Embedded Files
Not all inheritances are written in wills. Some are buried in backseats, locked in glove compartments, or stitched into the lining of a jacket left behind.
As Nellie steps deeper into the world Dean once walked, she begins to understand: the past doesn’t just haunt—it hands you the keys.
Word Count: 11.2k
TW: fluff with angst. mild language used.
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The house is cloaked in midnight stillness, shadows stretching long across the hardwood floors, broken only by the soft rustling of bags being zipped, drawers opened and shut. A storm hadn't come, but something in the air made it feel like one had passed. Dean is asleep in the master bedroom, curled against the pillows while Eileen packs up what little they'd need: clothes, med kits, and weapon bags that haven't seen use in years. She moves with silent precision, careful not to wake the boy or Miracle, who lies stretched out near the foot of the bed, ever on alert, even while dozing.
Sam stands in the kitchen, keys in hand, the weight of decision behind his eyes.
"Nellie," he calls softly, leaning toward the hallway. "Can you come with me for a sec?"
She emerges a moment later from the guest room, pulling a hoodie over her pajamas, her hair loose around her shoulders. "What's up?" she asks, her voice soft but steady.
He gives her a small, knowing smile. "There's something I want to show you. Something we're taking with us." He doesn't elaborate, just motions toward the back door.
Nellie follows without question, tugging her hoodie sleeve over her wrist as she walks.
The gravel of the driveway crunches underfoot. The detached garage sits dark and heavy under the half-moon sky. Sam unlocks the side door and pushes it open, holding it for Nellie as she steps into the cool, musty air inside. The scent hits her first: dust and oil, old leather and something warm beneath it all. Sam doesn't say anything. He crosses the garage, dragging back a weathered tarp in a single motion. The sound alone is enough to make her turn her head slightly toward it. A low rumble. A shift in the air. Like an old giant waking up. She steps closer, her eyes making out the shape of a black muscle car through the blurry darkness. The Impala. She'd seen one photo of it that Sam had shown her weeks ago, before everything went upside down: a snapshot of two younger men standing in front of the car, grins cocky, the Kansas sun beating down. Her father and Sam. And this… this is that car.
"You still have it?" Nellie breathes, her eyes running down the length of the vehicle.
Sam runs a hand over the hood like he is greeting an old friend. "Haven't driven it much since Dean died. She's been stored in here all this time. Maintained, but untouched."
"Why bring it now?"
His eyes are soft, but there is something steel underneath. "Because she's built for this. She's more than a car. She's a hunter's trunk on wheels. Weapons hidden under the seats, warded paint under the fresh coat, rock salt in the glove box, demon trap carved into the trunk floor."
Nellie blinks, absorbing all of it.
"I want us to be ready," he continues. "The Jeep's great for Costco runs, but not for what we're walking into."
"Do you think that's coming?" she asks, voice thin.
"I don't know," he replies with a heavy sigh. "But I'm not gonna let you or Eileen or Dean walk into anything blind."
“Well, I think its a bit late for that,” she comments, tapping her temple near her healing eyes.
He shakes his head, chuckling. He pauses a moment, watching her take cautious steps forward. "You wanna see it?" he offers, quieter now. "Touch it, I mean."
Nellie nods, her hands extended slightly.
Sam gently guides her to the hood, letting her fingers fall onto the cool, sleek metal. She trails them along the curve of it, around the edge of a headlight. It is solid. Real. Powerful.
"She's beautiful," she says softly.
"She's been through hell," he murmurs. "Same as the people who've ridden in her."
There is a silence that follows, one not heavy with sadness, but with reverence. Nellie turns her face slightly toward him.
"I didn't think it'd still be here," she admits. "You talked about it. But I thought maybe you left that part of your life behind."
He chuckles faintly. "Tried to. But some things aren't meant to be forgotten."
"Was this really… his car?" she asks tentatively.
Sam smiles, fingers still tracing the hood's edge. "Every inch of it. Spent more time in this car than we did in most houses. It was our bunker before we had a bunker."
Nellie tilts her head, vision blurry, but she imagines it: her father, young and laughing, hands black with engine grease, feet on the dash, classic rock blaring through the speakers.
"Would he be okay with this?"
He looks at her, and something flickers behind his eyes. Grief, pride, maybe both.
"I think he'd want you to ride shotgun," he answers. "He never let just anyone in this car... but you? Yeah. I think you'd be the exception."
She nods, her voice quiet. "Kinda smells like old leather and questionable decisions."
He lets out a quiet breath of amusement but doesn't say anything in return.
They stand together a moment longer, both wrapped in thoughts that neither tries to say out loud. It isn't closure, but it is something close; a tether stretching from what was to what can still be.
Sam gives the hood a final pat. "Come on. Let's go help Eileen finish up. We roll out in an hour."
Back inside, the house is hushed, the energy muted in the way it always is after something life-altering. Eileen moves with calm efficiency, zipping bags, double-checking a list on her phone, and making sure Dean's favorite stuffed animal is tucked into the car seat. She pauses once, just long enough to watch Nellie carefully fold the handful of clothes she owned into a small duffle bag: soft sweatshirts and a few plain shirts Eileen had picked out.
Dean remains asleep, snuggled up against Eileen's shoulder as she carries him toward the car. Nellie trails behind, guiding herself by memory and faint glimmers of shape and shadow, Miracle padding quietly at her side. Out front, the cars sit waiting. Eileen's SUV is packed with supplies, food, extra blankets, and all the things you brought when you aren't sure how long you'll be gone. Nellie guides Miracle into the back seat beside Dean's car seat. The terrier circles once, then flops down like he knows his job isn't over yet.
Behind them, the house stands locked and dark, the last porch light flicking off as Sam double-checks the wards etched into the front doorframe. One hand rests on the gun at his hip. The other lingers on the keys now heavy in his palm. He slides into the low driver's seat and within moments, the Impala rumbles to life, headlights low and soft. It looks like it always does, like it belongs to the night, built from smoke and stubbornness.
Sam leans across the front bench and pushes open the passenger door. "Ready?" he asks.
Nellie nods, her voice steady. "Yeah."
She slides into the front seat. The door creaks shut behind her. The Impala smells like old leather and stories no one ever really told out loud. Behind them, Eileen starts her engine. The convoy of two rolls out into the Kansas dark, towards Lebanon.
Clear, white headlights cut through the thick darkness of night, stretching across the empty road like beams slicing through ink. The silence is heavy—too heavy. It feels almost ominous. Maybe it's the hour. Or perhaps it's the whirlwind they just survived, the tension of the unknown pressing down like a second atmosphere. It's a feeling Sam hadn't expected to feel again. That old weight: the kind that comes with the hunt. The hum under the skin. The million-miles-a-minute thoughts that never quite stop. And the fear—real fear—of what waits in the shadows just beyond the edge of the light. He'd lived in it so long it had become background noise. But now, in this moment, it returns like a song he didn't realize he still knew the words to.
