CHAPTER 3 | The Unbinding

Some doors aren’t meant to open. But in the attic of a haunted childhood, Nellie finds more than dust—she finds sigils, bones, and a truth that won’t stay buried.

Word Count: 11.3K

TW: canon typical violence, depictions of abuse, manipulation, violence/gore, and death, mild language

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Nellie is sick to her stomach. The house has been unsettlingly quiet for a couple of days. And that is not normal for the Branscomb household. Eleanor had been almost bearable and seemed to be ignoring her daughter, not that Nellie was complaining. But it is unusual, and she can’t help but wish for normalcy. Her heart races in her chest, her stomach turns in knots, and her gaze never stays in one spot. She had been dreading going to work, often asking herself if she had brought all the papers with her in her work bag or wondering if her mother was going through her room at that moment. And nothing scares Nellie more than her mother's anger.

The afternoon light filters through the dust-covered blinds, casting long shadows across the kitchen. The sink runs loudly, lukewarm water washing over chipped dishes and spotty silverware. Nellie scrubs some plates with a nearly colorless sponge and weak soap, placing them with the rest of the dishes on the countertop drying rack. She turns the water off, leaving her surrounded in overbearing silence. It is a rare day when Nellie isn't working a shift and has the house to herself. Eleanor had left that morning, having taken on her fourth new job of the year.

Nellie dries her hands on her jeans, leaning her back against the kitchen sink. She zones out on the small island and the grimy linoleum. There is something she can’t shake, and it isn't her mother's impending anger for once. She rubs her face, sighing through her fingers. She needs a distraction. Her thoughts go back to that day when she knocked on Sam's door, the nerves still lingering in her limbs. When he opened that door, Nellie had no idea what she expected. Maybe anger? Potentially her own father? But no. Sam was hesitant, but kind. He gave her what she wanted. Dean Winchester. A man who was so familiar for a stranger. She had seen him more than she expected, mainly her own reflection in the mirror. She always wondered why she didn’t look more like Eleanor, and now, after seeing his face, she understood why her mother hated her.

The rattling air conditioner makes her jump, bringing Nellie back to the homely kitchen. Pushing herself up from the counter, she walks through the living room, grabbing the stack of laundry she folded earlier from the couch as she passes by. Trudging up the stairs, she falls into her typical path, putting clothes and towels away in their various places. But every time she neared her mother's room when doing chores, Nellie always hesitated before entering. It never entirely stops her. The blinds are half-drawn, casting most of the room into unsettling shadows. A couple of empty bottles collect dust on the bedside table while a half-full one stands guard on the dresser next to a gaudy pink lipstick and an open prescription bottle. Ignoring it, Nellie places some clothes into a dresser drawer before moving into the small ensuite bathroom, placing a stack of threadbare towels under the sink. The counter is littered with drugstore makeup and products. A bottle of cheap jasmine perfume had been tipped over, the few drops absolutely soaking the room in a thick fog. Nellie hates that smell. It was always too strong and made her nauseous sometimes, whether from the scent or anxiety. She quickly rights the bottle and retreats into the master bedroom.

As she nears the doorway, Nellie pauses, a heavy feeling dropping on her chest. Her hand grips the edge of the door, and she turns her gaze back into her mother's room. Something is not right. Nothing ever was in this house, but something more so than usual. Maybe it is the recent revelation in her life, perhaps it is Eleanor's unusual attitude over the last few days. She never dared snoop in her things, but something in her screams that her mother knew more than she let on. Looking back on her childhood, Nellie realizes how determined Eleanor was not to discuss the identity of her father. Why did a woman, who hated the man that was no longer in her life, seem to want him back? Did she want him back, or did she want revenge? Why was it only Dean that she refused to discuss with her daughter? There had been enough boyfriends and a couple of ex-husbands that Eleanor didn’t mind mentioning once in a while. So why Dean? Was it because it was the only night stand that resulted in a kid? There were too many questions and not enough answers. Nellie used to be able to explain away some of them. But now, with what she knows, those explanations leak like a pasta strainer. So, what was her mother hiding?

Before she knows it, Nellie is digging through the bedside table drawer, full of random papers and junk. She is quiet as she does this, even though Eleanor is out of the house, as if she were just loud enough that her mother could sense it. Nothing there. She turns and starts going through the dresser drawers, not find anything there either. She even looks under the furniture, but is only met with empty bottles and dust bunnies.

She sighs, sitting back on her heels, gazing around the room. Her eyes pause on the closet door, which is slightly ajar, leaking the occasional flickering light into the room. The closet is littered with clothes that are either half-hanging on hangers or lying in heaps on the floor, and shoes that aren't paired with their matching shoes. Nellie stands on her tiptoes, grabbing a couple of the shoe boxes on the upper shelf that line the top of the tiny enclosure. However, they are just as disappointing in discovery, mainly consisting of random jewelry and trinkets, along with a couple of items that made her hands recoil in disgust. She even gets on her hands and moves the hanging clothes back, looking for anything.

Disappointed, Nellie sits against the back wall, rubbing her hands over her face. She sighs heavily, her head hitting the wall as she stares at the ceiling. A hollow thud breaks her out of her discouragement, causing her to sit up. She slowly raises her hand, knocking her knuckles against the old wood panel. Another hollow knock greets her in return. Now that she notices the faint outline of the panel where it appears to have been carved out, the cut hides in the grooves of the paneling. She pushes on the wall until a corner pops out enough for her to pull the thin wood away, finding a small doorway hidden behind it. It is an old attic crawlspace, which is not uncommon in older homes. But why was it concealed?

Pulling her phone from her back pocket, Nellie switches on the flashlight as she ducks into the crawl space. It is a small area blocked off from the rest of the attic. Usually, the Texas heat kept Nellie from daring to enter it at this time of year, but somehow it is unnervingly cool. Deteriorating pink insolation nest in the pockets of the beams, and the wood sheets feel rough under Nellie's socked feet. Her weak light lands on something placed on the ground near the attic wall, and she crouches over it to get a closer look. There are strange symbols written in a chalk circle, and small candles with spilled wax are arranged within the outer chalk rings. Inside the inner circle stands a tiny cabinet, one that could have been used for jewelry. Other small items lay in front of it, Nellie making out a dark feather, a bone from God knows what, and a dried sprig. Whatever this is makes her stomach churn and her heart beat a bit faster.

She knows that she shouldn’t touch it, but curiosity gets the best of her. Reaching her hand out, she opens the cabinet doors, shining the light inside. There are a couple of small items inside that look like they belong in a museum exhibit, almost as if they are ritual tools from another time. But what draws Nellie's attention is a stack of photos resting inside. Grabbing them, she sits back and stares at the first image. It is her as a child, probably around 5, probably taken by her grandparents before they disowned her. The next two are also of her at ages 11 and 18. She can’t really remember her mother taking photos of her, not like normal parents would, to remember special occasions or just because. All the images feature rusty red drops, but in a purposeful manner. Nellie didn’t have to guess what it was; she isn't stupid. She has had to clean shirts that had gotten a bit of blood on them from times when her mother's drunken abuse had gone too far. What confused her more was the images themselves. Why would Eleanor have photos of a daughter that she did not love?

