Embedded Files
Sometimes, angels don't arrive with trumpets. Sometimes, they slip through the cracks, sit on the edge of the bed, and remind you you're worth saving. In the quiet between breakdown and breakthrough, Nellie meets a stranger who knows too much—and a presence that refuses to let her fall.
Word Count: 6.2k
TW: dark angst with small moments of fluff, dark themes such as: attempted suicide, emotional trauma, and grief. brief descriptions of attempted suicide and light physical abuse. Mild use of language
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FLASHBACK #1
The engine purrs like a lullaby. Dean Winchester sits behind the wheel of the 1967 Impala, parked just off the winding gravel road that has no beginning and no end. The sky stretches open above him, painted in warm hues of an endless golden hour. The air is clean here, filled with pine and whiskey and memory.
This isn't some pearly gates, white-harp, angel-choir afterlife.
This is home.
Bobby's old junker is still rusting by the shed. The porch swing creaks on a breeze that isn't really wind. Music plays somewhere in the distance—Kansas, of course—and everything feels whole in a way Dean had never known when he was alive.
Peaceful.
Still, even in peace, restlessness has its place. Dean has driven that road for what feels like hours—maybe days—watching trees blur past, watching the same few clouds roll on. Something in him still hasn't settled. Some echo of unfinished business in the marrow of his soul.
He's just shifted the Impala into park when he hears the soft crunch of approaching footsteps.
"Thought I might find you here," says a familiar voice.
Dean looks over his shoulder. There stands Castiel, his trench coat somehow both out of place and exactly right in this setting.
"Cas," he mutters, surprised but not ungrateful. "You here for a road trip or just missin' the view?"
Castiel takes a few steps closer. His expression is neutral, though his blue eyes hold that same quiet gravity they always have. "I've come to tell you something."
Dean snorts and leans back in the seat. "You angels always with the cryptic intros. What is it—more end-of-the-world news? Chuck come back from the dead again?"
The angel shakes his head. "No. This is about you."
That gets Dean's attention. He sits up straighter, eyebrows drawing together. "Okay… shoot."
There is a pause. A hesitation, rare for Castiel.
"You have a daughter."
Silence stretches long and thin.
He blinks. "Say that again?"
"You have a daughter," Cas repeats evenly.
Dean stares at him, unblinking. A slow exhale pushes past his lips. "That's not… No. Cas, come on. That's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
The Winchester steps out of the car, boots crunching against the gravel as he faces the angel fully. "That's not possible."
"She exists, Dean."
His heart gives a lurch he doesn't expect. "How the hell—why am I just hearing about this now?"
"Because I only found out recently myself," Castiel says gently. "There was a small group of angels—low-ranking, nearly forgotten—who knew. They protected her in secret. From Heaven. From Chuck."
Dean's jaw clenches. "Protected her from what?"
"From being known. From being used. Chuck… overlooked her. A glitch in the story he wrote. A Winchester hidden from his knowledge. And when they realized what she was—who she was—they kept her hidden. Even in Heaven's records. To be fair, you and Sam kept him pretty busy, so that wasn't an impossible task."
He shakes his head in disbelief. "A daughter. And I never knew."
"No one did. Not until now."
Dean turns his back on the angel and takes a few steps toward the trees. He rubs his face with his hands. "Who's her mother?"
Cas hesitates again. "Someone from your past. A woman you barely remember named Eleanor Branscomb. But she raised Nellie... poorly."
He turns, his eyes flashing with fire. "You telling me she had it rough?"
"I'm telling you she survived."
Dean's fists ball at his sides. "You should've told me the second you knew."
"I'm telling you now."
His shoulders slump. His voice is quieter when he speaks again. "Is she okay?"
The angel doesn't answer right away.
"She's alive. But I can't promise more than that."
Dean takes a slow breath, eyes drifting to the road again.
"I wanna see her," he says finally.
Castiel's expression flickers with concern, duty, something like guilt. "Dean…"
"Don't Cas me."
"You can't interfere."
He narrows his eyes. "What does that mean?"
"I'll take you to her. But only to observe. That's all we're allowed."
Dean scoffs. "Since when have I ever followed the rules?"
