Embedded Files
Some dangers don’t knock. They slip in through open windows, wrapped in shadows and silence. As Nellie begins to heal and find her place, the past—or something darker—comes calling. One quiet night becomes a battleground, revealing that her powers aren’t gone... and neither is the threat. In a house full of warmth, fear finds a way back in.
Word Count: 12.4k
TW: canon-typical violence. descriptions of a panic attack and sleepwalking. angst with fluff. mild language used.
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Life has settled into a new normal for the Winchesters over the next couple of weeks. Despite her blindness, Nellie begins to settle into the rhythm. The once unfamiliar spaces now feel like quiet constants, especially with Miracle at her side. The little terrier acts more like a sentinel than a pet, guiding her gently with nudges or the light brush of his fur against her legs, alert but never overbearing. If she veers off, he is there. If she stumbles, he steadies her. And every morning, without fail, his tail thumps softly against her bed when he senses her stirring.
Her lungs are healing, less tight with each passing day. She still needs the nebulizer treatment, but is now only doing it once a day. Her muscles are weak in places, but she is stronger than she was just a week ago. Her skin, once blistered in spots, is healing well, pink and tender, but no longer angry. Her eyes, though, are still a work in progress. The foggy tint has faded, but her vision still needs improvement. Sometimes, in moments of sharp light, she can see a faint blur, a warmth behind her lids, but nothing definite. Still, it is better than nothing. The doctor had said it would take time. At least now, time doesn't feel like punishment.
Despite her uncertainty, Nellie has begun to take on more household tasks. Simple things. Helping Eileen fold laundry by touch. Sitting with Dean on the floor, listening as he rattled off facts about his toy dinosaurs with boundless energy. Sometimes she offers a comment that sends him into peals of laughter, and it always catches her off guard; how easy it is to enjoy him. To let herself be part of something light.
But some of her favorite moments are in the afternoons, when Sam sat with her in the home office or out on the back porch during his work breaks. He isn't a hunter anymore—he works a quiet desk job, stable and steady—but the stories he tells aren't ordinary.
"They weren't bedtime stories," he had said once with a chuckle, handing her a mug of tea. "But I guess they count now."
She listens, Miracle by her side, as he tells her about the time he and Dean had posed as park rangers to hunt a wendigo, or how a banshee's scream can shatter glass. Some of it feels surreal, like reading aloud from a fantasy novel. But Nellie never questions the truth of it. She doesn't have to, not after what she has seen, not after what she has done.
Sometimes she asks quiet questions, and Sam answers with soft honesty. He never glamorizes it. Never makes it sound like something she should aspire to. But he never treats it like a burden either. Just a part of their lives. A chapter of his and Dean's that had shaped them both. And slowly, she finds herself wanting to hear more. Not just about monsters, but about him: her father. The man she had never met. The man whose life, in pieces, Sam shares with her now.
The house is warm. The people are kind. And in those moments, Nellie lets herself lean into the strange peace of it all. But in the quiet corners of her mind, she still wonders how long it will last.
• • •
The sun is just beginning to warm the Winchester house, casting soft morning light through the kitchen windows as the family lingers over breakfast. Sam is washing dishes in the sink, Dean is playing on the floor with Miracle, and Eileen stands by the counter, mentally running through her grocery list. Nellie sits at the table, gently cradling a mug of warm coffee. She hasn't said much, but her posture is relaxed; her shoulders are not quite as tight as they have been. Her gauze blindfold is still in place, tucked beneath the frame of her hair braid. She finds it reassuring yet still chooses to wear it in the little boy's presence to avoid causing him concern, despite her eyes appearing normal.
Eileen looks over at her. "Hey," she says, drawing Nellie's attention. "I was thinking of heading out to the store soon. Want to come with me?"
Nellie blinks behind the bandages. "Really?" Her voice is tentative. "Why?"
She smiles, brushing a few crumbs from the counter. "You've been cooped up here for days," she replies, her voice soft and careful. "And I thought it might be nice for you to get some fresh air. Just something simple. We aren't going to be there long; it is a quick trip."
The girl hesitates. She hasn't left the house since the hospital. The idea makes her pulse skip; people, noise, the unfamiliar. Still, a part of her wants to say yes. Not because she feels ready, but because it means something that her aunt is asking.
"I'm not exactly inconspicuous," she murmurs, reaching up to tap her blindfold.
"I thought of that," Eileen answers. She moves toward the hallway and returns a moment later with a pair of black sunglasses. She grabs Nellie's hand and places them in her palm with a small grin. "These should help. You can wear them instead of the blindfold. It'll make you feel less stared at. Less… exposed."
She grips the sunglasses, her fingertips brushing the smooth frame. "You really think it's okay?"
"I do. But only if you want to. No pressure."
For a moment, Nellie is quiet. Then she nods, a small gesture, almost unsure. "Okay," she says. "I'll give it a go."
The older woman's smile widens, a proud and warm expression. "Great. Let's get our shoes on. We'll be back before you know it."
From the floor, Dean pipes up. "Can I come?"
"Not this time, buddy," Sam replies, ruffling his son's hair. "You're staying here with me. Maybe you and I can bake something while the girls are out."
Dean groans dramatically, flopping onto Miracle, who just gives a resigned huff.
Nellie stands slowly, the sunglasses now cradled in her hands, and for the first time in a long while, she feels like someone has invited her in, not out of obligation, not out of pity, but simply because they want her there. And that means more than she can put into words.
The car ride is short and uneventful, unless you can count Nellie removing her blindfold and putting the sunglasses on in its place. The grocery store is a different story. The parking lot buzzes with Saturday morning traffic: carts clattering against pavement, car doors slamming, and the occasional kid wailing in protest. Eileen parks a few rows from the front entrance and cuts the engine, glancing over at her niece.
"Ready?" she asks gently, her hand brushing Nellie's wrist as a cue.
She nods, her fingers tightening slightly around the door handle. "Yeah," she says. Her voice is calm, but tension lies beneath it. "I think so."
Eileen walks around to the passenger side and offers her arm. Nellie takes it, grateful for the stability and the familiar presence. As they move toward the entrance, she listens carefully: the squeak of automatic doors, the rolling hum of shopping carts, the layered noise of dozens of strangers moving through a shared space. It is… a lot. But not unbearable. Inside, the air is colder than she remembers grocery stores being, and the smell of bakery bread and cold produce hits her immediately. Her grip on her aunt's arm tightens as the hum of fluorescent lights above seems to buzz straight into her skull.
"Still okay?" Eileen asks.
Nellie nods quickly. "Just… taking it in."
They start down the first aisle. Eileen steers the cart and Nellie walks beside her, holding on to the handle. Occasionally, she hears the other woman murmur what they are passing — "canned vegetables," "breakfast cereals," "oat milk on sale" — and Nellie finds herself quietly cataloging the map of the store in her mind. It isn't exactly peaceful, but there is a rhythm to it. A comfort in knowing someone is guiding her. She doesn't have to perform or be on high alert. Eileen doesn't rush her or treat her like glass. At one point, a child squeals in the distance and a cart wheel screeches against tile, but Miracle isn't here to press against her leg and ground her. Still, she exhales slowly and focuses on her aunt's presence, her steady voice. They move through frozen foods next; the cool air brushes her face.
"This okay?" Eileen asks again.
"Yeah," Nellie murmurs, even managing a small smile. "I feel like a douchebag for wearing sunglasses inside, though."
She chuckles. "I don't know. On the other hand, you could wear them around the house to annoy Sam."
They reach the condiments aisle when Eileen gently squeezes her wrist.
"You okay if I run back and grab the pasta sauce?" she asks.
Nellie bobs her head. "Yeah, I'm good."
"Just call out if you need me." Then she is gone, her footsteps fading into the background noise.