Nellie continues onto the next photo, her stomach dropping. It is an image of Dean, a bit younger than when Sam showed it to her, and over the picture, drawn in pen, a black X was added. Even though the marks she could make out who it was, she had only had his face drilled into her mind the past few days. As her heart quickens, she quickly flips through the last couple of photos in the stack. Both are also images of Dean with black x's over his face, but the last one features a second person next to him, with their face untouched by the pen marks. A younger Sam Winchester stands next to his older brother by a vintage black car. Nellie's hands shake, and her vision blurs slightly. She throws the pictures in the small cabinet and retreats through the doorway. She trips over the threshold as she stumbles back into the closet, staring panickily at the crawlspace from her landing spot on the ground. The phone flashlight in her hand still shines, but somehow the device feels too heavy to lift. All she can think is "What the hell did you do, Eleanor?"

Her mind races while her body stays glued to the floor. Whatever that setup is makes Nellie feel heavy and scared, as if she has found something that no one should mess with. And she and her father were thrown in with no choice. So is Sam. Sam… She needs to call him. If her mother has a picture of him with Dean, then he needs to know in case something happens. He has a family and whatever dark shit her mother was involved in could hurt them and that is unfair to them. Her hands still shake as she pulls up in phone contacts, scrolling until she reaches the one labeled "Sam." Her thumb hovers over the call button. Perhaps she is just overthinking it, and it’s nothing. But looking back at the dark hole leading to the attic and remembering how hidden it was, she presses the button. Her heart crawls up her throat as she listens to the dial tones. After a few rings, Nellie debates calling back if he does not answer.

"Hello?" a male voice asks on the other line

Nellie breaths in relief, her jaw trembling as she tries to form the words. All she can get out is, "Sam?"

"Nellie? Is that you?"

She nods her head, even though Sam can’t see her. "Sam, there is something wrong. I wouldn’t have called you, but this may involve you, and I don’t want your family to get hurt."

A slight rustling comes through the phone, and controlled breathing fills her ears. "What do you mean? What is going on?" Sam asks urgently.

"I don’t really know," she falters. "It could be nothing, but I feel like it isn't. Something is wrong."

"Well, clearly, it isn't, so what is going on?"

Nellie takes a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. "I found something in my mother's room. An old attic space hidden behind some wood paneling. And there was something weird in there. It looked like some sort of ritual or altar with like animal parts and a box."

"Nellie, listen to me, you need to…"

"There were photos," Nellie interrupts, the panic fueling her more than anything. "Of Dean. She had some of me, and the rest were of Dean, with his face crossed out. And one of the photos has you in it."

The other end is silent, prompting Nellie to check if she was still on the call. "Sam? Sam, I don’t know what it is or what to do. I am scared."

"Nellie," Sam replies coolly, "you need to get out of the house right now. Your mother is involved in some dangerous activities. Don't confront her. Just leave the house, okay? I'll be there soon."

She starts to respond, but just as she's about to speak, she is yanked back by her hair, being dragged out of the closet. She yelps, locking her eyes with Eleanor's as she stands over her daughter with a chilling calmness, hand still gripping Nellie's hair. She's sober, and that only makes this worse. There's a weight to the silence as she stares at her daughter, a tightness in her jaw that Nellie knows too well. The suddenness of Eleanor's actions leaves her no time to process

the fear running through her veins. She immediately tries to pull away, despite her scalp screaming for her to stop. Eleanor's grip loosens enough for Nellie to break free, and she attempts to escape through the doorway. But with surprising strength and quickness, her mother grabs her arms and drags her back to the center of the room.

"You little bitch! What did you find?" Eleanor asks between her teeth as she holds her struggling daughter. "How much do you know?"

Nellie's stomach twists as her mother's hands tighten around her arms. The phone presses against her ear, and Sam's voice calls out on the other end—louder now, more frantic.

"Nellie?! What's happening? Nellie, talk to me!"

But before she can respond, Eleanor yanks the phone out of her hand and throws it across the room. The phone slides across the floor, landing in the corner of the room with a crack. Nellie feels a chill wash over her.

Eleanor's voice is low, filled with venom, "You think you can just waltz in here, poke around, and start asking questions you have no business asking? You think you have a right to know anything about your father?"

Nellie tries to stand tall, despite the panic clawing at her throat. She doesn’t know how much her mother knows, but she knows she's in deep trouble now. Her mind races as she attempts to find something to say—anything to calm her mother down. "I…I didn’t mean to upset you. I just..."

Eleanor's eyes narrow, a dark glint of recognition flashing in her gaze. Her fingers tighten further on Nellie's arms, pulling her closer. There's no escaping now. "You think I'm going to let you ruin everything? You think you can just go behind my back and ask questions about a man who abandoned us? About a man who…" Her voice catches, almost as if the words are too painful for her to say. Eleanor takes a deep, shaky breath, then glares at her daughter. The rage that has been building up inside her finally explodes in a low growl. "I don’t care what you've found out, Nellie. I'll make sure you never see them again. I'll make sure you regret poking your nose where it doesn’t belong."

Nellie's breath quickens, fear tightening in her chest. Her mother is desperate to stop her, and she realizes, with a sharp twist of fear, that Eleanor would do anything to keep her from leaving the house alive.

• • •

This is not what Sam expected when he heard his niece's voice on the other end of the phone. He had been helping Eileen make dinner in the kitchen when he felt his phone buzzing, indicating an incoming call. It was an unknown number, but the area code was a Texas one, so Sam figured it could have been Nellie. But he never would have guessed the reason. He can hear the urgency in her voice right away. There's something wrong. His body instantly tenses, a knot forming in his stomach. His eyes dart around the room, as if he could somehow sense what's happening through the phone. Her words hit Sam like a punch to the gut. His grip tightens around the cellphone. He knows this is bad. Really bad. Eileen, having turned down the heat on the stove, watches the conversation, the worried tension in her gaze boring into her husband.

His voice is calm yet sharp, as he tries to keep the panic from his tone. "Nellie," Sam replies, "you need to get out of the house right now. Your mother is involved in some dangerous activities. Don't confront her. Just leave the house, okay? I'll be there soon."

He's already in his home office, his mind racing through all the possible scenarios, and none of them are good. His hand moves automatically to a box on a high bookshelf, pulling out a pistol and slipping it into the waistband of his jeans. He's already thinking ahead, calculating every step, but his thoughts are still anchored to Nellie. The fear in her voice is real.