Castiel doesn't smile. "This one matters."
He paces a few steps, then stops, staring down at the gravel beneath his boots. "You don't get it," he says hoarsely. "I've lost everyone. And now you're telling me there's someone out there—my kid—who doesn't even know I exist?"
"She knows someone," the angel says softly. "She believes she's alone. But I think… some part of her still hopes there's something watching out for her."
Dean looks up sharply.
Cas meets his gaze, steady. "You'll understand when you see her."
He is quiet for a moment. Then nods once. "Alright. Let's go."
Heaven melts away, bleeding into a shadowy room. The sky outside is an inky bruise, moonless and thick with cloud. Rain had fallen earlier, its scent still clinging to the sidewalks and window glass. The city has gone quiet. Only the dull hum of distant traffic and the steady flicker of a neon OPEN sign below break the silence. Inside the upstairs room, the world feels stiller.
Dean stands in the far corner, eyes fixed on the figure curled up on the twin bed near the window. The sheets are too thin for how cold the air feels. A patched backpack is shoved at the foot of the bed, half-zipped, a work uniform peaking out, looking like it had been washed one too many times. A chipped mug of untouched tea sits on the nightstand.
The girl lying on the bed doesn't move. She isn't asleep. Not really. She just stares at the ceiling, blinking slowly, exhausted blinks. Her arms are wrapped tightly around herself, like she is the only anchor she has left.
His daughter.
Dean swallows the lump clawing up his throat.
"Her name is Nellie. She's eighteen," Castiel's voice tells him softly. The angel stands near the door, hands folded in front of him. "Graduated early. Works full-time at a diner when she can. Mostly, she keeps to herself."
He can't take his eyes off her. She looks like him. And not like him. She has his jawline. His green eyes. But there is something about the way her shoulders curled in, the way she braces herself even in rest, that cut him in a way nothing else ever has.
"Her mother… drinks. Becomes violent," Cas continues. "Kicked her out for no apparent reason tonight."
Dean's jaw clenches, a sharp, cold weight settling in his chest. He takes a step forward, then stops. Watching her pull the thin blanket tighter. She winces—her ribs hurt. He saw that. The kind of pain you don't show unless you've gotten good at hiding it.
"She's not okay," he says hoarsely.
"No," Castiel agrees.
"You told me she was alive."
"She is."
He turns sharply. "This is not living, Cas."
The angel's silence says enough.
The Winchester runs a hand through his hair, stepping closer. "What's she doing here? Why this shelter?"
"She doesn't want to stay home," Castiel answers gently. "She doesn't want to be found."
"She gonna be okay?"
The angel hesitates.
His heart stops.
"She's in a fragile place," Cas says slowly. "She doesn't want to go home. She doesn't believe she matters to anyone. And tonight… she's considering making that permanent."
Dean's stomach drops. "No."
"She hasn't decided. But she's thinking about it."
His fists curl. "Why are we just standing here?! We need to do something!"
"We are not supposed to interfere."
"She's my daughter."
"I know."
"You want me to just watch?" Dean's voice breaks. "You want me to stand here and let her believe nobody gives a damn whether she lives or dies?"
"She doesn't know you, Dean."
"But I know her."
Silence falls between them. A heavy, impossible silence.
He looks at Nellie again. Her shoulders shake, barely. Just once. A single tremor that means more than words ever can. She is crying now, quietly. Like she'd done it a thousand times before and learned how not to make a sound.
Dean can't take it.
"I'm going in," he says, stepping toward her.
Castiel reaches out. "Dean—"
"I'm not gonna tell her who I am. I won't screw up your rules. But she is not going through this alone."
"Dean—"
"Cas, don't try to stop me."
The angel looks at him, seeing something in his face. That righteous, reckless compassion. That unshakable stubbornness. And under it, fear. Desperation.
He lowers his hand.
Dean steps forward. He takes a breath and lets whatever separates him from Nellie fall away.
The pocketknife lies clutched in her hands. Small. Sharp. Clean. It isn't much. Just something she kept from the diner's lost and found bin. She'd held it for a while now, like someone holding their breath underwater. Fingers wrapping around it so tightly that they start to shake. She sits up, sliding to the edge of the bed, head bowed, breathing unevenly. She flicks the knife open, staring at the cold steel.
