Embedded Files
Some lessons can’t be taught in books. Between bruised knuckles, salt lines, and the weight of her father’s pistol, Nellie learns what it means to step into the field. Becoming a hunter isn’t just about monsters—it’s about who you choose to be when the fear doesn’t go away.
Word Count: 13.4k
TW: fluff with a little bit of angst. a very brief mention of harassment. use of mild language
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The bunker's library is vast; vaulted ceilings, ancient lamps, books that can kill a man if they fall the wrong way. Once, it had felt like a tomb. Now, it feels lived in. Sam flips a page of brittle parchment, jotting a note in the margin with practiced ease. He glances across the table at Nellie, who sits cross-legged in the leather chair she's quietly claimed as hers. A few strands of hair slipped from a loose ponytail. A pencil dangles between her fingers like a cigarette, reading glasses resting on her nose as she stares down a book thick enough to break bones.
"You know," he says, tapping his pen on the journal beside him, "most people don't voluntarily read through fifteen pages of Latin curses before breakfast."
His niece snorts without looking up. "Well, most people didn't memorize portions of The Iliad for a class project."
He raises his eyebrows. "You read The Iliad? Voluntarily?"
She glances up with a sly smile. "Didn't have many friends, so… books were kind of it. I mean, what else was I gonna do? Join a pep squad?"
He leans back in his chair, genuinely impressed. "Dean would've given you so much shit for that."
She shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "Yeah, well, he wouldn't be the only one. In the end, all it got me was a signed piece of paper and a pat on the back from a school secretary who couldn't remember my name."
There is humor in her tone, but Sam sees something else under the surface, something more worn and more familiar than she probably realizes. Dean used to joke about being invisible to teachers unless he was getting detention. Sam, on the other hand, used to hide behind thick books like they were shields. This young woman, he realizes, has pieces of both of them.
He gives a small smile, trying to keep it light. "Well, for the record, I would've remembered your name."
Nellie blinks, caught off guard. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he replies, then gestures at the table, "You've organized the lore into three piles and bookmarked the vampire chapters with color-coded tabs. Pretty sure you're already more methodical than Dean ever was."
"Was he more the 'wing it and shoot it' type?"
Sam chuckles. "He'd say he was improvisational. I'd say reckless."
She looks down at her book again, but he sees the smile tug at the corner of her mouth. Her posture is relaxed, a little more open than usual. The first week in the bunker, she'd been a shadow—quiet, polite, almost careful with her presence. Now she is marking up pages, asking questions, occasionally wearing her father's flannel like she had been doing it her whole life. He watches as she underlined something in blue ink, squinting slightly behind the glasses. Her eyesight still isn't perfect, but it has improved significantly. She no longer flinches at sudden light or rubs her temples after an hour of reading.
Sam reaches for another journal, flipping to a section on spirits that lingered after salt-and-burns.
"You know," he says casually, "You've got a natural instinct for this stuff. The lore, the details… You connect dots quickly. I used to spend hours trying to cross-reference hauntings in old case files."
"Is that your subtle way of calling me a nerd?"
He smirks. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
Nellie leans back in her chair, arms folded. "I mean, I used to alphabetize our pantry at home just to feel something, so…"
Sam laughs, surprised by the sharp little bite of sarcasm. It isn't defensive. It is... playful.
"You know," he says after a moment, "Dean always used to poke fun at my love of research. But secretly? He respected it. He used to wait until I fell asleep and read my notes like they were Cliff Notes."
Her green eyes soften, something unspoken hanging between them. "So, what I'm hearing is that I'm a double threat?"
He looks at her, really looks. "Yeah," he answers quietly. "I think you are."
She looks away at that, clearly unsure what to do with the weight of a compliment that doesn't expect anything from her.
The table goes quiet again, just the soft flick of pages and the occasional scribble of pen on paper. Miracle shifts beneath them with a sleepy huff, and somewhere down the hallway, the faint sound of Dean talking to himself in play echoes faintly.
Sam glances once more at Nellie. Her eyes are trained on the page again, but he can see the gears turning in her head, curiosity, focus, a quiet fire building behind it all.
She doesn't just want to be a hunter.
She is already becoming one.
• • •
The bunker's training room isn't much—rubber mats over concrete, a couple of punching dummies that look like they've seen better days, and a small storage cabinet of basic gear—but it feels like sacred ground.
Nellie stretches her arms overhead, bending slightly side to side. Eileen had braided her hair earlier that morning—tight and neat, no strays. Nellie has been asking her to do it before every session now. Something about the gentle routine grounds her.
Sam stands nearby, barefoot on the mat, sleeves rolled up, watching her posture with a trainer's eye. "You ever done anything like this before?" he asks.
Nellie smirks faintly. "Only if you count dodging a couple of drunk regulars at the diner."
His brow arches. "So that's where you got the footwork."
"Footwork?" she repeats.
"Yeah," he says, giving her a once-over like he is cataloguing her stance. "You're already shifting your weight without thinking about it. Not many beginners do that."
She shrugs. "Guess slinging coffee at two in the morning is better training than I thought."
His mouth quirks into a half-smile. "Remind me never to underestimate late-night diner shifts."
"Remember, though, reflexes. Not actual combat technique."
"That's what we're here for," he says, taking a relaxed stance. "We'll start simple: defensive blocks, shifting your weight, how to fall without breaking your tailbone."
"Sounds glamorous."
He gestures for her forward. "Come at me."
Nellie raises her fists—an awkward stance, elbows too wide—and steps forward with the kind of hesitant energy that screams, I'm trying, please don't laugh.
Sam meets her motion with a gentle tap against her forearm. "You're leaving your ribs open. Pull your elbows in. You don't need to swing like a boxer, just protect your core."
She adjusts, trying again. He lets her jab once, twice. Her form isn't terrible, just uncertain. Like her body remembers fear before strength. He blocks her again, this time sweeping gently at her foot to test her balance. She stumbles, catching herself, and straightens with a quiet grumble.
"This is like trying to fight while dancing," she mutters.
"Yeah, well, that's what most fights actually are—messy choreography," Sam explains. "Except nobody knows the steps, and the music is screaming."
Nellie snorts, already beginning to sweat. Her hairline dampens, but her shoulders square up with more confidence now. "Okay. Again."
This time, she moves faster, with less hesitation. Sam can see the way her eyes sharpened, tracking his motions, watching for shifts in weight or intent. He isn't going full speed, not yet, but she has an instinct for reading people. That diner wasn't what taught her. It was her childhood.
They move through a few more drills: basic dodges, stance corrections, and how to fall backward without knocking the wind out of yourself. He keeps the pace steady, allowing her to fail and learn in equal measure.
When Nellie does stumble too far, hitting the mat with a soft "oomph," she doesn't complain. She just lies there a second, arms sprawled, and says, "I'm gonna feel that tomorrow."
Sam offers a hand down. "Good. That means you're learning."
She takes it, hoisting herself back up with a small groan. "You're enjoying this a little too much."
"I'm just relieved you're taking this seriously," he admits. "A lot of people get cocky early. You're not doing that."
"Well," Nellie says, brushing herself off, "it's hard to be cocky when you're pretty sure your shoulder's going to pop out of place trying to punch a guy twice your size."
"Size doesn't matter. Skill does. Technique. Timing. Mindset."
"Geez, Sam, you've got the motivational poster thing down," she teases.
Sam chuckles but says nothing.
They circle back into another drill. This time, she lands a clean palm strike on his chest. It wouldn't have done much damage in a real fight, but the form is correct. Balanced. Focused.
He blinks in surprise. "That was good."
Nellie smiles, a flicker of something more than pride sparking in her eyes. "Told you. Drunk guys at diners. Unofficial training academy."
• • •
The bunker is quiet in the early morning hours. Eileen sits curled in the armchair in the library, a soft blanket tossed over her lap and a cooling cup of tea on the side table. Across from her, Sam stands by the central desk, flipping through an aged leather-bound tome. His brow is furrowed in the way it always does when he is thinking too hard and not talking about it.
Eileen lets him stew for another minute before finally breaking the silence.
"You're pacing in your own head again."
Sam glances up, blinking. "Sorry."