From the phone, he doesn’t hear his niece, but rather the sound of scuffling and yelping. Urgently, Sam calls out, "Nellie?! What's happening? Nellie, talk to me!"

No response. He hears a second female voice, rage lacing every word. His breath catches in his throat. His stomach drops as he realizes what's happening. She's not alone anymore. His mind flashes back to the last time he was in a dangerous situation like this, but this time it’s different. It's Nellie. She is his niece. And he's too far away to help. He listens, horrified, as the sound of the phone is being thrown. The audio crackles, but he can still hear talking and a struggle. He continues to call out, hoping Nellie would pick up again. The yelling picks up, and then a couple of sickening thuds fill his ears. Then silence. Sam's heart races as he fumbles to check the phone, but it’s too late. The call's been disconnected. He stands there for a moment, staring at the phone, breath shallow, fists clenched. Panic surges through him—he can’t just sit here. He needs to get to her. He turns, his mind whirling.

Eileen appears in the doorway, her face worried as she reads the look in his eyes. She signs quickly, asking if everything is okay. "Sam? What's going on?"

He swallows hard, shaking his head as he rushes toward the door. "Nellie's in trouble. She told me she found an altar in the attic with photos of Dean. But that's all I could get. I think her mother got to her."

Eileen moves quickly, signing an urgent message, her face pale with concern. She steps forward and places a hand on Sam's arm. "How do you know that this isn't a trick?"

"How do I not know that it isn't?" He places his hand over hers. "Eileen, I know that I've been out of the life for a while now, but I can still tell if someone is lying or not."

"Then send someone else. Someone closer. Please, Sam."

Sam rubs his face briefly with his hand. "The only reason she called me is because one of the photos had me in it. Which means we are involved now, and I'm not going to risk letting this go if it means putting you and our son in danger."

Eileen observes him silently for a moment. "Sam," she replies worryingly, "it is a long drive. What if you're too late?"

"I'm still going. Even if she is already dead. Her mother is clearly dangerous, and I don’t want her coming here." Sam squeezes her hand tightly before he steps out the door. He can’t focus on anything else right now, just Nellie. The only thing that matters is getting to her—getting

to her before it’s too late.

• • •

Nellie's eyelids fight against gravity and her throbbing head as she attempts to regain her bearings. Her hairline feels sticky, and her head moves like a bag of sand. She finds herself in the dim kitchen, the afternoon is long gone. Set in a chair, arms and legs tied with rough rope, she sluggishly pulls, but the rope burns her skin, causing red marks to bloom around her wrists and ankles. It takes her a moment to realize that her heart is beating entirely too fast, and her breathing is frantic. As she forces herself to take deep breaths, tears well in her eyes, and she tries her best to blink them back. Sam. Nellie had called him. Did he believe her? Was he sending help? She shakes her head. Why would he care about a stranger, especially one who told him that she found a weird altar with pictures of his dead brother?

Footsteps pull her out of her spiraling mind. Eleanor now stands in front of her daughter, anger now replaced with confidence. Nellie just stares into her mother's eyes, trying her best to not give her any satisfaction in her fear.

"We had a good thing going, you and I," Eleanor says cooly, taking a step. "And you had to go and mess with the one thing I told you not to. What is so special about a man who didn’t give a shit about us, huh?"

"I don’t know. You tell me." Nellie didn’t know where that came from. She had rarely spoken back to her mother. Eleanor made sure of that. But something in her stirs, something that wasn’t there before. Her whole life had started crumbling the moment she knocked on Sam's door, and now she is being caved in.

Eleanor's steely gaze tries to hide her astonishment. She scoffs, shaking her head as she comes closer. "You need to watch your mouth. You always seem to be getting in the way of what I'm doing. God, you are so ungrateful. I fed you and kept you around. I provided you a home…"

"This was never a home," Nellie snaps.

Before she can continue, Eleanor delivers a quick slap to her face, forming a smarting bruise. But this does not stop Nellie.

"Home is supposed to be a safe place," she continues. "This was never safe. Especially with a monster like you living in it."

Eleanor grabs Nellie's chin, forcing her to look up more, her grip harsh and unforgiving. "Don't. You dare. Call me a monster."

Nellie, despite her eyes starting to water, gazes angrily into her mother's eyes. "Why do you care? You never gave a shit about me. Hell, I don’t even know why you kept me if you hated me so damn much."

"Because you were so easy to manipulate. If I could get that son of a bitch back, then I could keep you. You fell under my spell. They told me I could never be a good witch, but I proved them wrong. I was able to keep you from leaving me."

They? Witch? It clicks into place in Nellie's head. The weird altar hidden in the attic, the various odd items, and bloodied, crossed-out photos of her and Dean. Witchcraft. Nellie certainly didn’t believe that witchcraft actually did anything. What do muttering stupid chants, collecting animal parts, and drawing weird symbols accomplish? And why is Eleanor acting like what she was doing resulted in anything at all? However, considering everything that is going on, she is not going to discount it yet.

"Why are you doing this?" Nellie questions, despite the tight grip on her face. "What do you think you're going to accomplish messing around with that stuff? What does this have anything to do with Dean?"

Saying his name is a mistake. Eleanor shoves Nellie backward, a loud thud filling the small kitchen. Nellie's head hits the floor, her spine thrust in the back of the wooden chair, the air knocked out of her lungs. She winces, her head starting to pound again. The room spins in her vision as her mother kneels over her.

She grabs her daughter’s throat. "Get his name out of your mouth!"

Nellie is already struggling to regain her breath back after the fall, her head becoming lightheaded. She desperately tries to keep her eyes open, but sleep seems so soothing. And within moments, she blacks out, escaping temporarily into unconsciousness. She could have only been out for a bit. She doesn’t know what initially wakes her up, but she guesses it has to do with the sound of two people talking in another room.

"That's beside the point, Eleanor, I haven't heard from her in a few days," a male voice says stiffly.

"And like I said, it shouldn’t matter to you, Roger," Eleanor responds in irritation.

Nellie's heart sinks into her stomach. Days ago, when she left for Kansas to find Sam, she had texted Roger to let him know that she was actually going and promised to let him know that she returned safely. She realizes that she never sent that text. She screams, but her efforts are futile against the duct tape now covering her mouth. She tries to push the tape with her lips, but to no avail.

"Yeah, like she matters to you," Roger scoffs from the other room.

There is a moment of deadly silence. Then, Eleanor replies, a darkness lacing her words, "You want to see her? Fine."

Footsteps grow louder, Nellie trying her best to tell Roger to run, anything to get his attention. Her wide eyes lock onto his as he makes his appearance in the kitchen doorway, Eleanor lingering close behind. She screams despite the duct tape, struggling against the ropes, hoping that it gives Roger a chance to understand the danger and get out.

"There she is," Eleanor states matter-of-factly. "See, she's fine."