No music. No note. No one to text.
Just a silence that had grown louder over the years.
She told herself this isn't a breakdown. It is just a truth finally settling in. Like gravity. Like inevitability.
She doesn't want to feel like this anymore.
Doesn't want to hurt like this anymore.
Doesn't want to be a mistake that her mother can't stand to look at.
Didn't want to be forgotten.
Her hand trembles as she raises the blade, pressing it gently, testing the edge.
And then—
A flicker.
A shape.
Someone else is in the room.
Nellie flinches and gasps, whipping around so fast the pocketknife drops from her fingers and clatters to the floor.
A man stands near the wall, faded, not entirely solid, like the air itself doesn't quite know how to hold him. Leather jacket. Faded jeans. Broad shoulders. Unfamiliar and not.
She backs up, breath catching. "Who—what the hell—"
"Hey, hey, easy." The man holds up his hands, his voice calm and low. "Not here to hurt you."
Her eyes narrow, panic lacing in her chest. "I'm—I'm dreaming. I'm hallucinating."
"You're not."
"You're not real."
He steps forward just a little, light catching faintly on his worn boots. "I promise you—I'm real enough."
Tears pricked her eyes. "I—I didn't take anything—there's nothing in my system—I don't drink—I'm not—this isn't—"
"You're not crazy," he states gently.
"Then who the hell are you?"
Dean pauses. For a beat, he thinks about telling the truth. But the timing is wrong. Her heart can't take that weight yet. So instead, he lies with love.
"I'm your guardian angel," he said.
Nellie lets out a choked breath, half a scoff, half a sob. "Right."
"Swear it. I'm not here by accident."
She looks away, rubbing her hands over her face. "I was doing fine until you showed up."
He moves to the edge of the room, careful not to scare her. "No, sweetheart. You weren't."
The girl's jaw tightens.
"You were about to do something that you can't take back," he says softly.
She squeezes her eyes shut. "You don't know me."
"I know enough. I know you're hurting. I know you're tired. I know the weight you've been carrying would've crushed someone else by now."
She presses her palms to her ears, voice cracking. "Stop."
"But I also know this—you don't want to die. You just want the pain to stop."
Her shoulders shake. The tears come harder now.
Dean crouches near the bed, voice low and careful. "I get it, Nellie. I've been there."
Nellie looks at him, stunned. "You?"
"I've seen darkness that swallows you whole. Felt like the world would be better off without me. Like I was just… one more broken thing in a long line of broken things."
She swallows thickly. "What stopped you?"
He gives a faint, tired smile. "Someone showed up. Reminded me I wasn't as alone as I thought."
Her lip trembles.
"You don't have to believe in angels, or in me," he adds. "But believe this—this moment? It's not where your story ends."
She shakes her head. "I don't have a story. I don't have anyone."
"You've got you," Dean says. "And maybe that's not enough tonight. But one day? You'll look back at this moment and be glad you stayed."
"Why would anyone be glad I stayed?"
Tears well in his eyes. Just a little.
"Because you're worth staying for."
The words hit Nellie like a wave; sudden, cold, painful, and real. Her breath breaks. She drops her face into her hands, sobbing harder now.
Dean stays there, watching her crumble and reassemble all at once.
"I'm not leaving you," he whispers.
She doesn't speak. Couldn't.
He keeps going anyway.
"Not tonight. Not ever. You don't have to see me. But I'll be there. Every time it gets bad. Every time you think you can't make it through the night."
She looks up, face red, wet, stunned. "You promise?"
His voice cracks. "I swear."
The silence in the room stretches long, thick with everything unsaid. She sits curled at the edge of the shelter bed, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. The knife lies forgotten on the floor now, close, but no longer an option.
Dean still hasn't taken his eyes off his daughter.
"You always stare this much?" Nellie asks, voice flat, not looking at him.
"Only when I'm making sure someone doesn't do anything they'll regret," he says, his tone gentle.
A soft, bitter breath leaves her. "Guess I already passed that test."
