Embedded Files
It was supposed to be a hunt. Clean, simple, by the book. But nothing about the Winchesters ever is. Now, with Sam’s life hanging in the balance, Nellie finds out that saving people isn’t the hardest part — it’s learning what it costs.
Word Count: 13.7k
TW: canon-typical violence. some harassment. use of mild language.
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The road stretches long and empty, two faded yellow lines cutting through farmland that sagged under the heat. Cicadas scream from the trees, a sound so constant it seems stitched into the air itself. Dust hangs in the wake of the Impala, curling up in lazy ghosts before dropping back to the asphalt. The windows are cracked, but the breeze that slides in is warm, damp, and carries the tang of cut hay.
Nellie slouches against the passenger door, one boot kicked up underneath her lap, her hair sticking to the back of her neck. The borrowed FBI blazer lies crumpled in a heap between them, abandoned in surrender to the humidity. She drags a hand through her hair and mutters, "I swear, Georgia humidity's worse than hellfire. Pretty sure the devil himself would take one step out here and turn back."
Sam smirks faintly, his hand resting easily on the wheel, thumb tapping slowly against the curve of it. "Could be worse. At least the air doesn't smell like sulfur."
"Not yet," she shoots back, squinting past the glare of the sun off the hood. "Give it time. This thing screams demon bait."
He only hums, gaze fixed on the road. The silence that follows isn't quite silence; it is layered with everything he isn't saying. Nellie has learned to hear that part, too.
She picks up the manila folder from between the seats and flips it open. Photocopies of police reports, newspaper clippings, blurry crime scene photos. "So, let's recap. Several farms have lost some of their cattle. All drained of blood. No bite marks, no ritual sigils, nothing except —" She taps one grainy photo with the flat of her nail. "— this lovely mess of shredded muscle that looks like it belongs on Animal Planet."
"Chimera," he says, like the word has already worn itself thin in his head.
She wrinkles her nose. "Half lion, half goat, half snake, all bullshit. No offense, Sammy, but I'm not buying it. Creatures like that belong in bad B-movies and Greek mythology. Not southern backroads."
His grip tightens on the wheel just enough for the leather to creak. "I didn't say it's what we're dealing with. Just what the reports look like on the surface."
She leans her cheek into her palm, studying him. "Yeah. But you're not buying it either."
He doesn't answer right away. His eyes stay on the ribbon of asphalt, expression calm. Finally, he says, "Whatever it is, it's not random. And if we don't move fast, it's going to keep killing."
She blows out a breath and lets the folder drop shut. "Guess that means no easy win this week."
His mouth twitches, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Never does."
The cicadas drone louder as the car rolls past another stretch of leaning fence posts and dying cornfields. Heat shimmers off the blacktop ahead, warping the horizon into something uncertain. She watches it bend and waver, feeling the tension humming under Sam's stillness. This hunt isn't just a monster experience for her; she can feel it.
• • •
The Impala rolls into town under a humid afternoon sun. Main Street looks like a hundred others they'd passed through: two stoplights, a row of shops with tired signs, the smell of fryer oil seeping out of the diner at the corner. A place where strangers turned heads, but only for a minute.
Sam eases the car into a spot across from the diner, killing the engine. He glances once at his niece, measuring. "Remember, straight questions. Keep it light."
Nellie tucks the badge into her jacket pocket, feeling its false weight. Her reflection in the glass window looks older than she feels, jaw set, shoulders squared. "Got it. County investigators. Looking for patterns."
The bell over the door jingles when they step inside. The air smells of bacon grease and coffee that has soaked into the countertop for decades. A few farmers hunched in a corner booth, caps pushed back, plates scraped clean. The waitress behind the counter gives the hunters a quick up-and-down, then nods them toward an open booth. Sam orders coffee. Nellie asks for water, though her throat is tight enough that she doubts she'll drink it. She sets her notebook on the table, pen ready.
It doesn't take long for the locals to notice them. One of the farmers leans back in his seat, voice just loud enough to carry. "You folks with the county?"
Sam looks up, his voice in a practiced professional tone. "That's right. Just following up. Heard there's been some trouble out your way."
The man snorts, exchanging a look with his buddy. "Trouble's one word for it. Damn cattle keep turning up like somebody ran 'em through a grinder."
Another chimes in, voice low and rough. "Ain't coyotes. Not dogs either. Too clean, too… wrong."
Nellie leans forward, her tone steady but not sharp. "You've seen the carcasses?"
The first farmer nods, his hands knotting together. "Skin peeled back like paper. No blood. Sheriff says it's wild animals, but I been raising stock thirty years. Ain't never seen wild animals do that."
Uneasy laughter stirs the group. Rumors trade like cards. Something stalking fence lines at night, shapes moving against the tree line, and dogs refusing to go near certain pastures. The waitress pretends not to listen, though her hand shakes a little as she refills their mugs.
Then, one of the older men leans in, voice dropping. "Thing is… wasn't just cows this time." He pauses, the silence at the table tightening around him. "Hank Simmons. Over on Route Four. He got hit."
The words hang there, heavy and raw.
Sam stills, the coffee halfway to his lips. His shoulders locked, his gaze flicking to Nellie without a word.
Her brow furrows, pen frozen against the page. "A person?" she asks quietly, though she already knows the answer.
The farmer's jaw tightens. "Found him two nights ago. Just like the cattle. Sheriff's trying to keep it quiet, but everyone knows."
The table falls silent after that. The only sound is the rattle of ice in a glass, the low hum of the jukebox in the corner.
Nellie closes her notebook slowly, her chest tight. It isn't just strange anymore. It is deadly.
Across from her, Sam sets his cup down with care, like the slightest movement might tip the balance. His calm expression doesn't fool her this time.
She swallows, meeting his eyes. "Guess we're past cattle mutilations."
His reply is quiet, but it carries weight. "Yeah. This is something else."
• • •
The station sits at the edge of town, squat brick with a single flag stirring in the humid air. Fluorescent lights hum inside, casting everything in a tired, too-bright glare. The kind of place where nothing big was ever supposed to happen.
Sam pushes through the door first, his stride steady, practiced. Nellie follows, pulling her blazer tighter, the weight of the badge a familiar lie against her ribs. The front desk deputy looks up from a half-finished crossword, suspicion flickering in his eyes before Sam's badge comes out, easy and confident.
"Agents West and Carter, county investigation," he says, voice calm, clipped. "We're here about Hank Simmons."
The deputy hesitates, then thumbs toward a row of file cabinets. "Sheriff's out on call. You'll wanna talk to Forensics. Body's still being processed." His gaze darts between them, then back down to his crossword, like he is already regretting saying as much.
Nellie leans in, resting one hand on the counter. Her tone is even, careful. "We just need a sense of what you're working with. Cause of death? Anything unusual?"
His jaw works. He shuffles his papers, then mutters low enough that it barely carries. "Wasn't just cuts. Was blood. All of it gone. Like he'd been drained dry."
For a beat, silence holds.
Sam's jaw flexes, his shoulders tightening. The air between them sharpens. His reply is crisp, almost too crisp. "Appreciate the update. We'll follow up with Forensics."
Nellie catches it. The clipped edge, the way his knuckles whitened just slightly against the folder in his hand. A flash of something unspoken, old and raw, sliding under the calm. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Not here. Not now.
Instead, she slips a folded scrap of paper across the counter. "When the autopsy's finished, could you send the files to this email? Helps keep our reports straight."
The deputy glances at it, frowning, but tucks it under his crossword without argument.
She nods, professional. "Thank you for your time."
They turn toward the door, the deputy already bending back over his puzzle. Outside, the afternoon presses close, thick with the scent of pine and hot asphalt. Sam holds the door open for her, his face unreadable. The mask is back in place, smooth as ever. But Nellie feels the weight of it in her chest, heavy as the summer air. Whatever had happened to Hank Simmons, it wasn't just another case. And whatever it is dragging out of Sam, it is worse.
• • •
The Simmons property stretches out under the lowering sun, acres of pasture cut by sagging fence lines. The grass ripples in the warm breeze, and the cicadas have gone quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that carries weight.
Sam's gaze cuts over the ground ahead, tracing the outline of what is left of a steer. The hide lies slack, peeled back in grotesque ribbons. Flies buzz where they shouldn't; there is no blood for them to find.