And Nellie? She's just starting to learn the tune. She's new to this part. The part after the truth. After the violence. After you realize the monsters are real, and some of them wear your mother's face. And on top of it all, there's the power. A force in her that neither of them fully understands. Something dangerous. Something familiar. That part hits Sam deep. He remembers what it felt like to be in his twenties with demon blood in his veins and powers he couldn't control. Powers that could toss a man across a room or rip a demon straight from its host. Back then, he'd asked himself over and over: What does this make me? Nellie must be wondering the same.
How did she get it? Natural-born psychics exist—Sam's seen that firsthand. But he doubts it came from Eleanor. Her witchcraft had been sloppy at best, desperate and clumsy. She'd dabbled in a world she didn't understand and paid the price. So, if this didn't come from her… maybe it was fate. Or maybe, as bitter as it sounded, it was just the universe's idea of a sick joke: the psychic daughter of a legendary hunter and a woman broken by the weight of vengeance.
Sam's fingers tighten slightly on the wheel. He glances over at Nellie. She's quiet. Staring tiredly out the windshield, eyes unfocused. A couple of butterfly bandages hold the cut on her hairline closed. The bruises on her neck look worse in the Impala's dim interior, shadowed and raw. Her breathing hitches now and then, small, shallow catches with each inhale. But what unsettles Sam most is how calm she seems. Even after everything—after the break-in, after throwing someone across a room with her mind—she hadn't broken. She hadn't panicked. She'd gone straight to his son. Protected him. Held him. It reminds Sam of someone else. And that scares him in a whole different way.
Nellie's hands are tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie, shoulders drawn in as though trying to take up less space. She looks like she's trying not to fall asleep, but exhaustion clung to her face.
"You can rest if you want," Sam offers gently. "We've still got a couple of hours. Not too far, but enough."
She nods slowly, then says, voice soft, "Sorry about tonight."
He blinks. "What?"
"You and Eileen had to come back early. For putting everyone in danger."
There it is again, guilt, wrapped in the polite apology of someone who had been taught to carry things that weren't theirs.
He shakes his head. "That wasn't your fault, Nell. Not even close." He pauses, then adds, "You did a good job. You kept Dean safe. You thought like a hunter."
She doesn't respond right away. She just stares forward, eyes unfocused, processing it quietly.
The road hums beneath the tires for a few moments before Nellie asks, "Do you know what that thing was? The intruder?" Her voice is small, but sharp around the edges.
Sam exhales through his nose, jaw working. "Not exactly. I've seen something like it before, a long time ago—but it didn't break apart like that." He glances at her. "Those symbols it left... those were witch runes. Markings that vanish after death. And that tells me this wasn't just some rogue spellcaster."
Her brows knit together. "So… it was a witch?"
"Yeah. Or at least something connected to witchcraft." He is quiet for a beat. "And it knew about you. Knew you were psychic."
She looks down at her lap. "So... someone's sending witches after me?"
His voice is calm, but his hands tighten slightly on the wheel. "I think someone wants you either controlled… or dead. And that means they're scared of what you can do."
The Impala rolls on through the dark, but suddenly the weight inside the car feels heavier.
Nellie asks, almost hesitantly, "What happens when we get to the bunker?"
Sam finally glances away from the road for a second. "We'll rest. Regroup. Figure out who's doing this—and why." He pauses. "The Bunker's protected. Nothing gets in unless we let it."
She is silent for a long moment. "You've told me about it before. Sounded like something out of a fantasy book."
He cracks a faint smile. "It kind of is. I lived there for a long time. Me, your dad, and... a few others. It was the safest place we ever had." He hesitates, then adds more softly, "It still is."
The conversation fades into quiet, the kind that doesn't feel awkward or unfinished, just settled. The tires hum a steady rhythm on the pavement, the turn signal blinking in the silence as Sam switches lanes. Nellie doesn't ask any more questions, and he doesn't press her. It is enough for now. She shifts slightly in her seat, tucking one leg beneath her, cheek turning toward the window. Some streetlights flicker across her face in intervals, soft gold strobing over the fading bruises and the tired lines beneath her eyes. Her breath slows a little, the tension in her shoulders finally starting to ease.
Sam glances over again when he notices her head tilt just slightly to the side. Her eyes are closed. Not deeply asleep yet, but on the way there. The kind of drowsy surrender only exhaustion can demand. He doesn't say anything, just keeps driving. The Impala's engine purrs under his hands, the familiar vibrations of the wheel grounding him in a moment that feels impossibly normal, given everything. His niece asleep in the seat next to him. Eileen and Dean in the car behind them. The bunker waiting ahead. A fight they haven't yet figured out is waiting in the dark. But right now… for the next three hours… they had this. Just the road, the stars, and the steady thrum of a faithful vehicle.
• • •
The convoy pulls up in silence, headlights cutting across the familiar patch of Kansas land that looked like nothing but brush, gravel, and earth to anyone else. To the Winchesters, though, it is a threshold.
Sam shuts off the Impala and exhales, fingers curling tightly around the wheel for just a second longer than necessary. Coming back here, back to the bunker, it feels like stepping into a memory that hadn't quite finished forming. His brother's car in one hand, his niece in the other, and the world shifting back into the rhythm of the life he thought he'd left behind.
The gravel crunches as he steps out. The sound hits him like a memory. From the SUV, Eileen unbuckles Dean with efficient gentleness, hoisting the half-asleep boy onto her hip. Miracle hops out beside them, nose to the ground, instantly alert.
The child blinks blearily, then looks around in confusion. "Where's Nellie?" he asks, voice small and heavy with sleep.
"She's in the other car, baby," Eileen murmurs. "We're all here."
Nellie eases herself out of the passenger seat of the Impala, hoodie pulled close against the cool air. She squints at the blur of trees and stone around them, senses straining to make out the shape of this new place. It smells like damp earth, iron, and quiet. She can't see the bunker's door, not clearly, but she can feel something old beneath her feet. Something hidden.
Dean immediately reaches for her from his mother's arms. "Nellie," he mumbles.
She gives a soft, tired smile. "I'm right here, buddy."
Eileen passes the boy into her arms, and he snuggles close, soothed instantly by the familiar scent of her hoodie and the unsteady rhythm of her breathing.
Sam guides them to a small slope, where an iron door stands forebodingly in the earth, brushing his fingers across the faint Men of Letters sigil carved into the metal. It still sparks faintly under his touch, old magic reacting to old blood. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small wooden box, etched with a six-pointed star. He pulls out a thick key, sliding it into the lock. It clicks open, the door groaning as he pulls it open. The cold breath of the bunker sweeps past them, earthy and ancient.
"Let's get inside," Sam says, glancing back at them.
Eileen nods, already in motion. "I'll come back out and unload the essentials. Let's just get everyone settled."
Nellie follows behind, her steps cautious on the narrow metal stairway as she holds Dean close. Sam hovers behind her, just in case. Miracle pads ahead like he knows the place, tail held high and alert.