"Nah," he replies. "You didn't go through with it. That matters."
She shrugs. "Didn't feel like I had it in me tonight. Maybe tomorrow."
"Don't say that," he says, too fast, too sharp. Then, softer, "Please."
Nellie goes quiet again. Dean leans forward, elbows on his knees, trying to steady the tremor in his chest.
"I know this is weird. Me being here. I get that. I just… I wanted to make sure you were okay."
She gives a half-laugh, dry and empty. "Why?"
"Humor me."
She gives him a sideways glance, skeptical. "Some guardian angel. Don't even know what's wrong."
"I know more than you think," he says, tone careful. "But I want to hear it from you."
She looks away. For a long time, she didn't say anything. But something about his voice—solid, grounded—works its way through the cracks.
"I just got tired," Nellie whispers. "Tired of being unwanted. Tired of never being enough for anyone. Tired of pretending I'm not already broken."
Dean's jaw clenches. His heart aches. He wishes he could tell her everything. That none of this is her fault. That she is more than enough.
"People tell you you're broken," he says, "but it's just 'cause they don't know what to do with something strong."
She scoffs. "That's cheesy."
"Yeah, well, I didn't say I was good at the angel thing."
For the first time, a real flicker of amusement crosses her face.
He presses gently, "Why tonight?"
Nellie's gaze dropped again. "Because my mom told me I was a mistake. Again. And this time… I started really believing her."
Dean looks like her words have punched him.
"You're not a mistake," he says, his voice rough. "You were never a mistake."
She bites her lip, fighting tears. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough."
Silence settles again, heavier now.
"I don't have anyone," Nellie whispers. "Not really."
His heart nearly gives out. His throat tightens.
"You're not alone anymore, Nellie."
She looks up at him, then, really looks, even through the blur of tears and disbelief.
"You mean that?"
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."
That seems to undo something in her. She wipes at her face, barely holding it together.
"…Will you stay for a while?" she asks quietly.
Dean nods. "Yeah. I'll stay."
Even just for tonight.
He doesn't rush her. They sit there in the dim quiet of the shelter room; two strangers with too much in common, and one of them doesn't even know it. Nellie rests her head back against the wall, knees still tucked close, but her breathing has steadied. She glances toward the window, a dull orange streetlight bleeding through the blinds.
"You always show up when people are about to do something stupid?" she asks, voice dry.
"Part of the job description," Dean says with a slight shrug. "But not everyone talks back, so you're already a standout."
She gives a tired smile, faint and fleeting, but there.
"Since we're doing this whole late-night bonding thing," he adds, leaning back a little, "why don't you tell me something about you?"
"Like what?"
"Start simple. What kind of music do you like?"
She blinks at him, thrown by the question. "Uh… classic rock."
Dean raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "Nice. You've got taste."
"And Tchaikovsky," she adds.
That makes him pause.
"…You mean like the 'Swan Lake' guy?"
Nellie nods.
"Alright," he chuckles, a grin tugging at his mouth. "Didn't see that one coming."
She shrugs. "I like music that makes me feel something. Rock's loud enough to block things out. Classical's soft enough to let things in. Depends on the day."
Dean just stares for a second, then lets out a low, thoughtful whistle. "Damn."
He gives him a side glance. "What?"
"Nothing. You're just—uh. Smarter than I expected."
"You say that like it's surprising."
"Hey, no offense. I just meant… you're full of curveballs."
She lets out a quiet laugh, softer this time.
"What else?" Dean asks. "Books? Movies?"
"Movies are okay. I'm more into books," Nellie answers then sighs. "Mostly the classics. Austen, Dumas, Dickens. I also like Oscar Wilde, but don't tell anyone."
"Trust me, your secret's safe with me."
She looks over at him again, more openly this time. Something is softening in her, and he can feel it.
"You went to school, right?"
"Graduated early," she replies. "With honors."
His eyebrows lift. "Look at you."
"Didn't mean much, though. Still ended up here." Her voice falters.
"Still counts," he says. "You worked for it."
Nellie doesn't respond to that, just hugs her arms a little tighter around her legs.