Left alone, Nellie stands still near the end of an aisle with the shopping cart, her hands curled gently around the bar. The cart grounds her. Familiar. Solid. She notices how much her eyes ache behind the dark lenses, but she doesn't complain. The soft hum of the store's nearby freezers fills the air around her. Somewhere in the distance, a toddler laughs, shrill and unfiltered, followed by the calm voice of a parent. A muffled announcement echoes through the ceiling speakers, too garbled to understand.
She shifts her grip on the cart; her palms are starting to sweat. She exhales slowly through her nose. It is fine. She is fine. Just standing still in a grocery store, waiting for Eileen. No big deal. But without the other woman's presence anchoring her, the noise begins to press in from all sides. The rustle of plastic bags, the beep of a barcode scanner, someone dragging a cart just a little too loudly over tile. Each sound flares sharply in her ears, overlapping, turning into an indistinct blur of movement she can't see, but only feel. And it is starting to be too much. Nellie's fingers tighten on the cart handle. Her heart begins to thrum a little faster, just a little harder in her chest. She tries to focus on breathing, just like the techniques Sam had shown her: in, two, three, out. In two, three-
A voice whispers, faint, barely audible, somehow breaking through the cacophony.
"Nellie…"
She stiffens. Her head turns instinctively, though she can't see anything past the faint blur of light through the tinted lenses. She knows that voice. It isn't possible.
"You really thought you got away from me?"
The voice is calm. Crooning. Familiar in the worst kind of way. Nellie's pulse rockets. No. It isn't real. It can't be Eleanor.
"You can't hide from me, Nellie."
The breath leaves her lungs in a rush. The handle of the cart slips from her grasp. She stumbles back a step, the edges of her world tilting. Cheap jasmine perfume coats her nose and throat. The sound of the store becomes warped, distant; her brain locking onto that voice. That tone. Like poisoned honey. Her body freezes, and her ears ring. The tears are instant, hot and silent, slipping beneath her sunglasses. Her knees give way. She doesn't hit the floor hard—her hands catching part of the cart frame, slowing her descent—but she crumples to the cold tile, her back pressing against the store shelves. She can't breathe. Her throat is closing. Her body shakes as the air refuses to enter her lungs properly. People around her don't seem to notice, or if they did, they assume she is just crouching. She tries to call for Eileen, but her voice catches.
And the voice in her head, her mother's voice, keeps whispering. "You didn't save him. You never could."
Nellie covers her ears. She wants it to stop. Wants the store to be quiet again. Wants her mother to be gone. A hand touches her shoulder. She yelps, flinching hard.
"Nellie!" It is Eileen's voice, real, firm, and warm.
She tries to speak but only a broken gasp comes out.
"Oh God," the older woman murmurs, already crouching beside her. "It's okay. I'm here. You're safe."
But she can't stop shaking. Her hands still half-cover her ears, and her sunglasses have slipped, dangling from one ear. Her cheeks are damp beneath them. She is gasping, every breath too shallow, too fast, her chest heaving like she'd just sprinted a mile.
"I can't—" she rasps, the words barely forming.
"I know," Eileen soothes, adjusting her grip. She reaches up, gently fixing Nellie's sunglasses and brushing a strand of sweaty hair from her forehead. "But you're safe, okay? You're with me. Just breathe. Follow my voice."
She glances up. A couple of shoppers are looking over, concerned but unsure what to do. A worker has started making his way toward them. She just shakes her head at him, offering a quick, polite gesture that says, "We've got it." Then she turns back to the blind woman.
"Try to match me," she whispers. "In… and out."
Nellie inhales slowly, exaggeratedly. Then exhales. Her hands twitch, curling tighter against her ears.
"Just listen to me, sweetheart," Eileen continues. "No one's watching you. Just me. We're okay."
The girl sucks in a hiccupping breath. Then another. Slower this time. Her hands begin to slip away from her ears. Her trembling doesn't stop, but it dulls, like the edge of the panic has finally started to melt under her aunt's calm presence. She glances from side to side, listening for that damned voice to speak again, but it never comes.
"There you go," the older woman praises, giving her arm a light squeeze. "That's it. We're just gonna go outside now. Get some air. Alright?"
Nellie gives a shaky nod. Her whole body feels leaden, wrung out, but she lets Eileen help her to her feet. The brightness through the sunglasses stings. The warm air feels sharp against her clammy skin. She leans against the side of the car, trying to keep herself upright as the leftover adrenaline leaves her legs shaky.
Eileen opens the passenger door and guides Nellie down into the seat with practiced ease, circling to the driver's side. She doesn't start the engine right away. Instead, she looks over at her niece, brow furrowed with concern.
"You don't have to talk about it yet," she says softly. "I just want you to know — it's okay. Whatever that was, it doesn't scare me away."
Nellie gives a slight, broken nod. Her throat burns. Her chest still aches. But Eileen's words stay with her. It doesn't scare me away.
The drive home has been quiet. After sitting with the panicked girl for a few minutes, Eileen had finished her quick shopping trip while Nellie sat in the car. She doesn't press her for anything. She just drives, hands steady on the wheel, occasionally glancing at her niece in the passenger seat. Nellie hasn't said a word since they left the store, her shoulders curling in, body tense, like she is trying to disappear into herself.
When they pull into the driveway, Nellie unbuckles her seatbelt without waiting for help and slips out of the car. By the time Eileen had grabbed the first bag of groceries from the trunk, Nellie is already inside the house, the gentle click of the guest room door closing echoed faintly down the hall.
Eileen sighs softly, shifting the bags in her arms as she moves toward the kitchen. She has just started unpacking the groceries when Sam appears, sleeves rolled up and brow slightly furrowed. He'd been working in the office and sensed something was off.
"Hey," he says, grabbing a bag to help. "How was the trip?"
Eileen hesitates for a beat, then signs, "Not great."
His face shifts, not quite alarmed, but instantly more attentive. "What happened?"
She recounts it quietly while unloading the groceries: how Nellie had done great at first, calm and steady, but then panicked when she was briefly left alone. The fear had come on suddenly, like a wave, and Eileen had found her crouched on the tile, breath shallow, eyes wild behind her sunglasses.
"I think it was just too much," she adds aloud, her voice soft. "The sounds, the people, being in public again without sight… it must've been overwhelming."
Sam nods, jaw tightening slightly in concern. "Where is she now?"
"In her room," Eileen replies. "She went straight there after we got in. I think she's embarrassed."
He sets the milk on the counter and sighs, running a hand through his hair.
"She doesn't have to be," he comments quietly. "But I get why she is."
She gives him a small, tired smile. "I'll check on her in a bit. I think she just needs time."
Sam nodded but didn't move right away. His gaze drifted toward the hallway where Nellie had disappeared.
"She's been through hell," he murmurs. "And it's not like that kind of fear just disappears after a couple of weeks of peace."
"No," Eileen agrees. "But she's here. She's safe. That's a start."
After the last of the groceries is put away, Sam gives his wife a gentle kiss on her temple and walks down the hall toward the guest room. He pauses outside the door. It is mostly quiet on the other side, save for the occasional sniffle. He knocks softly, knuckles grazing the wood.
"Nell? It's just me."
There is a beat of silence. Then, a faint voice, hoarse, uncertain.
"Come in."
He opens the door slowly, finding Nellie lying on the bed, shoulders hunched inward, curling up on the mattress. Her sunglasses had been taken off and now sit on the nightstand. Her face is wet with tears she hasn't bothered to hide. Miracle lies curled against her stomach as she loosely lays her arm over the dog, unmoving except for the flick of his ears when Sam enters. She can't look up. But her head tilts slightly in his direction.
"I'm sorry," she whispers before he can even speak.
Sam's heart clenches. He crosses the room and sits down on the edge of the bed, not too close, just enough for her to know he is there.
"You don't have to apologize," he says gently. "Not to me. Not for this."