"Eleanor, what the hell did you do to her?" Roger approaches Nellie, panicking, raising his voice. His hands shakily pull the duct tape away from her mouth and move onto the ropes.

She gasps, her voice weak and strained from the tight ropes around her wrists. "Roger, leave now! She's dangerous!"

Roger stands up stiffly, worry etched deeply on his face. He takes a step back but is stopped by a sharp kitchen knife that pokes in his back and forces him to stop.

"No! Stop!" Nellie exclaims, a terrified tear running down her cheek. "Please, Mom! He has nothing to do with this! Please just let him go! I promise I won't try to run. Just please let him go."

"Oh, it’s too late for that," Eleanor mocks. "Roger is already involved. You should've known better than to go snooping around. You should've known better than to ask questions." She nods her head at another chair in the kitchen, pulling her ex-husband towards it. "You struggle, she gets it, you understand me?"

Roger sinks down onto the chair, turning an apologetic stare to his former stepdaughter as he lets Eleanor tie him to the chair. Nellie's breaths hiccup in her chest, trying to keep calm. She is not about to let her mother win. She is not going to become that little girl who used to sit in silent submission to avoid a beating. But she does not know how to be really anything else, especially now that another person's life is on the line.

Eleanor finishes the last knot, straightening up. "You've been asking too many questions," she says, turning back to her daughter. "Too many dangerous questions.

Nellie's heart starts to pound. She can feel the tension in the air, thickening by the second. Her mother's tone has gone from angry to outright malicious. "I didn’t ask for any of this. I just wanted to know who my dad was. What's so wrong with that?"

Eleanor's face contorts into a snarl as she moves closer, her cold, mocking voice cutting through the silence. "What's so wrong with it? Everything, Nellie. Everything! You think I didn’t know who your father was? You think I didn’t know what kind of man Dean was? I know plenty. I know that he abandoned you. Left me to raise you alone. And now I'm stuck with a child who thinks she can be a part of his world. Well, that's not going to happen. Not while I'm still breathing."

The words strike Nellie like a slap. She tries to tug at her wrists, but the ropes are too tight. Her eyes start to sting with tears, her emotions a whirlwind of fear, anger, and confusion. The weight of her words hits hard, and she begins to understand why her mother has always been so cruel to her. This isn't just about her anger at Dean's abandonment; it’s about Eleanor's need to control, to destroy everything that might remind her of him. She is consumed by hatred.

Nellie breathes softly, voice trembling, "I don’t want to be a part of anything. I just wanted to know... I just wanted to find out who he was."

Her mother steps forward, leaning in close to Nellie. Her breath is hot on Nellie's face as she snarls her following words. "You have no place in this world, Nellie. Not in my world. And not in his world either. You think Sam Winchester, or any of those people, is going to help you? You're nothing but a mistake, a reminder of a man who never gave a damn about you. And I'm going to make sure you understand that."

Eleanor stands up straighter, looking down at Nellie with contempt. The words sink into her skin like venom, but she refuses to break. The pain, the fear, the isolation-they're overwhelming, but she holds onto one thing: the truth about her father, the truth Sam gave her. He wasn’t just a man who abandoned her. He was her father, a man who cared, even if it was too late.

Nellie looks toward Roger again; his face fills with concern, but he is still confused about what's going on. He's scared, but he doesn’t know who the true enemy is.

"Eleanor, why are you doing this?" he pleads. "What the hell is going on? Why are you holding us like this?"

Her mother sneers, her expression twisted with disdain as she steps toward him, her tone icy. "You don’t get to ask questions either, Roger. You've been a good little puppet, but you're in the way now."

Nellie struggles harder against the ropes, but it’s no use. She can barely move. Eleanor pulls the kitchen knife from her belt, holding it up to Roger's throat, causing him to freeze in terror. She turns back to Nellie, taunting her.

"You think anyone is coming to save you? Sam? Does he even know what you really are? He thinks you're just some innocent little girl, don’t you?"

Nellie shakes her head, tears stinging her eyes. Her throat tightens with fear as she thinks about Sam. She doesn’t know if he's coming yet, but she hopes, desperately, that he is. Struggling to keep her voice steady, she replies, "Sam's not who you think he is... He's... he's a good person."

Eleanor leans her head back in mocking laughter. "A good person? Please. Don't make me laugh." She slips the knife back into her belt, sauntering out of the kitchen to God knows where in the house.

Nellie's racing heart starts to calm down now that her mother is out of the room for the moment. She sees Roger trying to piece things together as his gaze switches between her and the doorway. Taking a shaky deep breath, she holds on to one thought, one tiny sliver of hope: maybe Sam is coming to save them. She just has to survive long enough.

• • •

Sam is damn lucky that he wasn’t pulled over. The long drive from Kansas to Texas felt like an eternity, and all he could do was pray that Nellie was still alive. Eileen had found Nellie's address amid the stack of papers and texted it to Sam. The GPS seemed to draw out the drive, but that could have also been his frequent glances at the arrival time. He finally rolled into the small town of Lockhart in the early hours of the morning, nerves finally reaching their peak.

The houses on the street aren't close together like a typical suburb, more like a country community than anything else. A lot of them have seen better days. Sam taps his fingers nervously on the steering wheel as he attempts to control his breathing. He sees the destination ahead: a small, two-story house that hasn’t changed since the 1990s. The grass is a bit high, but overall, the yard appears to be decently maintained. Most of the windows are dark, but Sam manages to see a soft glowing light around the back corner. He parks next to the gravel driveway, quickly unbuckling his seatbelt while throwing the door open. Before stepping out of the car, he pulls his pistol out of the glove box. He pulls the clip out of the gun, noting the bullets housed inside have tiny sigils covering the metal casings. Witch killing bullets. He just hopes that he doesn’t have to use it. Grabbing a hunting knife from the glove box, he slides the weapon into the belt of his jeans, still holding onto the pistol.

Sam makes his way up the drive, walking in the grass to avoid the gravel crunching and alerting anyone inside to his presence. He presses his back against the house, glancing side to side. So far, so good. Sliding along the siding, he carefully walks over to the lit window. He peeks inside, finding it to be a dimly lit kitchen. He sees Nellie tied to a chair, her breaths shaky. A trickle of dried blood runs down from her hairline, and red bruises are on her face and neck. Her head is leaning back, making Sam think she may be unconscious. But she slowly lifts her head and looks at another individual also tied up, a middle-aged man whom he does not recognize. No sign of the other person Sam looks for. No Eleanor. She must be in another part of the house.

He finally turns and quietly advances towards the front door, swapping out the pistol for a lock-picking kit from his pocket. He tries the handle, but it is locked as he suspected. He kneels and gently fits the thin tools through the key slot. It was an old lock, and it didn’t take long for it to allow Sam access into the dark house beyond. The creak of the hinges makes his teeth clench. He steps over the threshold, boots silent against the worn wood floors. The house is quiet, eerily so, save for the distant hum of an old refrigerator and the rhythmic ticking of a wall clock somewhere deeper inside.