Dean shifts gear gently. "You working?"
"Diner just off Main. Worked part-time while I was in school, and now I'm full-time." She says it like it's nothing.
"How long you been there?"
"Year and a half." A pause. "Best job I've ever had."
"Bet you're good at it."
"I'm good at pretending to be okay in front of strangers."
Dean's expression flickers, a mix of admiration and heartbreak. She is so damn strong. He hates how much she'd had to be.
"You know," he says, "for someone who thinks they've got nothing going for them, you've got a hell of a lot."
Nellie looks away again, swallowing down the lump in her throat.
He lets the silence linger, comfortable now. The pocketknife still sits on the floor between them, but it no longer carries the weight it had before. The air is different, like something has shifted. He wants to say more. To tell her everything. But not tonight. Not when she is still bleeding invisible wounds.
"You getting tired?" he asks after a while.
She shakes her head slowly. "I don't want to be alone."
"You're not."
"…Will you stay until I fall asleep?"
Dean nods, settling in against the wall beside his daughter, watching over her with a quiet, steady presence.
"Yeah, kid," he says, voice low. "I'm not going anywhere. But promise me something."
She meets his soft gaze.
"Promise me you'll never try this again."
Tears well up in her eyes. She gives a slow nod, her lip quivering slightly. "I promise."
The room goes still. The storm in Nellie has quieted to a slow rhythm, her breath soft and steady now, her head resting against the threadbare pillow. She is curled up under the scratchy shelter blanket after Dean coaxed her toward the bed with nothing more than a gentle hand gesture and a quiet, "You'll be okay."
She hasn't said much else. She doesn't have to. Her walls haven't crumbled, not fully, but something has shifted. Dean sits on the edge of the bed for a while longer, elbows on his knees, watching her sleep with a silence that borders on reverence. For a long time, he doesn't move.
Finally, when he knows she is asleep, when her breaths even out and her shoulders no longer tremble, he rises slowly to his feet.
A soft glow shimmers behind him.
"You didn't wait for me."
Dean turns toward the voice.
Castiel now stands at the edge of the room, face calm but unreadable, hands folded in front of him.
He gives a sheepish shrug. "Yeah, well… patience never was my thing."
The angel glances at Nellie. "You spoke to her."
"I did."
"I told you not to."
"I know."
Castiel doesn't say anything for a moment. He simply stares at the Winchester with that eternal weight behind his eyes, gaze flickering briefly between Dean and Nellie.
"She's okay," Dean says softly, defensively. "Or she will be. She needed someone."
"She had someone," Cas replies. "The angels. The ward. A quiet hand."
He shakes his head. "That's not enough. Not tonight."
The angel sighs, not with anger, but something deeper. "You can't keep interfering, Dean. Even from up here. We're not meant to step in."
Dean's jaw clenches, but his voice stays low. "She's my daughter, Cas."
Castiel's expression softens. "I know."
The silence between them stretches again, heavy and unspoken. The flickering fluorescent bulb in the hallway outside buzzes once, then stills.
"She almost didn't make it," Dean whispers. "She was right there, man. And I just found out about her. You want me to just… watch her suffer? Pretend she's not mine?"
The angel looks away, briefly closing his eyes. "No," he admits quietly. "I don't."
Dean turns to look back at Nellie, still asleep beneath the thin covers. Her brows twitch faintly, as if reacting to a dream, but she doesn't wake.
"I don't want her to be alone again," he says.
Cas is quiet for a long moment.
Finally, he says, "Then we'll make an exception. A quiet one."
Dean turns sharply toward him. "Wait—you mean I can—?"
"You may observe," he replies gently. "Quietly. At a distance. No more appearances without cause."
The Winchester nods, grateful even as his chest aches. "Thanks, Cas."
Castiel gives him a look. "I know you. You'll break that rule."
Dean smiles a little. "Only if I have to."
The angel almost smiles back. He holds out his hand, and Dean glances at Nellie once more before stepping into the light with him.
In the silence that follows their departure, the room returns to stillness. The streetlight hums. The wind whispers through the sealed window. And Nellie sleeps on, unaware that for the first time in a long time, someone is watching over her.