Inside, the bunker is dim, soft amber lights lining the walls, casting long shadows across the floor. The war room seats like a sleeping giant, the circular table untouched. The library looms behind it, books still lining the shelves as if the past five years haven't passed.
Sam pauses at the bottom step, letting it all sink in. He hasn't been back here since before Dean died. Not since the world went quiet. Now… here he is. With his brother's daughter in one arm's reach, his own son dozing in her arms.
"Whoa," Nellie whispers beside him, voice hushed with awe and something close to reverence.
"It's a lot," he admits.
"It feels like… something old." Her eyes scan the space, imperfectly, blurry, but she can feel it humming.
"It is."
Eileen strides in from behind, already assessing: lights, weapons access, routes. Mom mode, hunter mode. All at once. "We'll need to recheck the warding in the morning. Get the pantry opened up. I brought emergency meds and the backup inhaler kit just in case," she murmurs as she passes, already making mental lists.
Nellie nods slowly, clutching Dean tighter as the boy lets out a sleepy yawn against her shoulder.
"We can unpack the rest later," Sam says, voice softer now. "Let's just… get our bearings."
The old overhead lights hum faintly, casting warm gold over aged books, carved banisters, and cold stone walls that had seen decades of secrets. The library still smells like old paper and leather and something faintly metallic, just as it had the last time he had walked its halls.
Nellie settles onto the worn leather couch tucked beneath a reading lamp, Dean still tucked close to her chest. He is already drifting again, his small hand curled against the collar of her hoodie, breath steady. She leans her head back, letting her gaze sweep the blurry room. Even with her limited sight, she can sense the sheer depth of it, the countless lives that have passed through this place. How much history it holds. How much of her own story now lives in its walls. It is quiet here. For once, not the kind that comes after chaos. But something else. Something still. She closes her eyes and exhales.
Sam stands for a moment just watching her. Her bruises look deeper in the library's low light. Her hair is still slightly mussed from the fight, but she looks peaceful now. Protective. Steady. Holding Dean like she is built for this moment.
He gently touches Eileen's arm. "I'm going to do a sweep. Just make sure nothing's... moved."
She nods. "I'll grab some bedding. We can unload the rest later."
They split off without much more, two parts of a whole. Coordinated, practiced, focused.
Sam moves through the bunker slowly, checking the wardings near the entrance, the perimeter rooms, and the emergency weapon storage tucked into paneled walls. Everything is as it should be. The wards hold. The silence isn't ominous. Just… complete. It is almost enough to believe, for a few moments, that they are safe.
When he returns to the library, the overhead light has been dimmed. Eileen now stands near the couch, gently unfolding a thick blanket. Dean is already sound asleep, curled into the crook of Nellie's side. Her head has tilted to rest atop his, her breathing slower now. She was sleeping, too. Eileen drapes the blanket over both with careful hands. Her expression softens into something maternal and fierce all at once. Sam stops in the doorway, watching them. They've made it through the night. Somehow.
"I think they'll be okay," his wife whispers.
"Yeah," he says, voice low. "They're safe. We all are."
She crosses to him, resting her head briefly against his shoulder. He lets out a long breath, one hand still clutching the corner of his flannel like the adrenaline hasn't quite let go yet.
"She's really one of us now, isn't she?" she murmurs.
He nods, looking toward the sleeping pair. "She's a Winchester."
• • •
The first thing Nellie registers is the creak of worn leather beneath her as she shifts, followed by the dull ache radiating from her ribs. Then comes the whisper, not really a whisper.
"Okay, Miracle. Shh. I'm being quiet. Real quiet. She's still sleeping."
It is the kind of whisper only a four-year-old could think is subtle. She lets out a low groan, the kind that suggests she'd aged twenty years overnight.
"I didn't wake you up, right?" Dean asks, his voice too close to her face.
"Not at all," she rasps, dry sarcasm lacing the words as she peels her eyes open.
Her vision is still a bit foggy, but she can make out the warm yellow glow of the utility bulbs in the bunker. The hum of overhead lights and the soft click of footsteps down the hall give away the early stirrings of the morning.
Dean beams and leans over her shoulder, almost toppling off the couch. "I didn't fall!" he announces proudly, as if gravity is something you negotiated with.
Miracle lets out a soft huff from the floor nearby, his tail thumping in what can only be called long-suffering solidarity. Nellie pulls the boy gently back into the blanket they'd both curled under, her body still sore from the night before. Her shoulder throbs. The cut on her head pulls when she furrows her brow. But for this one moment, it feels safe. Feels almost... normal. She nearly doesn't want to trust it.
The illusion of peace cracks slightly when footsteps pad in, soft, familiar. Eileen's voice follows, warm and hushed. "Morning, you two. Sleep okay?"
Dean nods eagerly. "I didn't wake her!"
Nellie smirks faintly. "Stealth isn't really your strong suit, kid."
Eileen laughs and moves toward them, a bundle of folded sheets tucked under one arm.
She ruffles her son's hair before sitting on the armrest beside Nellie. "Sam and I are working on clearing out some rooms. The old bunks are still in good shape. You'll get your pick of them."
Nellie blinks. "Pick?"
"Of course," the older woman replies, her voice gentler now. "You live here too now, remember?"
That shouldn't have meant as much as it did. But Nellie's throat tightens just slightly.
Before she can say anything, the sound of boots on the concrete floor echoes down the hallway. Sam enters with two mugs in one hand and a granola bar in the other. His eyes are alert, a little less tired than they had been the night before.
"Morning," he says, handing the granola bar to Dean, who takes it like it is the Holy Grail. He hands one of the mugs to Eileen and seats in the chair across from the couch. "Bunker's still solid. Wards are holding. Might need to fix the wiring in a few spots, but otherwise... It's good."
Eileen nods, sipping her coffee. "I'll unpack the rest from the car in a bit."
Sam looked to Nellie, his gaze unreadable for a moment. "You okay?"
She gives a vague shrug. "Better than yesterday." It is the most honest thing she can offer.
Dean has already settled into Nellie's side again, still chewing and humming some indecipherable tune. She lays her arm around him protectively, absently running her fingers through his messy hair.
"Well, if you're up for it," Sam says, standing to his feet, "I can show you around the place."
Nellie nods, sliding out of her cousin's grip. She would be lying if she said she isn't curious. This place only existed in stories for her, and now she is standing in its walls.
The fluorescent lights flicker to life as Sam hits the main switch on the wall, revealing the sprawling war room of the Men of Letters bunker, a quiet monument to a battle that never really ended. Nellie steps forward slowly, trailing just behind him. The place smells like old paper, steel, and a hint of ozone, like someone had bottled up time and locked it underground.
She takes it in, focusing harder than she should with her sight. "I didn't think it would be this big."