Nellie pulls her flannel tighter, boots crunching against the dry earth. The smell turns her stomach. Not rot, exactly, but the wrongness of something hollowed out. She crouches near the carcass, notebook balanced on her knee. "So. Chimera?" Her tone isn't sarcastic this time, just searching.
He stands over her shoulder, hands on his hips. The beam of his light stays steady, but his voice cuts sharply. "No. Doesn't fit. A chimera tears, burns, poisons. It doesn't drain."
She looks up at him, catching the clipped edge in his tone. "Okay. Then what does?"
He shakes his head once, too quick, too final. "Doesn't matter yet. Not until we've got more."
She frowns, rising to her feet. "It matters if whatever did this is still out here. It matters if it's killing people."
The words hang between them. His jaw tightens, his profile hard in the light of dusk. For a moment, it looks like he might say something else, something that sits heavy in the set of his shoulders, but then he turns away, scanning the fence line.
"Drop it, Nellie," he says quietly, and starts walking back toward the Impala.
She stays a step behind, the frustration simmering low in her chest. He is shutting her out. The unease that flickers in his eyes earlier hasn't gone anywhere. He is just burying it deeper.
She glances back once at the carcass, the empty skin whispering in the grass. Not a chimera. Not random. And not something Sam wants to name. Whatever this thing is, it isn't just tearing into cattle anymore. It is tearing into him, too.
• • •
The motel room is the kind of place where hunters have spent too many nights before. A round table sags under the weight of lore books, laptops humming, Styrofoam cups lined up like spent shells.
Nellie hunches over her screen, the glow painting her face pale. A new email pings into the throwaway inbox she'd handed off at the station. She clicks it open. Autopsy scans unfold across the screen; harsh black-and-white, every angle clinical, merciless. She leans closer, lips pressing into a line. Neck punctures. Clean. Deep. The body is pale, almost waxy. Cause of death marked in neat font: exsanguination.
Her throat goes dry. "Sam."
He looks up from a lore book spread across the bed, a frown already forming. She turns the laptop so he can see.
Markers clear. Punctures. Drained blood.
For a long second, he doesn't move. Just stares. Then the muscle in his jaw ticks, hard.
"Vampires," she says quietly. It isn't a question.
Sam's whole body goes still, the book sliding shut at his side. His eyes stay locked on the screen, but unfocused. Something old and heavy pulls the air around him tight.
Finally, his voice comes, low and clipped. "We're dropping it."
She blinks. "What? No. We don't walk away from this. You know that."
"We're dropping it," he repeats, sharper this time, the words cracking like a command.
Her hands curl into fists against the tabletop. "Sam, people are dying. That farmer, the others at the diner. They're counting on someone to step in. If not us, then who?"
He stands abruptly, chair legs scraping, his frame cutting a hard shadow across the room. "Since I said so." The words leave no room. Final.
The laptop screen dims, the scans fading into the glow of the motel's yellow lamp. Sam still hasn't moved. He just stands there, eyes locked on the files like they might rearrange themselves if he stares hard enough.
Nellie shuts the lid gently. "Sam." Her voice comes low, careful. "Talk to me. What is this? Why does this shake you so bad?"
He doesn't look at her. His shoulders stay rigid, hands braced against the chair back as though letting go might undo him.
She tries again, softer this time. "I've seen you angry. I've seen you worried. But this…" She shakes her head, searching his face for something. "I've never seen you like this."
For a heartbeat, she thinks he might answer. His mouth works once, jaw flexing, but whatever words rise, he swallows back down.
"Sam." She leans forward, elbows on the table, voice firming. "If you don't want me blindsided out there, I need to know. Please. Just explain."
Finally, he turns his head, but not enough to meet her eyes. His face is carved tight, unreadable, shadowed in the lamplight. "There's nothing to explain," he says. Flat. Cold. Final.
The wall is up. Higher than she's ever seen it.
Nellie sits back slowly, stung, the silence between them louder than the motel's sputtering AC. She presses her lips together, biting back the dozen questions clawing at her tongue. She's never seen her uncle shut down like this, not with her. It is more than caution. It is fear. And it scares her more than the word vampire ever can.
• • •
The coffee in the cup has gone cold. A ring of it sits on the table, seeping into an old map that already bears a hundred stains like it. Nellie traces her thumb over the angel wing pendant at her throat, the chain sliding softly against her skin. The disc amulet dangles beside it, and she spins the two together, over and over, until they click. The tiny sound is the only thing moving in the room.
Sam sits on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, his long frame bent into shadows. The lamp catches in his hair, throwing sharp lines across his face. He hasn't spoken for nearly half an hour. Just brooding, staring at the blank TV screen like it might eventually tell him what he already didn't want to know. The silence between them is thick enough to choke on. Not comfortable silence. This is brittle, the kind where one wrong word will shatter it all into jagged edges.
She tugs her pendant again, restless, wishing she could crawl out of her own skin. She wants to ask. Wanted to push him until he breaks. But something in the set of his jaw told her if she did, he'd shut down even harder. So, she didn't.
At last, he straightens, exhaling slowly. He reaches for his phone, thumb hesitating just a fraction before swiping the screen to life.
"I'm gonna make a call," he says, voice low, clipped. No explanation. No space for questions.
He rises, crossing the room with long, deliberate strides. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving only the buzz of the AC and Nellie's pulse in her ears.
She sits frozen, the pendants still warm from her grip. She doesn't need to ask who is on the other end. Eileen. Of course. The only one he'll let see the cracks.
She leans back in the chair, staring at the ceiling's water-stained plaster. "Lucky her," she mutters, voice just loud enough for herself.
The night air outside is thick and damp, cicadas rasping in the dark. Sam leans against the motel railing, phone pressed to his ear, his other hand gripping the wood until it creaks.
"Hey," he says softly, and his voice eases a fraction. "Yeah. It's me."
"Sam?" Eileen's voice comes through the line warm, sharp with worry. "You sound… off. What happened? Is Nellie hurt?"
He closes his eyes, swallowing hard. "No. She's fine. She's okay." His words tumble fast, too fast. "We found a case. Livestock drained. Then a body. Autopsy scans confirm it. Vampire." The word comes out bitter. "We're not continuing."
There is silence for a heartbeat. Then she exhales, slow and heavy. "That's why you sound like this." Her tone softens but carries an edge. "Sam, are you sure just dropping it is the right move?"
"It's the only move." He rubs his forehead, staring into the parking lot's empty dark. "I can't take her into this. Not this. We're walking away."
Her voice sharpens. "And what does that teach her? That hunters run when it gets personal? That you decide for her without telling her why?"
He stiffens. "It's not running. It's keeping her safe."
"Safe doesn't mean blind, Sam." She doesn't raise her voice, but the words cut through. "She's already hunting. She's already in this life. If you don't tell her about Dean, about what vampires cost you, then the first vampire she meets will."
The name hits like a blade. His chest clenches, throat locked. For a long moment, he can't breathe. "I can't," he says finally, voice raw. "Not now. Not here."
Her is quiet, but he can hear her breathing, hear the ache threading into it. Then, softly, "She deserves to know. And you'll break her trust if you keep stonewalling her. Tell her. Even if it hurts."
His hand slides down the railing, leaving dents where his grip has been. "Maybe…" He forces the words out, low and unsteady. "Maybe after we're gone."
He ends the call with a thumb swipe, the line going dead with a flat little chime. For a moment, he just stands there in the humid dark, shoulders sagging, Eileen's words still echoing in the hollow of his chest.
He turns for the door, the gravel crunching once under his boot.
Then the night explodes.
A shape lunges from the shadows beside the vending machine, fast as a striking animal. Sam barely gets an arm up before the blow lands. Pain rattles through his ribs. Another figure follows, efficient, trained, and he is slammed against the wall so hard the siding shakes.
The world blurs into fists, steel grips, sharp pain blooming along his jaw. He gets one hit in — a grunt, a shoulder shoved back — but then a needle bit into the side of his neck. Cold fire spreads under his skin. His arms grow heavy, his vision tunneling.
Inside the motel room, Nellie jolts upright, amulet burning against her skin. The air warps, pressure crashing down behind her eyes until static roars in her skull. She clutches her temples, gasping, the pain so raw it leaves her dizzy.
Something is wrong. Sam.
She staggers to her feet, pistol already in her hand. The door bangs open, spilling her into the parking lot's buzzing sodium light. She sees him. Her uncle, pinned between two figures, another stepping out from the dark. His body sags, knees buckling, the sedative eating him alive.
"Sam!"