• • •
FLASHBACK #2
It is a narrow room with thin walls, a couple of faded posters tacked crookedly to chipped drywall, and an old overhead bulb that flickers now and then like it can't decide whether to keep going. The voices downstairs are muffled but constant — laughter soaked in booze, something slurred and messy. It is better than the yelling, but not by much.
Nellie lies curled sideways on her mattress, a paperback propped against one knee. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. The spine has split from wear, and the pages are soft and yellowed. Her headphones are snug over her ears, a low hum of a folk rock CD humming just loud enough to help drown out what is happening below. She turns the page slowly. Then again. But her eyes aren't really tracking the words anymore.
Then it comes again—the flicker. Not from the light overhead, but in the air itself. A low-pressure change. A shimmer. Her fingers still over the page. When she looks up, she isn't surprised to see him there.
Dean stands near the door, leaning back casually against the frame like he'd just walked in, like this is his usual haunt. That same flannel and leather combo. That familiar half-smile. His gaze, though, is softer tonight. Tired, even.
"You ever knock?" Nellie asks, pulling the headphones down to her neck.
"Do angels knock?" He quips with a shrug. "Didn't think that was in the handbook."
She rolls her eyes but doesn't tell him to go.
His eyes flick toward the floor, where the faint shadow of two bodies moved just barely behind the floorboards—Eleanor and her latest boyfriend, loud and clumsy and thoughtless in their drunken haze.
Nellie notices where his eyes land and pulls her blanket a little higher over her lap. "They're having a good time," she mutters, tone clipped and sour.
Dean doesn't respond right away. He just keeps looking, the line of his jaw tight. He'd seen demons, monsters, and gods. But this kind of cruelty—the quiet, casual kind that left kids to raise themselves and survive the fallout—it still breaks something in him.
He can't save her from it.
And it kills him.
"So," he says finally, shifting to sit beside her on the edge of the mattress, "what's the verdict? Brontë holding up?"
"She always does," Nellie replies, tapping the page lightly. "Anne's the underrated one."
Dean smirked. "Figures you'd say that."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You keep trying to stay in the background when you could be the main character."
She narrows her eyes. "Do all guardian angels get therapy degrees?"
He chuckles. "Only the freelance ones."
She smiles despite herself, the weight on her chest easing by inches.
For a few moments, they just sit in the quiet hum of music and distant noise, the corners of the room warming slightly by his presence.
Then Dean turns to her, his voice dropping low. "You okay?"
Nellie glances at him, unsure of the context. "I'm fine."
He holds her gaze. "I mean... really okay."
She knows what he is asking.
And she knows why.
"I remember what I promised," she replies, quiet but firm.
He doesn't move, doesn't speak right away. He just nods, eyes sharp with something unsaid. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Maybe guilt.
"Good," he says eventually. "Just needed to hear it from you."
They let the silence stretch again. Nellie traces a frayed corner of her blanket.
"You know," Dean says lightly, "you've got a weird combo going."
"Excuse me?"
"CCR in your ears, Brontë in your hands. It's like you're half '60s road trip, half Victorian drama."
Nellie gives a mock scowl. "It's called taste, thank you very much."
He laughs— a real, warm laugh—and that sound alone makes the room feel less stale. Less haunted.
"Got any more poems?" he asks.
"Not tonight."
"You should read me one next time."
"You want me to read to you?"
"Sure," he says. "Gives me a break from pretending I understand heavenly bureaucratic politics."
She chuckles and rolls her eyes. "Fine. But only if you promise not to critique my enjambment."
"I don't know what that is, so you're safe."
They fall quiet again, the CD softly ticking through the end of the track list.
Dean stands eventually, brushing invisible dust from his knees.
"You leaving?" Nellie asks.
"Just for now," he says. "Gotta keep up the illusion that I've got boundaries."
She tilts her head. "You're a weird angel."
He grins. "Yeah. I get that a lot."
He starts for the door.
"Hey," she says suddenly, voice small.
He turns.
"Thanks for… coming back."
Dean looks at her, this strange, brilliant, hurting kid who is more his than anyone knew, and gives a small nod.
"Always."