She smiles, then nods toward the book. "What are you seeing?"
He sighs, fingers brushing over the brittle edge of a page. "I've been cross-referencing some of the Men of Letters' old psychic profiles with the notes I've taken on Nellie. And I think she's… different."
Eileen's brow arches slightly. "I mean, we already knew that. But what do you mean by that?"
"She's picking things up faster than I expected," he says, moving to sit on the edge of the table across from her. "Like... much faster. Lore retention, physical form, weapon mechanics. It's not just effort or instinct—it's almost like something in her is accelerating it. Like it's built in. It could explain her academic record, too."
He taps the journal. "There are theories—old ones—that suggest certain psychics can imprint or adapt quickly. Their minds are tuned toward integration. Rapid learning. It is mostly speculation, fringe stuff, but…"
"But now you have Nellie," she finishes softly.
He nods. "And she's checking off boxes no one else ever did. Not even me." He leans back slightly, running a hand through his hair. "She's not just exhibiting one gift. We've seen healing, psychic dreams, visions, that energy flare in the warded room... And now this. Her whole range may not even be fully realized yet."
Eileen considers that, her fingers absently tracing the stitching on the blanket. "Do you think it's dangerous?"
Sam is quiet for a beat too long.
"I don't think Nellie is dangerous," he finally says. "But... I do think we're working with something we don't fully understand yet. And if we don't figure it out before whoever's after her makes another move—"
"Then we might be too late," she finishes grimly.
He nods. "And by the looks of it, they may have more of a grasp of her abilities than we do, if they want her this badly."
They sit in that weight for a moment before Eileen asks, "So what's the plan?"
Sam exhales slowly. "We've hit a wall here. The library's good, but this symbol—the symbol she saw—nothing's coming up in our database. If we want answers, we'll need to expand the net. Visit old hunter contacts, maybe a few historians or occult scholars. Hit the road, like the old days."
She gives a quiet nod. "You think she's ready?"
"She's more ready than I was at her age," he admits. "But I don't want to throw her in the deep end. Maybe, we can take a few smaller hunts while we're traveling—controlled ones, ones we can manage—it might be the safest way to get her actual field experience."
"Real lessons," she murmurs, "with training wheels."
He chuckles softly, then grows serious again. "And maybe we find something useful. Clues. Lore. Patterns we're not seeing from this bunker."
Eileen watches her husband for a long moment, her smile fading slightly. "But is it safe?"
Sam pauses. "What do you mean?"
"She's shielded here, Sam," she says gently. "The sigils, the wardings, the runes—they're woven into every inch of the bunker. If we take her out into the open, even on small hunts, she'll be exposed."
"I've thought about that," he replies. "It's a risk—but I think there's a way to reduce it." He reaches to the side and pulls a thinner notebook from under the pile. Pages are marked with post-its and dog-ears, circled runes and diagrams sketched in quick pencil strokes. "The Men of Letters had prototype wards meant to be carried on the person. Amulets, bracelets, even stitched symbols sewn into clothing. Most of them are incomplete or experimental… but I think I can make one work."
She leans forward. "You think it'll hold?"
"I can reinforce it. Maybe blend a couple of techniques. Use silver filaments, angelic script, anti-tracking runes… It won't be as strong as the bunker, but it could keep her cloaked enough to move freely. Hell, maybe she can even reinforce herself."
Eileen is quiet for a beat, then nods. "Let's just hope it is enough." She closes the book in her lap, a solemn look on her face. "If you are going to do this, then it is time for you to tell her about Eleanor."
Sam knows immediately what she means.
"She deserves to know, Sam. Now that she is better. Especially if she is going back out there."
"I know," he sighs. "And you're right. We don't know what we were dealing with, and I don't want her to go in blind." He walks over to his wife, giving her shoulder a loving rub. "We'll take it slow. Just a few test runs to start. Nothing high risk. And she won't ever be alone."
She exhales, tension easing from her posture. "Okay."
They return to the comfortable silence again, letting the flicker of the library lamp wash over yellowed pages and the quiet hum of the bunker's wards fill the space around them.
"She's going to be something else," Eileen says finally.
Sam nods, eyes distant. "She already is."
• • •
Room 11, once housing one of the most prolific hunters, is now occupied by a young woman who has just started her own hunting journey. The room used to mirror it’s previous resident: a chaotic jumble that matched the mind of Dean Winchester with uniquely placed knick-knacks and belongings that showed off the man behind the hunter. Now, after five years of solitude, it's teaming with life once again, this time a little bit different. It had been deep cleaned, removing layers of dust gathered on the furniture and leaving it feeling fresh and new. The miscellaneous belongings that littered various areas are now organized and displayed with reverence. Some of the books stacked on the desk had been returned to the library, the others placed on the empty bookshelf, the blank spaces just calling to be filled with well-loved classics. The cassette player has moved over to one of the bedside tables, and the cassettes themselves are stored alphabetically below in the drawer. A couple of candles, given by Eileen, add some ambience to the warm lamps lighting the room. The vanilla mixes lovingly with the ghostly scents left by the previous owner. It is cozy, both a room and a monument to a life once lived.
Nellie sits curled up against the headboard, her damp hair brushed back behind her shoulders and a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. It was Eileen's recommendation to prevent any unnecessary strain to her healed eyes. A thick blanket lay across her lap, and on top of that was a journal full of notes. Her hand swipes across the page, pen in her hand, as she writes down some lore notes from earlier that day.
She feels him before she sees him — a shift in the air like static and safety all at once. Dean appears near the foot of the bed, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, eyes warm.
"You look like you're prepping for the hunter's SATs," he says, nodding at her pile of scribbled notes.
Nellie glances up and smiles. "If Sam had his way, there would be an exam. Probably oral, with PowerPoint."
He chuckles. "Wouldn't put it past him."
She pushes her notes aside, giving him her full attention. "He's thorough, I'll give him that."
"Always was." Dean takes a few slow steps toward her, stopping just shy of the lamp's edge. "You, uh... learning anything cool?"
"Defensive tactics, basic banishing rituals, anatomy charts…" She shrugs. "Also, how not to shoot my foot off."
"That's important," he nods solemnly. "Gotta keep your feet for running away from wendigos."
She smirks. "You're not supposed to run from wendigos."
"Sure, but sometimes you gotta know when to nope out."
"Good to know. Lore stuff is easy. It's the Latin exorcism phrases I keep messing up…"
"You'll get it," Dean said, waving her off. "Trust me. Latin always sounds weird until it doesn't."
"Easy for you to say, spiritus sancti dominus asshat."
Dean raises his brows. "Was that an exorcism or a Harry Potter spell?"
She shrugs, grinning. "Bit of both."
Their laughter fades into a companionable silence. Then Dean's smile wavers, just a hair.
"What?" she asks.
He shakes his head, voice lower. "Just… I wish I could be more help."
"You are."
"I mean, really help. In the way that counts. Hands-on." He looks around the room as if it might offer a solution. "I wish I could be out there training you. Taking you through the steps. Loading shells, lining up a shot… gutting a ghoul or two. The real hunter stuff. Not just showing up for the ghostly pep talks."
Nellie's heart clenches. There is something in his voice, not regret, exactly, but that deep-seated ache of missed moments.
"I think about it a lot," he adds. "What it'd be like if I were still around. In the flesh. You and me on the road, blasting some Metallica, you trying to talk me out of bad diner food…"
She chuckles, despite the lump in her throat. "Please, I worked at a diner. I'd know how to get us good deals while Sam lectures us on the sodium content in one burger."
Dean huffs a laugh, then looks at her with that quiet intensity she is starting to recognize as uniquely his. “But… still… I wish I could help ya out."
Nellie softens. "You can still help me."
He raises an eyebrow. "I'm a ghost, kid."
"So? You've got, like, infinite ghost wisdom. You've been doing this your whole life, right?" She leans back against the headboard. "I'd be dumb not to take advantage of that. You can help me with lore, fighting tips… maybe haunt my textbooks if I start slacking off."
He blinks at her, surprised. Then the smirk returns.
"Didn't think I'd be sitting at the dinner table doing homework with my kid," he says. "At least it ain't math."