He creeps down the hall toward the kitchen, hugging the wall, weapon ready. Then the floor beneath him pulses. It is subtle at first, a faint warmth, a shift in air pressure, then the symbols flare. Hidden sigils, etched beneath the peeling rug, glow in a dull crimson light.

"Dammit," Sam hisses, realizing too late.

A wave of invisible force hits him square in the chest, launching him backward. He slams into the hallway wall, pain blooming through his ribs. The pistol skidded from his hand across the floor. Dazed, he tries to push up, but the air shimmers around him. Another sigil, this one on the ceiling, glows briefly, casting an eerie red light over the hall. He is trapped.

He groans as he pushes himself upright against the wall, teeth clenched. His limbs feel heavy, like someone had filled his bloodstream with wet cement. He glances around; sigils marked into the old wood, smeared in what looks like charcoal and blood. Sloppy, but functional. The air shifts as soft footsteps echo down the hallway.

"I was wondering when one of you'd show up," a woman's voice calls. Calm. Amused.

A figure steps out from the kitchen, lit from behind by the faint, flickering yellow of the stove light. She looks like hell—hair pulled back in a messy tie, bare feet, oversized flannel half-buttoned, the sleeves streaked with symbols drawn in permanent marker. She holds a small candle in one hand, still burning low. A knife rests loosely in the other.

"But I'll admit," she says, pacing slowly toward him, "I expected Dean."

Sam's eyes track her. She walks with a swagger that doesn’t match her disheveled look, like she'd built confidence out of rage and nothing else.

"You're not exactly what I pictured," she continues. "The younger brother. The smart one. The quiet one."

"You know who I am," Sam remarks, his voice tight.

She smirks. "Hard not to. The Winchesters are a bit of a campfire story in circles like mine. You stab first, salt later. Or maybe it’s the other way around."

His eyes scan the ceiling and the walls. The containment ward wasn’t built to last—he can feel it fraying already, overloaded by his presence alone.

"You don’t have to do this," he replies, keeping his voice low, measured. "Let the girl and the man go. You walk away; I walk away. That's the best deal you're gonna get."

"Oh, sweetheart," Eleanor chuckles, brushing her thumb across the flame of the candle like it didn’t even burn, "you still think this is about you. Or him." Her eyes narrow, and something cracks at the edge of her voice. "I gave that girl everything," she says, not yelling—but the heat is building. "I raised her. Fed her. Protected her. And what did I get in return? Disrespect. Rebellion. She's just like him." She stops a few feet in front of him, the candle flickering. "I didn’t ask for Dean Winchester to ruin my life. I didn’t even know what he was. Just some cocky drifter with a good smile and no future. Then boom—pregnant. And after that?" She scoffs. "Nothing. He disappeared like smoke. You think I didn’t try to find him?"

Sam stays still, observing her. She does not know Dean is dead. His voice comes softly. "He didn’t know. Dean never knew she existed."

"Liar," she snaps. "He always knew. That's what men like him do—they run."

Sam doesn’t flinch. "He would've been there. For her. For you."

Eleanor's jaw tightens. She looks away for a moment, nostrils flaring, like something didn’t line up in her head and she was trying to make it fit anyway. She exhales through her nose. "Doesn't matter now. He'll come. I know he will. And when he does… he's going to see what he made."

She moves away from Sam and back toward the kitchen. The candle still burns in her hand, flickering in rhythm with her footsteps.

"Hey, Nellie," she calls out, her voice light and singsong, like a mother calling her child for dinner. "You remember all that talk about how someone was going to come save you?" She turns, lifting the candle like a spotlight and casting it back toward the doorway. "Well… here he is."

Sam can just make out Nellie from where he sat, still bound to the chair, eyes wide and locked on him. Her mouth trembles, but she says nothing.

"He came all this way," Eleanor continues, standing beside Nellie now, almost affectionate. "He fought so hard to get to you. And look what it got him." She turns her head, glaring at Sam with a smirk. "Your rescue party failed his mission. Guess you're not worth the legend."

He shifts slightly, pressing his palm into the floor just enough to feel the edge of the nearest sigil. It is sloppy work—burnt into the wood with some mix of ash, salt, and maybe chicken blood. He rubs at the edge with two fingers, slow and quiet.

"Let them go," he says again. "This doesn’t end the way you think it does."

Eleanor's smile fades, her voice dropping to something low and simmering. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this. How many years I spent wondering how to fix the mistake he left behind. First, I thought I could raise her right. Then, I thought I could bind the blood out of her. That didn’t work. Nothing worked." She turns, dragging a chair across the floor and placing it in the center of the room. Roger is watching wide-eyed from where he is tied up.

"I was saving her. And she kept running. So now?" Eleanor pulls a kitchen knife from a drawer. "Now I start over. I use what's left of them for something that'll finally give me peace." She pointed the blade toward Roger first. "Let's start with you," she whispers.

Nellie jolts upright in the chair, the ropes around her wrists cutting deeper as she strains.

"Don't—" her voice cracks, but she forces it louder. "Don't hurt him. Please."

Eleanor doesn’t even look at her. She stands beside Roger, her fingers brushing his jaw, lifting his head upright as he groans weakly. Her knife gleams under the kitchen light.

"Did you really think that good ol' Roger cared about you, Nellie?" Eleanor says, her voice almost sweet. "He doesn’t care about you. He wanted you gone. Just like your father."

"Stop it!" Nellie screams, eyes wide and glistening with tears. "You're lying! You don’t know anything!"

"I know enough," Eleanor says coldly, straightening. She raises the blade.

And that's when Sam moves. He shifts quickly, rolling forward, his hand clenching tightly around the fraying edge of the containment sigil. The moment it breaks, the ward snaps like a rubber band. The candlelight in Eleanor's hand flickers violently as the air surges around them. She whirls toward him just as he lunges. Sam slams into her, shoulder first, knocking her back against the counter. The blade clatters across the floor. He is already reaching for it when her hand comes up. A blast of energy, wild and barely controlled, explodes from her palm. Sam flies backward, hitting the refrigerator with great force. The impact sends him crumpling to the tile floor, groaning in pain.

"Sam!" Nellie's voice breaks.

Eleanor is breathing hard, blinking as if surprised the spell had actually worked. Her hand trembles as she looks from him to the knife lying between them. Sam coughs and pushes himself up, blood already pounding in his ears. His pistol is somewhere near the hallway — too far, and time is running out. But the knife… the knife is close. He lunges. Eleanor snaps to attention just as he dove forward, his fingers brushing the hilt. But she is faster — or just more desperate. Her foot comes down hard, kicking the blade out from under his grasp. It skitters across the floor, and she dives after it, grabbing it with both hands. Sam surges toward her again, grabbing her wrist.