He chuckles lightly. "Yeah, it's bigger than it looks on the outside. Many hunters used this place once. Before it was just us." He starts walking again, slower this time to match her pace. "This is the war room," he says, leading her down a few shallow steps. "We did most of our planning in here. Lore work. Tracing creatures. There's even an old map table that lights up—pre-GPS, but way cooler."
They pass the glowing table with its inlaid devil's traps, dusty books piled in corners, and old folders still labeled with cases from years ago. Nellie's hand hovers over the edge of the table for a moment but doesn't quite touch.
"This place is unreal," she murmurs.
"You should've seen it after we cleaned it up," Sam says with a huff of a smile. "Cobwebs, dead moths, at least three cursed objects."
Nellie laughs softly. It echoes in the open space like a secret finding its way home.
He motions toward the archways up ahead. "Obviously, that's the library," he continues. "Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Demonology, cryptozoology, ancient rites, mythology—you name it. We spent months trying to organize it. Never really finished."
As they pass the threshold, Nellie pauses again, scanning the vague rows and wooden shapes. The smell of old leather and faded ink hits her like something sacred.
"It smells like… like a church," she comments.
He just grins in response.
They move on, down the hallway to the kitchen.
"We kept things stocked when we were living here full time. It's got everything but a microwave—Dean never trusted them. Thought they were cursed."
"Seriously?"
He gives her a look. "He might've been right. One blew up on us once. Possessed."
She snorts, and Sam smiles. Hearing her laugh, even that little bit, is becoming one of the small things keeping him grounded.
He opens another door, leading into a darker hallway. "This is the armory. You'll see that later—once your ribs are healed and you're not still recovering from being choked half to death."
"Can't wait," Nellie says dryly.
Her sarcasm is subtle, gentle, but unmistakable. His mouth tugs upward, but he doesn't comment. She is starting to sound like her father in ways she doesn't even realize.
They double back through the main chamber again, down one final corridor.
"There's an old shooting range past that locked door," he adds, nodding toward a side passage. "Soundproofed. The guy who designed this place had a lot of time and paranoia. But… it worked."
As they walk further, Nellie notices that the air changes. It is warmer down here. Still and quiet. Private. They stop at a long hallway lined with closed wooden doors. No signs, no names.
"These are the bedrooms," Sam says, voice softening. "They're all empty. You can pick whichever one feels right. They're all pretty much the same—bed, dresser, closet. Basic."
She looks down the corridor. All the doors look the same to her. Just subtle blurs of brown and gold under the yellow hallway light. But something in her stirs, a strange anticipation.
He is already turning to leave her with space. "I'll go grab your duffle."
She nods slowly, still staring down the corridor.
"Take your time," he adds. And then he is gone, footsteps fading behind her.
The hallway stretches out ahead of her like a spine, dim lights overhead casting long shadows on the bunker's concrete floor. Nellie moves slowly, one hand brushing the cool wall as her vision tries to piece together the doorframes and indistinct shapes. She passes the first door, opening it carefully.
The room inside is fine; plain, clean, and unassuming. A bed with tightly tucked blankets. A desk. A chair. Empty. She steps in, testing the space. It feels flat. Quiet, but not the good kind. Like a hotel room with no stories on the walls.
She tries the next. Similar. Same furniture. Same blankness. No personality. No warmth. A third room offers slightly better lighting—soft lamplight spilling through the haze of her still-blurry sight. She steps closer to the desk and runs her hand along the surface. Dusty. She still can't feel anything from it. Nothing clicks.
Another door creaks open.
And another.
Each one gives her the same reaction: not wrong but not right.
She stands in the hallway, frowning faintly. The floor beneath her bare feet is cold, grounding. Her head still aches faintly from the bruises, and her muscles protest the long car ride. She considers giving up and just picking one.
But then… a pulse.
Not a sound. Not a voice.
Just… something.
Like a tug in her chest. A whisper of familiarity that had no name.
She turns slowly, eyes narrowing at the door near the end of the hall. It looks no different than the others. Maybe slightly darker wood. The brass knob catches the dim light like an old coin. Nellie hesitates, but only for a second. Her fingers close around the handle, and the door gives way without resistance, creaking open as though it has been waiting.
The air in the room is different. Warmer. Lived in. She steps inside, and even though the outlines are slightly fuzzy, she can tell this room isn't like the others. There is a worn brown flannel slung over the back of a chair. A few books are still stacked on the desk. A faded photo tucked partway into the mirror frame. The bedspread is darker, richer, and slightly rumpled as if someone had only just left. She steps further in and stops near the center of the room.
There is no fear here.
Only… comfort.
Her fingertips trace the edge of the desk, then the bedframe, then the corner of a shelf that holds what looks like an old cassette tape or two. The wood feels warm under her hand. Familiar, somehow.
"I think this one," Nellie whispers, almost to herself.
Something about this room… it feels like it has belonged to someone who fought hard and loved harder. Someone who held the line. Someone who would've made space for her without needing to say a word.
She lowers herself slowly to seat on the edge of the bed, eyes still wandering the vague shapes around her.
This is the room.
• • •
Sam moves down the hallway, one hand bracing the wall as he adjusts his grip on Nellie's duffel bag. The lights are dim; he hasn't bothered to turn them all on. He knows this place well enough by muscle memory. The familiar hum of the bunker surrounded him, a quiet backdrop of old magic, history, and heavy silence.
As he nears the end of the corridor, a flicker of confusion tugs at his brow. One of the last doors is open. His steps are slow. That door hasn't been open in years. He is sure of it. Before leaving the bunker behind, he'd locked it himself, more out of sentiment than practicality. It isn't just a room.
It had been Dean's room.
His brother's room.
He exhales slowly, heart tightening, and steps forward. The door creaks faintly as he nudges it wider, and the sight inside makes him pause on the threshold. Nellie stands near the bed, one hand running absently along the shelf where Dean used to toss his keys and badge and—once—a busted Walkman he refused to get rid of. She doesn't seem startled by Sam's presence. She turns her head slightly toward him, her green eyes blinking in the soft lamplight.
"I think I'll take this room," she says softly.
Sam doesn't answer at first.
He steps in fully, eyes sweeping the space. Nothing has changed. It is exactly as Dean had left it. And Nellie—bruised, blinking, still finding her footing—fits in like the missing piece to a puzzle that had been gathering dust.
He swallows, forcing his voice to work. "How… how'd you get in here?"
Nellie tilts her head, surprised. "The door was open. I just walked in."
He stares at her for a long second, that weight in his chest pulling tighter.
He'd locked it.
But it had been open.
Almost like…
He exhales through his nose and looks away. "Huh."
Nellie shifts her stance, sensing the heseatation. "If it's someone else's room, I can—"
"It was Dean's," Sam says, voice low.
She freezes. "Oh."
"I didn't… plan for you to end up in here," he adds quickly. "I didn't even know the door was unlocked."
"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I didn't know."
There is a beat of silence.
Then Sam shakes his head with a soft breath that is half laugh, half ache. "No. Don't be."