She laughs. "Definitely not math."
Dean lets the moment stretch, his gaze softening. "You're something else, y'know that?"
She looks down briefly, a shy smile tugging at her lips. "You said that once before. Thought you were just being nice."
"I'm not known for blowing smoke. You're… you're doing good, Nellie."
"I'm trying."
"You're doing. Big difference."
She nods slowly.
His form flickers slightly, reminding her that time with him is always temporary.
She looks down for a second, tracing a finger across the journal's worn cover. "I just wish you could stay longer."
His voice softens. "Me too."
They sit in silence for a beat. Then, in a lighter tone, Dean adds, "Just so you know, though? If I were the one training you, I'd have made you clean all the guns and mop the floors. That's rookie hazing, Winchester tradition."
"Sounds like abuse," she deadpans.
He smirks. "Tradition."
Another quiet pause stretches between them.
Then Nellie asks, "Do you ever get tired? Of coming back?"
He looks at her. "No. Never of you."
She swallows hard and smiles, voice small. "Thanks."
"I'll keep showing up," he says. "Whenever I can. You just keep doing what you're doing." He gives her one last look, a fond glimmer in his eyes. "And remember — ghoul guts stink like hell. Don't touch your face."
"Noted."
"Goodnight, Nellie."
"Goodnight, Dean."
And then he is gone, the room quiet again, except for the hum of her heart, still beating steady.
• • •
The bunker's armory feels more like a museum—shelves lined with weapons, holsters, and neatly labeled ammo boxes. Sam flicks on the overhead light, casting soft shadows across the concrete walls. The familiar scent of gun oil and aged leather settles in the air like a whisper of the past.
Nellie steps in slowly, eyes widening as she takes it all in, her sight much better than it was a couple of weeks ago.
Sam glances over his shoulder as he opens a locker. "Bit different than a diner backroom, huh?"
"A little," she replies, awed. "Do I… have to start with something that could knock out a small moose?"
He laughs, pulling out a couple of handguns and laying them on the central table. "We'll start small. Get you used to the feel, the sound, the responsibility. It's not just about pulling a trigger—it's about control. Confidence."
Nellie nods, eyeing the weapons. Her hands hover before she finally picks up a small 9mm, the metal surprisingly cold and heavier than she expects. "You sure I'm not going to drop this and accidentally shoot the wall?"
"Not if I'm standing here," he says. "And besides, you've got good instincts. You'll do fine."
He walks her through safety checks, loading and unloading, trigger discipline, and proper grip. She is careful, attentive, more reverent than fearful. Still, the nerves aren't subtle.
"I've never held a real gun before," she admits, glancing down at it.
"That's a good thing."
Her fingers tighten slightly on the grip. "But I have to learn now. If I'm going to protect people… protect Dean…"
Sam's expression softens. "You will."
They move into the training range: an annex off the main armory built like an underground shooting lane. Targets are already set up at various distances, and the space has been soundproofed long ago.
Sam fits her with protective earmuffs and goggles. "Ready?"
"Define ready," Nellie says, then braces herself.
The first shot rings out loud in the room, jerking Nellie's arm slightly. She blinks, steadying herself again.
"Again," he encourages.
She fires another round, this one more controlled. Then a third.
He watches as she adjusts, finding her rhythm—her stance not perfect, but promising. When the clip is empty, she lowers the gun and lifts her goggles.
"Okay," she says, breathing hard. "That was… a lot."
"But you did great," he replies, smiling. "Seriously."
He reloads a second firearm and hands it to her. "This one's got more kick. Want to try?"
Nellie takes it, studying the weight. It is heavier, with a worn pearl handle. Something about it feels different.
Sam answers her unspoken question. "Dean's. One of his old hunting pistols. I figured… if you're going to be a hunter, it might help to have something familiar."
She blinks, a wave of something thick rising in her chest. She stares down at the weapon like it might disappear if she looks too long. "He used this?"
"It was his go-to. Saved a lot of lives with it." His voice grows gentler. "You don't have to use it. Just thought you'd want to hold it."
She nods slowly. "I do."
She steps up to the line again, pistol in hand. Sam adjusts her stance one last time, his hand steadying her shoulder.
When she fires, it kicks harder, echoing louder through the range. But her stance holds. Her shot lands just shy of the center of the paper target.
Nellie lowers it slowly, blinking back a sting behind her eyes.
"I don't want to mess this up," she says quietly.
Sam moves closer, voice soft. "You won't."
"It's not just about learning to shoot or fight. It's about… living up to something. Someone."
He shakes his head. "You don't need to be Dean, Nell. Or me. You're you. That's already enough."
She turns toward him, tears pricking her lashes despite the proud smile creeping in. "You really think I can do this?"
"I know you can," he says without hesitation. "You're already doing it."
She grips the pistol in her hand for a second before setting it down gently on the table. "He'd probably be making some joke right now, wouldn't he?"
He smirks. "Probably something about how you didn't blow a hole through the wall."
She laughs, the sound small but warm.
They step out of the range together, the weight of that pistol somehow lighter than before.
• • •
The next morning, Nellie makes her way down the hallway just outside the training room, tugging the sleeves of a hoodie over her knuckles as she walks. Sam had given her the day's itinerary: more hand-to-hand, plus another round of weapons handling. Her body aches from yesterday's first real combat session, but it is a good kind of sore. The kind that tells her she is doing something with herself.
As she reaches the cleared training mat in the center of the training room, she isn't surprised to find she isn't the first one there. Dean is already mid-battle, foam sword in hand, brandishing it at Miracle, who sits in stoic confusion like the world's most tolerant knight.
"Back, foul beast!" the little boy shouts, swinging wildly, his tiny limbs moving with all the ferocity of a Saturday morning cartoon. "You'll never defeat me!"
Nellie leans against the doorframe, watching for a moment, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. The sword is clearly something Eileen had picked up on a grocery run—bright blue with glittering foam edges and a hilt covered in stickers of stars and puppies. Miracle merely blinks, yawning, and lays his head back down with a sigh.
Dean spots Nellie and lights up. "Nellie! You made it! Wanna train with me?"
"Oh, I don't know," she teases, crossing the room. "You seem like a pretty tough opponent."
He puffs up proudly. "I'm the strongest Winchester."
"That so?" She drops her water bottle on a bench. "Guess I'll have to be careful, then."
He runs up beside her, already holding out a spare foam sword. "This one's yours. It's got laser powers."
She takes it gingerly, turning it over in her hands. "Laser powers? You're spoiling me."
Behind her, Sam's footsteps echo down the hall.
"Hey, Dean," he says with a grin, crouching to ruffle his son's hair. "You training your cousin again?"
The boy nods solemnly. "She's almost ready. But she needs to work on her dragon fighting."
"Duly noted," Sam says with mock seriousness. "We'll add that to the syllabus."
As Sam and Nellie get into the beginning drills, Dean scurries over to Miracle, whispering orders like they were in a high-stakes military op. Miracle, to his credit, moves when commanded, following his pint-sized general with only the occasional groan of resistance.
Nellie works through a basic takedown maneuver with Sam, keeping half an eye on the chaos around her. When Sam steps away to demonstrate a new move, Dean suddenly darts forward, foam sword held high.
"Surprise attack!"
Nellie instinctively spins and catches his little torso before he can barrel into her side. He giggles as she scoops him up.
"Hey!" he squeals through laughter. "You're cheating!"
"You're the one ambushing people mid-takedown," she says, grinning and flipping him over onto the mat with exaggerated gentleness.
He lands with a triumphant "oof," then lies sprawled like a victorious knight, foam sword dramatically tossed aside.
"Think you got what it takes to be a knight?" she asks, kneeling beside him.
"I already am one," he says, eyes twinkling. "Daddy said I'm a natural."
"Your dad says a lot of things," she replies playfully, brushing a hand through his messy hair. "But he might be right about that."
Sam comes back with a towel draped around his shoulders. "Okay, dragon slayer. Time to take a break."
Dean pouts dramatically. "But I was winning!"
"You still are," Nellie says softly, helping him to his feet. "You've already got one of the most important parts down."
"What's that?"