Her shout cracks across the lot. She raises the pistol, finger tight on the trigger, but the third figure moves faster. A backhand catches her across the temple, white pain tearing her vision sideways. Her head slams into the vending machine, then hits the gravel hard, weapon skittering away. Through the ringing in her ears, she sees Sam's legs folding. The strangers haul him up like dead weight, dragging him toward a trunk idling at the lot's edge. She tries to push up, limbs trembling, head screaming, but her body refuses. The last thing she sees is the vehicle's doors slam shut, and taillights bleed red into the night.
When Nellie comes to, the cicadas have gone quiet. The lot is empty. Her head throbs with every heartbeat. Sam's phone lies cracked in the gravel, its screen spiderwebbed and dark. She picks it up with shaking fingers, staring at the broken glass, the silence closing in on her like a tomb. Her world tilts. For a long, stunned moment, she just kneels there in the gravel, the motel buzzing faintly around her, the night air too still. Her throat closes up.
Gone.
The word is a drumbeat. Her chest clenches, nausea rising. She wants to scream, to tear the whole parking lot apart with her bare hands until she finds where they'd taken him. Instead, her knees shake. The static still claws at her skull, sharp and relentless, like her body knows what her mind can't accept.
She staggers upright, hands still trembling, and stumbles back inside the motel room. The door slams, and she locks it with every bolt, her breath coming in harsh, uneven gulps. Her fingers fumble with her phone. She punches the call before she can think, before the fear can talk her out of it.
It rings once. Twice.
"Nellie?"
Eileen's voice, steady and warm, fills the line. Behind her is the faint hum of the bunker, and the echo of Dean's laughter carries like a ghost in the background.
Nellie presses the phone to her ear so hard it hurts. "Eileen. It's Sam. They — they took him. I don't know who, I don't know how — they were just there, and then he was gone." Her voice cracks.
On the other end, silence sharpens, then Eileen's words come firm, cutting. "You said the case involved vampires, didn't you? That's not a coincidence. If they knew Sam was in town… they might have been watching. Waiting."
Her stomach drops. "So, you think…"
"I think they're connected," her aunt replies. "And if that's true, then time is against us. Sam doesn't have long."
Nellie shuts her eyes, her pulse a steady roar in her ears. "Then what do I do?"
Eileen's tone softens, but the weight of her words presses down hard. "I can't leave the bunker, not with Dean here. Nellie… you're the only one there. You're the only one who can track them before it's too late. This is your hunt now. Sam's life depends on it."
Her heart lurches, fear knotting tight, but beneath it, something steadier flickers. Resolve.
She grips the pendants at her throat, the wing and amulet warm against her skin. Her voice comes back low, tight, but certain. "Then I'll find him. I'll bring him back."
Eileen's voice is quiet, but sure. "I know you will."
The line clicks silent.
Nellie lowers the phone, pulse hammering. The shock still swirls in her chest, but it has hardened into something sharper. Purpose. Her first solo hunt has already begun.
• • •
Sam comes to with a groan, the world swimming back in fits of color and dark. His head throbs, his throat raw. When he tries to move, ropes bite deep into his wrists and ankles, rough hemp twisting hard around the legs of a chair. The air smells of mildew, rust, and old blood.
A barn. Wide gaps in the slats let pale moonlight leak. Dust motes drift in the beams, lazy and thick, as if time itself has slowed here.
A laugh scrapes the quiet. "Look who's finally awake."
His eyes snap toward the sound. Two figures lounge in the shadows by the doorway, their eyes glinting with a faint, unnatural shine. One twirls a knife idly between his fingers. The other stretches long and slow, like a cat full on cream.
Vampires.
His jaw tightens. He pulls against the ropes, testing for slack. They only dig deeper.
"Well, well," the knife-spinner says, grinning sharply. "Sam Winchester. Didn't think we'd get this lucky. Word travels, you know. Stories. About you and your brother, the things you did. Hunters say your blood's half-salt, half-steel."
The other leans forward, teeth flashing. "Makes it sweeter. Bringing you down."
Sam steadies his breathing, his voice flat. "Where's the girl?"
The vampires exchange a look. Then the knife clatters to the floor as the first one leans in close, crouching so their eyes are level. "What girl?"
"You know damn well." His voice cracks sharper than he wants. "Where is she?"
A smirk splits the vampire's face. "Ohhh. The rookie." He drags the word out, savoring it. "We didn't need her. She's nothing. Baggage. The kind that gets people killed."
The second one laughs, deep and mocking. "Could be she ran. Could be we tore her throat out in the parking lot while you were out cold. Hard to say."
Sam's chest goes tight, fury spiking hotter than the ropes can hold. He jerks hard against them, the chair legs screeching across the floor. "If you touched her —"
The vampire presses a finger to his lips with mock gentleness. "Shhh. You don't get to make threats. You're tied up, bleeding out adrenaline, and we've got all the time in the world."
The second leans back again, folding his arms. "Besides, if she's alive, she's not gonna find you. Not a chance. Rookie hunters don't come back from something like this. You know that better than anyone."
The hunter shuts his eyes, dragging air into his lungs. He can't let them see how deep it cuts. Can't let them see Nellie's name tearing holes in his chest. But the thought gnaws anyway. Is she gone? Is she fighting alone, bleeding out in some ditch while he sits here helpless?
He grits his teeth and forces his voice steady. "You're wrong about her."
The vampire smirks. "We'll see."
Sam forces his breathing even, fighting the ropes and the spike of panic that comes with the vampires' taunts. His wrists burn where the ropes still bite into them, sweat slick against the wood of the chair.
The barn door creaks. Another figure steps inside, heavier, slower, carrying himself with the weight of command. His boots crunch straw as he crosses the floor. The other two straighten like dogs yielding to their alpha.
The leader leans down until his shadow falls across the hunter's face. His grin is wide and bitter. "We've been waiting for this day, Winchester. Ever since we heard you crawled back into the hunting game."
Sam glares up, jaw tight. "I don't even know who you are."
He chuckles, low and ugly. "Sure you do. Think back. Years ago. Out on the edge of Tennessee. You and your brother took out half my family. Your brother…" He pauses, savoring the name. "Dean Winchester. He made a hell of a mess before we finally got him cornered."
His stomach drops. Cold memory surges. Blood, blades, Dean's ragged voice, the fight that had ended in the one loss Sam can never mend.
The leader's eyes gleam red in the slatted moonlight. "That's right. We were there. You thought you wiped us out. Left us bleeding, hiding in the dirt. But we survived. And ever since, we've been dreaming of payback."
The ropes bite deeper as the hunter strains against them.
The vampire crouches, voice dropping to a hiss. "That chimera case? All smoke. We planted the trail. Hunters can't resist a monster that doesn't fit. We knew it would bring you straight to us." He bares his teeth. "And now here you sit. Right where we wanted you."
Sam's voice is raw. "Where's the girl?"
He tilts his head, smiling. "Funny you should ask. Maybe she's tied up in another barn across town. Maybe we slit her throat before you even woke up. Could be she's screaming her lungs out right now, waiting for you to come save her." He leans close, whispering. "Or maybe you'll never know."
A ripple of laughter rolls through the barn as the others join in.
The leader straightens. "We're going to bleed you slow, Winchester. For what you and your brother did to us. And we'll let you stew, wondering if the girl's corpse is cooling in a ditch, or if she's still out there, waiting for help that's never coming."
He jerks forward, teeth bared. "If you've hurt her —"
The vampire laughs again, the sound echoing against the rafters. "That's the best part. You don't know."
It rattles around the rafters long after it stopped being sound and turns into something heavier, pressing down on Sam's chest. He shuts his eyes tight, jaw locked, trying to drown them out, but the words keep crawling through his head anyway.
Maybe she's already dead.
The rope burns as he twists his wrists, raw skin peeling under the friction. He flexes his arms, his shoulders, working the chair for any slack, any give, but it is good work. Hunters aren't the only ones who learned knots. His pulse roars in his ears, every beat a reminder that he is alive, tied, helpless, while Nellie could be bleeding out somewhere in the dark.
The chair creaks faintly. Too faint. He needs more. He leans forward, shifting his weight hard, trying to rock the chair onto two legs, to slam it down and maybe splinter something loose. The impact jars up his spine, but the wood holds. The vampires only chuckle.
"Struggling looks good on you, Winchester," one of them sneers. "But you're not getting out."