She shakes her head as she sits up, more tears slipping down. "It was stupid. I just… I couldn't breathe. It felt like everything was closing in, and I couldn't see, and I thought Eileen was gone, and I—" She breaks off, voice catching. Miracle nudges her arm with his nose, a small reassurance.
Sam reaches out, hesitating just a second before sliding his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. She stiffens briefly but then melts into the touch, shoulders trembling.
"It's okay," he murmurs. "You're okay."
She buries her face into his shoulder, quiet sobs escaping her. He holds her the way Dean used to when they were kids and the world felt too big: firm, steady, never letting go.
After a few minutes, her crying slows enough for her to speak again, her voice small.
"I heard her, Sam."
He pulls back slightly so he can look at her face, even if she can't see him. "Who?"
She hesitates. Then, "My mother. In the store. She… she called my name. Said I couldn't hide. That I didn't get away."
Sam's stomach drops. He keeps his expression steady, though, voice even as he asks, "Are you sure it wasn't just… memory? You've been through a lot. That was your first time in public since everything happened. It could've been a panic response."
"I don't know," Nellie whispers. "It felt real. Too real. I thought she was there, that she'd found me. I was so sure…"
He rubs her back slowly, processing. "I believe you felt it. Whatever it was, it hit hard. You're still healing, Nellie — your body, your mind. Panic makes the lines blur sometimes. But you're not crazy. And you're not alone." He still doesn't dare tell her about her mother's missing body. Right now is not the time, even though this fact, paired now with this event, starts to feel coincidental.
She nods against him, swallowing thickly. "I just… I didn't want to ruin anything."
"You didn't ruin a damn thing," he states firmly. "This is your home now. You're safe. No one expects you to be perfect."
Nellie is quiet for a long moment, clinging to his shirt like she isn't sure she believes him, but needs to anyway.
Eventually, Sam gives her another small squeeze. "Why don't you rest a bit, yeah? We'll be right down the hall, making dinner."
She nods.
He helps her ease back against the pillows, Miracle settling beside her again like a sentry. As he stands to leave, she reaches out, fingers grazing his wrist.
"Thanks… for coming."
"Always," he says softly. "You're one of us now, remember?"
And this time, Nellie believes it.
As Sam walks away from the now closed door, he can't help but wonder if it isn't just a moment of overstimulation or a panic attack. But it is not possible. Eleanor could not be alive. She was not powerful enough to cause the motel fire and definitely not skilled enough to set up a regeneration failsafe. So, what else is going on? Is Nellie tuning in to something, or is it just repressed trauma finally surfacing after years of surviving? He can only hope that it is that. Nothing else has happened outside of this. Even though he and Eileen left the hunting life, they warded the house when they first bought it, so everyone was safe inside. Nothing has happened since, either. But outside of these walls, something or someone could be watching his niece.
Eileen is wiping down the counter, but she looks up as Sam enters the kitchen. Her eyes scan his face instantly, concern knitting between her brows.
"How is she?" she signs, voice low but audible.
He exhales as he leans against the edge of the counter, rubbing the back of his neck. "Shaken, but okay. I think it helped to talk about it."
"That's good," she replies, turning on the oven. "Hopefully, she'll feel better by the time dinner is done. Did she mention what bothered her?"
There is a moment of silence before Sam speaks again. "She said she heard her mother."
A baking sheet clatters loudly on the counter, Eileen turning back in surprise. "What?"
"Said she called her name, told her that she couldn't hide. Like she was right there."
She stares at him, Sam immediately clocking what she's thinking. "But that can't be. Right?"
"Just because the body was gone, doesn't mean she's alive. There is no way in Hell Eleanor could just get up and walk out of there. For all we know, someone stole her body."
"Then what does it mean?"
Sam rubs his face with a deep exhale. "Well, we haven't had any incidents since the motel. In a weird way, I am just hoping it is unresolved trauma surfacing now that she is free of her mom. Also, this was her first time out of the house in two weeks, and her other senses are more sensitive right now to compensate for her loss of sight. So, it's no wonder she got overstimulated and anxious."
Eileen crosses her arms, worry creeping up on her brow. "Let's hope it is just that." She steps forward and wraps her arms around his waist.
He lets out a breath, arms coming around her shoulders, holding her tightly.
"She'll get through it," she says into his shirt. "She has us now. She's not alone in this."
He holds her for a beat longer before pulling back slightly. "Thanks," he murmurs. "I needed that."
They stand in silence for a beat longer, holding onto each other. Just two parents trying to help a lost girl learn how to feel safe again. Finally, Eileen nudges his shoulder. "We've got her. One step at a time."
"One step at a time," Sam echoes.
It isn't long before the kitchen is warm with the aroma of roasted vegetables and something rich simmering on the stove. The soft sounds of Dean's chatter drift in from the table, where he sits clumsily stacking carrot sticks into a tower. Eileen stirs the pot gently, humming under her breath.
Sam is setting the table when he looks up and pauses.
Nellie stands just inside the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the frame, the other hovering slightly in front of her chest. Her hair is a little damp from a late afternoon rest and rinse, and the familiar soft gauze of her blindfold is tied carefully around her eyes once more. Her posture is hesitant but steady, like she is forcing herself forward on willpower alone. Miracle pads in right behind her, tail wagging gently, brushing against her leg in quiet reassurance.
Eileen turns with a soft smile. "Hey, Nellie."
She tilts her head toward the voice. "Hi. Um… I thought I'd come out for dinner."
"You're just in time," Sam says, voice warm. "We've got everything almost ready. Come sit."
Dean perks up. "NELLIE!" he sings, already halfway out of his chair.
"Slow down, little man." Sam catches his son before he can accidentally barrel into the blind woman. "Let her get to the table first."
Dean obeys, bouncing on his toes as he waits for her to sit beside him.
Nellie moves forward, finding the edge of the table with her hand, and carefully pulls out the chair. The dog curls underneath her chair like usual, resting his chin on his paws. Eileen set a plate in front of her niece and gently guided her hands to the edges of it. "Simple tonight—roasted chicken, potatoes, and green beans. Easy to eat."
The girl gives a slight, thankful nod in return.
Then, Sam pulls out the chair across from her, but he doesn't sit immediately. "You know…" His voice is calm, but there is a thoughtful weight to it. "It's been two weeks since you came here."
Nellie sits still, her fingers resting on the edge of the table.
He continues, quieter. "And I just wanted to say—we're really proud of you."
Her brow pulls slightly together beneath the blindfold.
"You've come a long way," Eileen says, sitting down beside her husband with a soft thud. "You're stronger. Your lungs are better. You're more comfortable moving through the house. You're talking more. Smiling more."
Dean beams. "And you play superheroes with me!"
Sam smiles, watching the flicker of something shift in his niece's face.
"I know it's not easy," he acknowledges. "None of this is. But you've been working so hard, Nellie. And we see that. Every day."
"We like having you here," Eileen adds gently. "It's not just about helping you heal. You're part of this family now. And we're happy you're here."
Nellie doesn't respond at first. Her head bows slightly, a tremble in her jaw. "I'm… I'm trying," she whispers.
"We know," Sam smiles. "And that's more than enough."
Dean carefully slides a napkin on the table until it bumps Nellie's hand. "You can have mine too," he says seriously. "Just in case."
That makes her laugh, a breathy, fragile thing, but it is real. She reaches across the table and finds Sam's hand, giving it the lightest squeeze. "Thank you," she whispers again. "All of you."
Eileen leans in and gently tucks a loose piece of hair behind Nellie's ear. "You're doing better than you think. And we're proud to call you one of ours."
There is a crushing hug on her arm from Dean. "Does this mean you're my sister now?"
Chuckles erupt around the table.
"Not quite, buddy," Sam says with a grin.