She taps his chest gently. "A good heart."
He beams and runs back to his corner to "debrief" Miracle, leaving the adults to their far more serious exercises.
Sam watches his niece as she stretches her arms and resets her stance, a quiet pride in his eyes.
"You're good with him," he says softly.
"I try." She shrugs, then smiles. "He makes it easy."
• • •
Nellie lies stretched across her bed, one leg tucked under the other, the weight of a well-worn Austen novel resting comfortably in her hands. The typical vanilla scent drifts lazily through the room, blending with the faint trace of leather and aftershave that always seems to linger in here. She's gotten used to that combination—warm, a little ghostly, but oddly grounding.
A knock comes at the door.
"Come in," she calls, sliding a bookmark between the pages before closing the book.
The door eases open, and Sam steps in with Eileen just behind him. She crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed beside Nellie, her smile warm but cautious. He stays standing, close enough to reach her if needed, his expression carrying that telltale mix of serious business and brotherly concern she's come to recognize.
Without a word, he holds out a small object: a necklace. Its chain is sturdy but simple, and the pendant is a smooth disc etched with tiny, intricate sigils.
Nellie takes it carefully, letting it dangle from her fingers. "What's this for?"
"You're going to need it," Sam says, watching her face as if weighing every reaction. "It's a protective amulet—warding, concealment, a few other things. Pulled it from the Men of Letters archives."
Her brow furrows. "Need it for what?"
He exchanges a brief glance with Eileen before answering. "Because you and I are leaving the bunker in a few days. There's only so much we can find from here, and we need more information on what's after you. That means going to the sources—people, archives, places that aren't online or in our files. While we're on the road, we'll also take a few small-scale hunts. Just to give you some field experience."
Nellie blinks at him, the amulet still swinging slightly in her hand. "So… actual hunts. Outside the bunker."
"Yeah," Sam replies with a faint smile. "With me, every step of the way."
She leans back against the headboard, letting the idea settle in her chest. Part of her stomach knots—unknowns have a way of doing that—but underneath is something else. A spark of anticipation.
"It's… a little nerve-wracking," she admits. "But… I'm ready to see what this hunting thing is like for real."
Eileen places her hand on Nellie's shoulder, her expression softening into something more serious. "There's… something else you should know before we go out there," she says gently.
The quiet in the room shifts, no longer warm, but edging with weight. Nellie's gaze flicks between her aunt and uncle, the anticipation in her chest dimming into unease.
Sam steps closer, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Remember when I left the motel that night, before the fire, to take care of things at your house?"
Nellie nods slowly.
"When I got there," he begins, his tone measured, "the place had been ransacked. Drawers pulled out, furniture overturned. Whoever did it… they were looking for something."
Her brows knit. "Looking for what?"
"I don't know. Could've been the same people—or things—that are after you now. Whatever it was, either they found it… or they didn't." He hesitates, then draws in a quiet breath. "But that wasn't all."
Eileen's hand gives a slight squeeze, steadying her.
His voice drops lower. "Nell… your mother's body was missing."
The words hang heavy between them, the room suddenly too still. Sam's eyes stay on his niece, waiting for the inevitable storm. Nellie's stomach twists, the amulet in her palm suddenly heavy, almost cold. For a second, the words don't make sense—like they are in another language. Then they land. Hard.
"You—" Her voice catches. She blinks rapidly, her breathing starting to quicken. "You've known this… for how long?"
Sam's jaw tightens. "Since that night."
"That was two months ago!" Her voice rises, sharper now. "Two months you've been letting me sit here thinking she was gone—actually gone—and the whole time, she could still be out there?"
Eileen's hand squeezes her shoulder again, but Nellie jerks away, pushing the blanket off her lap. "You should've told me. I had a right to know."
"We wanted to," he says evenly, but there is a flicker of guilt in his eyes. "You were healing—physically, mentally. We thought it would be better to wait until you were in a better place."
"A better place?" Her laugh is short and hollow. "You think there's a better place to find out your mom's corpse is missing? What, did you think if you said it when I was happy, I'd take it better?"
The room blurs. Not because of tears, though they burn at the corners of her eyes, but because her mind is somewhere else entirely. She is small again. Cornered in a kitchen that smelled like cheap wine and burnt toast. Her mother's voice was a sharp, slurred knife. The sound of glass shattering, footsteps pounding after her. The weight of knowing she can't run far enough.
Her chest tightens. She digs her nails into her palms, trying to stay in the present, but the shadows of those memories pressed in. It is like Eleanor's ghost has been hiding in the walls of her mind, waiting for the right moment to crawl back out.
"I thought I was free," she whispers, more to herself than to them. "For the first time in my life… I thought she couldn't hurt me anymore." Her voice cracks. "But she's still here. Somehow, she's still here."
Sam starts to reach for her, but she steps back toward the headboard, curling into herself.
The amulet chain slips through her fingers, landing silently in the folds of her comforter.
He stays where he is, his voice careful, steady. "I think she's still dead, Nellie," he says. "Considering… the way you killed her, there's no coming back from that. Whoever ransacked the house, they probably took her for a reason—ritual purposes, maybe. Or to hide evidence. Either way… she's not walking around."
The words hang there, heavy and unmoving. Nellie still doesn't look at him. Her gaze is somewhere far away, fixed on a knot in the blanket, fingers twisting the fabric until her knuckles whiten. The silence stretches, thick enough to make Sam glance at Eileen. She is watching the young woman with quiet worry, her hand hovering like she wants to touch her but isn't sure if she should.
Finally, Nellie's voice breaks the stillness, low, hoarse, and almost shaking. "For the first time in my life… I felt like I had a real family."
Sam's chest tightens.
She blinks hard, her eyes glassy now, but she doesn't stop. "Eileen's been more of a mother to me in the last two months than Eleanor ever was my whole life. I had never had my hair braided by someone before. Not until you."
Her voice cracks on the last word, and that is it—she leans forward, wrapping her arms around Eileen like she is trying to keep her there, afraid she might vanish too. Eileen hugs her back without hesitation, one hand cupping the back of Nellie's head, holding her close in that quiet, unshakable way that doesn't need words.
Sam sits still, the weight of it pressing hard on his chest. He'd seen people break before, but this wasn't breaking. This was something else—something deeper. This was a lifetime of absence finally being met with presence, and the fragile fear that it could be taken away.
Nellie's grip on Eileen loosens just enough for her to lift her head. Her gaze locks on him, and for a second, it feels like she is seeing him not as her uncle but as someone who might hold answers she's been chasing her whole life.
"I don't know why I'm still scared of her," she admits, her voice shaky but edged with something darker—frustration, maybe even shame. "I wasn't as scared of that intruder. The thought of fighting a monster, a ghost, a demon—hell, that doesn't scare me as much as she does."
Sam's heart twists. He'd faced literal nightmares, and yet he knows the kind of fear Nellie is talking about; the kind that stays in your bones, carries in muscle memory. It is the same way he sometimes still flinches at the idea of his father's voice raising in anger, even after all these years.
Her hands tighten in her lap, fingers brushing over the chain of the amulet. "I don't want to be scared of her anymore. I don't want to hide anymore. But every time it comes back to her, it's like I—" she shakes her head, jaw trembling, "—it's like something in me just breaks. Like I'm a kid again, waiting for the next hit or the next scream. I can't stop it."
He scoots forward, putting a hand on her shoulder. His voice is steady, but there is a gentleness in it that comes from knowing exactly what it is to wrestle with ghosts that aren't supernatural. "That's not weakness, Nellie. That's years of trauma. And it's not just that—your mom used binding sigils on you. The kind that messes with your mind. They make you feel like you can't leave, like you owe them your life, like you're chained to them even when every part of you wants to run. That kind of conditioning… it leaves scars you can't see."
Her breath hitches. He isn't wrong—she can still feel those invisible chains sometimes, heavy around her chest. Even now, safe in the bunker, there are nights she wakes up convinced Eleanor is just outside the door.
Sam observes her gently, seeing the flicker in her eyes—that war between wanting to move forward and being pulled back into the past—and it is like looking into a mirror. He thought of his father, of how the man's voice can still echo in his head when he is tired or second-guessing himself. Of how even after years of building a life outside of his father's shadow, there are moments when he hears a certain tone and feels sixteen again, raw and defensive.