Sam ignores them, jaw tight, sweat stinging his eyes. He forced his breath slow, steady. Panic will get him killed. He knows the drill. Look for the weaknesses. Listen for the rhythm. Time the guard's movements.
But every time he tries to focus, his niece's face shoves in, sharp and clear. Her smart mouth, her stubborn eyes, her quiet strength. He has dragged her into this world, and if she is gone, if they have taken her because of him —
His gut twists, bile rising. Dean's voice slams back at him from memory, hoarse and furious: "Don't let them take her, Sam. Don't you let them."
He yanks again, hard enough that blood slicks the rope. Still nothing. His breath hitches, ignoring the sting, ignoring the blood. He has to buy time. He has to believe Nellie is out there, alive, fighting her way toward him. Because if he lets himself believe otherwise, if he lets despair take hold, then they've already won.
• • •
The new motel is worse than the last. Peeling wallpaper, a stench of stale smoke clinging to the curtains, and a door lock that rattles like it is holding on by a prayer. But Nellie took it anyway. The first room was tainted now: gravel disturbed from the struggle, her uncle's cracked phone still burning a hole in her pocket.
She hasn't slept. Not really. Every time her eyes close, she sees him being dragged into the dark, his voice cut off, her body too slow, too weak to stop it.
The table in front of her is covered in chaos: maps, printouts, scraps of notebook paper scrawled with her cramped handwriting. County records, missing persons files, abandoned properties circled in heavy ink. She'd torn through every lead she could dig up in twenty-four hours, running herself raw. Her stomach cramps with hunger, but food hasn't crossed her mind since coffee yesterday morning. The mirror in the bathroom shows her a pale stranger with hollowed eyes and hair knotted from restless hands. She hasn't looked again.
Pacing the room, she chews the inside of her cheek until she tastes iron. Every lead is smoke. Every clue slips through her fingers. She presses both palms against the table and bends her head, fighting the quake in her breath. Sam is out there. Alone. Maybe hurt, maybe worse. And if she doesn't find him —
Her fists slam the table, rattling the maps. "No."
She won't think it. Can't.
Dragging a shaking hand across her face, Nellie drops back into the chair. Her notes swam in front of her eyes, the ink blurring from too many passes. She shoves the papers aside and reaches for the cracked phone again, closing her hand around it like it might anchor her. Her heart hammers against her ribs, equal parts fire and fear. She is burning herself down hour by hour, but she can't stop. Not until she finds him.
The air shifts around her. At first, she thinks it is her imagination, the motel's stale smoke suddenly thinning, replaced by something colder, sharper. She blinks, and then —
"Hey, kid."
Her breath catches in her throat. She hasn't been thinking about him at all. Sam has filled every inch of her mind, every breath, every heartbeat. But there he is. Dean. Standing by the door like he belongs there, arms crossed, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth.
Her chest clenches. For a second, she just stares, unmoored, the grief and exhaustion in her body colliding with the shock of seeing him.
"Dad?" Her voice breaks.
The smirk slips, his eyes softening as they take her in, the wreck of maps and notes on the table, the hollow shadows under her eyes.
"What happened?"
She shakes her head hard, as if she keeps moving, she won't fall apart. "They took him. Vampires. Right out from under me." She presses her hand against the table, knuckles white. "I should've stopped it. I should've —"
"Hey." His voice cuts in, low and firm, but kind. "Don't do that. Don't you tear yourself apart over this."
Nellie's jaw trembles. She bites down on the inside of her cheek until it bleeds, willing the tears to stay put. She must be steel. She has to.
"I can't lose him," she whispers, so quiet it barely leaves her lips. Then louder, desperate. "Dad, I can't. He's all I have."
Dean's face shifts, pain and pride flickering across features she knows too well. He steps closer, his hand hovering as if he wants to touch her but can't.
"You won't," he says, voice breaking just enough to cut her in two. "Not if you keep your head clear. You've already done good, Nells. Moving rooms, chasing leads, you didn't freeze up. You're still in the fight. That's what matters."
Her throat burns, but she forces herself to nod.
He clears his throat, pushing his voice steady. "Listen. You want to hit vamps, you come prepared. Get dead man's blood. It'll slow 'em down long enough for you to move in. And make sure you've got silver on you. Knife, blade, whatever you can handle. It's not about killing with it. It's about giving yourself that edge."
She scribbles shakily on the nearest scrap of paper.
Dean's eyes soften again. "That's my girl."
The words nearly undo her. Her shoulders hitch, her breath coming ragged. She presses a fist against her mouth, holding back the crack of a sob. When she looks up, he is already fading, the edges of him blurring into light.
"You're stronger than you think, Nell," he said. "Go get him back."
And then he is gone.
The room seems darker without him. The silence louder. She sits there for a long time, staring at the place where he'd stood, before she wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand and underlines the words she's written until the paper nearly tears. Dead man's blood. Silver blade.
Her chest still aches, but beneath the ache, there is fire.
• • •
The Impala's engine rumbles beneath her, low and steady, like a heartbeat she doesn't quite trust herself to own yet. The steering wheel feels too big in her hands, the seat too wide under her. She's ridden shotgun with Sam enough times to know how the car moves, but this is different. She isn't a passenger anymore.
The sun is bleeding out across the horizon, throwing long shadows through the streets of the small town. Neon signs flicker to life one by one, painting the sidewalks in tired colors. Her eyes track every alley, every face, every movement. Somewhere out there, the trail will break open.
Her fingers tightened on the wheel. The arsenal is waiting in the trunk, including the additions of vials of dead man's blood she'd collected with hands that haven't stopped shaking. Dean's words burned in her head. "That's my girl." Her chest aches, but she keeps driving.
Then… there.
A sharp pull deep in her chest, a strange thrum like a sixth sense twisting tight. She slows, scanning the sidewalk. A man steps out of the dusk, tall, shoulders hunched under a denim jacket. He pauses under the glow of a buzzing streetlight before slipping into the door of a local bar.
The sense flares again, unmistakable.
Her pulse jumps. She doesn't know how she knows, only that she does. Vampire.
She pulls the Impala to the curb, engine purring low as she cuts the lights. For a moment, she sits there, hands gripping the wheel, breath short and sharp.
This is it. The first real break.
She reaches across to the passenger seat, brushing her fingers against the knife's hilt, grounding herself. Then she exhales hard and whispers into the quiet of the car, "Hang on, Sam. I've got you."
She turns the key, the engine ticking as it cools, each sound like a clock counting down. Nellie stares at the bar's glowing sign. From inside came muffled music, bursts of laughter, and the scrape of chairs. Her sense hasn't lied. The man — no, not a man, not anymore — is in there, celebrating. She can see it too easily: him flashing in a grin, bragging over the kill. Over Sam.
Her stomach turns.
She presses her palms against the steering wheel until her fingers ache. This is it. Dean had given her the tools. Sam had given her the training. Now it is all on her.
And she is terrified.
Her breath hitches as she remembers her uncle's voice, calm and steady when she faltered on hunts. "You don't have to be fearless, kiddo. You just have to keep going." Then her father's, low and sure, echoing from the night he'd appeared at the motel: "That's my girl."
Nellie closes her eyes, letting the words steady her. When she opens them, her gaze falls to her reflection in the rearview mirror. Pale face, hollow eyes, hair hanging loose around her shoulders. Similar to her mother. The thought slices through her, sharp and cruel. She hates it, hates what she is about to do, but she's learned enough from years of watching Eleanor work rooms of men — laugh too loudly, lean too close, smile like you meant it when you didn't. Her chest constricts at the memory, bile rising in her throat. She swore she'd never use those tricks. But Sam's life is worth everything, even this.
Her fingers shake as she reaches for a syringe loaded with dead man's blood. She tucks it into the pocket of her jacket, feeling the cool glass against her ribs. One shot will be enough to drop him. Long enough for her to drag answers out of him.
She leans back in the seat, whispering to herself like a prayer, "I can do this. For Sam."
Then she gathers herself, straightens her jacket, and steps out of the Impala. The night air presses heavy and damp against her skin. Each step towards the bar feels heavier than the last.
At the door, she pauses, heart thundering, the hunter and the girl warring inside her. Then she pushes it open, light and sound crashing over her, and slips into the role she needs to play.
