those. It was… worse. He... God, Eileen...” He swallows hard. “There was sexual abuse. And apparently, he wasn’t the only one.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence on the line is thick with fury and grief. Then Eileen whispers, “Oh, Sam…”
His voice cracks when he answers. “She sat there, crying, apologizing to me. Like she was the one who did something wrong. And I—I didn’t know what to do except hold her. I wish Dean and I could’ve gotten to her sooner. I wish—God, I wish she hadn’t had to live through any of that.”
On the other end of the line, he heard her shaky breath. “She survived it, Sam. And she told you. That’s… that’s huge.”
“I know.” His throat works as he forces the words out. “But hearing her say she prayed for him to just hit her instead of touching her… it broke me, Eileen. I don’t think I’ve ever hated someone more in my life.” His hand trembles around the phone. He squeezes his eyes shut. “She’s my niece, but—God, she feels like my kid. Like she’s mine to protect now.”
There is no hesitation in her response. “She is our kid.” Her voice is firm, certain. “We’ve been a family since the day she knocked on our door. She just needed time to believe it.”
Sam exhales sharply, a tear slipping down his cheek. “Yeah,” he says, his voice thick. “Yeah, you’re right. She’s ours.”
A quiet smile colors Eileen’s tone when she adds, “And tonight, she proved just how much of a Winchester she is. Standing up to him like that… Dean would’ve been proud.”
He lets out a wet laugh, wiping at his face. “I told her the same thing.”
For a long moment, neither of them speaks, just the soft sound of each other’s breathing through the line. Then Eileen says, tender and steady, “She’s home now, Sam. No matter where we are — the house, bunker, the middle of nowhere — she’s got us. That’s what matters.”
He nods, even though she can’t see it, his chest easing for the first time that night. “Yeah. That’s what matters.”
When he finally hangs up and steps back into the dim motel room, Nellie is still curled on her bed, the faint glow of the amulet at her throat catching in the light. Sam sinks onto his bed, watching over her as he whispers to himself, “You’re going to be okay.”
• • •
The following morning breaks gray and humid, the kind of air that clings to your skin even with the Impala’s windows cracked. The road stretches ahead of them, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through endless fields, and the hum of the engine fills the silence. Sam has one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his knee, but his gaze is far off, too far for someone paying attention to mile markers.
Nellie notices. She always does.
She hugs her knees to her chest in the passenger seat, watching the landscape blur by. After a while, she tilts her head toward him. “You’ve been awfully quiet this morning.”
He blinks, pulling himself back, and forces a faint smile. “Just… thinking.”
“About me?” she asks softly. It isn’t accusatory, more like she already knows the answer.
His silence stretches too long, and she lets out a quiet sigh, fiddling with the cord of her amulet. “You don’t have to protect me from your own thoughts, you know. I can tell when you’re carrying something heavy. You wear it all over your face.”
That pulls a short, surprised laugh from him, but it fades quickly. He grips the wheel tighter. “I just… after last night, after what you told me…” He shakes his head. “I hate that you ever had to go through any of that.”
Nellie’s throat tightens, but she steadies herself, leaning back against the seat. “Sam… you’ve said before that hunting’s about facing fears, right? That’s what I’m trying to do now. I survived it then, and I’m surviving it now. And… you’re the first person I ever told the truth to.”
Sam glances at her, startled.
She gives him a slight, almost embarrassed shrug. “Not even my mother knew. And if she did, she clearly didn’t care.” Her voice goes quiet at that, but then she straightens, forcing a bit of her usual wryness back. “So… congratulations, Sam. You’re the lucky winner of my tragic backstory.”
He lets out a breathless laugh at her delivery, but his eyes stay damp, his chest heavy. “I don’t take that lightly. You hear me? You can talk to me. About anything. Me or Eileen. You don’t ever have to carry it alone again.”