It's the same thing, he realizes. Different details, same chains.
And just like he'd sworn years ago that he wouldn't become John Winchester, he feels that same vow hardens in him now, but this time, it is for Nellie. She deserves a clean break from Eleanor's shadow, and he'll do everything in his power to give it to her.
Nellie's gaze drops to the amulet resting in her lap. The metal is warm from her hands, but it feels heavier than it should—like a promise she isn't sure she can keep. Part of her wants to believe she can step out of this place, hunt monsters, face whatever is out there and never feel small again. Another part still sees herself as the girl who can't even leave her room without bracing for what waits in the hallway.
Eileen's arm stays wrapped around her shoulders, a quiet, solid presence. She doesn't need to say anything; Nellie already knows what she means by it. I'm here. You're not alone. Not anymore.
For a long moment, none of them speak. The air feels thick with memory and resolve, and Nellie knows that something has shifted. This isn't just about going out into the field anymore—it is about proving to herself that Eleanor Branscomb can't hurt her again. Not physically. Not magically. Not ever.
Sam stays where he is for a moment, watching Nellie's fingers trace the amulet's etched lines like she is trying to memorize it’s weight before it even touches her neck.
"You sure you're ready for this?" His voice is steady but not without concern. "Being a hunter means standing up to your darkest fears and still doing the right thing. It's one thing to run drills in the bunker… It's another to put it into practice when things get messy."
She meets his gaze, already understanding why he is asking. This isn't him doubting her; it is him giving her a choice. A way out, if she wants it. For a few seconds, she just sits there, the amulet dangling from her fingers. Then, with a quiet breath, she slips the chain over her head. The cool metal settles against her skin like a promise.
"I don't want to be afraid anymore," she says, the words soft but resolute.
Something in Sam's chest tightens—not with worry, but with pride. He isn't her father, but in that moment, it sure feels like what he imagines a proud father-daughter moment is supposed to be.
"Alright," he says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We'll take a few more days here. Make sure you're as ready as you can be before we step out there."
Her fingers absently touch the amulet again, as if testing that it is really there.
"There's one more thing," Sam continues. "I want our first research stop to be your house. Back in Lockhart."
Nellie's posture stiffens, just a fraction, but he presses on gently.
"If whoever ransacked it missed anything… it might still be there. Could give us a lead on the people after you. And it'd give you a chance to grab anything you want from the place—clothes, books, whatever's important."
Her stomach twists at the thought of walking back into that house. The last time she was there, everything had changed. And not in a good way. But his voice is steady, anchored in the quiet reassurance that she won't be going back alone.
"Okay," she says finally, her voice quieter than before but no less sure. "If you're there, I can do it."
"You won't be doing it alone," Sam promises.
After a few more minutes of comforting and quiet pride, Eileen and Sam finally get up, giving quiet goodnights. When the door clicks shut behind them, the room feels more silent than usual. Not empty. Just… still. Nellie stays where she is on the bed, the amulet warm against her collarbone now, as if it had been worn for years instead of minutes. Her fingers curl around it again, tracing the ridges in the metal.
Home.
That is the word Sam had used. Your house back in Lockhart. But even as he'd said it, she'd felt this strange detachment, like he was talking about a place she'd read about in a book instead of somewhere she'd actually lived. That house hasn't been a home. Ever. It is just a shell that smells like stale alcohol and cheap jasmine perfume, a place where she learned to keep her voice down and her guard up.
The real home is… here. A bunker underground, where the halls hum with old power and the kitchen smells like whatever Eileen is making for Dean. The place where Sam's lectures about lore feel more like guidance than orders, and Eileen's gentle hands in her hair make her feel cared for in a way she didn't know was possible. Going back to Lockhart will just be a mission. Her real life is here now, surrounded by people who see her as more than a burden or an obligation.
She glances toward the flannel draped over her desk chair. Dean's. Her dad's. The thought lands in her chest like a quiet truth; warm, heavy, unshakable.
She isn't that small-town Texas girl anymore.
She is a hunter.
• • •
3 DAYS UNTIL THE DEPARTURE
The bunker's library looks more like a war room than a place for quiet study. The long oak table has disappeared under open atlases, a laptop with too many tabs fighting for space, and a few of the thicker hunter journals Sam had pulled from the archives last night. Eileen stands with one hip against the table, her hair pulled back, red pen in hand, as she traces a neat line west across Kansas.
Sam leans over her shoulder; one palm bracing on the map's edge. "If we stay on seventy, we can cut down near Hays," he says, the low rumble of his voice more focused than casual. "That puts us through Ellis County—two towns with possible contact leads—before we hit the mill site."
Eileen nods, eyes skimming the route like she was already driving it in her head. "And it keeps you close enough to Lebanon for a couple of days if you need backup."
Nellie is supposed to be following along. She sits at the far end of the table, a folded road map in front of her and the laptop turned just enough for her to glance at the tabs Sam had left open—county records, a couple of old newspaper archives, a ghost lore database she's already memorized the layout of. But her attention keeps tilting sideways to the little shape pressing up against her chair.
Dean is armed. Not with a toy gun or one of the plastic swords Eileen sometimes lets hI’m wave around, but with an entire pad of neon sticky notes. He peels one free and smooths it carefully against the flannel on her sleeve.
"This one's a monster trap," he informs her with complete authority.
"Oh yeah?" Nellie asks, looking down at the crooked square now clinging to her arm. "What does it catch?"
He grins, eyes bright under the mop of dark hair he inherited from Sam. "Sock gremlins."
She bites back a laugh, deciding to play along. "Smart. Those guys are sneaky." She peels the sticky free, pressing it to the table just beside her hand like she is setting a mine.
The little boy approves with a solemn nod and goes to work on another.
At the other end of the table, Sam is jotting down a short list of names in his cramped handwriting. Nellie leans forward to get a better look at his notes, but a flash of neon blocked her vision. Dean sticks a pink note directly over her eye. She blinks through the paper, hearing his little laugh, and pulls it off to slap gently onto his forehead. That sets him giggling so hard his legs kick against the chair rung. Eileen's gaze slides from the map to them, her mouth tilting into a small smile.
Nellie lets it soak in for a second. She'd never had this. The casual chaos of a little kid underfoot. The quiet rhythm of people working together toward the same thing. The ease of belonging. She slid the map closer and tried to focus on the route. She doesn't know the road names yet, doesn't have every small town's quirks memorized like Sam probably does, but she will. In a few days, she won't just be the one watching. She'll be walking into the dark right beside him.
That afternoon, Sam decides to run through some training drills. The training room smells faintly of gun oil and the tang of metal, the way it always does when he has been down here cleaning weapons. A ring of mats takes up most of the floor space, the rest lined with locked cabinets and weapon racks that gleam under the overhead lights.
Nellie stands near the center, hair now braided back, jacket discarded on a chair, the familiar weight of a practice knife in her hand. Sam paces a slow half-circle around her, a wooden training staff resting against his shoulder.
"Last time we did this," he says, "you were still favoring your left when you should've gone right. You want to keep your opponent guessing. Don't let them read you before you've made your move."
She nods, adjusting her stance. "Got it."
He doesn't waste time. He steps in fast, the staff sweeping toward her side. She twists, blocking with the knife, but he catches her arm with his free hand and pivots, forcing her to stumble before she regains her balance.
"Better," he says. "But you've got to watch the follow-through."
They go another round. And another. Sam presses harder each time, not enough to overwhelm, but enough to make her work for every block and counter. Nellie can feel her pulse in her ears, her arms warming from the repeated strikes and catches. When she finally lands a clean disarm—staff spinning out of his hands to clatter on the mats—he steps back, breathing steady but with the slightest hint of a grin.
"See?" he smiles. "You're reading me better now."
"That's 'cause you telegraphed that last one," she replies, though there was no bite in it.
"That's 'cause you were ready for it."
Sam crosses to the weapons table and swaps the staff for a pistol, checking the chamber, then hands it to her. "Alright. Targets."