The bar is dim, alive with clinking glasses and bursts of laughter. A jukebox rattles out an old country song, its drawl dragging over the smoke and stale beer. Nellie keeps her head down at first, sliding onto a stool two seats from him, her pulse sharp in her throat. She sees through him instantly, the predator under the denim and smirk. The mask he wears fools everyone else, but not her. Her gut screams what her eyes can't. Vampire.
Her hand shakes as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She lets the shake turn into a nervous gesture, part of the mask she is pulling over herself. A laugh — too loud, too girlish — spills from her lips as she waves down the bartender. She shifted her weight, so her hip cocks, her jacket slipping just enough to show the bare line of her shoulder. She leans in, close enough for the vampire to notice, the scent of cheap whiskey in her glass wafting between them.
"Buy me one?" she asks, her voice pitched in a playful lilt she hates.
His head turns. His eyes sweep over her, sharp and entertained. He grins, lazy, self-sure. "Sure thing, sweetheart."
She smiles back, slow and sultry, though her stomach roils. She laughs at his nothing-jokes, leaning in so her arm brushes his. She lets her knee angle toward his, like she is inviting him in. Every move feels wrong in her bones, but it works. His smirk widens; his posture loosens. He is buying it.
Nellie tilts her head, letting her hair fall forward, then tosses it back with practiced carelessness. "So," she murmurs, dragging the word like honey, "what're you celebrating?"
The vampire smirks around the rim of his glass. "Let's just say… unfinished business finally finished."
He has that predator calm, the easy grin, the hands that move as if they're used to getting what they want. He sips his beer like it tastes better than most things in the world, and every so often, his eyes slide over the room, checking the exits, checking the lay of the land. Smart. Dangerous.
"You celebrate a lot," she says, batting her lashes in a way that feels like rubbing salt into an open wound. The sound of her voice in her own ears feels alien: breathy, high, invented. She keeps her shoulder low, her body leaning toward him, the look that used to make men fold in on themselves like origami.
He chuckles, the sound thick. "When life goes right, you celebrate. When it goes wrong, you leave town." He leans in, letting the words hang. "You look like you've had a rough run. I like fixing things." He says it like it's a game.
She laughs, the practiced little noise she'd watched her mother use to get a man to give up his guard. The memory tastes sour. Remember why, she tells herself and shoves the feeling down.
"So, you fix things for strangers?" she teases, voice soft. "That's charitable."
"It's profitable," the vampire replies cooly, sliding his glass toward the empty stool between them. "And it's fun. Especially if the stranger looks like she needs saving." His smile tightens into something like hunger.
She lets a slow grin curl. She touches the rim of her glass with a finger, letting her gaze drop to his hand, then back up like she is deciding. "Maybe I need saving," she murmurs. "Maybe I don't like being careful."
He watches her like a man waiting for dessert. "You don't look like the careful type." His eyes never leave her face. "You look like trouble."
The word should sting. Instead, Nellie folds it into the role. Trouble is fine — trouble can get a man to make a bad choice. She needs a bad choice. She needs him to want to take her somewhere private. She can't push; vampires are suspicious by nature. She has to become the offer.
She slides off the stool a fraction, letting the cloth of her jacket whisper against his thigh. The physical closeness jolts something cold through her, visceral, ugly. She swallows and lets the false laugh spill again. "So, you like to fix things by bringing them somewhere quiet?" she asks, letting the flirtation tip into suggestion.
The vampire leans close enough that his breath warms her cheek. The scent is whiskey and something metallic, like the aftertaste of blood. "Sometimes quiet's overrated," he says. "Sometimes you want to hear someone beg."
Heat crawls up her neck. She tastes bile and grit but keeps smiling.
"You're reckless," she says, mock-admonishing. "I'm reckless. That could be… bad for both of us." She lets the word hang, invited it.
"Bad can be good," he replies, amused. "Depends what you want."
She lets her mouth curve slowly, deliberately. "I want something else." It is a lie and the only truth she can give him. Her hand slides up his forearm, fingers feather-light so that when she pulls him close, it feels like consent.
He leans the rest of the way in, sure she is leading the dance. "Contagious," he breathes, the word almost a caress. He doesn't look around for danger. He doesn't watch the door. He takes her invitation as a pretext, not a trap. Exactly what Nellie needs.
She lets him inch closer, let him believe he has the upper hand. He smells like the bar: stale smoke and arrogance. She lets her lips brush his ear, a whisper that can be an invitation or poison. "Wanna get out of here?" she murmurs.
This is the moment she'd been steering toward. She had to be careful with the way she pushed. Not too eager, the predator can sense desperation. Not too cold, suspicion flares at a distance. She needs him to want the private place, to make it his idea.
The vampire smirks, slow and predatory. "Yeah. I do." He sets his bottle down with a deliberate clink. "You sure? Don't want to do something you'll regret."
She lets the effusive laugh she'd learned from her mother come out, sounding genuine. "Who said regret is bad?" Her hand slides into his, fingers lacing, and she lets him lead. It has to be the right kind of lead — casual, dominant, the kind that makes him drop his guard. He stands, offering an arm. He wants the thrill of pulling her out in front of everyone, the thrill of being bold, of taking what he wants.
As they move toward the door, he leans in and whispers, teeth brushing her earlobe, "You're full of surprises, sweetheart."
She holds his gaze for a heartbeat, then smiles like she means it. "You've got no idea."
Her entire body protested with each step, but she tells herself the same thing: Sam. Sam. Sam. She would do this thing that makes her sick if it means getting one step closer to him.
The night presses close as the door swings shut behind them. Gravel crunches under their boots in the narrow alley beside the bar. The vampire barely waits for the dark to wrap around them before turning, slamming Nellie against the brick wall with a predator's impatience.
His mouth crashes toward hers, sloppy and eager. She turns her head just enough to let him think she is being coy, not revolted. His weight presses in, reeking of smoke and beer.
She forces a throaty laugh, one hand curling behind his neck as though she is pulling him in. Her other hand slips the syringe from her jacket pocket. With practiced speed, she jams it into his neck, pressing the plunger down until the dead man's blood surges into him.
He freezes mid-kiss. His eyes widen, surprise giving way to fury. Then his knees buckle. He claws weakly at her arm, recognition flickering in his gaze. "You —" he rasps, but the word dissolves into a shudder as the sedative takes him down.
Nellie pushes him off, heart hammering. She stands over him as his body sags into the gravel, watching the fight drain out of him. For a long moment, she just breathes, clutching the empty syringe. Then, with a shaky laugh, she fishes a small flask from her jacket. She unscrews the cap and tips it back. The holy water burns cool against her tongue. She swishes it, spitting it onto the ground with a grimace.
"Ugh," she mutters, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Guess I thought it'd taste like peppermint or something. Figures." Her laugh comes out rough and shaky, but it steadies her. "No chances on vampire cooties." The humor is brittle, but it keeps her from breaking.
She crouches, grabs his arms, and drags his limp body across the gravel. Every scrape of his boots makes her arms tremble, but she doesn't stop. She hauls him to the Impala, pops the trunk, and shoves him inside with a grunt. Rope, duct tape, everything her uncle had ever taught her how to use — she makes quick work of tying him up, wrists and ankles bound, a gag stuffed between his teeth for good measure.
She slams the trunk shut, leaning against it for a second as her breath steadies. Her hands still shake. She presses her forehead to the car's cool metal, whispering, "For you, Sam. Whatever it takes."
Then she climbs into the driver's seat, ready to take her captive somewhere private. Somewhere, he can talk.
• • •
The abandoned house riddled with rot and mildew, the floor sagging under Nellie's boots as she circled the chair. The vampire is lashed tight, rope digging into his chest and wrists, his ankles bound so firm the wood creaks. She'd tied him herself, every knot checked and double-checked.
His eyes flutter open, and when they land on her, recognition flares. His mouth twisted into a grin. "Well, ain't this a twist. The pretty little tease from the bar's got claws."
Nellie stands stone-faced, arms crossed, no trace of the laugh or sway she'd used to bait him. Her eyes are hard, voice clipped. "Tell me where he is."
He chuckles, leaning back as far as the ropes will allow. "Now, now. No need to rush. We had such a good thing going. You were all over me a few minutes ago." He drags the words out, leering. "We could still pick up where we left off. Rope's extra fun if you know how to use it."
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't bite. Instead, she picks up the silver blade from the table and lets the tip rest against her palm. "I'm done pretending," she says flatly. "Talk."
"Cold shoulder already?" He clicks his tongue. "Shame. You'd make a killer vamp, sweetheart. Those legs, that mouth — you'd bring in more meals than you could count. Better than wasting yourself on this little hunter gig. Hunters die messy, you know."