"Stay the hell away from them," he growls, forcing the knife away from his body.

They struggle, their arms locked, their knees scraping against the cracked linoleum. Eleanor hisses and yanks free just long enough to slash — a quick, shallow arc. The blade tears across Sam's forearm. He gasps, pulling back on instinct, blood soaking through his sleeve in seconds. The cut isn't deep, but it’s messy, and it slows him down. He stumbles, hand clutched to his arm, chest heaving.

"No!" Nellie screams, yanking at the ropes with a renewed frenzy. Her voice cracks, raw from shouting, panic overtaking reason. "Please, stop! Don't hurt him! Please!"

Eleanor turns slowly toward her daughter, face flushed, hair falling loose around her temples. Her eyes shimmer, unblinking. "Oh, sweetheart," she says, voice low and oddly calm again. "You don’t get to beg anymore."

Sam pushes himself upright again, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. Blood runs down his arm in thin rivulets, staining his jeans as he staggers forward. He doesn’t care.

He isn't going to let her win. Eleanor turns toward him, blade still in hand. Her face is flushed, eyes wide, mouth drawn tight with fury. She looks like a woman possessed—not by any demon, but by rage sharpened into purpose.

"You just don’t quit," she snaps, stepping forward.

Sam doesn’t move as she raises the knife. Then it happened. The air shifts, much like the pressure drop that precedes a thunderstorm. A sound, low and heavy, rumbles through the house. The lights flicker, then surge bright. And Eleanor flies backward. Her body lifts off the floor and slams into the far kitchen wall with a crash, knocking over a set of shelves. The knife clatters across the linoleum and skids to a stop near Sam's feet. He stares, frozen. So does Eleanor.

"What the hell was that?" she gasps, wide-eyed, one hand bracing against the wall like she is dizzy. There were no sigils cast. No spell was shouted.

Nellie sits in the chair, still bound, breath shaking. Her eyes are wide with fear, not just of what had almost happened, but of what had. Her fingers twitch around the ropes. The air still feels heavy around her. Charged.

"Did you…" Sam starts, voice hoarse, "Did you do that?"

Nellie doesn’t answer. She can’t. She is still staring at Eleanor—at the space where the blast had come from. Like something inside her had broken open. Or finally come alive.

Eleanor coughs hard, blood spattering across the tile as she pulls herself to her feet. Her shoulder is bent wrong, and she clutches at it, glaring at Nellie with something new in her eyes. Not control. Not anger. Fear.

"You…" she breathes. "What are you?"

Nellie still doesn’t answer.

Eleanor's eyes dart to the counter. Her hand reaches blindly for a second knife, smaller than the first. "Of course," Eleanor hisses. "You're his. That's what this is. You're not a daughter. You're a curse."

She raises the knife. Sam tries to move. He groans and pushes off the fridge, staggering forward a few steps before his knee gives out.

"Nellie—" he gasps.

The lights burst above them, glass raining down. There is a scream and the snapping sound, Nellie falling out of her chair, no longer bound. She stumbles to her feet, swaying. One hand clutches the back of the chair for balance. The other reaches down toward the floor, toward the blade Eleanor had dropped earlier. She staggers forward, the knife's weight awkward in her hand. Her eyes are locked on her mother's chest, rising and falling in uneven bursts. Her fingers tremble, but she doesn’t drop the blade. Eleanor raises her own weapon, blood dripping from her busted lip, a wild look in her eyes.

Then the sound cracks through the kitchen. Eleanor staggers, a dark red bloom spreading across her side. Sam stands in the hallway, one knee down, pistol aimed with both hands, shaking. Smoke curls from the barrel.

Eleanor turns to him, stunned, angrier than hurt. "You son of a—"

Another shot catches her in the thigh. She drops to one knee, gasping. But she doesn’t stop. The witch-killing bullets don’t work like they should. She isn't fully witch, not in blood. The pain slows her, but doesn’t end it. She turns back to Nellie, screaming now — more rage than words — and lunges.

Nellie barely has time to react. Her mother slams into her, knocking them both to the ground. The knife skids away. Eleanor's hands wrap around her daughter's throat, squeezing hard, her weight pressing Nellie flat against the cold tile.

"You ruined everything," she seethes, eyes wet with fury. "I gave you everything!"

Nellie chokes, fingers clawing at her mother's wrists. The edge of her vision starts to blur. Her hand flails, reaching. Searching. Her fingers brush cold steel. She grabs the knife. Without thinking, without aiming, just reacting, she swings upward. The blade sinks deep into Eleanor's neck. A horrible, wet gurgle escapes her mother's throat. The grip on her neck loosens. Her eyes went wide, blinking fast, confused, like she couldn’t believe it. Her mouth opens once, twice. Then her body slumps forward.

The weight of her collapse over Nellie. Everything goes still. She doesn’t move at first. Her body shakes, her lungs begging for air, but she can’t feel any of it. Not the pain. Not the blood cooling on her hands. Not even Sam's voice, not at first. Her mother's weight is now gone, pulled off her by someone. But it still feels like she can’t breathe, like her chest is caving in.

"I killed her," she whispers, staring at the bloodstained blade now lying a few feet away. "I killed her."

Sam kneels beside her, gripping her shoulders gently but firmly. "Nellie," he says, voice low and steady. "Look at me."

She doesn’t; her eyes are locked on the body. The tangled mess of flannel, blood, and silence that used to scream and drink and slam doors and laugh like everything was normal. Now it does not do anything. Now it does not move.

"I didn’t mean to," she stammers, voice cracking. "I didn’t… I didn’t want to—"

"I know," Sam interrupts. "It wasn’t your fault."

Nellie feels something crawl up her throat — a dry sob that never quite makes it out. Her whole body shakes with it anyway. She had hated her mom. She had prayed someone would come save her from her mom. But she hadn’t meant this. She would've taken a thousand more screaming fights if it meant not having this moment burned into her memory.

"She was all I had," she whispers, her lower lip wobbling.

Sam doesn’t correct her. He just holds her a little tighter, despite his injured arm. Across the room, Roger stands frozen where he had been tied. His face is pale, eyes wide, lips moving like he is trying to catch up with what just happened. Sam glances at him and gives a single nod.

That breaks Roger out of it. He stumbles forward, barely steady, and drops to his knees beside them.

"Nellie," he says softly. "Jeez, Nellie…"

She looks up at him, blinking through the tears. "I didn’t mean to," she repeats, like maybe if she says it enough, it will undo it.

Roger doesn’t say anything right away. He just reaches for her and pulls her into his arms.

She collapses into him. He wasn’t her father. Not by blood. Not by title. But in that moment, he held her like he was. And for the first time in what felt like years, Nellie lets herself be held.