They move to the far end where a series of paper silhouettes wait on the wall. He adjusts her grip, correcting her elbow angle, and gives a short nod. "You know the drill."
The first shot cracks through the air, then the second. Nellie keeps her breath steady, her stance firm, just like he'd taught her. By the time the magazine clicks empty, the center mass of the silhouette is shredded.
Sam steps up beside her, eyes scanning the holes. "Dean would've been proud of that grouping."
She swallows, feeling the heat rise in her chest at the mention of her dad. "Thanks."
They run through more—switching from pistol to shotgun, back to close-quarters knife drills—until sweat clings to the back of Nellie's neck and her hands ache pleasantly from the work. Sam finally calls it, setting the weapons aside.
"You're pretty good for a beginner," he tells her. "We'll run a few more refreshers tomorrow morning before we start packing."
Nellie nods, grabbing her jacket from the chair. Her muscles hum, but it isn't just from the training. It is the realization that this—every swing, every shot—isn't just practice anymore. It is a countdown.
The afternoon soon blends into evening, and Nellie finds herself back in the library. It feels different at this time. Quieter, even though it is never exactly loud. The shadows pool deeper in the corners, the shelves standing tall and dark like sentries on watch. She sits at the big oak table, the map from earlier spread out in front of her. The red pen lines curved neatly and sure through Kansas, down toward Texas. The paper smells faintly of ink and dust, a mix that should have been harmless.
Her eyes lingered on a name.
Lockhart.
It has a way of pulling at her, like a hook tugging just under the skin. The more she stares, the less it is just a word, and the more it becomes a doorway she knows too well. The one you open and step through because you have no choice, even when you know it's going to hurt. Her mind slides backward, unspooling into dim-lit rooms and stale perfume. To that specific tone her mother could take, sharp enough to slice through whatever hope she'd managed to piece together that day. She remembers the way the walls in that house felt like they were leaning in, the air thick with things left unsaid because saying them would make them real.
She can still hear the cheap kitchen clock ticking just above the sink, the smell of burned toast. She can hear her voice, low and dripping with the kind of disappointment that never runs out.
You're nothing without me. You'll come crawling back.
The words have been stitched into her so deep that even now—safe, free—they can still flare up like fresh wounds.
Somewhere down the hall, a chair scrapes faintly.
She doesn't notice.
Footsteps padded across the rug.
She still doesn't notice.
It isn't until a warm hand settles gently on her shoulder that she flinches, sharp enough to crumple the edge of the map in her grip.
"Hey—" Sam's voice is steady, almost quiet enough to be mistaken for the hum of the bunker's air vents. He eases his hand back, giving her space without making a show of it. "Been calling you for dinner. Guess you didn't hear me."
Nellie blinks, dragging herself back into the present, to the warm lamp light and the soft edges of the table under her palms. She gives a small shake of her head, trying to mask the lingering adrenaline under a faint, noncommittal breath.
He doesn't push. He doesn't have to. His eyes flick from the map to her face, reading more than she'd said, more than she ever can in that moment. He crouches beside her, so they are level, his voice lowering in that deliberate way that leaves no room for doubt.
"You spent twenty years in a place where you had to be ready for the worst at any second. You don't unlearn that just because you're safe now." His gaze holds hers. "The important thing is—you're here. And you're working through it."
The edges of her throat tighten, her pulse still a little too loud in her ears. She doesn't trust her voice, so she doesn't try.
Sam's mouth twitches in the barest suggestion of a smile. "And you're not doing it alone anymore."
Something in her chest eased, just slightly. Enough to breathe.
She smooths the creased corner of the map, folding it with care, and stands. The smell of dinner drifts in from the kitchen—rosemary and garlic and something slow-simmered—and the warmth of it settles against the chill the memories had left behind.
He steps back, letting her move past him toward the light spilling in from the doorway.
The map no longer feels like a path back to the place she'd escaped. It feels like the start of a trail leading forward—one she isn't afraid to follow.
• • •
2 DAYS UNTIL THE DEPARTURE
The morning started with the clatter of gear hitting the armory table. Nellie stands on one side, Sam on the other, the two of them working in a loose but steady rhythm—pulling weapons from shelves, stacking rock salt shells, sorting out first-aid packs. The overhead lights hum faintly, making everything feel sharper, more awake than she felt.
Sam slides a flask of holy water across the table toward her. "Alright," he says, nodding toward the growing pile, "quiz time. Monster IDs. Quick-fire."
Nellie arches a brow. "Because packing isn't stressful enough?"
"Think of it as… brain warm-up." He grabs a box of iron rounds. "Spirit with a bone fetish, leaves piles of femurs in attics."
"Bone collector spirit. Salt and burn, but check for protective wards around the remains," she answers without looking up, tucking the flask into her bag.
He gives a short nod. "Shapeshifter with a taste for—"
"—high-profile identity theft," she cuts in, clicking open the EMF reader to check the battery before packing it. "Silver to the heart and double-check your target's real."
His mouth twitches like he is trying not to grin. "Alright. Try this—half-breed vampire that can go out in daylight."
"Ghoulpire. Goes down with a beheading or a silver blade through the heart, but you've got to watch for the teeth—still venomous."
Sam tosses a bundle of rope onto the table. "Werewolf who doesn't change on the full moon."
"Pureblood. Silver works, but they're smarter, faster, and harder to track. Keep them talking if you can—they love to brag."
He pulls a hex bag from the drawer, flipping it lazily in his hand. "Witch using hex coins to curse people in a small town."
Nellie smirks. "Destroy the coin, destroy the curse. Track down their personal altar for good measure. And maybe wear gloves when you're rummaging through their stuff."
He gives her a pointed look. "Gloves. Always." He reaches for a battered copy of Supernatural Occurrences & Entities, the kind of book that smells like must and leather. "Okay. How do you take out a Striga?"
She pauses just long enough to stuff a box of salt shells into the side pocket of her pack. "Catch it feeding and hit it with consecrated iron. Try not to be the bait if you can help it."
He closes the book with a thump. "Alright, hotshot. Let's up the stakes. Sigil and trap drill. Timer's on."
She freezes mid-reach for the tape measure. "You mean… right now?"
"Yup." He is already pulling out chalk, duct tape, and a handful of hex bags, his grin more challenge than joke. "Imagine we're in the field, you've got two minutes to secure a room. Ready?"
Nellie inhales, slow and steady, and nods.
The timer beeps.
She drops to a crouch, chalk in hand, sketching a devil's trap on the concrete with quick, sure lines. Without thinking, she shifts left—sidestepping a chair before she even consciously registers it is in her way—and starts laying salt across the threshold. The hex bags go into the corners, precise and fast, her hands moving without hesitation.
The beep comes again, signaling the end of the drill, and she straightens, breathing just a little faster.
Sam checks the trap, the sigil, the salt line, and the placement of the bags. "One minute, thirty-two seconds."
She blinks. "That's… good?"
"That's insane," he says, not even hiding the surprise in his voice. "It took me months before I could shave it under two minutes." His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion but in thought. "You didn't just move fast—you knew exactly where to go next."
Nellie shrugs a little, though the truth makes her skin prickle. "Guess I've got a knack for it."
Sam doesn't call her on the understatement. He just nods, a glint of pride in his eyes. "That's your abilities meshing with your instincts. Trust them. Out there, it can make the difference."
They go back to packing, the clink of metal and zip of compartments filling the space between them. But the thought lingers in Nellie's mind—how her hands had moved like they'd already known the route. Like her body remembers something her mind didn't have to figure out. It is equal parts thrilling… and unnerving.
The morning packing and training soon slow down, and they shift back into the library. Nellie has a stack of lore books open in front of her, one elbow propped on the table while she scans an entry about covens. Sam sits across from her, half-buried in records, his pen tapping absently against the page.
It should be easy to focus. This is her wheelhouse—research, connecting dots, teasing a pattern out of scattered details. But somewhere between skimming the Men of Letters reports and flipping to the next page, something breaks through her concentration.
And then she isn't in the bunker anymore.
She is ten years old again, kneeling on threadbare carpet, her cheek hot and throbbing from a slap that still rings in her ears. Eleanor's shadow looms across the wall, the woman's voice sharp and cold.