She leans in, her shadow falling over him, eyes sharp enough to cut. "You think flirting's going to save you? That I'm actually that type of girl?" Her voice drops low, dangerous. "You're wasting your breath."
The vampire smirks wider, but there is a twitch under it, just enough to show he doesn't like her steel. "So serious. What happened to that little laugh? You almost had me convinced. Almost."
She presses the flat of the blade against his throat. "Last chance. Where is he?"
He laughs again, higher this time, like a man trying too hard to look calm. "Sweetheart, you'll never find him. And if you do… You won't like what you see. You don't have it in you."
Her hand tightens on the hilt. She lets the silence stretch, heavy and suffocating, until even his grin starts to waver.
"I've got it in me," Nellie whispers. "And you're going to prove it."
The silver blade kisses the vampire's cheek, just enough to leave a shallow cut. Smoke hisses as the wound sizzles, and he jerks in the chair with a snarl.
"Now that's foreplay," he spits, grinning through his teeth. "Knew you had it in you."
Her face doesn't change. She drags the blade lower, resting it against his collarbone. "Every second you waste makes it worse for you."
His laughter echoes in the hollow house. "Worse? Honey, I've been shot, burned, and buried. Hunters like you come and go. None of you knows how to finish what you start."
She uncaps a vial of holy water with her free hand. The liquid shimmers in the dim light as she pours a slow stream over his collarbone. The flesh blisters instantly, smoke rising with the stink of scorched skin.
He hisses, body jerking against the ropes, but when he lifts his head again, his grin is back in place. "Kinky. I like it rough." He licks his lips with exaggerated slowness. "You trying to scare me, sweetheart? You'll have to do better than that."
Nellie forces herself not to flinch, not to give him the reaction he wants. She caps the vial and sets it deliberately on the table beside the blade. "You think this is a game."
"It is a game." His eyes gleam with malice. "And you're already losing. You're angry, you're sloppy, and —" he leans forward as far as the ropes will let him, his smirk vile "— you look just like you did in that bar. Pretending you're in control when we both know you're not."
Her stomach tightens, fury sparking under her ribs. She leans close enough that their faces are inches apart, her voice a razor whisper. "Keep laughing. It won't last."
His grin widens, teeth flashing in the dim light. "Prove it."
For a heartbeat, the silence presses heavily between them, broken only by his uneven breathing and the creak of the chair ropes. Her pulse hammers in her ears. She steps back, eyes narrowing, the beginning of a different idea forming.
He tilts his head, watching her with sharp curiosity. "What's the matter, darling? Running out of tricks?"
She doesn't answer. Not yet.
She settles into the rickety chair across from him and sets a syringe on the table like a declaration. The thing inside it looks harmless enough in the motel light: dark, viscous, glass catching the faint glow. She hasn't explained the chemistry to anyone; she doesn't need to. Dead man's blood would drop a vampire long enough to make them stupid. Silver could finish or buy time. But what happened if you mixed two?
The vampire watches her with the same bored, hungry gaze he'd worn at the bar, still trying to make a joke out of the situation. "This your idea of bedside manner?" he sneers. "Gonna sing me a lullaby?"
Nellie flicks the syringe and levels her stare at him. "Consider this an experiment," she says. Her voice is flat, the humor has gone out of it. "I inject you with the slow stuff. You don't die quick. You don't run clean either. And you won't get the rush back for a long time."
He blinks, arrogance still layered thick, but there is the tiniest crease at the corner of his mouth now, just enough to show he's noticed the change in the room. "You think you're clever?" he says. "You think you can make me talk by playing doctor?"
She pushes the needle into his arm before he can get another smirk in. The hiss of the plunger is small, clinical, a punctuation mark in the stale air. His lips peel back. His pupils flutter. For a breath, he fights the sedative, but then his shoulders slump as the first wash hits. He breathes shallower, eyelids drooping, muscles loosening.
Nellie doesn't move. She sits there, rigid as if carved, and lets the drug work. The house shrinks to the two of them: the creak of a floorboard, the vampire's ragged breaths, the high, thin tick of the clock on the wall. Sweat beads at his temple. His face goes slack, then pinches with the small, ugly lines of pain that creep across him like frost. The powdered silver in the mix doesn't kill him outright — that isn't the point — but she watches the way his hands tremble, the way his skin blanching makes his lashes clump.
He thinks, for a moment, that he is just being sedated. He'd been wrong enough to let her get this close. He doesn't expect the slow burn.
"Feels… odd," he rasps, trying to force a joke through the fog. "Like I'm drunk and dying at the same time."
"It won't let go," Nellie says quietly. "You'll get sharp and mean and convinced you've been tricked. You'll pace, panic, dig at the ropes, bite at the air. You'll try to make sense of where you are. But, if you talk, then I'll stop the pain."
He glares at her, defiance wobbling on the edge of his voice. "You think you scare me with talk? We're not afraid —"
The words choke off into a strangled breath. Sweat slicks his brow. The first clear bead of panic shows in the wet shine in his eyes. The heroin of fear is subtle at first: an edge in his voice, a twitch in his knee, the lick of his tongue at cracked lips. The mixture is doing what she hoped — slowing, searing, breaking the arrogance into fissures.
She leans forward and fills the silence with flat, precise questions. "Where did you take him?"
He blinks hard. His gaze slides away as if searching the ceiling for answers, or perhaps for the last scrap of pride he can find. The blood and the silver work like a metronome. They make thinking slower and more painful, and pain makes liars flinch. He rocks on the ropes, jaw working, buying time as if memory is a luxury. His cocky veneer is flaking.
"Tell me where he is," she presses, steel under the words. "Now."
He hissed, one raw syllable. "I don't —" He coughs. Pain snaps across his features, and he clutches at his wrists. "— I don't remember. Please. Stop."
She lets the silence stretch until it feels like pressure. He trembles, the veneer of bravado dissolving into a raw, terrified man.
He sags against the chair, every breath rasping now, sweat slick on his forehead. His earlier smirk has twisted into a grimace, lips pulled back over teeth as the mixture burns through his system.
Nellie leans forward, her voice quiet but unrelenting. "I can stop the pain. All you have to do is tell me where he is."
For a moment, the vampire tries to laugh, a hollow, cracked sound, but it breaks into a groan. His wrists jerk against the ropes, skin blistering where the holy water had marked his neck. His eyes dart, fever-bright, the bravado thinning fast.
"You'll… never —" He swallows hard, then hisses through his teeth. "Fine. Fine. Barn. Out on County Line. Red roof. You'll smell the blood before you see it."
She doesn't blink. She rises in one smooth motion, hand closing around a silver-headed axe that had waited on the table like a promise. She steps behind him, her voice low enough to graze his ear. "I told you I'd stop the pain."
He doesn't even have time to sneer before the blade flashes. One clean swing. The chair jolts, and then it is over. The silence that follows is heavy but steady, broken only by Nellie's own breath.
She sets the machete down, wipes her hands on her jeans, and looks at the headless corpse with no satisfaction, only certainty. She doesn't mess around when it comes to family. And Sam isn't just her uncle — he is the man who has stood in every empty place her life once held. For him, she'd do worse than this. For him, she already has.
• • •
The barn smells of rust and rot, a mix of dried blood and hay long since gone sour. Days blurred into each other, each hour marked by a new sting of the blade or the dull throb of fangs at Sam's throat. They never take enough to kill him. Just enough to leave him weak, trembling, trapped in the burning ache of half-healed wounds.
He tries to keep count of how many times they'd fed, but the numbers dissolve in the fever. His body shivers one moment and burns the next, sweat soaking his hair and his shirt plasters to his skin. He's lost track of how many times he begged for water — not out of cowardice but simple human need — and each time they denied him, they smiled wider.
The worst part isn't the pain. It is the silence between them. The stretches where he is left alone, staring at beams overhead, while his mind spins itself into a cage. He replays Nellie's face again and again until the image grows dim. She would've fought. She would've tried. But by now, after this long without word or sound, she had to be dead. They would have killed her first, before him. That is their way. The thought guts him. His throat closes every time he thinks of her eyes, of her hands, of how she's only just begun to live the life she deserves. Dean's daughter, his niece, his responsibility. And he's failed her. Failed the way he has failed too many before. And if Nellie is gone, then Eileen and their boy are next. They'll be left without him, too. That thought drags the last threads of fire from his chest.