"It just means you're my favorite cousin," Nellie adds, tickling the boy's side, eliciting a giggle from him.
The sounds of dinner and conversation soon fill the dining room, the grocery store incident forgotten for now. The words settle around Nellie like a blanket, unexpected, but warm. She would not change this feeling for the world. She is starting to like this family thing.
• • •
Within just one day, the household encounters yet another incident. The house is silent, wrapped in the hush of night. Pale light from the moon spills through the windows in soft beams, casting long shadows across the hallway floors. In the guest room, Miracle stirs where he lies curled at the foot of Nellie's bed. His ears twitch. Something has changed. A creak in the floorboards. A shift in the air. The dog lifts his head, sniffing once, then rises silently and pads to the cracked bedroom door. He noses it open with care, his nails clicking softly on the floor as he follows the scent he knows better than anyone's now: Nellie's. She isn't in bed. The low, sharp bark he gives isn't panicked, but it is purposeful.
Upstairs, Sam snaps awake, heart already thudding with the adrenaline that years of instinct refuse to let go of.
"That was Miracle," he mutters, swinging his legs off the bed.
Eileen, already half-awake, pushes herself up beside him. "Was that from Nellie's room?"
He is already moving, grabbing a shirt from the nearby chair and heading into the hallway barefoot, followed close behind by his wife.
They find Miracle sitting in the living room, tail still, head tilted. His eyes are locked on a pale figure standing just in front of the window. Nellie. She is barefoot, wearing her pajamas, her posture eerily still. The moonlight slants through the glass in front of her, bathing her face in silver. She had been sleeping without her blindfold on lately, so her green eyes stare blankly out the window. She stands like a statue, unmoving, hands loose at her sides. The only sound is the whisper of Miracle's breath and the quiet creak of the floor under Sam's step.
"Shit…" Sam breathes.
Eileen catches up to him and freezes at the sight. Nellie doesn't speak. Doesn't flinch. Just… stands. It is unsettling.
He exchanges a glance with her, whose brows furrow in concern. He speaks low, his voice soft. "Is she… awake?"
"It looks like she's sleepwalking," she signs with a flick of her wrist. "I think. Has she ever done this before?"
Sam shakes his head slowly. "Not that she's said."
They stand a moment longer, unsure whether to move toward her. The stillness of it feels strange—unnatural. There is nothing violent or urgent about Nellie's posture, but something about her total stillness, facing the window with her face in full view, makes the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
"Let's bring her back to bed," he says finally, gently stepping closer.
Eileen reaches out first, touching Nellie's shoulder with the softest pressure. "Nellie?" she whispers, "Let's get you back to bed, sweetheart."
There is no response, but her body shifts slightly, like it recognizes the touch even through the fog of sleep. Sam moves to the other side and touches her elbow. Together, they guide her carefully away from the window. Her feet move in slow, shuffling steps, like she is walking through water. Her hands don't raise. Her head doesn't turn. She makes no sound.
"She's really out," he murmurs.
Back in the guest room, she lets herself be led onto the bed without resistance. The moment she lies down, she curls onto her side and closes her eyes, breathing slowly and even, utterly unaware of what had just happened. Miracle returns to his spot beside the bed and settles, eyes never leaving her. Sam pulls the covers up to her shoulders and takes a long breath.
In the hallway, Eileen waits, arms folded, worry creasing her brow.
"I don't get it." He glances back at the room, his face unreadable. "I don't know if she's done this before. But it's the first time here."
Eileen’s fingers move quickly. "At least she hadn't wandered out the house or hurt herself."
They linger a moment longer, unsure of what to make of it. The night resumes its quiet, but not its peace. Because something—however small—has shifted. The morning takes its time. The sunlight finally slants gently through the kitchen windows, casting gold across the countertops and floor. The house has settled into its usual rhythm: the soft thud of toddler feet from the living room, the low hum of the coffee maker, the faint creak of cabinets opening and closing. Normal. Too normal.
Nellie sits at the table, a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Her gauze blindfold is now on, tucked neatly behind her ears. She looks rested, calm even, her fingers absently running along the rim of the ceramic cup.
Sam stands by the sink, watching her in the window's reflection. Eileen moves quietly between the fridge and the counter, pausing every so often to glance between the two. It had taken him longer than usual to fall back asleep after guiding Nellie back to bed the night before. Even now, hours later, his muscles carry the quiet weight of vigilance.
He clears his throat. "Hey, Nell?"
She turns her head slightly toward the sound of his voice, her expression open. "Yeah?"
"Did you… Sleep okay last night?"
She tilts her head, considering. "Yeah, I think so. Probably one of my better nights." She takes another small sip of coffee. "Why?"
He hesitates, shooting a brief glance at Eileen, who pauses the act of pouring cereal into Dean's bowl. She catches the look and gives a slight nod.
She turns back to the stove, speaking softly but casually. "We just noticed you were up at one point. You didn't seem… all the way awake."
Nellie frowns slightly. "Up? What do you mean?"
Sam steps away from the sink and leans against the opposite counter. "You were out in the living room. Just standing there. We think you were sleepwalking."
There is a long pause as her brows draw together. "What? Really?"
"Yeah," he says gently. "Miracle woke us up. He barked a couple of times until we followed him out. You didn't say anything, just stood there."
Her voice is quiet. "I don't remember that at all."
"Have you ever sleepwalked before?" Eileen asks, tone light and careful.
Nellie shakes her head slowly. "No. At least, not that I know of. I mean… I guess my mom would've mentioned it." Her lips press into a thin line. "She would have if I bothered her, which was not difficult to do."
That answer lands heavier than it should have.
Eileen walks over and sets a hand lightly on her shoulder. "Well, you're safe here. If it happens again, we'll be there, okay?"
Nellie nods slowly. "Yeah. Okay."
Sam can see the questions forming behind her expression; the way her fingers subtly tighten around the mug, the slight furrow in her brow. She is trying not to let it get to her. But he can feel it. Whatever peace they'd found in the quiet is beginning to fray.
• • •
The first time can be chalked up to stress. The second time leaves them cautious. By the third, it is routine. Every night, sometimes just past midnight, sometimes closer to three, Miracle stirs first. He rises from the foot of Nellie's bed, tail stiff, ears perked, and barking. Just once.
And Sam wakes up. It becomes a strange rhythm between them, a quiet agreement. Eileen sometimes stirs too, eyes blinking open as Sam tugs on a hoodie or slips on his shoes, but she never stops him. They both know who will be standing in the living room. Nellie. Always upright. Always silent. Always facing the window. And always staring. She never seems distressed. Never mutters. Never moves beyond those few quiet steps away from her room. He finds her and gently guides her back. No struggle, no resistance. Just a quiet, empty shell that moves when prompted and returns to bed like nothing has happened, like clockwork.
Sam stops bothering with socks. He keeps a hoodie draped on the bedpost. The guest room door always stays cracked. Miracle stops barking, too, eventually, all it takes is the soft click of his nails on hardwood to stir him from sleep. It begins to wear on him. He never mentions it to Nellie again. There is no point in worrying about her; she never remembers. Each morning, she wakes up with no memory of having left her bed. When he asks casually if she'd had any dreams, she just shakes her head and says, "Not that I can remember." But he can feel the tension building. A part of him is waiting for something to change. And he doesn't have to wait long.
The bark comes sharp and low, not panicked, but urgent. Sam snaps awake instantly, the echo of Miracle's alert still ringing in his ears. He reaches for the lamp on his nightstand, blinking into the warm light, and is already swinging his legs over the bed when Eileen stirs beside him.
She sits up, bleary but alert. "Miracle?" she signs.
He nods grimly. "Yeah. I think it's happening again."
She is already throwing on her robe. Together, they creep down the stairs, peeking down the hallway toward the guest room. The door is ajar. The bed: empty.