Nellie moves as if to step past him. "I can choose a different—"
"No," he says, stopping her with a gentle hand. "It's okay."
She looks up at him, eyes wide and unsure.
"You… kind of fit in here," he admits, voice rough with unspoken emotion. "I think Dean would've wanted you to have this room."
She doesn't say anything right away. Her gaze drifts back around the room; the soft corners, the worn furniture, the old soul it seems to hold. She doesn't need to know everything about her father to feel it: this room had loved him, and it had been waiting for her.
"Thanks," Nellie whispers.
Sam offers a faint smile and hands her the duffel. "Get settled in, kiddo. We've got a lot ahead of us."
She nods.
The moment Sam's footsteps fade down the hall, the silence settles in like dust; soft, weighty, ancient. Nellie stands in the middle of the room, her arms hanging loosely by her side.
Her father's room.
She swallows hard, suddenly unsure if she should still be standing there. But her feet don't move. Her heart is thudding, not with fear, but something quieter. Something hollow and wide, like standing at the edge of a canyon and shouting into it, hoping for an echo that might sound like belonging. She turns slowly in place, as much as her blurry vision will let her. Now everything looks different. What moments ago had been just a room—a little more lived-in than the others, a little warmer, a little more right—is now a monument. A story. A shrine she didn't mean to walk into.
The flannel still hangs on the back of the chair, like someone had only stepped out for a minute and never returned. She reaches for it. The fabric is soft, worn down at the sleeves, and smells like dust and old leather. But underneath that, faint and buried, is something else—motor oil, maybe. Or gunpowder. A forest after rain. Something that doesn't have a name, but still makes her eyes sting. Was this what Dean had worn? Did Sam ever seat in here with him between hunts?
She folds the flannel back over the chair and walks toward the bookshelf in the corner. She runs her hand lightly across the spines. Some of the books have warped with time, others are clearly well-loved. Titles jumping out in faint blur—Legends of the Wendigo, Demonic Taxonomies, Zeppelin III Lyrics Annotated.
The tears surprise her. Not sharp sobs, not the crumbling kind that tear her chest apart. These are quiet. Gentle. Like rain against the window. Because something in her, something small and still healing, recognizes this room. The feeling of it. The stubbornness, the messiness, the unspoken warmth hiding under layers of hunter's grit. It is like she can feel him here, even if she can't see him. And for the first time since Sam had said, "That was Dean's room," she didn't feel like an intruder.
Nellie seats down on the bed slowly, reverently. The mattress creaking softly beneath her weight, and she imagines a pair of heavy boots thudding beside her, someone cracking a joke, someone calling her kiddo with a smirk.
"I hope it's okay," she whispers into the air, her fingers curling into the blanket at her side. "I didn't mean to take your space. It just… felt like mine."
No answer comes. Of course not. But the silence doesn't feel empty this time. It feels full.
Maybe she'd never know her father the way others had. But she can learn from the echoes, in the stories. In the things he left behind. And maybe she is starting to feel like his daughter.
• • •
The bunker settles into an uneasy stillness. After the adrenaline of the past day, it feels almost surreal to seat in a kitchen that is fully stocked, warm, and calm. Eileen had lit a small soy candle in the corner that filled the room with a subtle honey-vanilla scent, a detail so mundane it makes Nellie ache a little.
She sits at the kitchen table in borrowed sweatpants and an oversized tee, her vision functional enough to make out the lines of her mug, the edge of the table, and Sam and Eileen's outlines when they are close. She is grateful for the tea, peppermint, which was steeped a bit too long, but somehow still comforting. Her fingers wrap around the ceramic as if it were an anchor.
Sam leans back in one of the heavy wooden chairs beside her, a legal pad in his lap, but no pen moving. Eileen busies herself at the counter, pouring a fresh cup of coffee and grabbing a half-bagel for herself. The silence isn't tense, but it is thick. The kind of silence that knows too much.
It is Sam who finally breaks it, his voice low, rough from fatigue.
"So… what now?"
Nellie blinks at him. "You're the grown-up. You tell me."
That earns a chuckle from Eileen, who seats across from her, her coffee cupped in both hands.
Sam offers a small smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "We're safe for now. The bunker's protected. The wards are intact. And I'll reinforce them with a few extra measures just in case." He lets that seat before adding, "But we both know that safety isn't permanent. Not until we figure out who — or what—is after you."
She nods, eyes lowering. Her thumb moves in slow circles along the edge of the mug. "You really think they'll come back?"
"If they went to the trouble of tracking you down once… yeah." He doesn't sugarcoat it. He never did. "This wasn't random. They didn't go after me, Eileen, or Dean. They went after you."
Eileen's eyes flick to her niece, watching closely for a reaction. Nellie just swallows hard.
"Which means we need to be ready," Eileen adds gently. "And that starts with understanding what we're up against."
Sam leans forward, elbows on the table. "I want to start researching. See what kind of creature or coven would send a construct like that."
"Construct?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "It wasn't a person, Nell. Not really. It didn't bleed. It didn't even scream when it was shot. It broke apart. Runes, ash… like a spell ending." He pauses. "That's not demonic. That's witchwork. Or something older."
Nellie's expression twists, her voice smaller. "So… witches then?"
"Probably. But smart witches. Dangerous ones. And organized." Eileen's voice is calm, but there is a steel edge underneath.
Nellie exhales hard through her nose and takes a sip of her tea, now lukewarm.
"And then there's the other thing," Sam adds, carefully.
She doesn't look up, but she knows what he means. "My abilities."
"We need to get a sense of them," he says. "No tests. No pressure. But if you can… move things with your mind, or sense danger, or whatever it is — we need to know. Especially if whoever's after you knows too."
Nellie goes still. Her shoulders don't rise with her breath for a moment. "I didn't even know I could do it. It just… happened."
He gives a slight nod. "Yeah. That's how it started for me, too."
That makes her head lift, brows pulling together.
"I didn't want it, either," he states softly. "I hated what it made me feel like. What it made me fear I could become. But I learned that what matters more is how you choose to use it. And who stands with you while you figure that out."
For a beat, none of them say anything. The silence now feels different; not thick, but full.
"You're not alone anymore," Eileen says, voice warm. "You don't have to face this alone again. Ever."
Nellie blinks fast and looks down again. "I'm just… scared of what I don't know. I don't know what's happening. I don't know what I can do. I don't even know if I'm dangerous."
"You're not," Sam says firmly. "You're scared. You're learning. That's not dangerous. That's human."
She sets the mug down and rubs her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. "So, what's the plan?"
"We lay low," Eileen answers. "You rest. We do research. When you're ready, we'll figure out what these abilities of yours look like. And we'll go from there."
"Okay." Nellie breathes. "Okay."
A beat passes. Then Sam adds with a faint, teasing smile, "We've faced worse."
Eileen elbows him. "Don't jinx it."
For the first time since the break-in, Nellie laughs—soft and startled, like it surprises her to feel it.