The vampires feed on that despair as if it were blood itself. They prowl around him, voices like knives in the dark.
"Winchester, you're quieter now. Guess that's what happens when the fire burns out."
"You know, the girl screamed louder than you do. She begged for you more than death."
Sam's head jerks, but the ropes keep him pinned, and his throat is too dry for words. They laugh at the sight of it, the tiny flinch they take as a victory.
"You're thinking about that girl, aren't you?" one whispers, crouching close enough for the hunter to smell blood on his breath. "Thinking she's out there, maybe hunting us. She's not. We made sure of it."
A chuckle ripples around the barn, a chorus of cruelty. Sam shuts his eyes. He can't tell if he is shaking from fever or rage. Maybe both.
Another voice, mocking, singsong, "What would your wife think if she saw you now? What about that boy of yours? Daddy Winchester, all hollowed out and empty, waiting for death."
He forces his eyes open. He wants to curse them, to lash out, but his body betrays him. His voice is a rasp, barely audible. "You… don't touch them."
The vampire licks his teeth and smiles. "See? There's still a little left to take."
They will keep taking it, piece by piece, until nothing remains.
Sam lets his head hang, eyes closing again. The barn blurs, darkness seeping at the edges of his vision. He tells himself it doesn't matter, not anymore. That may be dying here is easier than fighting. But in the back of his mind, like a stubborn ember refusing to snuff out, is a whisper: Nellie. Eileen. Dean.
He thinks it is memory, a ghost of their voices. He doesn't know it is something more.
Because while the vampires laugh, and while he drifts in the dark, Nellie Winchester is already on her way.
• • •
Nellie kills the Impala's headlights and lets the engine tick down. The old barn crouches ahead under a ragged moon, red tin roof half-collapsed, silhouette cut sharp against the sky. The gravel at the drive's edge crunches under her boots when she steps out, each sound huge in the quiet, like a radio turned up too loud.
She breathes in deep, tasting iron and cold earth, then reaches for the small spray bottle she'd tucked into the glovebox. Dead man's blood. She doesn't hesitate. She unzips her jacket and sprays herself — neck, wrists, the collar of her shirt — working quickly, fingers steady despite the tremor, finally starting to find its place under the surface. The scent pools close to her skin. If the vampires pick up human blood on her, the dead man's blood will confuse them long enough to make a move.
One woman against a nest is stupid. One woman with a plan and a little Winchester ingenuity is dangerous.
She pops the trunk and spreads the gear on the Impala's cool metal: the syringe case emptied after the interrogation, vials wrapped in cloth, a folded tarp, lengths of rope, duct tape. She draws out the spare EMF readers — clunky little things with a short, blunt history of false positives and busted batteries. She smiles, grim and small, as if at a private joke. They aren't for detecting ghosts tonight; they are for sound.
She kneels and opens the back of one reader, fishing out the tiny wires like guts. Her hands have learned how to do things other people gave up on — splice, reroute, jury-rig — lessons from motel-room fixes and Sam's patient, blunt teaching. She loops the wires together, ties one end to the reader's beeper, and the other to a cheap battery pack. A test click, a nervous beep, then silence. She tapes the battery down, hides the assembly in a coiled mass, and slips the rig into her jacket. If she can make a couple of the readers go haywire, set it somewhere the vampires will hear it; that high, repetitive beep will gnaw at them. Their hearing is a weapon. Tonight, it will be a weapon against them.
She thumbs the pearl-handled pistol Sam had once given her — her father's pistol, cleaned and kept like a relic. The weight is comfort and responsibility. It sits warm in her palm, the worn pearl smooth under her thumb. Next to it is the silver-headed axe she used earlier. It looks ridiculous in the moonlight —ceremonial, almost— but it will bite where it needs to.
For a moment, she lets herself look at the small, absurd still life in the trunk: syringes, pistol, axe, EMF rigs. A hunter's altar for one.
She tucks the pistol into its holster, the handle of the axe settling against her thigh. The dead man's blood on her skin makes her feel like she's already crossed a line, but the line has Sam on the other side.
• • •
The barn feels emptier when the first group of vampires stalks out, lured by the sharp, shrill racket that seemed to come from nowhere. They curse under their breath, teeth bared at the sound, every pulse of the EMF readers cutting into their over-tuned ears like a knife.
Two stay behind. One leans against a post, amused, while the other prowls closer to Sam.
He tries to lift his head, but it sags forward again, too heavy. He barely registers the sound of boots on straw until the vampire's shadow falls across him.
"Your luck's run out, Winchester," the vampire murmurs, hunger thick in his voice. "They can play with their toys out there, but I'm done waiting. I'll drain you dry, right here, right now."
He leans down, fangs gleaming. Sam tries to push against the ropes, but his body has nothing left to give. He braces for the bite —
And then the vampire freezes.
Confusion flashes across his face as his body locks, muscles straining but unmoving. He snarls, tries to take another step, but instead, his boots drag back in the dirt. Inch by inch, something unseen reels him away from the hunter.
Sam's eyes widen, shock piercing through the haze.
In the shadows of the doorway, Nellie stands, hand outstretched, eyes alight with a faint silvery shimmer. Her face is pale with effort, but her stance was unyielding, every line of her body carved with focus.
He has never seen her like this. He's seen flickers of her gift before, but never raw power, never deliberate strength. This is different. This is Nellie choosing to burn.
The creature claws at the air, snarling, trying to fight it, but his body jerks back faster, dragged across the dirt floor.
Her voice is low, fierce, shaking with effort but sharp as steel. "Get away from him."
With a snap of her wrist, she flings him backward. The vampire's scream cuts short as he flies, his body colliding with a splintered beam. In the same breath, a silver-headed axe swings in her other hand, a flash of light in the dark. The blade meets its neck in a clean arc. His head hits the straw before his body even settles.
Nellie staggers a step as the axe slips from her grip, her chest heaving. The silver shimmer drains from her eyes, leaving them glassy. A thick line of blood traces from her nose down to her lips, the price of pushing herself further than she ever has before. She wipes it with the back of her hand, smearing red across her cheek.
But she is standing. Alive.
Sam blinks hard, trying to believe what he is seeing. "Nellie?" His voice is a cracked whisper, half hope, half disbelief.
She crosses the barn in quick, low strides, crouching beside him. Her hunting knife works on the rope binding his wrists. "Quiet," she breathes, sharp but soft. "We don't have time. Others will be back any minute."
He stares at the blood streaked across her shirt and collar, fear clawing at what little strength he has left. "They hurt you…"
Her hands don't falter, her voice hushed but steady. "Not mine. Dead man's blood. I sprayed it on me so they wouldn't smell me coming."
He exhales, relief and pride tangling in his chest. Even drained and beaten half to death, even convinced she was gone, here she is, outthinking them, outmaneuvering them.
"You're smart," he rasps, a ghost of a smile flickering through the bruises. "So damn smart."
She tugs the last of the rope free and catches his arm before he can collapse forward. "Save it," she whispers fiercely. "We're not safe yet. You're weak. Lean on me, but we have to move quietly, Sam. If they find us in here, we're dead."
He nods, every movement slow and heavy. His body screams protest as he lets her haul him up, but for the first time in days, he feels the tiniest surge of strength, borrowed from her resolve.
They make it halfway to the splintered barn doors before the air shifts. Bootsteps pound across the straw, shadows spilling long and sharp as five vampires slip back into the room, their snarls low and knowing. One of them licks his teeth, eyes flicking between Sam's staggering weight and Nellie's grip on him.
"Well, well," the leader sneers. "Knew we smelled something sweeter than fear in here. You thought you could steal our prize?"
Sam's body goes taut beside her, breath ragged, every instinct to fight pressing against the weakness that holds him down. He reaches for her arm as if to warn her, but she shakes him off gently, stepping forward. The pearl-handled pistol is in her hand in a blink, the axe now gripped in the other. Her stance is small but steady, firelight glinting off her eyes and the blood that streaks her face.
"Back off," she says. The words are sharp enough to cut through the growl of the barn.
The vampires laugh.
One lunges. Nellie doesn't flinch, just pulls the trigger. The shot cracks the barn wide open, echoing sharply, and the vampire drops, hissing as the bullet of silver burns its way through him. The other two hesitate only a second before rushing her together. She pivots, the axe swinging in a fast, brutal arc that splits the air. The silver bites deep into one vampire's shoulder, sending him reeling back with a howl. The pistol barks again, smoke curling, and the second stumbles, clutching at his side.