"You will never amount to anything, you ungrateful little bitch."
It isn't even shouted. Just delivered like a fact, wrapped in smoke and contempt. And Nellie had believed her—because when you're ten, and your world is four yellowing walls and one person who decides when you eat, what you wear, and whether or not you speak, belief comes easy.
The war room light flickers, snapping her back. Her chest feels tight, the paper under her hand suddenly too smooth, too real. She forces a long, slow breath. Not now. Not here. She bends her head over the book again, fingers turning the page like nothing had happened.
Sam doesn't look up, still making notes in his cramped handwriting. Eileen walks in quietly, carrying a mug of tea. She sets it down beside her niece with a small smile, her gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual. Something in her eyes says she's seen something—the stiffness in Nellie's shoulders, maybe, or the way her fingers haven't unclenched from the book's edge.
Nellie wraps her hands around the mug, letting the steam blur her view of the table. "Thanks," she murmurs, aiming for casual.
Eileen just nods, the smile soft but unreadable, before moving to the other side of the room.
The rest of the afternoon passes in quiet shuffles of paper and the low murmur of Sam reading aloud facts and names. Nellie keeps her voice steady when she answers, keeping her focus locked on the text in front of her. But the words blur at the edges, and that old sentence—you will never amount to anything—keeps echoing in the back of her mind, no matter how hard she tries to drown it out with the sound of turning pages.
• • •
Nellie is half-buried in a stack of lore books on her bed when there is a soft knock on her door. She looks up to see Eileen slip in, something draped over her arm. It isn't until she sets it on the bed that Nellie realizes it is a blazer and matching trousers, with a crisp white button-up folded on top.
"This was mine," Eileen speaks with a faint smile, signing as she does. "From my hunting days. If you ever need to look like you belong in a police station or city records office, it helps to dress the part."
Nellie blinks, her hands automatically brushing over the smooth fabric. "You… think I'll need it?"
"I had a feeling," Eileen replies, tilting her head. "When we left Lawrence, I thought Sam might take you on the road eventually. Figured it couldn't hurt to be ready."
The warmth in Nellie's chest is immediate and unexpected. "Okay. Let's see if it fits."
Eileen helps her into various pieces of the suit, tugging the shoulders into place, then stepping back to eye her critically, the same way Nellie has seen her look at a stew simmering on the stove, measuring what is missing.
"Sleeves are a little long. Pants might need to be taken in a bit at the waist. But…” Her smile deepens. "It suits you."
The young woman smirks, doing a little turn in the mirror. "I feel like I'm about to go bust a fake insurance scam."
"Perfect," Eileen says, patting her arm. "That's the idea."
They make a quick plan — a couple of stitches here, a tuck there — and Eileen is already gathering it back up.
"I'll iron it after I finish Sam's. No wrinkles for your first hunt."
Nellie watches her go, the faint scent of the lavender detergent from the clothes lingering in the air. She isn't sure if it was the suit itself or the way Eileen had so casually assumed she'd need it, but something about it settles deep in her bones.
For the first time, she feels like she really looked the part.
• • •
The dream doesn't start like a dream.
It starts with the smell. Flat beer and overripe perfume—thick, cloying, the kind that creeps into your hair and clothes no matter how many times you wash them. The wallpaper is the same nicotine-stained yellow it had been when she was six. The carpet squishes faintly under her bare feet, a reminder that the leak in the ceiling had never been fixed.
Her mother is in the kitchen, cigarette burning in the ashtray, voice sharp and already half-sloshed. "Don't you look at me like that, Eleanor."
It isn't her name, but it is the name her mother always uses when she is angry.
The dream lurches, and she is nine, crouching in the corner of her bedroom, knees hugged tight. The yelling in the living room was louder than the TV she'd turned up to drown it out. She could picture exactly how it would end: the slam of a door, her mother's voice dripping venom into the quiet, and the hot sting of a slap when she said the wrong thing.
The scene flickers, and now she is twelve, stuck at the kitchen table while one of her mother's boyfriends leans in too close. His breath reeking of whiskey, his smile thin and mean. He calls her "princess" in a way that makes her skin crawl. She keeps her eyes on the chipped laminate flooring and counts the seconds until he gets bored.
Another shift—thirteen, trapped in her room with the door closed but no lock to keep out the pounding fist of another one of her mother's boyfriends. His voice is muffled but mean, the words full of threats he probably won't follow through on—but the fear is still real. She stares at the peeling paint on her dresser until he leaves.
Fifteen—her back hits the wall so hard the breath leaves her lungs. Eleanor's nails dig into her arm. "If you think you can leave me, you're dead wrong." The smell of cigarette smoke clung to her skin for hours after that.
The memories stack until the house feels like it is closing in; every wall, every corner whispers, "You'll never survive without me."
Then—like a break in a storm—another voice.
She is nineteen, curled up on her bed after another screaming match, cheeks still damp. The air shifts, warmer somehow, and then she sees him—standing in the corner like he'd been there the whole time. Leather jacket, faint smirk, eyes steady. "Are you that upset to see me? Or did you read another one of those artsy, moody novels of yours?"
Then, he sits cross-legged at the foot of her bed, leaning on one hand while he talks about things that had nothing to do with her life—music, movies (mainly Scooby Doo plotlines), pie. Somehow, it makes breathing easier.
The scene blurs into another night—her bedroom is dim except for the streetlight through the blinds. She is sitting against the headboard, hands twisting in her lap, and Dean is in his usual spot, cracking some half-joke that pulls the corner of her mouth up despite herself.
Again—she sits on the floor by her bed, knees hugged tight, too tired to cry. Dean is beside her, telling her she is stronger than she thought. She hadn't believed him then, not really.
Back then, she'd thought he was just some angel who'd decided to keep her company. Now she knows the truth. He'd been watching over her, not out of chance, but because she was his. His daughter.
The dream shifts one last time. Nellie stands in the hallway of her childhood home, but it is quiet now. No shouting. No slamming doors. She turns, and they are there: Sam, Eileen, her little cousin, Dean.
Her people.
Her family.
And even in the dream, she feels it—that warm, unshakable truth that she isn't alone anymore.
• • •
1 DAY UNTIL THE DEPARTURE
The smell of coffee and something frying drifted down the hall, warm and grounding, but it doesn't quite settle the knot in her stomach. Nellie moves slowly, bare feet dragging against the cool floor as she pads toward the kitchen. Her hair is pulled into a messy knot, her sweatshirt swallowing her shoulders, and she doesn't bother trying to shake the last shadows of the dream from her head.
She's had plenty of bad dreams before, but this one has left something clinging, like the residue from smoke in a room you can't air out. She's woken with the weight of her childhood house pressing against her ribs, the memory of her father's voice a soft counterpoint that only makes the ache sharper.
Eileen is at the stove, her hair neatly thrown over her shoulders, moving with the easy rhythm of someone who knows exactly where everything is. Sam sits at the table, coffee mug in one hand, a laptop open in front of him, already deep into whatever he is reading.
Nellie is halfway to sliding into the chair beside him when a high-pitched squeal nearly makes her drop her coffee mug.
"You're awake!" Dean barrels toward her, socks skidding on the floor, his grin wide enough to take up half his face.
She blinks down at him, caught between confusion and a laugh. "I mean… yeah?"
He wraps himself around her leg like a small, determined octopus. "You always take forever to get up. I was waiting."
Something in her chest cracks just a little. Two months she'd been with them, and still he greets her like she's just come home from a year away. Maybe to him, every morning she comes into the kitchen is a small victory worth celebrating.
"Well," she says, pretending to straighten like his enthusiasm is something official, "guess I'd better try harder to impress you."
He grins up at her before darting back to the table, climbing into his seat beside his dad and chattering about something involving Legos and dragons.
Nellie slides into her own chair, the knot in her chest loosening just enough for the coffee's warmth to finally seep in. She isn't much of a morning person—never has been—but maybe, she thought, it is a little easier when you have someone waiting just to see you walk through the door.