After a moment, Eileen glances up from her screen. "By the way, did you end up choosing a room?"
The question floats across the table like nothing, but Nellie stiffens a little.
She hesitates. "Yeah… I did."
Sam looks up from his tea, catching the tone. "You still okay with it?"
She nods, but her hands stay wrapped around the mug a little too tightly. "I just didn't mean to pick that room," she says, her voice quieter now. "I wasn't snooping. I didn't even know it was his. It just… felt right. I didn't really think about it until you told me."
He meets her gaze. "I know you weren't snooping."
She gives him a small shrug. "Still felt weird after."
"You didn't do anything wrong," Eileen says gently.
Nellie nods again, chewing the inside of her cheek. "It's just that… once you told me, it made sense why I liked it. I guess part of me thought, of course it was his." She pauses, her eyes lowering to the tea again. "I've been trying so hard not to overstep. And then I walk into his space and claim it like it was waiting for me. That's… a lot."
Sam watches her for a long moment. Then he speaks softly. "That room's been closed off for years. Locked, actually. But when I came down the hall, the door was just… open. Like it had been left that way for you."
Eileen's brow raises slightly, and she leans forward.
He continues, his voice quiet. "You didn't force your way in. You found something that felt like home. And Dean… He was a lot of things, but he believed in signs. In fate. If he had the chance, I think he'd have left that door open himself."
Nellie blinks. Her voice, when it comes, is dry. "You think ghosts can pick locks?"
That makes Eileen chuckle. Sam smiles faintly. "If anyone could… it'd be Dean."
The tension breaks a little. Nellie's shoulders relax.
"I'm not sorry I chose it," she finally admits. "It feels right. And yeah, I only saw him in pictures. But he seems like the kind of guy who would've wanted me to be comfortable."
Sam's throat tightens. "He would've."
Eileen stands and moves around the table, pressing a gentle hand to Nellie's back in quiet agreement. "It's a good room. Solid. A little messy, maybe."
"Smells like old leather and car grease," Nellie mutters with a faint smile. "Definitely tracks."
That makes both adults laugh. And for a moment, the heaviness lifts. They are here. They are safe. They are a family, figuring it out one hallway, one ghost of memory at a time.
• • •
The bunker, for all its cavernous silence and stone-cold walls, slowly starts to feel lived in. Light filters in softly from the main staircase as the early afternoon rolls in, casting slanted beams across the war room's map-lined table and brass fixtures. The humming of the base's electrical systems, the occasional clinking of a mug, and Dean's chattering voice create a kind of subdued harmony, a rhythm. Familiar, if not quite normal yet.
In the library, Sam sits at one of the long tables, laptop open, old tomes scattered around him in various languages. A legal pad filled with hastily scribbled notes sat to one side. There are newspaper clippings, sigil sketches, old hunter journal references, all connected by threads he hasn't fully untangled yet. He rubs his eyes. Two hours of reading about cursed bloodlines, psychic gifts, and witchcraft rites, and he still has no name, no cult, no clear sign pointing to whoever—or whatever had sent that intruder into their home.
Eileen steps in from the hallway, carrying two mugs and sliding one across the table toward Sam. "Still no hits?"
He shakes his head. "Not anything that fits. I keep thinking we're missing something obvious."
"You're not. This isn't obvious," she says, gently, leaning beside him. "You'll figure it out."
He sighs and offers a tired smile. "Thanks."
Down one of the side halls, soft footsteps echo, lighter, uneven. Nellie. She emerges in a soft hoodie and jeans, her gait careful but confident. Her fingers still guide her sometimes, tracing the edge of a wall or the back of a chair. Dean trails behind her, dragging his stuffed animal and babbling something about how many goldfish crackers a raccoon could eat before getting a tummy ache.
"Definitely more than you," Nellie replies with a tiny smirk, steering him toward the kitchen.
"Miracle wants some too," the boy adds, disappearing around the corner, voice full of conviction.
She reappears a second later, calling to Sam and Eileen, "He's been trying to bribe the dog with snacks. You might want to hide the peanut butter again."
"Already moved it to the high shelf," Eileen calls back with a smile.
"Ah, the sacred hunter's weapon," Nellie deadpans, before she drifts further into the room and lowers herself onto the chair across from Sam. Her expression turns more serious as her eyes track the books on the table. "Any luck?"
Sam shakes his head. "Some theories. But nothing solid yet. Not enough of a pattern."
"You still think they're witches?" she asks.
"Witches or… something using similar tools," he replies. "The sigils don't match any coven I know. It might be something older."
"Cool," she mutters. "That's not terrifying."
Sam gives her a sympathetic smile. "Hey. If it is, they clearly underestimated you."
"I did throw a lamp at them," she says, not without pride.
Eileen, now heading towards the kitchen, smirks. "And psychic-blasted them across a room."
"Minor detail," Nellie says, reaching for Dean's juice box he left earlier and stealing a sip.
The room falls into a comfortable, if fragile, quiet. Sam returns to his research. Eileen disappears for a moment to get lunch started. Nellie seats with her hands wrapped around the now-empty juice box, eyes scanning the blurry spines of books on the shelves. A few weeks ago, she had barely gotten out of bed without someone helping her. Now, she is minding a small kid and making jokes about exorcising intruders. It isn't peace. But it is something like recovery. And beneath it all, deeper than the silence of the stone bunker, something still stirs. The kind of quiet before the next storm.
• • •
Evening has settled over the bunker like a blanket. Somewhere down the hall, water runs, the sound of Eileen finishing Dean Jr.'s bedtime routine. The soft, low hum of the overhead lights in the bunker's library provides the only background noise as Sam flips through another ancient grimoire. The pages, fragile with time, smelling like dust and leather and secrets. His notepad, still littered with crossed-out theories and half-formed thoughts, seats ignored for the moment as he scans a particularly dense passage about residual psychic echoes.
Sam exhales through his nose, squinting at the translation scrawls in the margins of the book. A dead end. Again.
Footsteps.
He doesn't glance up at first. He figures it is Eileen returning or maybe Nellie quietly grabbing a snack from the kitchen. She'd made a habit of checking in after dinner, if only briefly.
But the steps stop just inside the threshold.
"Nellie?" he asks, eyes still on the page.
There is a short silence. Then:
"I want to be a hunter."
The words are plain, steady. No hesitation. No apology. Just a quiet declaration spoken like it has been turning over and over in her chest for days.
Sam's hands freeze on the edge of the book. He slowly looks up. And that's when he sees her.
She stands just inside the room, framed by the soft golden light spilling in from the hall. Her hair is braided loosely back, face pale but calm. And draping over her, loose, worn-in, and far too big, is a flannel shirt. Faded red and black plaid. It hangs off her shoulders like armor, though she didn't know the weight it carried.
It was Dean's.