And then he is gone.
Nellie pulls her headphones back up, restarts the CD, and lies down on her side. Her eyes flick over the book, but she doesn't read. She just listens, and for the first time all day, she doesn't feel quite so invisible.
• • •
FLASHBACK #3
The flickering light from the hallway barely touches the edges of her bedroom. The door isn't fully closed, just barely ajar, the way you leave something cracked when you're too afraid of what happens behind it.
Dean materializes in the shadows first, his expression already grim as he listens to the noise downstairs. It is muffled, but unmistakable: the slurring voice of a man, too loud. Laughter that sounded too close to mean. A woman's voice follows, Eleanor, matching the tone and the volume. He hasn't been down there. He doesn't want to. He doesn't need to see more than the way Nellie had flinched last time to know what kind of hell this house holds. Tonight, he feels a pull stronger than usual. The moment Castiel allows him through, Dean goes straight to her.
Nellie is sitting on the floor beside her bed, knees pulled to her chest, her cheek pressing against the side of the mattress. One arm is tucked around her ribs as if something aches. The other hand, idly holds a familiar paperback novel. Music plays faintly from an old handheld CD player near the foot of her bed, not loud enough to drown out the chaos below.
Dean's breath catches as he sees the bruise.
It blooms across her cheek like something rotten; angry, raw, recent. Faint yellow and deep violet edges hint that it is just setting in. He clenches his jaw so tight he thought he might crack a molar.
That isn't from her mother. Not this one.
He doesn't move. Not at first. The moment feels suspended in glass. Shattered, delicate, and about to fall apart if he breathes too loudly.
Nellie flinches at a sharp crash from below, followed by a voice bellowing something indistinct. She closes her eyes like it hurts to keep them open.
Dean finally steps into the lamplight. "Hey."
She startles, eyes wide, pulse jumping visibly in her neck. Then, recognition softens her expression.
"You came back," she whispers, almost like it hurt to say.
He offers the ghost of a smile. "Told you. Subscription plan. No refunds."
She lets out the smallest huff of air, almost a laugh, but it dies quickly. Her gaze drifts toward the floor.
He slowly crouches beside her, careful to keep a safe distance. He doesn't want to spook her even more. "What happened?"
Nellie's silence is answer enough.
He follows her eyes to the bruise again. Something burns in his chest, something like rage laced with grief. "Who did that?"
She hesitates. "Her boyfriend. He got mad I didn't say hi."
Dean's brow furrows. "Your mom?"
She shakes her head. "She was there. She laughed."
He stares at her, breath shallow. "And then what?"
"They both got distracted. Eventually."
He looks toward the door. His hands curl into fists.
Nellie blinks. "They're always like this. I think I just stopped noticing."
"That's not okay," he says lowly. "That's not normal. That's not—"
"It's mine," she interrupts flatly. "It's my normal."
The silence that follows hangs heavy.
Dean exhales hard, forcing his voice to level out. "No one should have to grow up like this."
Nellie leans her head against the mattress again. "Too late."
Dean feels something break in him.
He wants—needs—to punch something. To find that bastard downstairs and throw him through the drywall. To scream at the woman who let her daughter suffer under the roof she is supposed to protect.
But none of that is an option.
So instead, he sits down beside her on the floor.
"Wanna talk about something else?" he asks after a moment.
She glances at him, skeptical. "Like what?"
"Tell me what's in that book."
She blinks. "It's the same book as last time. Brontë."
"Sounds pretentious."
"It's about a woman who runs away from her alcoholic husband to protect her kid."
Dean stills.
Nellie doesn't notice. "Everyone thought she was selfish. But she was actually just brave. For doing something no one else would."
He nods, swallowing thickly. "Sounds like someone smart wrote it."
"Yeah." Her voice is barely a whisper. "It's one of my favorites."
He shifts a little. "Still working at the diner?"
She gives a slight nod. "Seven days a week. Double shifts when I can."
"You ever think about quitting?"
"And do what?"
He tilts his head. "I dunno. Go to college? You're pretty damn smart."
Nellie shrugs. "Doesn't matter. I don't get to have those kinds of dreams."