Sam stands slowly, one hand pressed to the cut on his arm, the other reaching down to retrieve the pistol from the floor. The blood is still dripping, but he doesn’t flinch.

"We need to go," he states in a low voice.

Neither of them argues. The three of them move like ghosts through the house. Sam leads, his steps deliberate and sharp. He checks corners, glancing out windows. He isn't expecting another threat, but habit is a hard thing to break. Behind him, Roger keeps a steady grip on Nellie, one arm wrapped around her back, guiding her gently through the mess of overturned chairs and broken glass. She is silent.

Sam opens the front door and scans the yard. Still dark. Still quiet. No neighbors awake, no sirens. Just the dull hum of insects and the low wind that sweeps across the Texas grass.

"Where are we going?" Roger asks, his voice quiet but serious.

"Motel a few miles out," Sam replies. "Cheap. Quiet. We'll be safe there for the night."

The other man glances at him, uncertain. "And then what?"

"Then I explain everything. But first, we get out of here."

The gravel crunches under their shoes as they make their way to Sam's car. Sam opens the back door, helping Roger ease Nellie into the seat. She sinks against the cushions like she hasn’t slept in weeks. Her face is pale, streaked with dried tears and blood. Her eyes are open but far away. Roger slides in beside her, one hand still on her shoulder.

Sam circles around and climbs into the driver's seat. He looked at them in the mirror. "I know you don’t know me," he says, voice calm but direct. "But you trusted me enough to get you out of that house. You're gonna have to keep trusting me a little longer."

Roger gives a slow nod. "She's all I care about right now."

"Good. Then we're on the same page," he replies, starting the engine.

• • •

The motel room smells like old carpet, cheap soap, and cigarette smoke that never quite left the walls. It is the kind of place meant to be passed through, not lived in. But tonight, it is the only safe place Sam can think of. He locks the door behind them and pulls the curtain shut tight. The air conditioner rattles in the window. Nellie sits on the edge of one of the two beds, silent, her hands clenching into the faded comforter like it is the only solid thing left. Roger takes the armchair in the corner, still pale, still in shock. His eyes haven't left her since they arrived.

Sam moves quietly. He cleans the wound on his arm in the bathroom sink, the blood spiraling down the drain like red paint. When he comes back out, he doesn’t sit. He stands in front of them, keeping pressure on the cut with a threadbare towel, expression heavy.

"I know you've got questions," he says. "I'll give you the short version. I'm a hunter. That means I find things. Kill things. Ghosts, demons, werewolves—stuff most people don’t believe exists."

Roger blinks. Nellie doesn’t.

"My brother Dean and I—" Sam pauses. The name still hurts. "We were raised in that life. Our dad was a hunter, too. We didn’t really get a choice."

Still nothing.

Sam looks at his niece. "Your mom… Eleanor. She was a witch. Not a very good one by the looks of it, but enough to cause serious damage. What she did to you, keeping you trapped like that… that was real. And not all of it was natural."

Nellie's eyes finally flick toward him, her jaw clenching. "Magic?" she asks, voice hollow. "Spells? You're saying she… she brainwashed me?"

He nods once. "Probably a binding spell. Something to keep you from leaving her. I've seen it before."

She gives a short, dry laugh, but it cracks halfway through. She wipes at her face.

Roger leans forward. "You're saying this is real? All of it?"

Sam's voice stays steady. "You saw what she did. And you saw what Nellie did. That wasn’t a trick. That wasn’t adrenaline."

Nellie flinches. "I didn’t mean to," she says again, barely above a whisper. "I wasn’t trying to do anything. I didn’t even know I could."

Sam crouches in front of her now, softer. "You're not evil, Nellie. You didn’t choose any of this."

She shakes her head, tears building. "But I killed her."

"You survived her."

"That's not the same." She stands suddenly, backing up a step like she can’t stand being in her own skin. Her hands pressing into her scalp, like if she can dig deep enough, she can pull the memories out and throw them away. "I wanted her gone," she admits. "For years. And now she is. And I don’t even know if I'm relieved or… or horrified."

Roger rises, but she holds up a hand to stop him. She looks at Sam. "If this is real… if monsters are real… what does that make me?"

Sam doesn’t answer right away. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. Careful. "That's what we have to figure out," he says. "But you're not alone."

Nellie sits back down hard, like her legs can’t hold her up anymore. Her face has gone pale again, and her hands tremor in her lap. "There was something in the house. That force. When she came at Sam… that wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been me."

Roger leans forward. "But it saved you."

She doesn’t look at him. "Or maybe I just snapped."

Sam sits across from her, elbows on his knees. His voice stays even. "You felt anything before it happened? Heat? Pressure? Like something inside you was pulling loose?"

She hesitates. "I… I don’t know. I remember wanting her to stop. I remember being afraid she was going to kill you. And then something just… broke."

He nods slowly, processing. "Did anything like that ever happen when you were younger? Weird stuff — lights flickering, objects moving, maybe dreams that came true?"

"No," Nellie replies firmly. "Never. Nothing like that."

Roger watches her carefully. "Not even once?"

She shakes her head. "I was normal. I mean, as normal as I could be in that house. But this…" She runs her fingers through her hair, pulling at the roots. "This wasn’t there before. I didn’t even know I could do something like that. What if I hurt someone again? What if I lose it next time and it’s not someone who deserves it?"

Sam leans in a little. "Hey. You didn’t lose control — not really. You reacted. Your body and your mind tried to protect you. And me."

She looks at him sharply. "What if next time I don’t protect anyone? What if I kill someone who doesn’t deserve it?"

He doesn’t blink. "Then we figure it out before that happens."

Nellie stands again, pacing now. Her hands are still shaking. "You make it sound like this is some gift. It's not. It's not a power, it’s a problem. I don’t want it."

His voice drops, gentle but steady. "Believe me, I get it."

She pauses, glancing back at him.

He holds her gaze. "I used to have abilities. A long time ago. Visions, telekinesis. They were given to me by something evil — I didn’t ask for them either."

"What happened to them?"

"I grew out of it. Or burned it out. I don’t know. But I learned one thing: hating yourself for it doesn’t make it go away. Learning to live with it — that's the only way forward."

Nellie drops her head, lips pressing into a tight line.

Roger finally speaks. "What do we do now?"

Sam stands. "We rest. One night. Then we figure out what the hell this is. What she passed down to Nellie, how deep it goes, and who else might come looking."

The other man looks confused. "Come looking?"

Sam's jaw clenches just slightly. "Power like that doesn’t go unnoticed for long."

The silence fills the room, thick and stale like motel air always is. Sam grabs his jacket from the foot of the bed. He holsters his pistol and looks toward Nellie. "I need to go back to the house."

She looks up quickly, alarm flashing in her eyes. "Why?"