Sam stares at Nellie for a long beat, the quiet between them thick with something unspoken. He hasn't seen that shirt in years. Thought he'd packed all of Dean's clothes away, sealed them behind grief and the locked door of a room he isn't ready to deal with. But somehow, that one has resurfaced, or maybe it has been waiting. And now here she stands, wrapped in his brother's past, quietly declaring a future that mirrored his own.
"I want to be a hunter," she says again, soft but clear.
Sam blinks, heart ticking up. "Nellie… that's not something you just decide overnight."
"I didn't," she replies quickly. "I've been thinking about it. Since the break-in… and honestly, before that. Your stories. The work you and my dad did. What you've both done to protect people is not just fighting. It's helping. Saving lives."
He stands from the table, voice harder than he means. "You don't know what it is. Not really. The danger. The sacrifices. The things you'll see that you can't unsee."
She doesn't flinch. "I'm not a kid, Sam. I'm an adult. I'm not stupid. And I know I've barely scratched the surface of what's out there, but I've seen enough."
Her words hit sharper than he expected.
"I fought my mother. I fought that intruder. I've already been living in danger. I've already lost. But this is the first time in my life I've had something to lose. You. Eileen. Dean. And if being a hunter means I can protect the people I love, then that's what I want to be."
Sam stares at her, something tightening in his chest. His gaze drifts to the flannel again. Dean's. The collar is too big on her, the hem falling past her waist. Like a ghost of his brother has walked back into the room.
"You don't even know whose shirt you're wearing," he says, quieter now.
Nellie glances down. "It was in the closet. I didn't have much to pick from. I didn't think it mattered."
"It was Dean's."
Her breath hitches. "Oh." Her hands smooth the sleeves, but she doesn't shrug them off. She doesn't apologize. She just takes the knowledge in and seats with it.
"I'm not trying to be him," she adds. "I just want to be… me. And this is the first time I've wanted anything."
That lands harder than it should.
Sam leans back against the edge of the table, suddenly aware of how fast his heart was beating. She isn't wrong. She isn't a kid. And she isn't naive. What scares him isn't that she doesn't understand what she is choosing, but that she might understand too well. He's seen what this life does to people. The cost. The loneliness. And he's already lost his brother to it. The thought of losing her too—
"You sound like him," he says, barely above a whisper.
She doesn't respond. Maybe she doesn't hear him. Or perhaps she does. The silence stretches between them. Not tense, just full.
Finally, Sam exhales. "I'm not saying yes. And I'm definitely not saying no."
Her eyes flick up, hopeful.
"We'll talk more. Once your vision is better. And only if we figure out what your abilities really are. No rushing in. Deal?"
She nods, her relief quiet but real.
Then, gently, she reaches up and begins to pull the flannel off her shoulders. "I didn't mean to… I'll put it back."
Sam's voice stops her.
"Keep it on," he says, surprising himself. His tone is softer now. "It suits you."
Nellie freezes for a moment, then nods timidly, turning back down the hallway. The silence hangs thick in the air now. He remains in his chair, unmoving, staring at the pile of lore books in front of him, but his mind is miles away.
Another set of footsteps pads in gently from behind.
Eileen pauses in the doorway. "Hey. You okay?"
Sam looks up, startled from his thoughts. "Yeah. Yeah, just… thinking."
She gives him a skeptical look, stepping closer. "Thinking, huh? Because you look like you're on the verge of launching a table across the room."
He exhales, long and tired. "Nellie was just in here."
She tilts her head. "Something happened?"
He rubs a hand over his face. "She told me she wants to become a hunter."
That pulls Eileen up short. "Oh."
"Yeah." Sam laughs under his breath, not with amusement, but disbelief. "She just walked in here… wearing one of Dean's old flannels, by the way. Didn't even know it was his. Said she wants to hunt."
Her brow furrows. "And you… How do you feel about that?"
He stands, pacing a few steps before turning back toward her. "I don't know. She's… been through more than most hunters ever do. And she's smart. But—" He pauses, voice low and strained. "I don't want to lose her."
She steps closer, placing a steadying hand on his arm. "You're not going to."
"You don't know that," Sam says, quieter now. "Neither of us do."
"No," Eileen agrees. "But we can make sure she's not alone. That she doesn't walk into this blindly. She's already been surviving a war she didn't sign up for."
He nods slowly, eyes distant. "She said… she wants to protect us. Me. You. Dean."
"Because now she has something to lose. Something worth protecting."
He sinks back into the library chair, the weight of the world settling on his shoulders. "I don't want to bury another Winchester."
"You won't," Eileen says firmly. "Not if we teach her. Not if we prepare her. We didn't get into this life by choice. But Nellie is choosing it — with eyes open."
Sam laughs bitterly. "Her eyes are still blurry, technically."
She smiles softly. "She still sees more than most people."
He leans back, finally letting the emotion drain from his face. The ache remains, but the edge has softened. "She said she's not a kid. That she's not stupid. And she's right. I just…" He trails off, sighing. "I don't want her to become someone I recognize too well."
She steps beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Then we help her become something new."
He looks up at her, eyes tired but grateful. "You always know what to say."
"I married a Winchester. I've had practice."
They share a quiet moment, and for the first time that night, Sam lets himself believe that maybe, this legacy doesn't have to end in loss.
• • •
It feels unusually calm the next morning in the bunker; the heavy stillness of reinforced walls mixed with the warmth of familiarity that only time and laughter can carve into a place. In the kitchen, the smell of toast and coffee lingers, curling into the corners of the tiled ceiling. Dean sits at the table with a coloring book nearly engulfing the small space in front of him, his tongue poking out in concentration as he attacks a cartoon monster with crayon fury. Nellie sits at the counter, her blurry eyes tracking movement better now. She holds a warm mug between both hands, sipping slowly. Eileen leans across the counter, sipping her own mug, watching her with the kind of quiet that only comes from someone who noticed everything without needing to say much.
"You look more rested," she says, keeping her tone soft.
Nellie nods slowly. "I think I was too tired to dream."
There is a pause, filled only by the sound of Dean's humming quietly under his breath.
The other woman finally asks, "How are you feeling? After the break-in, after… everything."
The girl takes a breath, eyes flicking toward her cousin at the table, then back to her mug. "Better, I think. It's quieter in my head. Still jumpy sometimes, but… not scared. Not like before." She hesitates, then adds, "It helps having people around who don't make me feel like I'm crazy."
Eileen reaches over and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "You're not crazy. You were surviving. That's different."
Nellie gives a faint, grateful smile. "I like the quiet here. It's weird but good."
Later that morning, she wanders into the library, finding Sam buried in a stack of lore books. She leans on the doorway, arms crossed loosely.
"You know," she says, "this place has way too many books for one guy. You sure you don't want help alphabetizing them or something?"
Sam doesn't look up from his notes. "You offering?"
"Offering is a strong word," she replies dryly. "But I guess I could fetch you some books. You got a ladder I can dramatically climb?"
That earns Nellie a smirk. "Wouldn't it be cooler if you just use those psychic powers of yours to summon the book from the top shelf?"