Miracle stands near the foot of the stairs, facing the living room. His ears are alert, tail stiff, eyes tracking something none of them can see. He gives them a quiet whine, paws padding toward the window. They follow. And there she is. Nellie. Standing in front of the large picture window, her arms hanging limply by her sides. Her shoulders are loose in that sleep-heavy way, her head tilted slightly forward. Her pale skin catches the moonlight filtering in through the glass, giving her an almost ethereal appearance.
Sam moves slowly. "Nell?" he calls, voice low, careful not to startle her.
She doesn't respond, just like before.
He gently approaches her, reaching a hand toward her arm to guide her away. Then, she speaks.
"Someone… is at the window."
The words are so soft, they barely carry. But the dread they leave behind is deafening.
Sam freezes. Eileen's breath catches as she steps closer behind him, eyes darting to the window, searching. There is no one there. Just the night outside. Still. Quiet. Empty.
Sam looks back at his wife, concern etched deep in his brow.
Her hands move cautiously. "She's dreaming. It's the panic. The voice at the store. It's in her head now."
He nods, trying to accept it. Trying to believe it.
"Okay," he whispers, turning back to his niece. "Let's get you back to bed, sweetheart."
She doesn't resist as he gently places a hand on her back and steers her away from the window. Miracle pads beside them, close to Nellie's legs, as though guarding her. As they reach the threshold of the guest room, her body slumps slightly, a faint sound leaving her throat, like she is stirring. Sam helps her sit down on the bed, easing her down with the kind of tenderness he reserved only for those he truly loves.
Nellie blinks. "Mm?" she murmurs.
"It's okay," Sam whispers, brushing her hair back. "Just sleep."
And she does. By the time Eileen pulls the blanket over her, Nellie is already breathing evenly again, her hands unclenched and resting over her stomach. Sam sits at the edge of the bed for a moment longer, eyes fixed on her still form.
"She's dreaming," he mutters under his breath. "That's all it is." But his gaze flicks back toward the window down the hallway, and he can't help but wonder.
As he quietly pulls the guest room door to a soft close, Eileen lingers nearby, arms crossed, and face drawn with concern. The house is quiet again, but the unease between them remains suspended in the silence. They exchange a look before Sam leans back against the wall, running a tired hand through his hair.
"She spoke tonight," he murmurs, as if saying it too loud might somehow make it more real.
She nods, her expression uncertain. "That's new."
"Yeah." His brow furrows. "She's never said anything before during sleepwalking. Just walks to the same spot, like she's being drawn there. But tonight…"
"Someone's at the window," Eileen motions, her lips tightening. "Do you think she saw something?"
Sam let out a quiet exhale. "I don't know. Her vision is still spotty, and even if she's starting to see light and shapes… There was nothing there. I checked twice."
She glances toward the living room, the faintest crease forming between her brows. "She's not dreaming like before. It's different from the nightmares. No thrashing. No gasping awake."
"She didn't even seem distressed. Just… lost in it," he adds. "But hearing her say something like that in that voice—" He cuts himself off with a shiver. "Gotta admit, it freaked me out a little."
Eileen gives a soft sigh. "I still think it could be her brain sorting through the trauma. Nightmares come and go, but this sleepwalking started after the store incident. It tracks, in a way."
"Maybe. But I'd rather be woken up by a nightmare than find her standing in the dark talking about things that aren't there."
"You and me both," she signs. Her fingers loosen. "We'll just keep an eye on her."
He nods, though his jaw remains tight. "Yeah. I'll take the watch again tonight. Miracle's been on top of it, but… still."
They stand there for another moment, as if neither wants to be the first to turn their back on whatever strange quiet still lingers in the house. Then, without another word, they return to their bedroom, the weight of unanswered questions clinging to them like the hush of distant thunder on a still night.
Morning takes its time arriving. Sunlight finally filters softly through the curtains of the guest bedroom, painting the walls in warm hues. Nellie stirs beneath the covers, her hand reaching up instinctively to rub her eyes. The distant sound of Dean giggling floated from the kitchen, followed by the comforting clink of breakfast being prepared.
There is a light knock before the door creaks open.
"Morning," Sam says gently. "You awake?"
She shifts upright, pushing herself into a sitting position with a slow breath. "Yeah… just waking up."
He steps inside, pausing at the foot of her bed. "How're you feeling?"
She tilts her head slightly. "Okay, I think."
Sam hesitates, then takes a seat in the chair beside her bed. "You were sleepwalking again."
Nellie frowns, her brows pulling together. "Again?"
"Yeah." He keeps his voice calm. "Same as before. Miracle woke us up. You were in the living room again. Just standing at the window."
She is quiet, absorbing the news. "I… I don't remember that."
"We figured. But this time you said something."
She blinks slowly, her gaze slightly off from where Sam sits. "What did I say?"
He rubs the back of his neck. "You said, 'someone is at the window.'"
Nellie's mouth opens slightly, then closes again. "I didn't have a nightmare, though. I don't… I don't remember dreaming at all."
"It's okay." His voice is soft, steady. "We just wanted to check in. Make sure you're feeling alright."
"I'm fine," she murmurs, though her fingers curl slightly in the blanket. "Just… weird, I guess. I've never sleepwalked before. Not that I know of."
Sam nods. "We'll keep an eye on it. Might just be your brain working through everything." He stands and gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Miracle's still on duty."
A faint, amused smile touches her lips. "Good. He's better at it than I am."
Sam chuckled. "That he is."
He gives her a moment, then leaves the room, the quiet click of the door closing behind him. Alone again, Nellie reaches out, her hand finding Miracle's soft fur as he pads to her bedside. She strokes his head gently, her thoughts lingering on Sam's words. Someone at the window. But there had been no one… right?
• • •
The quiet holds for the next few days. Nellie hasn't sleepwalked since that strange night at the window. No murmured warnings. No eerie stillness in the dark. Each morning, Sam and Eileen exchange the same subtle glances over coffee, half-relieved, half-waiting. But nothing comes. In the calm, life felt... manageable again.
Nellie's sight has started to return in small, scattered ways. She is able to make out things now, but it is still blurry. It isn't much, but it is enough to stop wearing the blindfold. Enough to walk more confidently through the house with Miracle gently nudging her path when she veers too far left or right. She is healing.
The house breathes easier with her in it, though no one says that aloud. Sam still watches her a little longer than necessary when she crosses the kitchen. Eileen still checks the lock on every window every night. But there is a quiet pride behind their carefulness now.
One lazy morning, as the sunlight streaks across the kitchen and Dean colors at the table, Nellie leans against the counter with a half-finished mug of lukewarm coffee in hand.
"Hey," she says casually, turning toward the sound of Sam rinsing dishes. "When's the last time you and Eileen had an actual night out?"
The question makes him pause mid-rinse. "Uh, define 'night out.'"
Nellie smirks. "I mean, leaving the house. Together. Without Dean or worrying about me."
Eileen looks up from where she is flipping through a grocery list. "It's been... a while," she admits.
"I've been thinking about it," Nellie explains, trying not to sound too rehearsed. "I know you've both been doing a lot for me, for Dean. I think you deserve a break. So... what if I watched him for the evening? Just a couple of hours. You two go grab dinner, maybe see a movie. Be normal people for a bit."
Sam raises a brow, uncertain. "You sure?"
"I can handle it," she insists. "He listens to me. And I've got Miracle as backup muscle."
Dean, sensing his name in the conversation, looks up from his drawing. "I wanna stay with Nellie!"
Nellie smiles at that, heart warmed.
Eileen exchanges a glance with Sam. "It would be nice," she says softly, cautious but touched.
"I mean it," she continues. "You guys deserve to breathe. And I'm... getting stronger. I can see enough. Let me do something for you this time."
Sam studies her, the sincere determination on her face. He can still see the faint lines of exhaustion beneath her sunglasses, still hear the rasp at the edge of her breath. But she is right. She is stronger, her vision returning. And she wants to give something back.