She nods, holding his gaze for a moment before turning back to the window, the corner of her mouth twitching like she isn’t sure if she should smile or cry. “I know. And… that’s new for me. But it’s a good new. Like… weirdly good.”
Sam shakes his head with a soft, incredulous smile. Even after everything, she still finds room for humor. For resilience. Dean would’ve been proud of that, too.
The road stretches on ahead of them, and for the first time that morning, the silence that follows doesn’t feel heavy. It feels steady, like something they can build on.
• • •
The air smells of damp earth and ash, the only light in the cavernous cellar coming from candles wedged into cracked glass jars. Shadows jitter across stone walls, thrown long by the flames, while a circle of women stands in a small cluster on the stone floor. The hooded woman bows her head; her cloak dusted with the dry weeds and brittle leaves.
“Mother Solene, I watched the house as you instructed,” the scout reports, voice tight with reverence. “She came back. With the Winchester. Just as you said she would.”
At the far end of the room, a tall figure shifts into the light. The women around her bowed their heads lower as she moved, her long black hair braided into a crown, and her presence commanding without needing to raise her voice. Her eyes, pale and sharp as cut glass, lock on the hooded woman.
“Tell me,” Solene says.
The scout swallows hard. “The girl… she felt me. The moment they burned the hex bags, she turned. It wasn’t the Winchester—only her. Her senses reach further than I’ve seen before. Not just aware of me, but aware of being seen.”
Her lips curve, something between amusement and pride. She steps closer, long skirts whispering across the dirt. “So Eleanor’s seed bore true after all.”
“She is stronger than the others,” the other woman admits, hesitantly. “Too strong. An amulet cloaks her, blinds most of us. But even veiled, she brushed against me. Her range… It’s flourishing. If we’re right about her bloodline—”
She raises a hand, silencing her. Her voice comes quietly, intimate, but it carries to every corner of the cellar. “We are not guessing. We are certain. The girl was born for this.”
The circle of women murmurs in agreement, whispers like the hiss of snakes. Solene’s pale eyes glimmered in the candlelight as she lifted her chin, her smile thin and chilling.
“She is the finest candidate we’ve seen. The best conduit yet.” She pauses, letting the weight of her words settle like a shroud. “And the Fallen One deserves nothing less.”
The flames of the candles gutter low, then flare, as if the room itself responded to her declaration.
The scout keeps her head bowed. “Mother Solene,” she murmurs, “they are cautious. The Winchester cloaks her as much as the amulet does. They do not stay long in one place, and when they travel, he wards every path behind them. If we press too close, they will know.”
A long silence stretches. Solene’s pale eyes study the flickering flames, her expression unreadable. She does not pace, does not gesture. Her stillness is what makes every breath in the room feel heavier. Finally, she speaks. “Then we do not press. We watch. We wait.”
The woman glances up. “Mother… you wish us only to observe?”
“Patience is power,” she replies, her voice smooth, even, quiet enough that the circle leans closer to catch every word. “The girl’s strength is not yet full. She wields it clumsily, untrained. In this, the Winchester protects her. And in this, he damns her. For each day he teaches her, her light grows brighter.
The amulet may shield her from sight, but it cannot shield her from her nature. And when the time comes…” Her lips barely curve, the hint of a smile colder than a blade, “…she will burn brightest for us.”
The women around the circle lower their heads, whispering as one: “Yes, Mother Solene.”
Her gaze returns to the scout. “Continue to shadow them as best you can under the circumstances. Do not be seen again. Let her believe it was only a flicker, a trick of fear. The moment will come when the girl trusts her strength. That is when we will open the door and invite her to step through.”
The scout swallows, nodding quickly. “As you command, Mother.”
For a long moment, the candles bend low as though pulled by a breath no one has taken.
Solene tilts her head, her pale eyes glittering in the dim light. “She will be ours soon enough,” she murmurs. “She is our perfect conduit.”
A/N: Solene (so-LEEN), rhyming with Jolene or Celine.
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