"I need to take care of… things." He doesn’t say the body. He doesn’t have to. "It's not safe to leave it like that. Someone could stumble across it, and we can’t risk cops or curious neighbors asking questions we can’t answer."

Nellie swallows hard, nodding once.

"I'll make sure to get you some clean clothes, maybe a few things," he adds. "You shouldn’t have to go back there if you don’t want to."

She looks down at herself. Her shirt is stiff with dried blood, most of it not her own. Her sleeves are ripped, her jeans torn at the knees from the struggle. "Yeah," she murmurs. "Okay."

Sam softens his voice. "Go clean up. Take your time. We're not going anywhere tonight."

She hesitates but eventually stands and steps into the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind her. As soon as it does, Roger rises from the armchair.

"You sure about this?" he asks, voice low but sharp. "You leave, and it’s just the two of us. What if someone comes looking? What if she breaks again?"

Sam looks at him, his face unreadable. "She won't."

Roger doesn’t sit back down. "You said it yourself — powers like that don’t go unnoticed. Someone's going to find out. Someone's going to come."

"I'll handle it. "I've cleaned up worse."

Roger glances at the bathroom door, worry settling into the lines around his mouth. "She's not okay."

"No," Sam agrees. "But she's alive. That's more than I expected today."

Roger drags a hand through his hair. "So, what now? What do we even do with her?"

Sam looks him in the eye. "You keep her calm. Keep her inside. Lock the door. Don't answer for anyone but me."

"You really think someone's coming?"

"I always think someone's coming."

Sam grabs the keys from the bedside table, heading for the door. Just before stepping out, he pauses, looking at the closed bathroom door again.

"She's stronger than she knows," he says. "You just have to help her see it."

• • •

The house is still. Sam pushes open the front door slowly, the hinges creaking just like they had hours earlier. The familiar scent hits him immediately — copper, ash, mildew soaking into the walls. The chalk sigils on the threshold are smudged from the scuffle, but he can still make out the crooked lines, the uneven handwriting. He crouches, brushing his fingers across one of the marks near the baseboard. It is messy work. Desperate. Perhaps even copied from a stolen book. Definitely not the work of someone who knew what they were doing. But it had been effective enough to keep Nellie here. To make her believe this house was the only place she'd ever belong.

"Binding spell," he mutters, standing up. "More emotional than magical. Classic control tactic."

He moves down the hall, boots crunching over broken glass. The air feels heavier now. Not supernatural, just wrong. The wrong kind of quiet. As he steps into the kitchen, he freezes. The bloodstains are still there. Dried, brown, clinging to the linoleum. But the body of Eleanor Branscomb is gone.

Sam's stomach drops. Eleanor had been dead. Absolutely dead. There was no surviving a knife wound that went clean through the neck. Nellie had driven it deep, straight through the artery. Sam had checked. And yet, no body. Not even drag marks. Just absence. They had left the house not even an hour ago. His eyes scan the room. The cabinets are thrown open, drawers half-pulled, as if someone had been searching for something.

His eyes narrow. "This wasn’t like this before."

He moves fast now, checking each room. The living room has furniture overturned. A drawer from the hallway dresser has been pulled completely out and dumped on the floor. Even the upstairs bedrooms look like someone had gone through them in a hurry. And then he saw it, a small open doorway in the back wall of the master bedroom closet. The attic crawlspace. Sam leans down slowly, entering the surprisingly chilly attic. It smells like dust and dried herbs. The single bulb overhead flickers, casting shadows across the low beams. The altar Nellie had described, once so carefully constructed, is now shattered. The cabinet is broken, and the photos are torn. The items were also smashed or kicked across the floor. But it isn't just destruction; it is purposeful. Someone had been up here looking for something. And if Sam has to guess, they found it.

Padding out of the attic and down the narrow hallway, his eyes scan each door until he stops at the one on the left — Nellie's room. He opens it gently, like he isn't sure who might still be inside. The room is small. Sparse. The wallpaper had peeled in places and had to be reattached, but pale drywall is still visible underneath in some areas. The closet has no door — just an open frame and a handful of clothes hanging off-center like they'd been shoved out of the way too many times. He runs his hand along the frame. The wood is splintered and gouged near the lock. Locked in too many times. He sighs, letting his fingers fall to his side.

Her bed is neatly made, a threadbare comforter tucked tight across the mattress. The bookshelf beside it holds only a few dog-eared novels and a tin coffee can filled with pencils worn to nubs. But what catches Sam's eye is a stack of old CDs next to the books, with bands like Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, and Metallica. He stares at them for a long moment. Dean's favorites.

He then opens a drawer and finds a stack of old band tees, some jeans, and a faded green hoodie. He picks a complete outfit and folds it under his arm, pausing once more before turning away. Even here, in the smallest details, Dean's shadow lingers. And now, somehow, his blood.

Sam heads back downstairs, footsteps echoing softly. He walks back through into the kitchen, the smell of dried blood still lingering under the fresh layer of dust that has started to settle. The chair sits where they'd left it, tipped slightly from when Nellie had broken free. He crouches beside it, setting the clothes down on the counter. He reaches for the rope, running it between his fingers. It wasn’t cut. It wasn’t snapped. It had unraveled; each individual strand torn apart, almost like it had come undone from the inside out. No knife. No sharp edge. Just force. Something unseen.

He exhales slowly. He knows this feeling. He's seen it. Hell, he has lived it once. Nellie had to be a psychic. Raw, untrained, likely unaware — but powerful. Powerful enough to fight her way out of a death sentence. And now, that power is waking up.

• • •

Nellie steps out of the bathroom slowly, steam curling around her like mist. Her body is sore in places she hadn’t even known could ache. Her arms burn from rope burns, her throat feels raw, and her blood-soaked clothes stiffly lie on her limbs. Sam hasn’t returned yet.

The motel room is quiet. Roger isn't in the chair anymore. She frowns slightly, stepping barefoot onto the thin carpet. "Roger?"

No answer. She guesses that he stepped out for a minute. She moves to one of the beds and sits down. The mattress squeaks beneath her, old springs groaning in protest. Despite the chill in the air from the rattling A/C unit, sweat prickles on her skin. She lies back slowly, letting her head sink into the pillow. Eyes close, for just a second. Just one second to forget. Just one second to linger in the quiet and not in guilt.

Snap.

Her eyes fly open. Something is wrong. The room is darker now. Or maybe it is just her vision narrowing. Nellie sits up. And freeze. Roger is on the ceiling, sprawling across the cracked plaster, arms out, back arched, mouth open in a silent scream. A second passes. Then fire erupts around him. The flames bloom like gasoline caught mid-air, impossibly fast, impossibly hot. His body is swallowed in seconds, fire licking down from the ceiling like it is alive. Nellie screams, but her legs won't move. The bedframe shakes beneath her as heat punches the air out of the room. Smoke pours down the walls. The fire roars.