Eileen touches her arm gently. "Alright," she says. "Dinner and a short walk. But only because you're asking so sweetly."
"Deal." Nellie's smile widens.
It feels like a milestone. Normalcy. Trust. The rest of the day passes too quickly. Dean was already making plans for that night, ranging from playing superheroes to try to convince Nellie to stay up past his bedtime. The evening finally settles in like a warm blanket. Sunlight softens into comforting orange through the windows as Sam and Eileen move through their pre-date checklist like two people trying very hard not to hover.
"You've got the emergency numbers saved on the phone," Eileen says, handing the old cell to Nellie and gently pressing it into her palm. "It's charged. Just dial the numbers or hold down the button on the side to call me or Sam."
Nellie nods, brushing her fingers over the phone's edges. "Got it."
"And if anything seems off—" Sam starts.
"I call. Immediately," she finishes with a smile. "Guys, I'll be fine. Miracle's with me. Dean's already planning our evening minute-by-minute."
As if on cue, the boy comes skidding into the living room in socked feet, plastic dinosaur in one hand and a flashlight in the other. "Nellie! We gotta build the blanket cave before the lava comes!"
Nellie laughs, crouching slightly to his level. "Lead the way, Dino Master."
Sam and Eileen exchange a look: part love, part nerves. She steps forward to pull Nellie into a gentle hug.
"Thank you," she whispers.
Nellie feels the sincerity in her voice and returns the hug with care. "It's the least I can do."
Miracle stands at her side, tail wagging lightly, watching Dean with mild amusement.
Sam crouches beside his son, ruffling the boy's hair. "You be good for Nellie, alright, buddy?"
"I'm always good," Dean says seriously. Then he lowers his voice, glancing toward Nellie with mock concern. "But I'll help her if she gets scared."
He chuckles, standing again. "She's in good hands."
They leave a few minutes later with hesitant waves and instructions that Nellie promises to remember. As the front door clicks closed, she stands still for a second, letting the silence of the house settle. Just her, Dean, and Miracle. She smiles. It feels... peaceful. Normal.
She moves toward the living room, then carefully sits down as her little cousin launches into his lava-themed game plan. Behind her, the terrier stretches out across the floor like a fuzzy rug, ears perked, already on duty. Blankets are draped over chairs and couch cushions like sails on a ship, fastened with clothespins, Eileen's hair ties, and pure stubborn determination. Dean darts in and out of the growing structure like a general planning a campaign, while Nellie, guided by his gleeful narration and the occasional tug of her sleeve, does her best to follow along.
"Okay, this pillow's the lava shield," he explains, dragging a worn cushion across the hardwood. "And this—" he shoves a throw blanket at her legs, "—this is the entrance curtain. You have to say the magic password or you can't come in."
Nellie tilts her head, grinning. "What's the password?"
Dean leans in close, whispering as though the fate of the world rests on her remembering it. "It's 'pickle.'"
She snorts. "That's a very secure password."
"I know," he replies proudly, already crawling back into the fort. "C'mon!"
They build and rebuild, constructing a paper crown for Miracle, who accepts it with regal tolerance, and eventually make their way to the kitchen to pop a frozen pizza into the oven. With Nellie leaning way too close to the controls and Miracle keeping close at her side, she carefully warms the oven and then sits with Dean on the floor as they wait.
The boy lays his head against her arm at one point, humming a little to himself. "You're really good at fort building," he says.
"Thanks," she murmurs. "You're a pretty great lava expert."
Dinner is a mess of napkins and melted cheese, and by the time the clock crept toward bedtime, Dean is fighting yawns with loud dinosaur roars.
"Okay, Roars-a-lot," Nellie teases. "Time to start winding down. Wanna watch some cartoons before bed?"
He blinks at her, eyes wide. "Can I really?"
"Only if you promise to brush your teeth before we do."
He gives her a suspicious look. "Do you mean it?"
"Scout's honor."
"Okay, deal!"
Once he is in his pajamas and his teeth are brushed, Nellie lets him pick a cartoon from the kids' profile on the TV, thankfully already set up by Sam, and settle onto the couch. The TV's glow is gentle, and her eyes aren't as sensitive at the moment. Still, she leans back with a tired sigh, letting the voices and laughter on the screen fill the room. Miracle curls up at her feet again, chin resting on her toes. Dean nestles beside her, giggling at the antics onscreen. It feels… warm. Like something she hadn't realized she'd needed. Like she has borrowed someone else's childhood just for the evening. She doesn't say anything. But her smile lingers long after the cartoons roll their credits.
Dean is nearly asleep in her arms, head nestled against Nellie's shoulder as she carries him up the stairs with slow, steady steps. Miracle pads quietly at her heels, his nails soft against the hardwood. But as they reach the top of the staircase, she feels him pause.
She stops, too. "Miracle?" she whispers.
The terrier's posture stiffens. His ears perk, and his body angles slightly in front of her legs. Then comes a low, uncertain growl, quiet, but clear. Protective.
Nellie's brow furrows. Her hand tightens around Dean. "What is it, boy?"
Miracle didn't move for a moment. Then, after a few seconds of tense silence, he gives a soft whine, bumping his head gently against her leg, urging her forward. Still uneasy, she resumes her steps up the hall. The dog's paws are quieter than usual now, his body low and watchful. She nudges the door to Dean's room open with her hip, ready to lay him down under his superhero blanket. But the moment she steps inside, a faint chill brushes across her skin. The air is moving. Soft. Steady. Wrong. Her feet freeze. The faint scent of night air wafts in. She tilts her head, her eyes landing on the window. It is open. Eileen never leaves the windows upstairs open, not with a small child in the house. Not even cracked. Nellie remembers that clearly.
Her arms tighten slightly around Dean. "Shh," she whispers. "Hey, buddy?"
"Mm?" The boy rubs his eyes, half-asleep.
"I need you to be really quiet for a minute, okay?"
"Why?" he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
"We're gonna play a game," she whispers, her voice calm but her pulse hammering in her ears. "We're going to hide. Like hide-and-seek.”
Dean blinks against her shoulder. "But no one's seeking."
"I just need you to play along, alright?"
She crosses the room quietly, Miracle staying close to her leg. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she moves toward the closet. The air from the window is cool against her bare arm. She can't see what is outside, but something inside her tenses, an invisible pressure in her head, like the moment before a lightning strike. She ducks into the tiny closet, pushing aside clothes and boxes until they reach the back wall. Miracle follows them in without hesitation.
Dean looks up at her, confused now, more awake. "Nellie? What's wrong?"
She crouches beside him, placing a hand on his back and guiding him to sit. "It's okay, Dean. I just need to call your mom and dad, alright?"
Nellie sits down next to the boy, who presses into her side, the closet door pulled nearly shut. His arms are looped around her waist, his breathing shallow and fast against her ribcage. Her own fingers tremble as she pulls the phone from her sweatshirt pocket, the glow of the screen flaring white against her still-blurry vision. She can see just enough to tap Sam's contact and hold the phone to her ear. The ringtone buzzes in her ear.
One ring.
Two.
A faint sound downstairs—wood creaking under pressure. Her breath hitches.
Three rings.
She clutches the phone harder, her other arm curling around Dean protectively.
A fourth creak. Closer this time.
And then—
"Nellie?"
Her breath hitches. "Sam—the window in Dean's room was open. Someone's in the house. I don't know how, but I can feel it."
There is a beat of silence. She can hear the car engine in the background, the shuffle of movement.
"We're on our way," Sam says, his voice suddenly sharp with urgency. "Listen to me—stay put. Stay quiet. If you have a chance to get out, take it. Do you hear me?"
"Yes sir," she whispers, tightening her arm around the boy in her lap. "Just hurry."