Dean doesn't speak. He just looks at her for a long moment, the lamp casting soft shadows across her bruised face.
Finally, he says, "You promised me you wouldn't do anything."
She looks up, startled. He is serious.
"I'm not here to guilt-trip you," he states gently. "But I need to know you're still holding to it."
She meets his gaze, and for a moment, she looks older than her years; tired, worn, but solid.
"I remember," she replies. "I haven't thought about it since."
He nods slowly, something loosening in his chest. "Good."
She looks down again, voice softer. "Thanks… for coming."
Dean can't touch her, can't fix the broken world around her. But he can be here.
"I'll always come," he says.
They sit in silence for a while, just listening to the low hum of the CD player. Eventually, her head dips, and her breathing slows. He stays until she is asleep, eyes never leaving her bruised face.
When Castiel comes to retrieve him, Dean doesn't say a word. Just follows, jaw tight. But as he glances back one more time, he makes himself a promise: If she ever falls again, he'll be there.
• • •
FLASHBACK #4
The house is quiet, but not in a good way. The kind of quiet that means someone downstairs has passed out, or the storm outside has given up trying to rattle the windows. Nellie sits on her bed, knees tucked close, another book open in her lap. The title reads Great Expectations, its spine cracked from years of rereads. On the floor nearby, stacked like little lifelines, are more: Frankenstein, The Picture of Dorian Gray, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. Some pages have dog-ears; others are delicately underlined. The CD player beside her spun gently, low-volume blues playing in her headphones.
Dean appears quietly in the corner of the room. The light flickers, but Nellie doesn't notice; too lost in the page and the illusion of solitude. He lingers in silence for a while, watching the soft crease of her brow as she reads, the way she absently tucks her hair behind one ear. This isn't the first time he's seen her like this: hidden away, trying to stay out of the line of fire below.
When Nellie finally looks up and catches him, she doesn't flinch. Just blinks, slowly.
"You," she mutters. A soft, tired smile tugs at her mouth. "You always show up when I'm reading."
Dean shrugs from his place near the dresser. "I've got a thing for dramatic heroines and haunted mansions."
"You'd hate The Bell Jar then."
"Eh, jury's out."
She shifts, tucking her legs beneath her. Her voice is quiet, less guarded than usual. "It's been bad lately."
He doesn't need her to explain. A few bruises under her sleeves and the hollowed-out quiet in her voice tell him enough.
"Your mom?" he asks gently.
She nods.
Dean's jaw tightens.
"What about the boyfriend?" he adds, keeping his tone even.
She hesitates. "He… looks… if you know what I mean."
That is enough to make Dean want to punch a hole through Heaven's walls. He swallows the anger.
"I hate it here," Nellie whispers, more to herself than him. "I feel like I'm just… waiting. Like life already passed me by, and I missed the train."
He steps forward a little, not quite able to help himself. "You're twenty, Nellie. Life's barely started."
She looks at him, eyes glassy. "Doesn't feel like it."
"Why?"
She hesitates. Then: "Because family doesn't show up for people like me. Not when you're this age. I'm not some kid in foster care waiting to be adopted. I'm just… this. Too old for fairy tales. Too broken for new beginnings."
Dean's breath catches.
"You're not broken," he says firmly. "And you're sure as hell not too old."
She laughs a little bitterly. "You say that like you know."
"I do know." He smiles sadly. "Trust me."
There is a long pause, a storm rumbling low outside.
"I don't even know what it's like," Nellie says, voice cracking. "To be safe. To have someone... stick around. Not for a night or a month. But long enough that it means something."
His chest aches.
"You deserve that," he says quietly.
"Yeah," she mutters. "Well. I've made it this far. So maybe fairy tales are just books. Doesn't mean I can't keep reading them."
Dean watches her as she pulls a blanket around her shoulders, curling up against the headboard, book resting gently across her stomach.
"Still," she murmurs, eyes growing heavy. "Sometimes… I wish you were real."
He doesn't speak. He just stays there, solid and silent, watching her put her bed aside and curl up under her blanket. His heart splits a little more than it already has.
Because she doesn't know.
He is family.
And he isn't going anywhere.
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