Sam sags against the wall, eyes wide. He's seen Dean fight like this — wild, efficient, driven by instinct and fury. But Nellie isn't Dean. She is her own fire. Every swing of the axe, every shot she places, there is desperation, but also calculation. She is small, outnumbered, and alone, but not unprepared. Not anymore. He feels a surge of pride cut through his exhaustion. His niece, his brother's daughter, is becoming what she was born into. A hunter.
His thoughts are interrupted when a vampire peels away from the chaos, eyes locked on easy prey. He barely manages to raise his arm before the monster slams him back against the wall. Pain flares through his battered body as hands dig into his shoulder. Sam grapples weakly, pushing back with every ounce left in him, but his limbs feel like lead.
The vampire's grin widens, fangs bared inches from his throat. "Guess I'll finish what the others started."
He braces for the bite he can't stop.
Then the creature jerks. His eyes widened in sudden confusion.
Nellie is behind him, both hands gripping the axe. Her eyes glint silver once again as she swings with a scream that is equal parts fury and terror. The blade rips clean through the vampire's neck in one vicious arc, his head tumbling into the straw.
But she doesn't stop.
With strength far beyond her size, she pulls the axe down again, a supernatural force surging through her muscles. The strike splits the body from collarbone to stomach, a sickening crack of bone and spray of blood as the corpse collapses in two halves at the hunters' feet.
She staggers back, chest heaving, the axe still in her grip. Blood is running freely from her nose now, her head swimming, silver fading from her eyes. She sways, lightheaded, a dull throb rising behind her temples. The power has taken its toll.
Sam's voice is hoarse, awed and horrified all at once. "Nellie…"
She cuts him off, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve, smearing red across her jaw. "We don't have time. You're coming with me."
Despite the weakness in her own body, Nellie slides an arm under his, lifting and half-dragging him toward the doors. Each step is agony for them both, but she doesn't stop. Behind them, the barn floor is littered with broken bodies and blood, vampires reduced to ruin. She doesn't look back. Her whole world has narrowed to the weight of her uncle against her shoulder, the key to the Impala in her pocket, and the thin thread of will holding her upright.
"Just a little further," she whispers, mostly to herself. "We're getting out."
The Impala soon roars to life beneath her hands, engine growling like a beast that had been waiting for its chance to run. Nellie's knuckles are white on the wheel, her breath ragged, blood still drying under her nose. Her vision swims at the edges, silver sparks flickering whenever she blinks too hard.
Beside her, Sam slumps against the passenger door, pale and battered, his breath shallow. Even in his haze, his eyes track his niece sliding the gearshift into drive. It is the first time he's ever seen someone other than Dean or himself behind the wheel of the Impala. And here she is, Dean's daughter, forcing her way through exhaustion to keep them alive.
The world blurs by in streaks of headlights and farmland. He keeps glancing at her profile: the tight jaw, the way her shoulders shake faintly from strain. She looks so small in the driver's seat, but the car doesn't seem to mind. Somehow, it fits her.
"You're… you're doing good, kid," he rasps.
Her hands tremble slightly on the wheel, but she presses her foot steady on the gas. The motel isn't far. It can't be far.
Every few seconds, her head dips, fighting the pull of unconsciousness. She forces her eyes back open, jaw tightening, Dean's voice coaching in her head like a mantra: Don't quit behind the wheel. You don't stop 'til you get there.
The Impala's headlights carve a path through the night, the road unspooling ahead of them like a promise. Nellie holds on, breath by breath, until the flickering neon of the motel sign rises like a beacon through the dark. She pulls into the lot on fumes, hers and the car's, slamming the shifter into park. For a moment, she lets her forehead drop against the wheel, sweat slick on her temple, before she lifts her head again.
"We made it," she whispers. Her voice cracks, but the words still carry steel.
Sam's hand, weak and heavy, brushes her shoulder. His eyes are glassy, but there is something fierce in them still. "Yeah," he says. "You got us to safety."
She slides out of the car, opens the passenger door, and helps Sam slide out. The motel door slams shut behind them, rattling in its frame. She half-drags, half-guides him onto the bed, his body heavy with exhaustion and blood loss. He groans as he sinks against the mattress, eyes fluttering.
She doesn't hesitate. She kneels by a duffel on the floor and yanks out the medical kit Eileen had packed: gauze, antiseptic, sutures, everything a hunter needs to piece themselves back together. Her hands shake as she tears open packages, pulling his torn shirt away to reveal the brutal map of his torture: bites, cuts, lashings that still ooze. Her throat tightens, eyes stinging.
"Sam…" she whispers, almost breaking.
"Stop," he rasps, trying to push her hands away. "You need rest. You… after what you did tonight, Nellie — you're bleeding, you can barely —"
"Don't," she snaps, her voice cracking. Tears spill over as she presses gauze against a deep wound along his ribs. "Don't tell me to stop. Please. Just let me do this."
Sam freezes, stunned. He's seen her cry before, but never like this. Never in the middle of a hunt, never while her hands are still sticky with blood and her shoulders shake from exhaustion. She isn't crying for herself.
"Nellie…" His voice softens, caught in his throat.
Nellie's tears slide down unchecked, falling onto his chest as she wraps the bandage. "I thought I was going to lose you. I thought — you were gone, and I —" Her words tangle into silence, replaced by the raw, shaky sound of her breath.
His chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with the wounds. Watching her now, he realizes what this was. She has been through hell before, but this is the first time she has someone to lose. Someone who loves her back. Family.
Despite his pain, he lifts a trembling hand and brushes her hair back from her damp cheek. "You saved me," he murmurs, awe and sorrow threading every syllable. "You saved me, Nell."
She sniffles hard, refusing to stop working, knotting the bandage with unsteady fingers. "That's what family does."
Sam swallows against the burn in his own eyes. He wants to tell her she's done enough, that she is stronger than anyone he's ever known, but the words catch in his throat. Instead, he lets her work, let her cry, and for the first time in years, he feels the raw edge of being cared for in a way that has nothing to do with duty and everything to do with love.
He must have drifted off because he is awakened at the creak of the bathroom door, his body protesting with every movement. His eyes adjust slowly to the dim motel light, and he spots Nellie standing barefoot in the doorway. Her damp hair clings to her cheeks, her worn pajamas hanging loose on her frame. She looks scrubbed clean of gore but utterly wrung out, as if the shower has taken the last thread of her strength. For a long moment, she just stands. Eyes distant, locking on the far corner of the room as if she were still staring down the horrors of the barn. Her arms hang limp at her sides. Her breathing is shallow.
Then her knees buckle.
"Nellie!" Sam rasps, his voice cracking with panic.
His body screams at him when he pushes upright. Fresh pain tears through his chest and shoulders, his legs trembling beneath him. He has nothing left but adrenaline that shoves him forward. He kneels by her awkwardly and slides his arms under her. He clenches his teeth, staggering under her, bruises flaring. His knees nearly give out, but he forces himself to stay steady.
"Come on, kiddo… I've got you," he mutters, breath ragged.
She is barely conscious, her head falling against his chest. Her skin is warm, her body slack with exhaustion. Disoriented words slip from her lips, nonsense, pleas, half-formed fragments that cut deeper than his wounds.
He half-drags, half-lifts her toward the second bed. Each step is agony, but he refuses to let go. Every sound she makes, every small, broken murmur, gives him the strength to push further.
"Almost there," he whispers, though the reassurance is as much for him as for her.
The distance from the bathroom to the bed feels like miles. When he finally lowers her onto the mattress, he nearly collapses himself. He pulls the blanket up around her with shaking hands, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. Her eyelids flutter but don't open. Her breathing steadies, slow and shallow.
Sam lingers, one hand bracing on the bedframe, fighting to keep himself upright. He studies her, the girl who has thrown herself headlong into the fire for him, the girl who has bled herself dry and still stood until she couldn't anymore. Dean's daughter. His niece. His family.
"Sleep, kiddo," he whispers, voice breaking. "You've done enough. More than enough."
Finally, he drags himself back to his own bed. Every muscle screams, every breath stings. But when he sinks onto the mattress and lets his head fall back, the room is quiet. No snarls, no screams, no vampires. Just the two of them, wrecked but alive.
For the first time in days, he lets himself close his eyes, comforted not by the safety of the room but by the fact that she is still there.
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