"We're moving. Hang in there, kiddo."
The call ends. Nellie drops the phone into the pocket again, her hands shaking too badly to hold it. She can hear Dean's soft, confused voice against her side.
"Nellie, what's going on?"
"We're playing hide and seek, remember," she whispered, brushing a hand through his soft curls. "And we're really good at it, okay?"
He nods solemnly against her.
Then comes the voice. A low, drawn-out call from somewhere in the hallway outside the closet. Female. Not loud. Not panicked. Just deliberate.
"Come on, girl…"
Nellie freezes.
The voice again, lilting and coaxing like a taunt. "Let's not make this harder."
Miracle growls lowly. Dean jerks at the sound, burying his face into Nellie's shirt. Her pulse thunders. Her stomach flips. She presses her other hand against the boy's head and the other over her own mouth, forcing herself to breathe silently. She doesn't recognize the voice, but it is searching for her. Not Sam. Not Eileen. Not Dean.
Her.
Her throat burns. Her vision swarms with blurred shadows. Her lungs ache from the weight of trying not to breathe too loudly.
And still, the voice moves closer. Louder.
"You know I can find you, psychic."
Dean whimpers as the floorboards creak beyond the door. Nellie's heartbeat is so loud she swears the intruder can hear it. But she can't just sit here. Sam and Eileen are still minutes away. She doesn't know what this person wants or what they'd do if they find her first. She has to move. For Dean's safety.
She shifts her weight and whispers, "Dean, listen to me. When I say run back into this closet, you do it. Okay?"
He gives a tiny nod, clutching her sweatshirt.
With one slow inhale, Nellie eases the closet door open. The hallway outside the bedroom stretches quiet and cold. Every shape is a blur, but she knows the layout now, how many steps down the hall, the railing, the stairwell. Freedom. If they can make it.
They slip out.
Two steps.
Three.
Then a shape looms ahead. Hooded. Wrong.
"Found you," the voice hisses.
A hand snatches at Nellie's arm. She shoves Dean back in the bedroom, hard, toward the closet. "Get in! Hide!"
He stumbles, yelping, but obeys, slamming the closet door behind him.
She turns back toward the figure just in time to take the full brunt of the shove. She flew backward, slamming into the hallway wall with a crack that jars her spine and steals her breath. Her vision flickers light, then black. Miracle barks echo from the bedroom, ringing in Nellie’s ears. She barely hits the ground before the intruder moves again. Footsteps stop in the doorway, facing towards the closet.
Towards Dean.
"No!" she screams.
The world narrows to one thing: stopping this strange woman. And something inside her listens. A pulse, deep and hot, surges up from the center of her chest. A force moves through her like a shockwave. The intruder flies back as if struck by an invisible truck, slamming into the hallway wall with a thunderous crack. The wall shakes, and she drops to the floor, groaning.
Nellie lies on the floor for a second, heart racing, lungs straining, hands trembling from the residual pulse in her chest. The energy had burst out of her without thought or control, and it is gone as fast as it came, just like when she stood up to Eleanor weeks ago. But Dean is safe. That is all that mattered.
The figure stirs again. Nellie grits her teeth and pushes herself up. Time to finish this.
The force of her power has stunned her, but not for long. She groans now, dragging herself up, staggering, but focused. And worse, heading right back for the bedroom. No. Not Dean.
Nellie grabs a fistful of the intruder's jacket, heaving her body forward, using every ounce of leverage she has to yank her back down the hallway. The woman is taller and stronger, but Nellie is running on sheer adrenaline and raw terror.
"Not him. You want me," she growls through clenched teeth.
The intruder stumbles, thrown off by the fight still left in her. They slam into the hallway wall again, and the scuffle escalates: grabbing, kicking, fists flailing. Nellie fights like she'd never had to before, guided by instinct and a ferocity she didn't know she possessed. They wrestle toward the stairs. A misstep. A shove. And then they both tumble. The world spins; wood, pain, the crack of limbs hitting stairs.
Nellie lands hard, her shoulder taking most of the fall, breath ripped from her lungs. She rolls, dazed, blood pounding in her ears. The woman is already trying to get up. Her hand finds something solid—Eileen's heavy ceramic lamp that had fallen from the side table. She doesn't hesitate. With a raw cry, she swings. The lamp shatters across the intruder's head. The bulb hadn't broken off entirely in the crash, so Nellie uses its jagged end to stab her side with a sickening crunch.
She screams, staggering back. But it isn't enough. She recovers fast, faster than a human, and lunges. Nellie barely got a breath before she is on her, slamming her back into the ground. Her hands clamp around her throat, pressing down.
Hard.
Nellie gasps, fingers clawing at her arms. Her vision blurs. White-hot panic rakes across her chest as oxygen slips away. Above her, the intruder's face twists, not in rage, but something colder. Purposeful. She is finishing a job.
Darkness creeps in from the edges of Nellie's blurry sight. Her limbs go numb. Her body stops fighting. In that moment, all she can think of is Dean upstairs, Miracle barking somewhere, Sam and Eileen, too far away. She is going to die before she gets to belong.
A gunshot cracks through the air.
Then another. The sound cracks the air like a thunderclap.
Another shot.
The intruder jerks. Blinking.
A third. Right in the center of her chest.
The grip on Nellie slackens. The figure pitches back, collapsing to the floor in a heap, then dissolves into ash and smoke, tendrils curling like ink in water. Only the blood-red sigils and burnt runes etched into the hardwood remained, glowing faintly before vanishing.
Sam lowers the smoking pistol in his hands, chest heaving. Eileen rushes past him, dropping beside Nellie with wide eyes and shaking hands. Her lungs still burn, ribs aching with every breath, but she is breathing. That alone feels like a miracle.
He is already at her side, pulling her into his arms, trying to ground her with his touch. Eileen’s hands quickly check on the young woman for injury, fingers brushing across her scalp, frowning at the warmth of fresh blood just beneath her hairline, then spotting the smear of red under her nose.
Her voice is calm but urgent. "Nellie—hey. Stay still. You're hurt."
But Nellie isn't listening.
As her spinning vision tries to refocus, as much as it can right now, all she can think of is the sound of Dean's breathing in that closet. His little body pressed against hers. His whispered questions. His tears. He is alone up there now.
She shoves out of Sam's arms, stumbling to her feet.
"Nellie—wait—" he says, reaching for her.
But she is already moving.
Her legs are shaky, every joint screaming, but she grits her teeth and drags herself up the stairs, fingers grazing the wall for balance. Her chest aches from where the intruder had held her down. Her head throbs. Her nose still bleeds.
But none of it matters.
She throws open Dean's door, finding a whining Miracle pawing at the closet door.
"Dean?" she calls, voice cracking. "Dean, it's me—"
A tiny sob answers from inside the closet.
She crosses the room in three desperate steps and drops to her knees, pulling the door open. Dean is huddled in the corner, clutching one of Sam's old flannels like a security blanket, face wet with tears. He looks up, and the second he sees her, he bursts into a fresh round of sobs and launches into her arms.
"I was quiet like you said," he whispers. "I was so quiet."
"I know, baby," Nellie whispers, wrapping him tight, pressing her face into his hair. Her tears are hot against her cheeks, mixing with blood, sweat, and relief. "You were so, so brave."
She doesn't let go. Can't. She just holds him like she is trying to keep the whole world together with her arms alone. Behind her, Sam and Eileen stand silently in the doorway, watching the scene unfold for a moment. His jaw clenches as he looks at the shape of his niece—bloody, bruised, and shaking—but still upright. Still standing.
Eileen gives his hand a gentle squeeze and rushes over to her son's side, who reaches out for her. They are both safe. But Sam's stomach churns. The runes. The vanishing body. The precision of the attack. This isn't over. Not by a long shot. And now, it isn't just about healing Nellie. It is about protecting her, from whoever, or whatever, is coming for her. They had crossed a threshold tonight.