Eventually, she wanders into the library around mid-morning, still nursing her second mug of coffee, expecting to find Sam knee-deep in one of his scenario drills. Instead, he is hunched over his laptop, brow furrowed, glasses sliding down his nose in that way that means he's been staring at the screen too long.
"Going too hard on ye old Facebook?" she quips, setting her mug down.
He doesn't look up. "Found something."
Those two words have a specific weight in a Winchester household. Nellie moves closer, glancing at the screen. It is an article from some hyper-local Kansas blog — The Ellsworth Chronicle — a piece buried under the "Local Oddities" tab.
CLOTH-COVERED STRANGER SIGHTED NEAR OLD TEXTILE MILL
The headline alone has her leaning in. The article reads like every small-town urban legend story she's ever seen: three separate witnesses claiming they'd spotted a "tall figure draped in tattered cloth" near the abandoned mill on the edge of town. No face, no sound, just the faint rustle of fabric — and one person swore they saw it duck into the shadows carrying… something.
"Two of these accounts are from last month," Sam says, scrolling down. "The other's from two weeks ago. All of them describe the same thing — long strips of what they thought was fabric trailing behind it, and the air going colder when it passed."
"Could be just some weirdo with a blanket and too much time," she offers, though she already knows he won't be showing her this if that's all he thought it was.
"Could be," he agrees. "Except…" He taps another tab. This one is a PDF scan of a decades-old news clipping — Rag Man Returns? Area Teens Revive Old Textile Mill Legend. It is from the '80s, and the description is almost identical. Only back then, a handful of people had gone missing, bodies never found.
"Missing persons, cold spots, consistent appearance reports across decades…" Sam turns to look at her. "This is exactly the kind of small-scale hunt I was hoping to start you on. Close to home, low population density, a pattern we can research before we even get there."
"And if it turns out to be nothing?"
He smirks faintly. "Then you get a few hours in the field with EMF meters. Not exactly wasted time."
Nellie leans her hip against the table, scanning the article again. The photos of the mill are suitably creepy: chain-link fence sagging in places, the windows of the main building boarded over, and large wooden crates litter the outside perimeter.
She finds herself smiling despite the cold twist in her stomach. "So this is it? First hunt?"
He closes the laptop, already reaching for the legal pad where he'd been jotting notes. "This is it."
• • •
The late afternoon light filters through the thin windows in the tall ceiling. The Impala's black hood gleams under the overhead lights of the bunker garage. Sam has already pulled open the trunk, revealing the neatly organized arsenal that is more toolbox than weapon cache to him.
Dean is on his toes beside the workbench, digging through a small bin as if it were a treasure chest. "This one?" he asks, holding up a plastic water pistol.
Nellie smothers a laugh. "Close. You were only off by… several miles."
He shrugs and plunks it into the open trunk anyway.
Sam reaches for it with one hand and sets it back on the bench, patient but firm. "We'll keep the super soaker in reserve," he says, before passing Nellie a compact silver-bladed knife. "This one goes in the side panel."
She slides it into place, noticing how every inch of the trunk is sectioned off — compartments for salt rounds, smaller boxes for hex bags, blades cushioned just enough to keep them from clanging during a hard turn.
Dean reappears at her elbow, proudly holding a small bag of gummy worms. "Emergency rations."
"Actually…" Sam hesitates, then nods toward the glove compartment. "Yeah, that works."
The kid scampers off to make the deposit.
Sam hands her a shotgun next, his movements automatic, muscle memory from decades ago. "When your dad and I were on the road, the trunk wasn't just storage — it was order. We could be in the middle of nowhere in the dark and still reach for the exact weapon we needed without thinking about it."
She catches the weight of the words even though his tone is easy. It isn't just about gear placement. It is about passing something down, the unspoken language of how Winchesters kept themselves alive. Nellie settles the shotgun into it’s slot, the click of it locking in place sounding final in a way she can't name.
The little boy pops back into view with a rolled-up Batman cape. "For emergencies," he says solemnly, tossing it on top of the salt rounds.
Sam only shakes his head, smiling in that small, private way that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Guess it's official — we're prepared for anything."
• • •
Dinner is simple — roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, the kind of meal that could pass for any other night if you didn't know what tomorrow holds. Eileen keeps the conversation light, steering Dean toward stories about his toy cars and how Miracle had "helped" him build a blanket fort in the hallway. Nellie plays along, offering mock-serious nods at every dramatic twist in the four-year-old's retelling.
Sam doesn't say much, mostly letting the back-and-forth fill the room. But when Eileen reaches past him for the serving spoon, her hand lingers a fraction longer than necessary on his shoulder. Just enough that he glances up and meets her eyes. She gives the smallest smile, but it doesn't hide the worry there.
After the plates are cleared, Dean scrambles off to his room with an air of mystery. He comes back clutching a folded piece of paper and thrusts it at Nellie. "For good luck," he announces.
She opens it carefully. Inside is a crayon drawing of a stick-figure her with an enormous sword, standing next to a much taller stick-figure Sam, both of them smiling in front of a vaguely car-shaped blob. Above them, in wobbly letters, it reads: "GO WINCHESTERS."
"Mommy helped with the spelling," the boy says proudly.
Nellie feels her throat tighten in the way it does when something hits her square in the chest. "This is… amazing," she replies, managing a grin. "We'll take it with us."
"You have to," he insists, bouncing on his toes. "It's magic."
Eileen smooths a hand over his hair, her eyes soft as she glances at Nellie. "Then it's settled. It's going in the trunk."
Sam reaches for the paper, folding it neatly. "Front seat," he corrects gently. "Where we can see it."
Nellie doesn't say anything, but she is glad he did.
The evening comes quicker than expected. The bunker has it’s own kind of night sounds — the soft hum of the ventilation, the occasional creak in the metal bones of the place. Nellie has learned them all in the weeks since she'd moved in, but tonight, they seem louder. More insistent. And sleep isn't coming anytime soon.
She gave up trying somewhere past midnight, slipping from her room and padding barefoot down the hall to the library. The road trip folder sits where she left it earlier, it’s manila edges catching in the low lamplight. She pulls it toward her, thumbing through the neatly clipped articles, the hand-scribbled notes from Sam's research, the half-finished map route they marked in red pen. Her gaze snags on the printed satellite photo of her childhood house — peeling paint, sagging porch, windows like dead eyes. It looks smaller than she remembers, but somehow meaner.
She doesn't hear the soft patter of paws until Miracle appears in the doorway, head tilted, ears perked like he's been sent on a mission. The terrier trots straight to her, climbing onto the chair beside hers with the ease of an old friend. He presses his warm side against her leg, giving a soft sigh that feels almost human. It takes her back, not to Lockhart, but to those first raw days after Sam had brought her to the Winchester home, her body still aching from the fight with Eleanor and the motel fire, her mind more battered than she wanted to admit. Miracle had been there then, too, curling up against her until she could breathe without shaking.
She sets a hand on his head now, rubbing between his ears until his eyes droop. "You always know, don't you?" she murmurs.
Her other hand reaches up and gently grabs the amulet Sam gave her. A thought suddenly strikes her. Removing the amulet, Nellie holds it in her palm, staring at the smooth disc, tiny sigils etched in the weathered metal. She places her other hand over the pendant and closes her eyes, picturing the sigils in the warded room, how they glowed white after she accidentally energized them. If she were to go back out there, she is going to make damn sure that this amulet is worked at one hundred percent. She hasn't quite gotten the hang of these abilities, but they always seem to know when they are needed. She doesn't push; she just allows the memory to wash over her. After a few moments, the pendant warms up. Not burning, just warm, like a fireplace after an afternoon in the snow. She moves her hands and looks at the amulet, the intricate sigils glowing a comforting white light. No bloody nose this time, just some tension in her hands and head. A small, proud smile spreads on her face as she puts the amulet back on, the warmth slowly dissipating.
Nellie's gaze drifts back to the photo, to the place she'd grown up but never truly lived. She can almost hear her mother's voice; sharp, cold, cutting her down until she is small enough to fit inside that house's walls.
Not this time.
Whatever she finds there — empty rooms, hidden truths, or ghosts that aren't literal — she isn't walking back in as Eleanor Branscomb's daughter.
She is Nellie Winchester.
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