She smiles and moves deeper into the room, trailing her fingers along the spines of the books she can reach. "Anything you want me to grab?"
He turns to hand her a reference sheet. "If you can find anything with symbols matching these, that'd be great. And… thanks."
She shrugs. "Better than sitting around worrying about ghost witches."
After lunch, Nellie and Dean set out on an important mission: "Bunker Exploring: Level Two." The little boy takes the lead, brandishing a plastic flashlight that doesn't work, his tiny boots thudding against the concrete floors.
"Nellie, Nellie! Look at this!" he shouts, dragging her toward a dark hallway near the archives.
She trails behind, cautious but amused. "What is it, soldier?"
"It's a… secret passage!" he says, pointing to a slightly open utility door with dramatic flair.
She peers inside. "I think that's just a janitor's closet."
Dean gasps. "A haunted janitor's closet!"
Nellie lets out a small laugh. "That does make it more interesting." She crouches next to him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Tell you what, we'll mark it on our map for future investigation. Priority level: moderate."
He nods solemnly. "Mission accepted."
They continue wandering, his hand in hers, the flashlight swinging like a sword. As they pass through the library again, Nellie glances back at the rows of books, the dusty quiet of it all, and the family now moving through these walls with her. It still doesn't feel entirely real. But it is starting to feel like home.
• • •
The quiet evening is her favorite part of the day. Dean has gone to bed. Sam is tucked away in the library, buried under lore books. Eileen is somewhere folding laundry, humming softly to herself. And Nellie? She is in her room.
She sits cross-legged on the bed, absently folding and unfolding the hem of her hoodie, her blurry eyes tracking shapes in the soft lamplight. Her vision is still hazy, like looking at the world through clear water, but she learns to tell comfort from discomfort by feel alone.
This room feels... good.
Mostly.
Today, though, something feels different.
Nellie can't explain it. Like something is off kilter. Not bad, not dangerous, just… unbalanced. She shifts her position, scanning the room again as if her eyes can make sense of the itch behind her ribs. Something is here. Or maybe something isn't. A strange sensation tugs at her—a small ache. She's felt it before, but only in fleeting moments. As if something is just behind her, just beyond her reach.
She stands, barefoot, letting her fingers graze the edge of the dresser, then the desk. Her hand hovers above the flannel shirt slung over the back of the chair—the one she'd worn last night. The silence presses in, not heavy… but expectant. Like the room is holding its breath. She turns slowly, not sure why. Her heart beats faster for no real reason.
Then—
"Hey, kid."
She freezes.
The voice is unmistakable. Low. Rough. Familiar in a way that makes her bones hum. It isn't loud, but it doesn't need to be.
She turns her head, heart stuttering in her chest.
And then—he is there. Dean Winchester.
Not fully solid. Not quite light. Not quite shadow. But there.
That jacket. That stupid smirk.
Her breath catches. Her stomach drops.
"You can't be—" Her voice falters.
"Yeah," Dean says, rubbing at the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. "It's me."
The room spins, but Nellie doesn't blink.
"You," she scoffs, stepping forward like the word alone will burn. "You can't just show up here. Not now."
"I know—"
"No," she snaps, voice cracking like thunder. "No, you don't know!"
Dean falls quiet.
Nellie's fists clench at her sides, shoulders shaking. "You lied to me. For five years. You were the only thing keeping me going, and you lied."
"I wasn't trying to hurt you," he states softly.
She laughs, harsh and hollow. "You told me you were a guardian angel. And I believed you. I trusted you."
"I didn't know how to tell you the truth."
"I grieved you!" Her voice tears from her throat, ragged. "I grieved someone I thought I'd never meet—someone I thought would've loved me if he'd only known I existed."
Dean's mouth parts. She doesn't let him speak.
"And the whole time, you were right there—telling me things would be okay while I cried myself to sleep in that damn shelter!" Tears are streaming down her cheeks now. "You knew. And you let me mourn a ghost."
"I wanted to protect you," he says quietly. "I didn't think I deserved to be your dad."
"Well, congratulations," Nellie hisses. "You weren't."
Dean flinches.
"I thought maybe I'd finally get answers. Maybe being here, knowing who I am now—maybe it would help me heal." Her voice drops to a trembling whisper. "But instead, you're just another person who lied to me."
"Nellie—"
"Don't," she says, backing up a step. Her hands are shaking. "Don't you dare say my name like that."
His voice falters. "I never stopped watching out for you."
"Yeah? And what good did that do?" Her voice cracks again. "Where were you when she—when she hurt me? When I thought I didn't want to exist anymore?"
Dean's face is drawn with regret, eyes shining. "I was there. I just—"
"Not in the way that mattered."
Silence settles like ash.
Nellie wipes her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. "You don't get to just show up now and act like this is okay."
"I'm not," he says softly. "I'm not okay with any of this. I never was."
The tears don't stop. And neither does her silence.
"I missed you," she says, voice cracking fully now. "I kept waiting for you to show up again. I wanted you to. And when I saw your photo for the first time with Sam, I realized. I already knew you. And it felt like something had been torn open."
Dean takes a slow breath, the words catching in his throat. "I didn't want to hurt you."
"You did," she whispers, blinking hard. "You did anyway."
He looks at her with heartbreak in every line of his face. "This was too soon," he murmurs, almost to himself. "You've been through enough."
She doesn't answer. Doesn't move.
"I'll go."
A flicker of panic twists in her gut, but it is buried under anger and confusion and hurt. So, she says nothing. Just stands there, arms still wrapped tight.
Dean hesitates, like he wants to say more, but knows it won't matter. And then, in an instant, the space he filled dissolves like breath released from the room.
He is gone.
And it is too quiet.
It takes Nellie a full five seconds before her knees buckle, and she drops to the floor beside the bed, hands shaking as they catch the edge of the blanket. Her chest heaves with the force of everything she hadn't meant to say, and the floodgates open.
"Dammit," she whispers. "Dean, I didn't mean it like that."
She curls forward, pressing her forehead into the edge of the mattress, fists clenching the comforter like it can ground her somehow.
"I just… I missed you so much."
A sob tears from her throat. "You were the only one who ever made me feel safe. Like I mattered. Like I wasn't… broken."
Her voice lowers to a tremble. "And now I'm finally in your world, and you're just a ghost."
She lifts her head slowly, staring into the shadows of the room. "I know you were trying. I know you were just doing what you thought was right." Her breath hitches. "But I was grieving you like I'd never known you. And you were right in front of me."
She crumples against the mattress again, shoulders shaking.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I shouldn't have yelled. I just didn't know what to do with all of it."
Silence wraps around Nellie, tears soaking the edge of the blanket.
"I don't know if you can hear me," she whispers, "but please… don't be gone forever."
She sits like that for a long time—broken, quiet, alone—until the only thing left is the sound of her own breathing in a room that still somehow feels like his.
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