And the danger has a face.
After a minute, Eileen guides Nellie gently into the master bedroom, Dean still clinging to her side like a little shadow. The boy isn't crying anymore, but his fingers stayed locked in his mother's shirt. Eileen sits her niece down on the edge of the bed, flipping on the bedside lamp. She moves with calm precision, like she's done this a hundred times before. And she has, patching up Sam after hunts, tending bruises and broken ribs. But this isn't a hunt. This is Nellie. Her niece. Their niece. And her face is still streaked with blood.
"Let's get this cleaned up," Eileen says gently, signing it as well just in case Nellie's head is too clouded to catch her words. She pulls the first aid kit from the dresser drawer and kneels in front of her, Dean scooting close beside her.
Nellie doesn't protest, though she flinches as Eileen gently brushes back her hair, revealing the gash near her temple. Her shoulders are tight, trembling slightly from adrenaline that hasn't burned off yet.
"You're safe now," the older woman murmurs, wiping the blood with warm water before carefully dabbing antiseptic onto the wound. "You did everything right."
Dean nods from where he sits tucked against his cousin's side, his small hands clutching her arm. "She was brave," he says seriously. "Like the knights in my storybooks."
Nellie gives him a watery smile at that, blinking quickly.
Eileen checks her ribs next, fingers pressing gently along each side. Nellie winces, but nothing felt broken. When she touches the bruises on her throat, though, her hands pause. The dark fingerprints. The raw skin. Eileen's heart cracks open in her chest.
"I need you to breathe with me, okay?" she tells her, rising to grab the nebulizer. "We're gonna help your lungs now. Deep breaths."
The girl nods wordlessly. She is still in shock, still too quiet.
As the machine hums to life, Eileen helps Nellie settle against the pillows, Dean curling up beside her like he is trying to shield her with his tiny frame. Miracle nestles on the girl’s other side, his head laying across her lap. The mask settles over Nellie's nose and mouth, a soft puff of medicated vapor rising between them. Eileen smooths the hair from her niece's forehead and watches as she closes her eyes. She keeps a hand on Dean, too, grounding them both.
Meanwhile, Sam moves through the house like a storm had passed through him. Every window is checked. Every door. The warding sigils—he double-checks it all. Then he stops in front of one of the large living room windows, the one where they'd find Nellie during her sleepwalking episodes. And there it is. Faint, but visible in the dim glow of the porch light outside. A scrying sigil on the outside ledge of the windowpane. Not one of his. Not one Eileen had placed. It is faint now, as if it had been partially scraped off or someone had tried to obscure it. But it had been there. Right in the spot where Nellie always ended up at night, eyes open but seeing nothing.
His heart sinks. She'd been drawn to it. Not by coincidence. Not by muscle memory or a sleepwalker's meandering path. By instinct.
"Nellie," he mutters under his breath, realization threading through his voice, "you knew."
She had sensed something. Had sensed someone. The intruder tonight isn't just a break-in.
It had been building.
Watching.
Waiting.
And Nellie, maybe even without knowing it, had been trying to warn them all along.
A bit dazed from this discovery, Sam makes his way back upstairs. The door creaks softly as he steps into the master bedroom. Nellie looks up from her place on the bed, nebulizer mask still in place, but her gaze tracking toward the sound. Eileen gives him a quick glance, her hand still gently cradling the back of Dean's head as the boy dozes against Nellie's arm.
Sam closes the door quietly behind him, his voice low. "The house is secure. Every lock's checked, warding sigils are looking good."
Eileen gives a faint nod, but he isn't finished.
"I found something," he adds, stepping further in. "Out by the living room window. The one Nellie always… sleepwalked to."
The girl slowly removes the mask, the steady puff of vapor fading. "What kind of something?"
Sam sits at the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees. He looks between them, eyes landing gently on his niece.
"A scrying sigil," he says. "Old. Mostly faded now. Not one of ours."
She goes still, her lips parting in surprise. Eileen stiffens next to her.
"I think your… your abilities were picking up on it," Sam continues. "That's why you kept ending up there. You knew something was wrong, even if you didn't know you knew. You were trying to tell us the house was being watched."
Nellie's breath catches in her chest, and she holds it for a moment before releasing it slowly. "I didn't… I didn't realize."
He gives her a soft look. "You wouldn't. It wasn't something you could explain. It was just there. A pull. And now, after tonight…" He trails off, letting the weight of it speak for itself.
She is quiet for a long moment. Dean stirs slightly against her, and she pulls him closer with her good arm, gently running her fingers through his curls.
"I did it again," she says finally, voice fragile. "What I did to Eleanor, that… force. It just happened again. I didn't mean to do it. She was going for Dean, and—I don't know what came over me."
Sam and Eileen are both still.
"It's like something in me snapped and pushed her away."
Eileen reaches out, her hand resting lightly on Nellie's knee. "You protected him."
"I didn't even think. I just reacted." Her voice cracks, and she looks at Sam. "I didn't mean to hurt her. I was scared. She—she called out for me. She was looking for me."
"And you made sure she didn't get to Dean," Sam states firmly. "You didn't lose control, Nellie. You protected him. And yourself."
"But what if it comes back again?" she whispers. "What if next time I can't stop it? What if I hurt someone?"
"You didn't hurt Dean," Eileen says gently. "You shielded him. You didn't lash out blindly. That kind of strength? That kind of instinct? It's rare. And it's not something to be ashamed of."
Sam reaches forward, squeezing her hand carefully between his. "And it means we know what we're dealing with now. Someone—or something—wants you. That sigil outside? It wasn't just decoration. It was a marker. And we're going to figure out why."
Nellie nods, but her expression is haunted, distant.
She hasn't fully processed what has just happened, what she has just done. But the truth is beginning to settle in her chest, cold and slow: She wasn't done running. And they weren't done coming.
Her brows furrow, her voice soft but shaking slightly. "There's… there's something else," she murmurs.
Sam and Eileen both look up at the same time.
"When we were hiding in the closet," Nellie continued, "she said something."
The other woman moves closer. "What did she say?"
She swallows, her throat dry. "She called me 'psychic.' Not like it was a guess. Like she already knew. Like… she knew what I was."
Silence falls in the room like a dropped weight.
Sam's jaw tenses. Eileen's eyes flicker to him, brows pinching with quiet alarm.
He stands, slowly pacing across the room, hand scrubbing over his mouth. "If they know what you can do," he says at last, "then it wasn't random. That break-in, the sigils—they weren't just scouting. They were targeting you."
"But why?" she asks, eyes wide. "What do they want with me?"
He doesn't answer right away. His thoughts are already racing; through lore, old enemies, witch covens, cults, anything that might explain this.
Eileen stands and crosses to him, her voice low. "Sam… if they're after her, they won't stop. And even if we fight them off again… what about Dean?"
Nellie flinches slightly at that, guilt burning behind her ribs.
Sam turns to look at them both, face set. "We can't risk another attack here. Not with a kid in the house. Not with her still recovering."
"We'll have to go somewhere safe," Eileen states, already tracking ahead.
He nods slowly. "There's only one place I can think of that's secure enough. Reinforced, warded. Hidden."
Nellie's head tilts toward him. "Where?"
"The Men of Letters bunker," he answers. "In Lebanon."
A pause.
"You still have access to that?" Eileen inquires.
He gives a grim nod. "I kept it sealed. Just in case."
She glances at the young woman. "It'll be safer there. We can regroup, figure out who's targeting you. What they want."
Nellie nods faintly. "Okay."
"You'll be protected," Sam promises. "We'll make sure of it."
The weight of the night hangs heavy in the air: bruises, blood, fear. But beneath it all, a new resolve began to settle in. This isn't just about recovery anymore. It is about survival. And the Winchesters are already in motion.
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